Walk steady; one foot in front of the other. But his knees were weak, and it felt as if someone were shoving him.

48

El Salvador time was an hour later than L.A., and Petra doubted Estrella Flores's son would still be in his law office. She tried anyway, got no answer, connected with an international operator, found three more listings for Javier Floreses, and lucked out on number two.

“I'm worried about my mother,” said the attorney in heavily accented but sound English. “Your city is dangerous. My mother doesn't drive. Where would she go? I phoned Ramsey, but he didn't call back. My mother told me he lives out in the country. How could she just walk out of there? She didn't drive. Where would she go? This isn't right!”

Flores talked like an interrogator. Articulate, educated. So what was his mother doing cleaning houses?

As if he was used to the question, he said, “I've been after her to come back and live with us, but she's very independent. But still, she didn't drive. Where would she go? It can't be related to Mrs. Ramsey- is it?”

“Your mother told you about Mrs. Ramsey?”

“No, the last time I spoke to her was Sunday, the day before it happened. I read about it in the papers, I read American papers. What are you doing to find her, Detective?”

“I've contacted every missing persons bureau, sir. I called you to make sure there was no place your mother could have gone. A relative, a-”

“No, no one,” said Flores. “She knows no one. So you don't think it had anything to do with Mrs. Ramsey?”

“We have no evidence of that, sir-”

“Please!” Flores exploded. “I'm not stupid! Could she have learned something that put her in danger?”

“I honestly don't know, Mr. Flores. So far, there's no evidence of that. Did your mother ever say anything about the Ramseys that could be relevant? Especially last Sunday?”

“No, they didn't come up. She asked how her bank account was doing, that's all. She wires me her money, I deposit it. She's saving up for her own house.”

“All her money goes to El Salvador?”

“Except what's taken out for American taxes.”

“What about past conversations?” said Petra. “What was her opinion of the Ramseys?”

“She said the wife was young, nice, not too picky.”

“Was Mr. Ramsey picky?”

“A little- he had these cars he wanted polished all the time. But it was a good job, better than the one she worked before. Very picky people, they always criticized.”

“Do you remember their names?”

“People in another part of town- Bel-Air. Hooper. Mr. and Mrs. Hooper. The man always ran his finger along the furniture, looking for dust. The woman drank too much, and they didn't pay her well.”

“First names?”

“I don't- wait, the address is here in my book, unless I threw it out when she… no, here it is, Hooper- here's the number.”

Petra copied it down. “I'll call them, Mr. Flores.”

“I'll call them too,” he said. “But I don't think my mother would have returned to them.”

“Anything more you can tell me about the Ramseys?”

“The one she didn't like was the business manager- he was in charge of paying her, was always late with the check. Finally she complained to Mrs. Ramsey, and that helped.”

“Mr. Balch?”

“She never mentioned his name, said he was a… snob. Out to show he was important. Him, she didn't like.”

“What about Mr. Ramsey?”

“She didn't talk about him much. Do you think he killed the wife?”

“Mr. Flores, at this point, I-”

“Okay, okay, all I care about is my mother.”

“I'll do everything I can to find her, sir. So as far as you know, there were no conflicts with Mr. Ramsey? No reason for your mother to suddenly quit?”

“He wasn't home that often. It was a big house, she didn't like being alone so much.” His voice broke. “I know there's something wrong.”

The moment Petra hung up the phone, it rang. The civilian clerk on duty said, “A Dr. Boehlinger called.”

“Did he leave a message?”

“Just to call him back. Telling, not asking.”

Just what she needed. Clenching her jaw, she dialed Boehlinger's hotel. He was out. Thank God for small victories.

She phoned the Hoopers in Bel-Air. Busy. Maybe Javier Flores was already on the line.

She tried again, connected to a husky-voiced woman. “Oh, Jesus, I just spoke to her son. No, I haven't seen her.” Snorting laugh. “So now the police are trying to bring illegals back?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hooper.” You're the one who hired her when she was illegal, Mrs. Hooper. Click.

Wil Fournier came over and showed her a piece of paper. Forty or so names, all but three checked off. “Tipsters. Our little burglar's been spotted all up and down the state, but it's mostly garbage- who unlocked the asylum?” He loosened his tie. The tan pad of his hand was ink-stained. “One sweetheart from Frisco claims he's the son she gave up at birth, she was just about to call Unsolved Mysteries, the money would sure come in handy because she wants to become a psychologist. One guy claims the kid's not a kid, he's some kind of mystic guru- an apparition, appears in times of crisis and ‘renders deliverance.' The world may be coming to an end.”

“He might have something there,” said Petra.

“Long as I get my pension,” said Fournier. He tapped each of the three unchecked names. “These are possibles. Two come from the same place- some farm town called Watson, between Bakersfield and Fresno. Neither of the callers know the kid by name, but they both think they've seen him around. They didn't sound wacko or greedy, and two tips from a small place like that is interesting. I put in a call to the local law. Must be a real hick place, because it's a two-man sheriff outfit and both guys were out. I talked to some woman at the desk who sounded about a hundred years old. This last one probably is greed, Russian accent, but at least the guy sounded sane. Insisted he'd seen the kid in Venice this morning, described his clothes- T-shirt, jeans- said the kid looked like he'd been sleeping on the street, had crusted salt on his face, like he'd washed with ocean water. Scratched up, too.”

“Good eye for detail.”

“That's why I'm not dismissing him. He runs a souvenir stand down on Ocean Front in Venice, claims he sold the kid a hat this morning. Then the kid took off north. The guy thought it was weird, a kid being out by himself, middle of the day. And buying a hat- he never sells hats to kids.”

“Trying to hide his face?” said Petra.

Fournier shrugged. “Could be. If the kid read today's paper, and we know he's a reader. On the other hand, you're homeless, broke, a runaway, someone's offering twenty-five g's for your presence, wouldn't you turn yourself in, try to collect?”

“He's a child, Wil. Probably an abused child. Why should he trust anyone? Feel enough in control to scheme? And if he saw the murder, he could be too scared to think about profit.”

“Guess so. Or maybe the kid was there but not during the murder, figures why bother. Anyway, this Russian is definitely after the money.”

Petra read the man's name out loud. “Vladimir Zhukanov.”

“That's another thing,” said Fournier. “His being Russian. I don't want to be prejudiced, but you know the scams those guys have been pulling off.” He folded and pocketed the list. “I'll stop by to see him- have a date in Santa Monica tonight, dinner at Loew's. Ever been there?”

Petra shook her head.

“Zhukanov said he'd stay late to talk to me. One last thing: Schoelkopf called me into the office again, pumping for details. I may have to give him something, Barb. And then, boom, right in to the media and we run around like little windup toys.”

“If you have to, you have to,” said Petra. “It's already out of our hands.”