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
“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
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