You are one untrusting broad. Thank you, Nick.

“Beautiful day,” she heard him say. His hands were quiet now. No gripping of the door handle or other signs of anxiety about her driving. The loafers looked freshly polished. Sharp crease in the Dockers- wasn't that sort of an anti-Dockers thing? Petra smiled at the thought of him wanting to impress her.

By the time they reached the 101 on-ramp, they were really talking.

She sped through the west Valley- past RanchHaven- into Thousand Oaks, Newbury Park, Camarillo, the produce fields and fertilizer stink of Oxnard. At Ventura, Ron pointed out a Golf N' Stuff on the east side of the freeway, telling her he sometimes took his girls there- they also had U-bump cars and miniboats, the latter a lot of fun if you don't mind getting wet. Getting all enthusiastic, but the bounce went out of his voice when Petra, thinking about Balch again, said, “Sounds cute.”

“If you're into that kind of thing,” he added, embarrassed.

“I am,” she said, hastening to salvage the conversation. “Grew up in Arizona, didn't see too many boats, mini or otherwise. After we solve the case, let's stop off on the way back and get wet.”

He didn't answer. She turned her head far enough to catch the blush on his neck.

Oh, jeez. How could a size-9 shoe fit completely in a mouth?

“Or,” she said, “we could golf. But only after we solve Lisa. We're gonna wrap the whole thing up today, right?”

“Sure,” he said, grinning. “Arizona. Didn't they move London Bridge there?”

She exited at Santa Ynez, asking him, “Do you know Montecito?”

“Only by reputation.”

“Which is?”

“Rich.”

Pulling to the side of the grove-bordered road, she consulted her Thomas Guide, located Ramsey's street two miles in, a pair of right turns and a left, and resumed driving. Montecito was ten degrees cooler than L.A., a perfect sixty-eight. Private groves bordered Santa Ynez Road. Rich indeed.

Petra had been up to Santa Barbara a few times with Nick- Sunday outings, eating seafood on the pier, scorning the sidewalk art. They'd passed Montecito on the freeway, Nick rhapsodizing about the estates, great Spanish architecture, old money, real class- it made Beverly Hills look like crap. Getting into one of his blind-ambition grooves, going on about how one day they'd have enough money to get a place there. But he'd never pulled off to show her.

She picked up speed. No town in sight yet, just the clean stretch of asphalt cutting through the umber fudge and chlorophyll of old trees, coral bursts of bougainvillea, oranges and lemons sparkling like gems. The sky was blue, the clouds were white, a clean yellow sun rose from behind the mountains, die-cut sharp, black, dabbed with lavender. What a place.

Ramsey had all this and the place in Calabasas, the cars, the real estate. Money wasn't everything, but it sure made things nice. What led rich people to screw things up so badly? She looked over at Ron, and from his expression she guessed he was asking himself the same thing.

Montecito's business district was four corners of earth-tone low-rise upscale shops. Then more road. Ramsey's street was skinny, darkened by shaggy eucalyptus, his property at a dead end, announced by blue-gray stone posts and a high black scrollwork gate, wide open. A Carpinteria Sheriff's car blocked the entrance, one deputy standing near the driver's door, hand on holster, another facing the vehicle, hands on hips.

“Welcoming party?” Petra said to Ron. “Did you tell them we were coming?”

“No.”

As they got closer, the deputy at the front of the squad car walked into the center of the road and halted them with his palm. Petra stopped. By the time the deputy reached them, she had her badge out.

He studied it. A kid. Tall, husky, red crew cut, two weeks of rusty mustache, swollen biceps. He looked over at Ron.

“Banks, L.A. Sheriff's. I spoke to Captain Sepulveda.”

“Yeah, he told us. Since the murder, we've been upping our patrols anyway. Good thing. Just caught a trespasser.” He hooked a thumb.

“Right now?” said Petra.

“He made it easy, left the gates open. Looks like a nutcase, verbally abusive. Claims he's Ramsey's father-in-law.”

Petra squinted at the cruiser. Through the rear window Dr. Boehlinger's goateed face seethed. She watched Boehlinger butt the glass with his shoulder, then retract, clearly in pain. A surgeon. Brilliant. The deputy watching him must have said something, because Boehlinger started screaming. Too far away to hear, but his mouth was wide open. The window glass gave him a preserved look. Rage in a jar.

She said, “He is Ramsey's father-in-law.”

“Come on,” said the red-haired cop. His name was Forbes.

“Dr. John Everett Boehlinger. Didn't he have ID?”

“Yeah, that's what his ID said, but that didn't mean anything to us.” Forbes grimaced. “He sure doesn't act like a doctor- got a toilet mouth.”

“What'd you catch him doing?”

“Coming out of a toolshed out back. The door was smashed- he obviously kicked it in, was carrying a shovel. Looked to us like he was planning to break a window in the house, do an unlawful entry. So he's really her father? Come on.”

Petra nodded.

“Shit.” Forbes cracked massive knuckles. “His demeanor, we figured a loony for sure. And he was talking crazy, bodies buried out here, he was gonna dig them up. We had to restrain him. Hands and feet. Kind of tough, hog-tying an old guy like that, but he tried to bite us.” Forbes looked at his hand, smooth and tan at the end of the buffed arm. The thought of bodily injury was a narcissistic insult. Working in a rich, quiet town, he'd actually managed to keep himself smooth.

“Small guy,” he added, “but incredibly feisty. Finally we got him quiet enough to untie his feet. Didn't want a heart attack or anything.” He shook his head. “Her father-shit!”

“Where does he say bodies are buried?” said Petra.

“We didn't ask. We figured him for a loony-tunes starfucker- we get them from time to time, all the Hollywood types with second homes up here. Tabloid reporters, too. We've been preparing ourselves for problems with Ramsey.”

“Had any?”

“Not till now. Maybe no one knows he's got a weekend place here yet.”

“Does Ramsey come up here much?”

“I've never seen him, but maybe he comes up at night. Lots of the Hollywood types do. Flying up at night to Santa B in copters or private planes, or they just limo straight up from L.A. The whole thing with them is not to be spotted. It's like a game, you know? I'm famous, but you can't see me. They never come into town to shop, have people doing things for them. And with the size of these properties, it's not like they've got real neighbors.”

Petra took in the surroundings. Long stretches of ten-foot wall on both sides. Through Ramsey's gate was a winding stone motor path flanked by palms. The guy loved palms.

“Who takes care of Ramsey's house when he's not here?” she said.

Forbes shrugged. “Probably a cleaning crew. There is a regular gardening crew, comes here Tuesday and, I think, Saturday.” Forbes touched an eyelash, scratched the side of his nose. “Ramsey's also got a gofer, comes up to check out the house. I ran into him on patrol a couple of days ago.”

“Greg Balch?” said Petra.

“Yeah, that's the one.”

The other deputy had turned his back to the cruiser. Shorter, darker than Forbes, thick arms crossing a barrel chest. Another buff-boy. Department must have a good gym.

“Switching cars,” said Petra.

“Yeah, a Lexus. Still parked behind the house. At first it looked funny, but he had the keys, a letter from Ramsey authorizing him to drive all his cars.”

Thumping noises sounded from the patrol car. Dr. Boehlinger, kicking the window.