White lace-up tennis shoes over bulky white socks.

“I thought I'd go out for a walk, Mildred.” The missus's thick, wavy hair was brushed and sprayed, chestnut embroidered with gray. Her makeup had been applied expertly except for one stray granule of lipstick near the corner of her beautiful mouth. Mildred restrained the impulse to flick it away, but she did give a pointed look and the missus caught the hint and dabbed.

“A walk. Lovely idea, ma'am…” Mildred's eyes lowered again. Those socks!

The missus laughed uneasily. “Not exactly the height of style, I know, but these are easy on the arches. My hamstrings are stiff, Mildred. I tried to stretch them out, but they're still bound up. It's been too long since I walked, Mildred.”

Drawing back her shoulders and straightening her spine, she started down the corridor.

“Do be careful, ma'am. I watered the orchard just twenty minutes ago and drainage seems to be poor, especially in the rear area, the peach trees. Boggy and slippery, you'd think that gardener's boy would have the sense to-”

The missus stopped and placed a delicate hand on Mildred's shoulder. “I'm not walking on the property, dear,” she said. “I'm going around the block.”

“Oh,” said Mildred. “I see.” She didn't. “I'll be happy to come with you-”

“No thank you, dear. I need to think.”

“With all due-”

“I'll be fine, Mildred.” The missus's chin began to shake. She drew back her shoulders.

She took another step. Stopped. “I'm always fine, Mildred. Am I not?”

61

By 6:57 p.m., Captain Sepulveda still hadn't returned and the techs had stopped working. The sun was low and the oaks blocked out straggling daylight. Sergeant Grafton had returned to her car. Petra was finished with Ramsey.

Lawrence Schick escorted his client back to the Rolls, remaining blank-faced as Petra tagged along. Ramsey got into the passenger seat and stared out the open window. He looked ancient.

Petra said, “If I need to reach you-”

“We're going for dinner,” said the attorney. “The Biltmore, Santa Barbara.”

“And after dinner?” said Petra.

Schick smoothed his bangs. “It's not exactly a night for brandy and cigars, is it, Detective, so I guess we'll return to L.A. Nice to meet you. Please continue to communicate through me.” Tapping the meerschaum twice, he got into the driver's seat, turned a frail-looking wrist. The car woke up and sailed away, but for the merest spatter of gravel, silently.

A few minutes later, Sepulveda drove up with a handful of warrants, explaining, “Every judge was playing golf.” He'd changed into sweats, Carpinteria Sheriff's insignia on the shirt.

Despite Ramsey's waiver, no search had begun because Sergeant Grafton had insisted on waiting for Sepulveda.

Petra called Schoelkopf to tell him about Balch's attempted flight to Vegas. No answer, and the clerk said he'd signed out for dinner; she didn't know where. No luck with Wil Fournier, either.

She was just about to call Stu when Sepulveda arrived. Ron was using the phone, talking to his kids.

“We'll concentrate on the house for now,” said Sepulveda, waving the warrants. “Do the grounds tomorrow morning. I've got techs from our station and a fingerprint spec from Ventura used to work for us that I still think is the best. You planning to stick around?”

“For a while,” said Petra.

“You know I can't let you participate in the search. Got to color within the lines.”

“Can we observe?”

Sepulveda considered that. “Why don't you and your partner make yourself comfortable over there.” He pointed to a wooden bench that curved around the trunk of the biggest oak. Drooping branches afforded semiprivacy.

“No way I can look, Captain?”

“Anything comes up, I'll give a holler.”

Flashing him a smile, Petra walked to the bench. Rock-hard and cool. Ron came over, still talking. “I'm proud of you, Bee. Thanks for listening so well to Grandma. 'Bye.” He hung up, said, “We can't go in?”

“Banished to the sidelines,” said Petra. “Another boss.”

“Too many jurisdictions,” he said. He sat down next to her, grazed her fingertips with his thumb. “But that's not always bad, is it? Never know who you'll meet.”

She smiled, not minding his touch but unable to think about anything but work, all the things she had to do.

She borrowed the phone, tried Wil again. Still no answer, but Schoelkopf picked up.

“Ramsey was just here with Schick,” she said.

“And?”

She summed up the interview, told him about Balch's call to Westward Charter.

“Well, that pretty much clinches it, doesn't it. Balch. Shit. And you guys were certain it was Ramsey. Can you imagine the field day the press would've had with that- near prosecution of an innocent man. Okay, no release of information till you hear from me, Barbie. Nothing. Understood?”

You're the one with a direct line to Public Information, jerk. “Of course, sir.”

“I mean it. Tighter than a… whatever. I'll handle Vegas for you- I know people in Metro over there. They keep a pretty tight handle on hotels and motels. If he's there, we'll find him. Meanwhile, you call the airlines. Get Fournier on that too.”

“Haven't been able to reach Fournier,” said Petra.

“I saw him this afternoon. Try his home. What's going on over there now?”

“They just started to search the house.”

“Keep an eye on those hicks. Flores is clearly the fruit of Lisa's tree, so it's our case.”

“What about Flores's son in El Salvador?”

“What about him?”

“He's worried about her. I promised to let him know.”

“I said keep it all under wraps for now. Another day or two isn't going to improve his quality of life. They find evidence in the house, let me know right away.”

He clicked off.

Ron remained silent.

Petra said, “Don't say I never took you anywhere interesting. Your kids okay?”

“Fine.”

“If you want to head back, I'll find a ride somehow.”

“No, I'll stay. Anything to do besides wait?”

“Call the airlines.” She looked at the phone. “Your bill is going to rival the national debt.”

He laughed. “You'll get an invoice.”

He'd stuck with her all day, remaining in the background. The guy was a veteran, it had to be hard, and all she did was keep borrowing the damn phone. “You're sure Alicia and Bee are okay?”

“Mom's taking them out for pizza; she'll sleep over.”

“Nice mom.”

“The best,” he said. “After my dad died, I thought she'd fall apart. Her whole life seemed wrapped up in his. She was pretty depressed at first, but then she came out of it, took up paddle tennis, joined a library group, went on some tours. She misses him- they had a great marriage- but she's doing okay.”

“When did your dad die?”

“Two years ago.”

“Mine too.”

He reached over, squeezed her hand, let go.

Petra said, “I have no mother. She died in childbirth.”

Ron said nothing. Smart man. She didn't look at him; didn't want that level of contact right now.

The third try at Fournier's house paid off. He said, “Been trying that 818 number for a couple hours, where are you?”

She told him everything.

“Unreal,” he said. “So Balch could be anywhere by now.”

“He was stupid enough to call Westward Charter using his real name, so maybe we'll get lucky.”

“How do you want to divide it?”

“Any way you want. Also, S. wants a total seal on it.”

“We put a want out on Balch, but don't tell anybody?”

“Not till he hears from upstairs.”

“Great,” said Wil. “So where does this put the kid?”

“Lower priority.”

He snorted. “Of course it is, now that I have a name for him. The Watson tips panned out: William Bradley Straight, twelve years old, lived in a low-life trailer park, missing a few months. If he did see Lisa get murdered, that's not his only problem. Someone killed his mama, push-and-shove case. Got a probable suspect, her boyfriend, some hairbasket named Buell Moran. And guess what: He's been spotted in Hollywood, showing the kid's picture.”