Give him lots of rope, sit back, look, and listen. A self-hanging was too much to hope for, but maybe he'd at least knot himself up.
She reached RanchHaven at 8:40, got waved through by the guard. Before she drove through, she asked him if he'd been on night duty Sunday and he said no, that was someone else. Then he closed the guardhouse door.
She drove up the hill. Artificial lights bleached the pink house off-white, made it appear even bigger, but just as architecturally confused.
A young Hispanic woman, not Estrella Flores, answered her ring, opening the door halfway. What Petra could see of the house was dark.
“Hello,” she said. “Detective Connor for Mr. Ramsey.”
“Jes?” The woman was pretty, with a round face, wide eyes the color of concord grapes, and black hair tied in a bun. About twenty-five. Same pink-and-white uniform Estrella Flores had worn.
Petra repeated her name and showed the badge.
The maid stepped back. “Wan min.” Same voice as over the phone. Where was the older woman?
“Is Estrella Flores here?”
Confusion. The young woman started to turn, and Petra tapped her shoulder. “Donde esta Estrella?”
Head shake.
“Estrella Flores? La… housekeeper?”
No answer, and Petra's attempt at a warm, sisterly smile failed to alter the maid's stolid expression.
“Como se llama usted, señorita?”
“Maria.”
“Nombre de familia?”
“Guerrero.”
“Maria Guerrero.”
“Sí.”
“Usted no sabe Estrella Flores?”
“No.”
“Estrella no trabaja aqui?”
“No.”
“Cuanto tiempo usted trabaja aqui?”
“Dos dias.”
Two days on the job; Estrella gone. Knowing something she didn't want to know and rabbiting? Petra wished she'd gotten to her sooner.
As Maria Guerrero turned again to leave, a male voice said, “Detective,” and Ramsey appeared out of the darkness, wearing a white, seriously wrinkled linen shirt, cream silk slacks, cream loafers, no socks.
A vision in pale tones? I'm a good guy.
He held the door open for Petra and she walked in. The house smelled stale, and only a table lamp at the rear of the big sitting room was lit. The car museum was dark, too, the glass wall a sheet of black.
He walked two feet ahead of her, to the lamp, switched on another and winced, as if the wattage hurt his eyes. Had he been sitting in the darkness till now? His sleeves were rolled carelessly to his elbows and his curly hair looked lumpy and uneven.
“Please, have a seat.” Waiting till she'd settled on one of the overstuffeds, he picked his own spot at a right angle to hers, their knees two feet apart.
Placing his hands at his sides, he sat there. His face looked drawn, older. More gray hairs among the curls, but maybe it was just the lighting. Or some dye wearing off.
“Thanks for meeting with me, sir.”
“Of course,” he said, inhaling and rubbing one corner of his mouth.
Petra took out her pad, letting her jacket fall open so he could see the badge on her shirt pocket. Showing him the side of the pad with the blue LAPD stamp. Trying to study his reaction to those small bits of official presence.
He was looking somewhere else. At the big stone fireplace, cold and dark.
“Would you like something to drink, Detective?”
“No thanks, sir.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.”
“Will do, Mr. Ramsey.” She opened the pad. “How's everything?”
“Rough. Very rough.”
Petra gave her best understanding smile. “I noticed you have a different maid than when I was here the first time.”
“The other one walked out on me.”
“Estrella Flores?”
He stared at her. “Yes.”
“How long had she been working for you?”
“Two years, I guess. Give or take. She said she wanted to go back to El Salvador, but I know it was the… what happened to Lisa. She liked Lisa. I guess all the… when you people were here it must have upset her, because that night she was busy packing.” He shrugged. “Then all the media calls. It's been hard keeping my head clear.”
“Have there been many calls?”
“Tons, all on the business line. The number I gave you was my private line. I had everything forwarded to Greg's office. He's not talking to anyone, so hopefully it'll taper off.” He rubbed his eyes, shook his head.
“So you got a new maid immediately,” said Petra.
“Greg got her.”
She sat there, not writing. Giving Ramsey some silence to fill, but he lowered his head. Wide shoulders rounding as he slumped, your classic grieving posture. Chin in hand now. The Thinker.
“Estrella Flores liked Lisa,” she finally said, “but she didn't go with Lisa when Lisa moved out.”
“Nope,” said Ramsey, looking up. “Why's Estrella so important?”
“She probably isn't, sir. I'm trying to get a feel for Lisa's person-ality- was there something about her that would have stopped Estrella from going with her? Was she hard to work for?”
“Doubt it,” said Ramsey. “It was probably the money. I paid her more than Lisa would've wanted to. Social Security, withholding, everything legal. Lisa had a small place; she wouldn't need someone that expensive.”
So Flores's nervousness that first day hadn't been immigration worries. And now she was gone…
Ramsey widened his legs a bit. “No, Lisa wasn't hard to work for. She was bright, full of energy, had a great sense of humor. Sometimes she could get a little… sharp with people, but no, I wouldn't call her hard to live with.”
“Sharp?”
“Sarcastic.”
Exactly what Kelly Sposito had said.
“Not in a mean way,” said Ramsey. “Just a bit of an… edge. Part of it was her sense of humor. She told a joke better than any woman I've ever-”
He stopped himself, pressed his legs close together. “Guess that sounds sexist, but I haven't really known that many women who enjoyed telling jokes. I don't mean your Phyllis Dillers or your Carol Burnetts. Women who aren't pros.”
“And Lisa liked telling jokes.”
“When she was in the mood… you have no idea who killed her?”
“Not yet, sir. We're open to ideas.”
“It just doesn't make sense, Lisa hooking up with some maniac and going to Griffith Park. For the most part, she went for older guys- conservative types, not the type to get… wild.”
“She went for older guys after your divorce?”
“I wouldn't know about that,” said Ramsey. “But I do know that before we started dating, she'd had two older boyfriends back in Cleveland. A dentist and a high school principal.”
“How much older?”
“Ancient. Older than me,” he said, smiling. “She made a crack about going out with me even though I was too young for her. At the time she was twenty-four and I was forty-seven.”
Making him fifty.
“What were the names of these other men?”
“I honestly can't recall- the principal was Pete something, I think the dentist was Hal. Or maybe Hank. She'd been dating Pete right before she met me, broke up with him the day of the pageant- that's where I met her, Miss Ohio Entertainment- I told you that, didn't I?”
Petra nodded.
“Going senile.” He tapped his head. “One good thing about Alzheimer's- you get to meet new people every day.”
Thinking of her father, wasting away, Petra forced a smile. Onset at sixty, one of the earliest the doctors had seen. One of the quickest progressions, too. Kenneth Connor, dust at sixty-three…
“Are you okay?” said Ramsey.
“Pardon?”
“For a second you looked upset- was it the Alzheimer's joke? That was one of Lisa's- if it was too sick for your taste, I'm-”
“No, not at all, Mr. Ramsey,” she said, appalled. What had he seen on her face? “So Lisa liked jokes.”
“Yes- do you have any idea when there might be a funeral?”