Instead of driving forward, he backs up, stops next to me. “Hey, Bill. You really got somewhere to go for the night?”

“Sure.”

“Where? The street?”

“I'll be fine.” I start walking. He stays next to me, driving really slowly.

“I'd give you money for a hotel, but no one's gonna rent to a kid, and if you show all that cash, someone's gonna take it from you.”

“I'm fine,” I repeat.

“Sure, sure… I can't let you sleep in the shul because what if you slip and fall, we got a liability problem- you might sue us.”

“I wouldn't do that.”

He laughs. “No, you probably wouldn't, but I still can't- listen, I got a house, not far from here. Plenty of room; I live alone. You wanna stay for a day or two, fine. Till you figure out what to do.”

“No thanks.” That comes out kind of cold, and I don't turn to see his face, because I know he's going to look insulted.

“Suit yourself, Bill. Don't blame you. Someone probably hurt you. You don't trust no one- for all you know, I could be some crazy person.”

“I'm sure you're not crazy.” Why did I say that?

“How can you be sure, Bill? How can you ever be sure? Listen, when I was your age- a little older- people came and took away my family. Killed all of them, except me and my brother. Nazis. Ever hear of them? Only, when I knew them, they weren't nazis, they were my neighbors, people I lived with. My family lived in their country for five hundred years and they did that to me- I'm talking the Second World War. Goddamn nazis. Ever hear about any of that?”

“Sure,” I said. “Learned about it in history.”

“History.” He laughs, but not a funny laugh. “So who am I to tell you to trust people- you're right, plenty of schmucks out there.” He stops driving and I stop walking. More money lands in my hand. Two tens.

“You don't have to, Mr. Ganzer.”

“I don't have to, but I want to- oh hell, sleep in the shul tonight. Only, don't fall and break your neck. And if you do, don't sue us.”

Then he jams his car into reverse and backs up all the way to the shul. It's scary, the way he weaves and swerves all over the place. It's a miracle he doesn't smash into anything.

50

Petra opened her front door exhausted, not feeling like a night owl anymore. Thought of Kathy Bishop's ordeal tomorrow. Real problems. No self-pity allowed for you, kid.

She popped a can of Coke, checked the phone machine. A long-distance phone service promised to be her slave if she signed up, Ron Banks had called at seven, leaving an 818 number, probably home, please get back to him. Adele, one of the civilian clerks at the station, requesting the same thing at eight-fifteen.

She would have loved to talk to Ron first. To be with him, the two of them talking, making out on the couch, wherever that led. Business first: She called Adele.

“Hi, Detective Connor. Got a message for you from Pacific Division, a Detective Grauberg. Here's his number.”

Pacific was Ilse Eggermann territory. Had something new come up? Grauberg was out, but a D named Salant came on. “Already spoke to you guys.”

“To who?”

“Hold on- says here Captain Schoelkopf. Guess Grauberg couldn't reach to notify, got kicked upward.”

“Notify what?”

“Got an auto carcass you were interested in. Black Porsche, registered to Lisa Boehlinger Ramsey.”

“A carcass? Gutted?”

“Gutted and left for the vultures. Probably a Tijuana taxi by now. Got a witness says it was parked there for at least four days.”

“Where?”

“Behind the bus lot near Pacific Avenue. The witness is one of the drivers.”

“Gutted right from the beginning?”

“Progressively gutted. Someone set fire to it last night. That's how we got called in.”

Four days and not a single report.

“You can't see it from the street,” Salant added. “Blocked by storage buildings. We get hot cars stashed there all the time.”

“Where is it now?” said Petra.

“Downtown. Have fun.”

She talked to several criminalists before locating a female named Wilkerson who was working on the Porsche. The car was a charred shell, no wheels, seats, engine, front windshield.

“Like locusts swept in,” said Wilkerson.

“What about prints?”

“Nothing so far. I'll let you know.”

She drank Coke and tried to put together Lisa's journey from Doheny Drive to Griffith Park. Where did Venice fit in? Just a dumping ground for the Porsche, or had Lisa driven it behind the bus yard? Meeting up with her date on a deserted street in a high-crime neighborhood?

Was the last-date scenario totally wrong? Had Lisa indeed been carjacked and abducted, forced to drive to Venice by a stranger?

Or by someone she knew? Setting out from Doheny for a date with someone else. The murderer watching, stalking, following, pulling off the snatch.

Ramsey would fit that picture.

Venice… Kelly Sposito, Darrell Breshear's current flame, lived on Fourth Street, walking distance from the bus yard.

Where was Breshear's home base? She looked him up in her pad. The DMV data had him on Ashland, Ocean Park, the border between Santa Monica and Venice. Very close.

Everything gravitating toward the beach. Including the boy, if Wil's Russian tipster could be believed.

Breshear. Another former actor. Everyone performing… news of the recovered car would be in the paper tomorrow. She had to get to Breshear before he had time to construct a story.

It was nearly 10 P.M. Was he with his wife or with Kelly? Betting on the former, she got dressed again and drove west.

Ashland was a pretty, sloping street in the best part of Ocean Park, houses of all sizes, every conceivable architectural style. Breshear's place was at the top, a small, well-maintained craftsman cottage with lots of cactus in the front, thatches of sword plant instead of lawn. White BMW ragtop in the driveway, behind an iron gate. Bright lights over the gate hinted at a fantastic backyard view. She rang the bell, and Breshear answered, wearing a black T-shirt and baggy green shorts, holding a bottle of Heineken. When he saw her, his eyes bulged.

“This is a bad time,” he said. “My wife…”

“It could get worse,” she said. “I think you lied to me. We found Lisa's car today. Right here in Venice. Did you have a date with her Sunday night? If you did, we'll find out.”

He looked over his shoulder. Closed the door and came out and said, “Can we move out to the sidewalk?”

“Won't your wife get curious?”

“She's in the bath.”

Petra accompanied him to the sidewalk.

“It wasn't really a date,” he said. “She just said she wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

“I don't know- oh hell, yeah, she wanted to get it on.”

“So you'd continued your relationship past those glorious seven days.”

“Not really,” he said. “Just once in a while, maybe once a month.”

“Your idea?”

“Definitely not. Lisa's, one hundred percent.”

“My, my,” said Petra. “Lisa, Kelly, your wife- what's her name, by the way?”

“Marcia.” Breshear looked back at the house. “Look-”

“Busy guy,” said Petra.

“It's no crime.”

“Obstructing justice is.”

“I didn't obstruct anything. It- I had nothing to say that would help you, because by the time I got there, she was gone. What would it look like, saying I went to meet up with her that night.” Staring at Petra. “A black man, we know what that's all about.”

“Cut the racial crap,” said Petra. “The only civil rights that were violated were Lisa's. What time were you supposed to meet her?”

“Ten-thirty.”

“When did you set it up?”

“She set it up. That day. She called me at work around seven.”

“You were working Sunday?”

“Doing a final cut. Check with the lot guard- I signed in.”