58

Larry Schick wore a cheap-looking brown suit that probably cost three thousand dollars, all puckered around the lapels and sagging on his meager frame. Instead of a handkerchief in the breast pocket, he carried an ornately carved meerschaum pipe. The bowl hung out like a talisman. Woman's head. Creepy.

The attorney was younger than Petra expected, early to mid-forties, with a very tan pencil-point face, jet-black Prince Valiant 'do, and pink-plastic-framed eyeglasses. Snakeskin cowboy boots. Like one of those English rock stars trying to stretch the hip thing into middle age.

He and Ramsey arrived at the Montecito house just after six, Schick behind the wheel of a black Rolls-Royce Silver Spur. Malibu Colony sticker on the windshield, a bunch of club emblems fastened to the grille. Another car boy.

Ramsey got out first. He wore a faded denim shirt, black jeans, running shoes; looked even older than the last time she'd seen him. Taking in the scene, he shook his head. Schick came around from the driver's side and touched his elbow. Petra and Ron were with them before they could take another step. Ramsey kept staring at the crime tape.

The estate was quiet now; only a few techs still working. No word from Sepulveda on the warrants yet. Sergeant Grafton remained stationed near the pond. She'd introduced herself a while back. First name, Anna. Bright, art history degree from UCSB, which gave them something to talk about during the dead time. She was flying to Switzerland next week. “Major burglary, old masters. We recovered almost all of them. It'll never hit the papers.” No interest in homicide, no attempt to take over the case.

Now she watched the arrival of the Rolls, met Petra's eye, studied Ramsey for a while, and turned the other way.

Petra said, “Evening, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Larry Schick,” said the lawyer, interposing his arm between them.

Ramsey stepped back. He looked at Ron, then zeroed in on Petra. “What the hell is going on?”

“Estrella Flo-”

“I know, I know, but what was she doing up here?”

“We were going to ask you that, sir.”

Ramsey shook his head again and clicked his teeth together. “Unreal. The world's gone nuts.”

Schick's facial muscles hadn't budged. He said, “What exactly happened to her, Detective?”

“Too early to give out details, Mr. Schick, but I can tell you she was murdered very brutally and buried over there.” She pointed at the pond. The gravesite was marked by a stake.

“My God,” said Ramsey, turning away.

Petra said, “Mr. Ramsey, did Mrs. Flores ever work at this house?”

“Sure.”

“Recently?”

“No. Back when Lisa and I were together.” By the end of the sentence, Ramsey's voice had thickened. He glanced at the stake again and winced.

Schick said, “Detective, why don't we do this a little later-”

“It's okay, Larry,” said Ramsey. “Lisa and I used to spend weekends here. Sometimes Lisa brought Estrella with us to clean. I don't think Estrella had a key, though. And I can't see why she'd come up here.”

“Who cleans the house now?”

“A cleaning company. Not regularly, maybe once a month. I never use the house anymore.”

“What's the name of the company?”

“I don't know. Greg handles it.”

“Does Mr. Balch come up personally to let them in?”

“Sure.” Ramsey studied her.

“Where is Mr. Balch now?”

Ramsey looked at his watch. “Probably on his way home.”

“He worked today?”

“I assume.” Ramsey's voice had cleared.

“You haven't spoken to him recently?” said Petra.

“The last time I spoke to him was, let's see… two days ago. He called to ask if there was anything I needed. I said no. He tried to cheer me up. I've been mostly hanging around the house, trying to avoid the media… now this insanity.”

Petra said, “We tried to call Mr. Balch at the office and he didn't answer.”

“Maybe he stepped out- what's the big deal?”

“We're talking to everyone with access to this property.”

“Access?” said Ramsey. “I suppose anyone could climb the gate. Never installed electric gates.”

“No need?”

“Never got around to it. When Lisa and I came up, we used a padlock. The thing that bugs me is how did Estrella get up here? She didn't drive.”

“Excellent question,” said Petra.

Schick said, “Hopefully you people will come up with some answers.” He removed the pipe, inspected the bowl, turned it upside down. Nothing fell out.

Petra said, “So you haven't asked Mrs. Flores to clean this house recently.”

“Never. Listen, you have my permission to go over the whole place. House, grounds, anything. Don't bother with warrants-”

“Cart,” said Schick. “Even in the spirit of helpfulness-”

Ramsey said, “Larry, I want to get to the bottom of this. No point slowing things down.” To Petra: “Just do whatever the hell it is you do. Tear down the whole goddamn place for all I care.”

He swiped at his eyes, turned his back, and walked several steps. Schick followed him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Balch had offered similar comfort that first day and Ramsey's response had been to turn on him. But he accepted the attorney's gesture, nodding as Schick told him something. Petra saw him pinch the top of his nose. He and Schick returned.

“Sorry, Detective Connor. Anything else?”

“Was there any reason for Mr. Balch to be up here recently?”

“Like I said, he comes up to fix things, let in workmen. If there was something to fix, he'd have a reason.”

“But you're not aware of anything specific.”

“I wouldn't know,” said Ramsey. “Greg takes care of things.”

“Both houses?”

“Absolutely.”

“Does that include exchanging cars?”

“Pardon?”

“Bringing the Jeep to L.A. for maintenance,” said Petra. “Leaving his own car here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Balch did that yesterday, sir. A local deputy saw him exit the property, and Mr. Balch told him you'd asked him to bring the Jeep down for maintenance. He left his Lexus here.”

“Makes sense,” said Ramsey. “The Jeep was for weekends here- Lisa liked it. I rarely use it, so maybe it seized up.”

“But you don't know that.”

“No, I'm guessing.”

“Where do you take the Jeep for service?”

“Some Jeep dealer in Santa Barbara. I think.”

“Any reason to bring it to L.A.?”

Ramsey shrugged and stroked his mustache. “Maybe Greg switched dealers. Maybe he had a problem with the one in Santa Barbara. Why all these-”

“I just need to get this straight,” said Petra, feigning confusion. “You never asked him specifically to pick up the Jeep.”

“Not specifically- what are you getting at?”

She pulled out her pad, scrawled. “Maybe nothing, sir.” After writing, she snuck in a quick cartoon of Schick. The stupid haircut made it easy.

Ramsey was staring at her. “You think Greg-”

Petra didn't answer. Next to her, Ron was as still as a machine.

“Oh, c'mon,” said Ramsey. “No way. No, that's absolutely crazy-”

“How did Mr. Balch and Estrella Flores get along?”

“They got along fine.” Ramsey laughed. “This is totally nuts. If Greg says the Jeep needed maintenance, it did. What's going on here is probably some kind of psycho stalker. Someone with a grudge against me, so he goes after people… close to me.”

“Mrs. Flores was close to you?”

“No- I don't know. All I'm saying is these nuts are all over. Look at John Lennon, all the crap people in the industry put up with. Have you checked out anything like that?”

“We're looking at all kinds of things,” said Petra.

Schick said, “I know someone who can look into it, Cart.”

Ron hadn't said a word. Petra glanced at him, letting him know it was okay. He said, “In terms of stalkers, do you have anyone in mind, Mr. Ramsey?”