The undercover man paused just left of the doorway, lit up a cigarette, caught Wil's eye for a half second. His left cheek twitched, and he gave his head a very small shake.
No Fat Boy.
Wil took a stroll. Fifteen minutes later, Vee communicated the same thing, made sure no one was watching, flashed ten fingers three times. See you in thirty.
Half hour later, still no sign of the guy. Val lit up a cigarette, walked to one of the Harleys, checked the chain lock, loped down the street to the corner. A few minutes later, Wil followed. He found the undercover D in the darkened doorway of an apartment building just off the Boulevard. Black windows, city condemnation notice on the door.
“Sorry. Guy was probably full of shit,” said Vee. “Or maybe he watches TV.”
“What was on TV?”
“Your kid, didn't you see it?”
“Haven't been sitting in a bar all day.”
Vee smiled. “Six o'clock news, Dubba. Some tipster put him in Venice. Maybe Fat Boy decided I wasn't worth dealing with and went there straight.”
“Just came from Venice,” said Wil. And the tipster. Had any of the bikers on the walkway matched Fat Boy's description? No, he would have noticed that. He hoped.
Vee said, “If he shows up, I'll call you. Gotta get back to scroteville.” His face was glassy with sweat.
“Hot gig?” said Wil.
“Hell would be a vacation, Dubba. And the smell's something else. Not that you'll ever get a chance to know, being dusky.”
Wil chuckled. “Hey, membership has its privileges.”
Leaving Vronek his beeper number in case Fat Boy showed up, he drove home, wondering if Leanna had called back. Maybe she'd tried his apartment, thinking him back already. Logical, it was nearly nine-thirty- he'd sure given the citizens full service today.
The beep came just as he pulled into his driveway.
He read the number. Sheriff McCauley. Gee thanks, pard, finally moseyed on down to the ol' Holler, didja?
Collecting his mail, he entered his ground floor flat, checked the phone. No Leanna. Uncapping a bottle of Heineken, he called McCauley.
“Complications,” said the sheriff. No more drawl; none of that country-bumpkin friendliness. “Got a tentative ID on your kid. The manager ID'd him. Name's Billy Straight. William Bradley Straight, twelve years old, approximately five feet, seventy-five, eighty pounds. No one's seen him for months. The mother was unemployed, living on welfare, always months behind on the rent. No father that anyone's ever seen. Not a good situation, but the boy never gave any trouble.”
Gone for months, but no one in peaceful, quiet Zombieville had bothered to report it, thought Wil. Even country lanes could be mean streets.
“What did the mother say about his disappearance, Sheriff?”
“That's the complication. When I went over to talk to her, I found her dead in the trailer, looks like a couple days or so. Contusions to the occipital portion of the skull, some lividity, beginnings of rigor, some blowfly maggots. The trailer was hot, probably hastened the process, but neighbors saw her two mornings ago, so that helps fix the TOD.”
Bye-bye, Andy Griffith; hello, Quincy.
“… there was blood on the edge of a dresser, so it looks like she fell backwards and hit her head on the counter. Or was pushed- she's got some old bruises on her, too. There was a boyfriend living with her for a while, and all of a sudden he's gone. Biker type, loser with a petty record- we got an ID on him, too, from fellows at the local bar. Buell Erville Moran, white male, thirty years old, six-one, two-ninety-”
“Brown hair, blue eyes, reddish muttonchop sideburns,” said Wil.
“You've got him?”
“No, but we want him.”
56
There was enough skin on Estrella Flores's face for Petra to make the ID. The maid's throat had been slashed ear to ear, but no other wounds were evident. None of the overkill butchery visited upon Lisa.
Made sense, she supposed: Lisa was passion; this was snipping loose ends.
Balch or Ramsey? Or both? Neither was no longer a viable choice.
Dr. Boehlinger wanted to stay, but Sepulveda had Deputy Forbes drive him back to L.A., a match made in hell that caused Petra to grin inwardly despite the horror of the situation.
Poor Estrella. Talk about wrong place, wrong time. Still wearing her pink uniform. She'd probably been taken care of on Tuesday or Wednesday, driven up here on Wednesday.
Had to be late Wednesday or Thursday morning, the day Balch had been spotted leaving, because she'd interviewed him Wednesday evening and the Lexus had been parked in front of the Player's Management building. Empty. Clean. In contrast with the mess in the office. Had the deed already been done? Had Estrella been lying in that trunk during the interview?
She and Ron stood back as the local techs worked, hustling to finish up before darkness changed the game. Ramsey's Montecito spread was huge, the house old and stately, cream stucco and red tile, real Spanish, no bell tower, none of the crazy angles of the Calabasas castle. Giant oaks shaded the acre closest to the building. The landscaping took the shade into account: ferns, clivia, camellia, azalea. Lovely pathways of degraded granite had been laid out expertly.
The property dipped, leading the eye down to the pond, a hundred-foot disc of green water set out in full light. White and pink lilies claimed half the surface; flame-colored dragonflies zoomed past like tiny aircraft; a bronze heron stooped to drink. Cattails and more lilies in the background, yellow, white with amethyst centers. Petra could see the missing foliage that had tipped Dr. B. to the grave.
Precise eyes indeed.
The techs were concentrating on the black Lexus. The interior was onyx leather; black carpeting covered the trunk. Not the easiest surfaces for spotting bloodstains, but one of the criminalists thought he saw a patch the size of a dime on the inside of the trunk door, and Luminol confirmed it. Nothing on the car seats, but the test brought up Rorschach-like blots of blood all over the carpet.
“I'd say about a pint,” said Captain Sepulveda. “If that. Meaning he killed her somewhere else, wrapped her in something, and it leaked out. Then he shampooed the trunk- I could smell it. Figured if it looked clean, it was.”
Talking softly. Unhappy about being drawn in. Petra wondered if he'd ever been a homicide D.
He said, “We better get some warrants for the house and the grounds- who knows what else is out here.” He turned to face Petra, and his slit eyes must have focused on her, though she couldn't see enough iris to tell. “I'm going to talk to a judge right now. What's next for you?”
“Balch drove the car up here, so he's obviously a suspect,” she said. “I'm calling this in to my captain, asking to put out a warrant. Whether or not Balch was working for Ramsey remains to be seen, but I don't doubt this murder's related to ours. I need Balch and Ramsey located ASAP.”
Telling, not asking.
“Fine,” said Sepulveda. “I should be back within the hour. Any questions, talk to Sergeant Grafton.” He indicated a slim, attractive, dark-haired woman in plainclothes taking notes by the side of the pond.
He left, and Ron handed Petra the cell phone. She phoned Wil Fournier first. Away from his desk. She left the number. Schoelkopf was out, too- meetings all afternoon- but she convinced a clerk to track him down. He called five minutes later.
“I was with Lazara, this better be good.”
“Seems pretty good to me, sir.” She told him.
“Shit- okay, we pick up both of them pronto.”
“Ramsey's hiding behind Lawrence Schick.”
“I know that, so we yank the bastard the hell out from behind Schick's skirts. Just to talk, not an arrest. You stay there, be an eagle eye, don't lose control of the situation. And keep the goddamn phone line open.”