“What do you mean?”
“He wasn't exactly coming on, but there was interest. At least, I thought so. It tells us something about the way his mind works. His ex has just been murdered, he's putting on the grieving husband bit, and he's checking you out.”
So he had seen it. What else had he kept to himself?
“I'm not talking bait, Petra. If you don't want to do it alone, I understand. But you've got the talent for this one.”
“Thanks.” Why didn't she feel complimented? Was she growing truly paranoid?
She nodded.
“Okay, then it's all set.” He picked up his phone.
25
Runningrunning running notbreathing,
No looking back.
Trees jumping in front of me, trying to grab me, change direction.
Tear through the branches, they tear back, my face, my arms, my legs, all on fire.
I want to close my eyes, hurl myself through space, a missile. I try and it's good, but then I fall and roll, hitting rocks and branches and sharp things, hurting my head, opening up a hot wet cut on my arm.
It keeps bleeding. I can feel it dripping down, but it doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts; am I made of clay? Of shit?
Don't know where I'm going, don't care, just out of there, the park was a traitor.
Now I can breathe.
I can hear it in my ears, fuzzy, big bursts of fuzz that fill up my head, in air, out air, fuzz air, my chest hurts.
No more Places. Nothing's safe… my heart's beating too hard, too fast, suddenly I have to throw up.
I stop, bend over, it shoots out of me like lava, all over the ground, burning my throat.
When will I have a clean life?
No more, empty now, have to be quiet, have to be quiet.
I am quiet.
Everything's quiet.
I taste and smell like something dead.
I run some more, fall get up, run, walk, start to feel better and stop to breathe, but then I start shaking and can't stop.
I'm in a part of the park that I've maybe seen before, but I'm not sure.
Lots of trees, leaves all over the ground, rocks and dirt, could be anywhere in the park. I lie down and hug myself. My throat is still on fire, my teeth start knocking against each other dadadadadadadada.
It stops. I want to sit up, but so tired. The ground is bumpy. I find a rock, a smooth, cold one, hold it in both hands, squeeze hard, then I throw it away and take a deep breath.
The bleeding cut has dried into this purple line with wet spots and gold-colored stuff leaking out. Probably plasma. It helps you clot.
I start to hurt all over and find all the other cuts and marks, on my arms, my face. I scratch, raise some bloody spots, watch them clot too.
My body's working.
A bird cry makes me jump and my heart shoots up into my throat and I feel like vomiting again.
Breathe, breathe, breathe… now I'm dizzy.
Breathe. Listen to the birds, they're just birds.
Okay. I'm okay.
Time to start moving again.
Finally, the night comes.
I'm on a high spot, almost a hill, nothing to see but trees and behind them the huge black shadows of real mountains.
Still in the park, but not for long. Traitor.
I've got nothing now, my books, my clothes, my plastic bags, my food, it's all back at Five.
All the Tampax money. Except what's left of the five dollars I took to the zoo. I reach down in my pocket and feel three bills and some change.
How did all this happen? How did they know to go for me?
The park was their place, too.
My fault. Stupid thinking I could relax.
Nice and dark now. Darkness covers me, time to move, again.
I walk till I hear cars. Still can't see them, but I must be getting closer to Los Feliz Boulevard. I keep rubbing the hand that held the shit against rocks and dirt and tree trunks and after a while there's no more stink. The cars are really loud now and it is Los Feliz and I know where I am.
Hiding myself behind a thick tree, I think about what to do and she comes into my head.
The one who got chucked.
Why do I keep meeting evil, gross, sick people?
Is there some message I wear on my face like this kid is a loser; he should get messed up? Do I look weak, wimpy, something to be hunted down?
Am I giving off some kind of sign I can't see, the way you can't tickle yourself?
Do I need to be different?
One thing's for sure: I need to be clean.
And gone.
26
At 7:15 p.m. Petra called Ramsey's house. The Spanish maid answered with “Wan min” and put her on hold.
Two minutes, three, five, six.
Was Ramsey figuring out a way to avoid her? Had he shot a call to his lawyer on another line? She prepared herself for a stonewall, would duly note it and try the Boehlingers again.
A voice came on. “Detective Connor.” The man himself.
“Evening, Mr. Ramsey.”
“Have you learned anything?”
“Afraid not, sir, but I thought we might talk again.”
“Fine. When and where?”
“How about your house, as soon as possible?”
“How about right now?”
She caught the tail end of the evening rush back to the Valley. Some idiot had overturned a truckload of garden furniture near the Canoga Park exit, and thousands of misery voyeurs just had to slow and stare at mangled lounges and shattered faux-cement birdbaths. What's so fascinating about someone else's misfortune? Who was she to talk? She earned a living off it.
Use the time constructively. Psych out Ramsey.
But there was no sophisticated plan, no details to nail down, because planning too precisely when you had no facts could be worse than no preparation at all. One thing was clear: no confrontation. She'd go in friendly, and even if Ramsey gave her a hard time or renewed the Don Juan thing, she'd stay friendly.
That was her strength, anyway. She was able to elicit confessions gently, just as effectively as the bullies, sometimes more so. Stu had built her confidence by letting her take over some serious interrogations. “Use your inherent personality as a weapon, Petra. The way a therapist does.”
She'd never thought of therapy as warfare, but she understood the message: It was all manipulation, and the best manipulators didn't overact.
Stu's interview persona was Kind But Strict Big Brother, a smart, pleasant, but essentially tough guy you were a little afraid of but admired and wanted to please.
Hers was Regular Gal, the kind guys liked to talk to.
Not bait. Talent. But Stu knew damn well bait was a significant part of it. Ramsey, a ladies' man- in his own mind- so dangle a lady.
A player packing limp spaghetti.
No lawyer's name had been mentioned yet, but Petra was sure there was one lurking in the background, feeding Ramsey lines. Just like they did when filming- what did they call those guys?- prompters. Machines did it now- TelePrompTers.
Ramsey had years of practice mouthing words and making them sound right.
Even a bad actor had it over the average suspect. The typical sad soul she interrogated was so full of anxiety, he gave you more than you needed even when he thought he was lying effectively, and the key was to Mirandize him right away, get every last drop legally. The exception was your basic stone-psychopath who had little or no anxiety, but those guys were so boringly self-destructive, they usually managed to trip themselves up being clever.
So where did Ramsey fit in? A calculated killer, or just some pathetic, impotent loser who'd freaked out?