“Yup. The beer was Grolsch, if it matters.”

Imported lager with a barbiturate chaser? thought Petra. Balch slipping Ramsey a mickey?

If so, had the underling stopped to deliberate? Wondered about adding a little more powder?

Paying Ramsey back for all those years of friendship.

Some friendship. Not one single acting job, putting Balch down in public, sticking him in that crappy office, a middle-aged errand boy.

The unkindest cut of all: Lisa.

Because he'd met Lisa first. Gave her up to Cart. Always Cart.

Petra could almost feel the rage, herself.

What had led Balch to stalk Lisa that night? Had she reignited their old relationship, then cut it off? Or had Balch just succumbed to his own fantasies?

Petra pictured the blond man waiting by Lisa's apartment. Watching the Porsche drive out of the subterranean lot. Following.

In one of Cart's cars. He had access to all the cars. All the toys.

Tonight he'd play.

Taking what was his.

The same way he'd taken Ilse Eggermann?

Ilse. Lisa. The names were virtual anagrams.

Patterns. A crazy notion, but when it hit you in the face, you said ouch.

How many other dead blond girls were there? Girls who reminded Balch of Lisa.

Where the hell was Balch?

Or maybe she was all wrong and the lackey would show up, alibied, a perfect explanation, the case in tatters and some psycho was stalking Ramsey.

Or was Ramsey the stalker?

The boy in the park might know. Had Wil made any progress? She'd call him again as soon as she finished up with Ramsey.

“The beers,” she said. “Did you drink them from bottles or cans?”

“From a glass,” said Ramsey, as if she'd asked a rude question.

Cans you opened yourself; bottles you could open for someone else… “And right after you drank, did you feel even more tired?”

“No,” he said. “I told you I was tired all day, I mean the alcohol might've been the topper, but-” The blue eyes widened. “Oh, c'mon- you've got to be kidding.”

“About what, sir?”

“Something in the beer- no, no. No way in hell. I'd know if- no, it didn't feel that way. I was just bushed from overwork and travel. I conked out. We both did.”

“How long did you sleep that night?”

Ramsey stroked his mustache, licked his lips.

Schick said, “Let's finish up here, Detective.”

“Almost done,” said Petra, smiling. The lawyer didn't smile back.

“I got up around eight, eight-thirty,” said Ramsey. “So eleven hours.”

“Is that your typical sleep pattern?”

“No, usually seven's enough, but- oh, come on. I would've felt something. Woozy, whatever. This is James Bond stuff, Detective Connor. I make movies. I know the difference between fantasy and reality.”

His eyes told her a new, troubling logic had begun to worm its way into his brain.

True confusion or acting?

The difference between fantasy and reality. The phrase seemed to mock Petra.

“I'm sure you're right, Mr. Ramsey.” She watched Ron pocket the phone as he returned. Schick was watching her.

She excused herself, and met Ron well out of Ramsey and Schick's earshot.

“Only one open Mercedes dealer,” he said. “Sherman Oaks, never serviced Ramsey's cars. But bingo at Westward Charter. Balch tried to fly out last night. Called around eleven, wanting to book a solo trip to Vegas. Said it was a business trip. Westward doesn't take off past ten, and told him to check commercial flights. We'd better start calling airlines.”

“Oh my,” she said.

“Stupid move,” said Ron, “trying to use the charter.”

“Billing it to the boss,” said Petra. Payback.

She noticed Ramsey staring at her. Had she given away something with her body language?

She ignored him. Nice to be able to do that.

59

I just got out of the bathroom. That's where I ran after I stopped crying. When I came out, I almost hoped Sam wasn't there, but he was shining the silver charity bottle with a corner of his jacket. My eyes were dry. I felt I was walking through a bad dream.

“You got a few hours till they show up to pray tonight,” he said, still polishing.

I sat down again and thought. No ideas came. The walkway, all those people, now it seemed like a haunted place.

I couldn't see any other way out, so I agreed to go to Sam's house. “But not during the day, I don't want anyone to see me.”

“That's a little difficult, Bill. People start showing up before dark. And I have to be here to run things.”

The way we finally work it out is: At six o'clock, he'll come back with some dinner and sneak me into his car. I'll hide there while the Jews are praying, in the backseat, covered by the blankets.

“How long do you pray?”

“An hour, give or take. I stay late to clean up. When the coast is clear, I'll let you know.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it,” he says. “Just take care of yourself.” Then he laughs. “Who am I to tell you that? You been taking care of yourself fine.”

60

No answer to her second knock, and now Mildred Board was worried.

She'd heard the bath filling a half hour ago. Had the missus fallen? Suffered some kind of an attack? Maybe the doctors were wrong and she really was ill.

She turned the doorknob, called out “Ma'am?” as she entered the bedroom. Empty.

And the bed was made!

Not Mildred's tight-cornered creation but a decent tuck. First the bath, now the bed. Why on earth all this independence?

Yesterday, she'd been up extra early and ready. Hearing footsteps at 6 A.M., she went down to find the missus in the kitchen, folded newspaper in front of her, next to a cup of something that turned out to be instant tea.

“Are you all right, ma'am?” she'd said.

“Fine, Mildred. And you?” The missus was smiling but the look in her eyes was… distant.

“Ready to greet the day, ma'am.”

“That's the spirit.”

Fighting a frown, Mildred fixed a proper cup of English Breakfast while glancing at the paper.

The missus smiled. “I must be developing a belated interest in current events.”

“Yes, ma'am. Up early, too.”

“I seem to be doing that lately, don't I? Must be a change in my biorhythm.”

Later that day, she'd found the missus out on the patio with her hand on a stone column, as if she needed support. Looking out at… what? The ruins of the garden? More like nothing. Her eyes had that blank look again, and when Mildred greeted her, they stayed that way for several seconds.

Strange things were happening.

Mildred walked through the bedroom into the first dressing room. No one. The bathroom was empty, too, the tub drained, towels folded.

A long corridor led to the walk-in closet. Standing in the doorway, Mildred repeated, “Ma'am?”

“In here, Mildred. You may come in.”

Mildred hurried through the narrow passage. The rear closet was larger than most rooms, lined with mahogany shelves and racks, built-in drawers. Hand-printed hatboxes, scores of shoes arranged by color. All that was left of the missus's couture collection was a pair of wool coats, a rain slicker, five suits- black, brown, beige, two grays- and a few casual dresses and cashmere sweaters, all encased in plastic wardrobe bags. The missus was standing in front of the mirror applying makeup, fully dressed in one of the gray suits, a thirty-year-old Chanel. She wore pearl earrings, the small ones, lovely. Mildred remembered the diamonds him had showered on the missus. An annoying little man from San Gabriel had examined them with a loupe and a predatory smile.

The Chanel draped the missus's figure perfectly. But… her feet…