He preferred to give in to his compulsions. Avoiding them built up tension.
His mother had been unbelievably compulsive before going completely bonkers. Smoking five packs a day, picking at her face, rocking when she sewed, going on food binges, then starving herself for days. When they put her in the hospital, she began to bang her head against the wall, like one of those autistic kids, and they forced her to wear a football helmet. Flowered dress and a helmet- what position do you play, Ma? She looked ridiculous, and he did everything he could to avoid visiting her.
She'd died ten years ago, and he was sole surviving kin. Through a local attorney, he'd instructed the hospital to cremate her, bury her on the grounds.
Thinking about her evoked no emotion. He was hot, discouraged, not happy about abandoning the loose end. Mostly the heat right now. That was the biggest part of what he felt.
He took an hour to cover the walkway two more times, getting more and more uptight about not succeeding.
No kid who looked anything like the picture. He reached the water fountain, filled his belly with water, wiped the beard. A tourist about to drink changed his mind. Talk about a convincing performance.
The nearest bench was occupied by a young couple in spandex. He stumbled over, muttering, perched his butt on a corner, and the couple got up and left.
This was good!
The synagogue must have just let out, because he saw old people milling around outside the front door, then dispersing. He had nothing against any group, even Jews, just wished those who couldn't take care of themselves would die and make room for everyone else.
Someone else didn't like the Jews, though.
Guy working the souvenir stand a couple of stores down. Look at how he stared at them- real hostility.
Ugly guy, mid-forties, long greasy-looking blond hair, probably tinted. Bad skin, skinny arms sticking out of the sleeves of a really hideous purple CALIFORNIA HERE I COME T-shirt.
The stand stocked similar shirts, hats, sunglasses, toys and banners and postcards, a tiny little place crammed with junk. No one was buying, probably because the proprietor was about as welcoming as a piranha.
Hostile and jumpy. Looking up and down Ocean Front, too.
Interesting.
A pair of cops walked their bicycles past the stand, and the ugly guy's eyes widened and his body shot forward; he almost threw himself over the counter.
Wanting to tell them something?
But he stopped himself, picked up some kind of doll, pretended to be checking the price.
Strange…
The cops must have thought so too, because they stopped and talked to the ugly guy. He produced a sick-looking smile and shook his head. The cops didn't leave right away. Something about the guy was making them wonder. The guy kept smiling, fingering the doll, and finally they did leave.
The guy stood there for a long time watching them before returning to his old routine: looking north, then south, north, then south. Not a glance at the beach.
Looking for something in particular. Someone?
Anonymous tip. Could it be? Was God that good?
He studied the souvenir vendor for another twenty minutes, and the pattern never altered: pace, check out the walkway, take a doll down, squeeze it, put it back, pace… Suddenly, the guy altered his routine, going behind the cheap chintz curtains that backed the souvenir stand. Probably a rear stockroom; maybe a bathroom break.
For five minutes, the stand was left unattended and some local kids cruised by and pulled postcards from the rack. When the long-haired guy came out, he was wiping his lips.
A drink break. Here he goes again: up and down, up and down. Definitely on the prowl.
Could it really be? Maybe he was waiting for a dope deal.
Then again, the tip had come from somewhere.
To a loser like this, selling crap no one bought, twenty-five thou would be a helluva lot of Saturdays. Good reason to be jumpy.
He observed the guy some more. Same routine; one more booze break. The guy was robotic, on autopilot, just like the nuts he used to see when he visited his mother.
Definitely worth looking into- what did he have to lose?
He got up, walked a hundred yards south, reversed direction, and shifted closer to the storefronts, passing close to the stand and looking for posted hours. There it was:
SUMMER HOURS: 11 TO 5 M-F, WEEKENDS, 11 TO 8.
He'd leave, come back close to 8; hopefully the crowds would be gone. Hopefully the guy wouldn't close up early or go off shift; if he did, there was always another day.
Given no other leads, it was all he had and he decided to be hopeful.
Optimism, that was the key. Long as you didn't lose the irony.
70
Saddlewax Road was a quarter mile in from the Palos Verdes turnoff. Along the way, Petra saw two little girls in full equestrian dress riding gorgeous brown horses. A woman on a black steed trailed them, scrutinizing their posture or the horses', or both.
Balch's house was three-quarters up the shady street, a one-story apricot stucco ranch atop a high bed of devil ivy. That same white corral fencing cordoned the property and all its neighbors. Boys shot baskets; a man in a bright green polo shirt hosed down a vintage Corvette. The neighborhood had that aura of families with bright futures.
Strange place for a man living alone. Maybe the remnant of one of the marriages.
There was a basketball hoop atop Balch's garage, too. No cars parked outside. The few roses planted next to the house were leggy and browning, and the roof shakes were warped. Bound stacks of mail- four days' worth- sat in front of the screen door. A very small notice stapled to the screen said the local sheriffs had assumed jurisdiction over the property; no one was to trespass. The locals hadn't taken in the mail.
Wil phoned them, and they said it was okay to enter; if he and Petra removed anything, make a list and send a copy. He got evidence bags and recording forms from the trunk of his car, Petra picked up the mail, and they went in.
The living room was dark, rancid, littered with unfolded newspapers, dirty clothes, empty cans of beer and Pepsi, bottles of orange juice and vodka. A screwdriver man.
A sty, just like the office. Unlike the Lexus. As Petra read the mail, Wil got to work on the sofas, removing cushions, unzipping them, yanking out the foam.
Four days of post yielded utility bills, junk ads, coupons. Three days ago, he'd been spotted at Montecito switching cars, after burying Estrella Flores. Where had he cut the maid's throat? Probably somewhere in the hills above RanchHaven. Petra's best guess was he'd overpowered Flores in the house, driven her out through the fire road, found some nice quiet kill spot. Then, wrapping the body in plastic, stashing her in the trunk, he made the forty-five-minute drive to Montecito, entombed the body, left the Lexus behind- because he thought it was clean, and why would the cops check out Ramsey's weekend house?
Picking up the Jeep because that had been Lisa's murder vehicle and he wanted to make sure it was clean?
She recalled his demeanor during the interview. A little downbeat, self-effacing. No edginess, but if he was that psychopathic, why would there be?
Slipping in Lisa's bad temper, how she took it out on Cart. Brand-new running shoes. A clever bastard, Mr. Gregory Balch. So why had he stayed a lackey all his life?
Embezzling cash from the boss, waiting for the right moment to bolt? Original plans to do it with Lisa, but something had gone wrong… was Balch somewhere in Brazil with suitcases of cash, the satisfaction of having destroyed Ramsey's life in more ways than one?
She went into the kitchen. The food in the fridge was sad bachelor fare: beer, wine, more orange juice and Smirnoff, more takeout cartons. Beef lo mein and ribs from a Chinese place on Hawthorne Boulevard; KFC crispy chicken bucket- no address, but she'd seen an outlet along the way, on Hawthorne. Half a gigantic pizza from a place called DeMona's in Studio City. Ventura Boulevard, just a few blocks from the office. All the food was long past edibility. The pizza looked petrified.