We went in through an unlocked side door. Before Sergeant Mahakian turned on the overhead light, I don’t know what I expected to see, except that it had something to do with a man who was fast with a straight razor. What I saw was sufficiently scary.
Ranged in a row were a new black Mercedes 500SEL, a utilitarian minivan, a two-man Sabot sailboat on a trailer. And a shiny red Corvette.
Mike pulled me to him. “What do you think, Maggie?”
“Looks like the same Corvette. But I’m no car expert. Maybe the tape will help.”
“Sergeant,” Mike said, “did you run the cars?”
“Yessir.” Mahakian pulled out his notebook. “They are all registered to Randall Ramsdale, this address. No wants, no warrants, no nothing on any of them.”
Mike went over and felt the hood of the Corvette. “It’s cool now. What time did you call me, Maggie?”
“About five.”
“Three hours ago.”
Mahakian felt the hood, too. “You want to tell me about it?”
“A witness to Hillary Ramsdale’s killing identified the doer as a male, Cauc, fair complexion, six-two to six-four, drove a late-model red ‘vette.”
“Sly would know the car, Mike,” I said. “Probably give you a better ID on the car than he would on the driver.”
Mike nodded. “Tell the kid to talk to me, would you?”
“He’ll talk to you,” I said. “Without Hillary, he isn’t so tough. He’s scared.”
Mahakian jotted something on his notepad and pocketed it.
“Detective Flint, sir, I need to go call my supervisor, take another shot at the judge. Would you mind securing the premises until I can send someone to relieve you?”
“Go ahead,” Mike said. “We’ll stay here and neck till you get back.”
Poor Mahakian didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He patted his notebook, sucked in his round tummy, and left us.
When he was gone, I grabbed Mike by the shirtfront. “You can hug me. But I’m really not in the mood for anything else.”
“Come here.” He held me against him and stroked my back. Mike gives good succor. “You got pretty tight with the locals. Tell me what you know.”
I thought for a moment, my cheek resting on his chest. I didn’t know very much at all. I only had scraps. That’s where I started.
“Hillary was sweet to old ladies. Her father, a perfectionist when it came to pleasure, doted on her. Her stepmother was straight out of Grimm’s. There was a lot of noisy fighting for the entertainment of the neighbors. It seems that Randy, true to his name, had another woman. He gave her a ring with a substantial rock for Valentine’s day. As I put it together, that’s just about the time that Randy took off for parts unknown. Alone. About a month later, Hillary followed him. But if Hillary was actually living on the streets up in L.A., where was Randy? And if a nice kid like her preferred the mean streets, how horrible must it have been at home with the stepmother?”
“Real bad.” Mike rubbed his face, a tired, disdainful gesture. “I talked to my friend Art in juvenile records up in Sacramento this morning.”
“And?”
“How come no one filed a missing-person report on Hillary?”
“You tell me,” I said.
“Couple of possibilities come to mind. And I don’t like any of them. Parents don’t lose their kids for a month without reporting it. Not if they want them found again.”
I took a step back from him. “Where’s Michael?”
“He couldn’t wait for us. Had some homework to finish.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know getting us together is important to you.”
“It’s not your fault. Shit happens, huh?”
I didn’t have anything to say. We waited there in silence for a few more minutes before we were relieved by a pair of uniformed Long Beach officers.
While his partner wiped squashed snail off his shoe, the less picky of the two walked into the garage.
“Detective Flint?”
“Officer?”
“The sergeant said to tell you the warrant is on the way down. The minute it gets here, he’s going to boot the door.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said.
“After you,” Mike said, bowing me through the door. Mike and I picked our way back around front.
By the time we got there, the block and tackle had been set up at the side of the dock where the raft had gone down. The pile of waterlogged stuff had grown in mass, clusters of green trash-bag bundles taking up most of the small dock.
A few of the bags were torn. What I saw spilled out seemed to be mostly clothes – Neptune’s garage sale. There was so much of it that I marveled at the vastness of Elizabeth’s rage at Randy. Most of us would have been satisfied to toss out a few prized things and watch them float away, or sink into oblivion. But how many of us could sustain fury as long as Elizabeth had? Very scary woman.
The bourbon bottle on the table between Regina and Martha was empty. Martha still seemed chipper, but Regina had reached capacity. She was sound asleep, looking a lot like the sleeping toddler her friend had been holding at the yacht club.
Mahakian was at the front door with a couple of suits, holding a long, slender tool. They knocked a few times, hit the bell a few more, called out, “Police. Open up.”
Mike joined them. I had another agenda.
Yellow police tape kept a growing number of spectators at a distance. I wasn’t a spectator. I ducked under the tape, unchallenged, and went for a closer look at the junk on the dock.
The bags had been perforated, so they split when the divers manhandled them to the surface. I pulled a bag, heavy-gauge lawn and leaf size, into a clear space and ripped it open. No one stopped me.
The first garment I pulled out was a cream silk pajama top with RR embroidered on the breast pocket. The size on the label was XL. Seawater had surely ruined the fabric, but until they got wet, the pajamas had been in good shape, no tears or frayed areas. Further digging found more pajamas of similar style and quality, folded stacks of men’s boxer underwear – also monogrammed – a couple of terry robes, and, bizarre, a few pounds of ironstone dishes. Expensive, heavy dishes that probably gave the bundle enough weight to send it to the bottom and keep it there.
I looted through a few more open bags, found more of the wardrobe belonging to RR.
I looked up and saw Martha leaning over the tape. “What did you find, dear?”
“Randy’s clothes.”
“So many?” She seemed worried. “He must have bought all new things for his trip.”
Mahakian worked the tool between the front door and the jamb. With a sharp crack, the frame splintered and the latch and the deadbolt popped. The door swung open.
I dropped the clothes and went up to Mike on the terrace. Martha was right behind me.
I tugged his shirtfront again. “Can we go in?”
“Not until we’re invited. Let them look around first, just to be safe.”
Mahakian and his colleagues paused in the open doorway and seemed to be smelling the house air. I figured out why in a big hurry and my stomach took another roller-coaster ride. After a moment, they went in, hands poised on the weapons at their belts. I watched the lights come on at the windows, followed their progress around the first floor, then up the stairs.
After no more than five minutes, Sergeant Mahakian came back out. Mike went up and huddled with him, then he gestured for me.
“Hey, Miz Victim, come on in,” Mike said.
“What about me?” Martha demanded.
“Wait for the second tour bus,” Mike told her.
I was up the terrace steps and in the door before Mike. Behind me, I heard Martha grousing, “Why her?”
“What did you find, Sergeant?” I asked.