“No sweat,” I said.
“Don’t move,” he said.
“I remembered one more thing.”
“Yes?” He had his hand on the door.
“Leslie told me that just about the time Amy disappeared, George was working in Pasadena for some people named Sinclair.”
“Once you find the right thread, it all unravels in a hurry, doesn’t it?”
“To a point. Still doesn’t explain why Hillary took off. Or why they killed her.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Mike’s eyes focused off into space somewhere. After a moment, he thumped the edge of the door with his palm. “Hang tight. I’ll be back.”
When I was alone, with the door closed, I crossed my arms on the table and put my head down on them, turning to the left side because there was a bump under my hair on the right. The foul smell of the canal water seemed to rise with every deep breath I took, like stirring fetid sediment. I closed my eyes and, dizzy, coursed down again in my memory through Randy Ramsdale’s grave. I shivered with the cold and startled upright just as Mike opened the door again.
“Sorry,” he said, setting a battered tape player on the table. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Too late.” I rubbed my eyes. “Let’s hear it.”
Mike punched play.
I listened through some preliminary arguing about why Elizabeth should talk to Mike at all. A terrific, accented baritone in the background on Elizabeth’s end seemed to settle her qualms about talking when he promised to keep her locked up until her dark roots grew in, unless she cooperated.
From the description of Elizabeth given to me by the women at the yacht club, I was expecting maybe poor white trash. The woman’s voice I heard was low-pitched yet full of honey, not finishing-school or highbrow, but well-modulated. Now and then, when her temper flared, she slipped into a more natural-sounding nasal whine.
Mike worked on her gently for a while, getting her own bare-bones story. According to Elizabeth, she and a friend had sailed south a week ago, just the two of them on a little vacation, she said. They had put in at Ensenada and taken on a Mexican crew of three so they could relax – the going had been more arduous than they had expected. With the crew, they had gone on to Cabo San Lucas, doing a little fishing on the way. The friend she identified as Ricco Zambotti, an actor by profession. He was still in Cabo with her, she said, watching over the boat while the federales harassed her.
When Mike informed her that her husband was dead, there was only silence on her end. I would have given anything to have seen her face at that moment. She expressed neither grief nor surprise, no sobs, no gagging with mirth. She also did not ask how, when, where.
After a respectful pause, Mike picked up the interrogation: “Mrs. Ramsdale, when did you last see or hear from your husband?”
Elizabeth’s voice: “In February.”
Mike: “You never filed a missing-persons report.”
Elizabeth: “Why should I? I didn’t want him back. He was leaving me for another woman.”
Mike: “Weren’t you worried something might have happened to him?”
Elizabeth: “I couldn’t afford to be worried. You should see the prenup I signed. If he died or divorced me, I got nothing. Nada. If he was gone, fine. I could still use the bank accounts. I wasn’t going to go looking for him.”
Mike: “You also did not report Hillary Ramsdale missing.”
Elizabeth, after a pause: “I assumed she was with her father.”
Mike: “She didn’t pack a bag.”
Elizabeth: “So what? They were a real spooky pair. Nothing they did suprised me.”
Mike: “How spooky?”
Elizabeth: “I think it’s spooky when a natural-blond kid dyes her hair dark. Means she has something to hide.”
Mike: “What did she have to hide?”
Elizabeth, cocky: “Ask her.”
Mike: “You said you inherit nothing from Randy. Does Hillary?”
Elizabeth: “Yes. Everything. She’s the million-dollar baby.”
Mike: “And if she were to die, who would get it?”
Elizabeth: “Not me. Ask Randy’s attorney.”
Mike: “I have. I just wondered whether you knew.”
Elizabeth: “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
Mike: “Did you argue with Hillary?”
Elizabeth: “Maybe the connection isn’t very good. I said, I don’t want to talk to you.”
Mike: “What did you tell Hillary about her father? She must have asked about him.”
Elizabeth, angry: “She asked, all right. She nagged me until I thought I would lose it.”
Mike: “Did you lose it, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth: “No.”
Mike: “Did you know Randy was dead?”
Elizabeth: “I told you. No.”
Mike: “You haven’t asked about Hillary, Elizabeth. Do you know where she is?”
Elizabeth: “No.”
Mike: “Tell me about your last conversation with her.”
Elizabeth: “I don’t remember.”
Mike: “If Capitan Salazar is still there with you, ask him to take you on a tour of the jail. See how you like it. Because, Elizabeth? You’re going to be there until we get ready to come and get you. If I feel like walking the papers around the Justice Department, I can have you back up here in twenty-four hours. If I don’t feel like walking, you could be down there for a year, maybe two. How long does Capitan Salazar think it will take for your roots to grow out?”
Elizabeth: “You can’t hold me down here.”
Mike: “I absolutely can. Murder is an extraditable offense. You want to talk to me some more?”
Elizabeth: “I couldn’t possibly have done it. I was in Ensenada.”
Mike: “Wrong murder, Mrs. Ramsdale. We were still talking about Randy. Did you forget? You’re not supposed to know Hillary is dead. How could you know when she died?”
What followed was a string of obscenities and the sound of flying furniture, or something akin to it. Mike turned off the tape and looked down at me.
“Can you draw me a picture?” he asked.
I nodded. “Elizabeth and friend Ricco set sail from Long Beach, alone, a day or two before the murder in MacArthur Park. She puts him off somewhere down the coast. He makes his way back to L.A., kills Hillary, rejoins Elizabeth before Ensenada, where they take on a crew so they can kick back. Could work.”
“Yes, it could.”
“So,” I said, impatient, feeling ill. “You never told me you talked to Ramsdale’s attorney. Who inherits from Hillary?”
“Her mother and father. That’s the way the will reads. Her mother and father, no names.”
“Ah.” The light bulbs flickered on, dimly, in my aching head. “Once Randy was dead, all George had to do was swoop in and claim her as his long lost to gain control of the estate.”
“You can see him killing Randy?”
“If he was desperate enough,” I said. “I think it would be easier for me to kill a man than to sell off my child. He had already done that. But if he killed Randy, wouldn’t he want us to know? No body, no payoff. Eventually, he led us to the body when he sliced up Regina Szal’s raft. But he needed cash, now. Why wait so long?”
“He had to be careful no one figured out he had sold Amy in the first place. He could find himself in deep shit.”
“Still.”
“What?” he said.
“Where does Elizabeth come in? She had every reason to keep Randy alive as long as possible. Or maintain the illusion that he was alive.”
“Don’t assume they were in it together. Say she finds her husband’s body, and deep-sixes it. What’s George to do?”
“Too weird, Mike.” I had to rub my head, counteract the throbbing. “Crime according to Newton.”
“Huh?”
“You remember – every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”
“Guess I was absent from the police academy the day they did this Newton guy. What’s the point?”
“He kills, she hides it. And so on, until they have ruined each other’s programs. It scans well. I like it.”