“Still,” said Petra, “nothing wrong with having nice things.”
Ramsey's blue eyes flickered. “Guess not.”
“What year's the Ferrari?”
“'Seventy-three,” said Ramsey. “Daytona Spider. Used to be owned by an oil sheikh; I picked it up at auction. It needs to be tuned every week and an hour behind the wheel kills your back, but it's a work of art.”
His voice had picked up enthusiasm. As if realizing it, he grimaced, shook his head again.
Trying to keep her voice light, Petra said, “What goes over there, in the empty slot?”
“My everyday wheels.”
“The Lexus?”
He looked over at the entry hall where the three other D's had congregated. “No, that's Greg's car. Mine's a Mercedes- thanks for your kindness, Detective. And for calling Lisa's folks. Let me see you out.”
Both cop cars left the development and cruised down a quiet side road. Stu drove until houses gave way to fields, then motioned the sheriffs over to the side. When they got out, De la Torre was smoking.
“Gave himself an alibi,” he said. “Here all night with old Greg. And all that shit about not knowing where he fit in.”
“That,” said Banks, “could have been trying to dissociate himself from it. Both for our sake and in his own mind.”
Stu said, “Coulda been,” and looked at Petra.
She said, “All that's interesting, and so is the way he brought up the subject of drugs, first thing. Then he gets all prissy and reluctant, protecting her reputation when we want to discuss it.”
“I think he's dirty as hell,” said De la Torre. “The alibi especially bugs the hell out of me. I mean your old lady gets sliced up, you're clean, cops show up to notify, do you feel a need to tell them you went to bed early the night of the murder?”
“I agree,” said Petra. “Except here we've got a domestic-violence thing that's gone public in the post-O.J. era. He knows he'll come under scrutiny, has a reason to protect himself.”
“Still,” said De la Torre, “too damn cute. The guy does a crime show, probably thinks he knows all the angles.” He grunted and smoked.
Petra thought of the way Ramsey had checked her out. Then sidled next to her. None of them had mentioned it. Should she? No point.
“I hate cop shows,” said De la Torre. “Bastards catch all the bad guys by the third commercial and damage my self-esteem.”
“He's not a cop on the show,” said Banks. “He's a P.I., this macho do-gooder who protects people when the police can't.”
“Even worse.” De la Torre pulled his mustache.
“Lots of tears, but he turned pretty businesslike when he ordered Balch to call the guardhouse,'' Banks said. “The wife's not even cold and he's covering his rear with the media.”
“Hey,” said De la Torre, “he's a big fucking star.” He blew smoke at the ground. “So… what can we do for you guys?”
“Check out local files, see if there've been any other domestic-violence calls- or anything else on him,” said Stu. “But quietly, at this point. We can't afford even a hint that he's being investigated.”
“So what was that, a condolence call with four D's?”
“You bet.”
“He'll buy that?”
“Maybe. He's used to special treatment.”
“Okay,” said Banks. “We flip paper quietly. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of,” said Stu. “Open to suggestions, though.”
“My suggestion,” said De la Torre, “is we keep the hell outta your hair, go to church, and pray for you. Because this ain't gonna be any slam dunk.”
Petra said, “Pray away. We'll take any help we can get.”
Banks smiled at her. “I noticed you talking by the glass. He say what the fifth car was?”
Petra studied his eyes for a moment. “His daily wheels. A Mercedes.”
“Think it's sponge-and-solvent time?”
“Could be,” said Petra. “With all that blood, there'd be a good chance of transfer.”
“What about shoe prints at the scene?”
“Nothing,” said Stu. “He managed to avoid stepping in the blood.''
“Meaning he stepped back. Or pushed her away. Either would mean he was prepared.''
Stu thought about that, his lips compressed. “I'd like to warrant that Mercedes, all right, but we're not even close to that without evidence.”
“What if the guy learned something from his show?” said De la Torre. “Some ultra-high-tech way to really zap something clean. These celebrities, there's always someone to clean up after them. Some walking-around guy, manager, agent, guesthouse bum, whatever- but hey, what am I moanin' about? It's your case. Good luck.”
Handshakes all around, and the sheriffs were gone.
“They seem decent,” said Petra.
They returned to the Ford. As Stu started it up, she said, “Did I go too far in terms of leaning on Ramsey?''
“Hope not.''
“What'd you think about all those other hot rods?”
“Predictable. People in the industry are in an eternal quest for the Best.”
He sounded angry.
“Think he's it?”
“Probably. I'll notify the family when we get back.”
“I can do it,” said Petra, suddenly craving contact with Lisa's family. Contact with Lisa.
“No, I don't mind.” He began driving. His starched collar was tinged with grime and his blond beard was coming in like new straw. Neither of them had slept for over twenty-four hours. Petra felt fine.
“No sweat for me either, Stu. I'll call.”
She expected an argument, but he sagged and said, “You're sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“You did notification on Gonzales and Chouinard, and Chouinard was no party.”
Dale Chouinard was a construction worker beaten to death outside a Cahuenga Boulevard tavern. Petra had informed his twenty-four-year-old widow that her four kids under six were orphans. Had thought she'd done okay, comforting the woman, holding her, letting her sob it out. Then, in the kitchen, Mrs. Chouinard went berserk, striking out at Petra, nearly clawing out an eye.
She said, “At least no one can slug me over the phone.”
“I really don't mind doing it, Petra,” he said.
But she knew he did. He'd told her, early in their partnership, that it was the part of the job he hated most. Maybe if she'd go the extra mile, he'd see her for the perfect partner she was and open up about what was bugging him.
“I'm doing it, pard. If it's okay with you, I'll talk to the maid, too.”
“Lisa's?”
“I meant Ramsey's, if I can get her out of the house without being obvious about making Ramsey a suspect. But I can do Lisa's, too.”
“Wait on Ramsey's,” said Stu. “Too tricky.” He pulled out his notebook and flipped pages. “Lisa's maid is Patricia… Kasempitakpong.” He enunciated the unmanageable name very slowly. “Probably Thai. The blues are holding her, but if she asks to leave, they can't stop her from flying back to Bangkok. Or calling the National Enquirer.”
“I'll go right after I call the family.”
He gave her the Doheny Drive address.
She said, “Cooperative of the sheriffs, letting us lead with Ramsey.''
“All the bad press both departments have been getting, maybe someone's finally getting smart.”
“Maybe.” Last month the sheriffs had been exposed for releasing several murderers through clerical error, giving county-jail prisoners gourmet food at taxpayer expense, and losing track of millions of dollars. Half a year before that, some deputies had been busted for off-duty armed robbery and a rookie had been found naked and dazed, roaming the hills near the Malibu substation.
Stu said, “The address reminds me- just a few blocks from Chasen's. Which they're tearing down in order to build a shopping center.”