“That would depend on the coroner, Mr. Ramsey. And Lisa's family's wishes.”
“Are they coming out to L.A.?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“By the way, I ended up calling them myself, thought it should be me, not some… not a stranger. But all I got was a machine.”
“I got through to Dr. Boehlinger.”
He frowned. “Jack. He hates my guts, always did. Probably told you I was a terrible husband, you should be investigating me.”
Rope.
She waited.
“He's a tough guy, but not a bad sort,” said Ramsey. “Lisa marrying me really blew his mind.” He touched his mustache, tracing a vertical line through the center, stroking the left side, then the right, bisecting again.
“He didn't approve,” said Petra.
“He went crazy. Didn't come to the wedding- it was just a small civil thing at their country club- Jack's and Vivian's. Vivian came. And Lisa's brother, John- Jack junior, he works for Mobil Oil in Saudi Arabia, and he came. Not Jack senior, though. He called me a week before, tried to talk me out of it, said I was robbing Lisa's youth, she deserved better- babies, a family, the whole nine yards.”
“You didn't want children?”
“I wouldn't have minded, but Lisa didn't want them. I didn't tell him that, of course. But Lisa made that clear right from the outset. She was the least domesticated girl I've ever met, but Jack thought she should be some high-achieving housewife. He's a very domineering guy. Surgeon, used to giving orders. He was tough on Lisa when she was growing up.”
“Tough in what way?”
“Perfectionistic- high standards. Lisa had to get straight A's, go out for every extracurricular activity, excel in everything. She told me when she was twelve, Jack bought her a horse, so she had to learn jumping, dressage, compete whether or not she wanted to. Not the pageants, though. Those were Vivian's idea.”
“Sounds like a lot of pressure.”
“On all sides. Lisa said it was hell. That's probably why she married me.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we were together, Lisa could do whatever she wanted. Sometimes…” He waved a hand.
“Sometimes what, sir?”
Ramsey sat straighter. “Sometimes I think I was too easygoing, and she thought I didn't care. I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but I can't say I see the point of all this… biography, Detective Connor. Lisa was murdered by some maniac, and we're sitting here talking about her childhood.”
A topic you brought up. “Sometimes it's hard to know what's relevant, sir.”
“Well,” he said, “I just don't see the point.”
Petra drew an oval on her pad and placed a horizontal line two-thirds of the way down. A few more pen strokes turned it into Ramsey's tailored mustache. She sketched in his blue eyes, tilted them downward a bit, made him look sad.
“Any other reason for Dr. Boehlinger to hate you other than your being too old for Lisa?”
“I don't know,” he said. “Jack and I never had any hassles, so I honestly don't know.”
“No problems at all?”
“None- why?”
“He mentioned something to me, Mr. Ramsey. The incident-”
“That,” said Ramsey sharply, and now she saw something different in his eyes. Wary. Hardened. “I figured we'd get around to it. Do you know why Lisa went public? In addition to hurting me?”
“Why, sir?”
“Money.”
“The show paid her?”
“Fifteen thousand. She called it adding insult to injury.”
“She must have been pretty mad at you.”
“Beyond mad- Lisa has Jack's temper.”
Present tense, again. On some level, she was still there with him.
“Tell me about the incident, Mr. Ramsey.”
“You don't watch TV?”
“I'd like to know what really happened.”
His lower jaw slung forward and he clicked his teeth. “What can I say? It was sleazy, tawdry, inexcusable, it still makes me sick. We'd been out to dinner, came home, had words- I don't even remember about what.”
Bet you do, thought Petra.
“It heated up, Lisa started shoving me, hitting me. With a closed hand. Not the first time. I put up with it because of the difference in our sizes. This time I didn't. There was no excuse. What can I say? I lost it.”
He looked at his fist, as if unable to believe it had ever caused damage.
Petra remembered the news clip. Lisa's black eye and split lip.
“It only happened once?”
“Once,” he said. “One single, solitary time, that's it.” He shook his head. “One stupid moment you lose control, and it's forever.”
As good a description as any of murder.
“I felt like crap, just like absolute filth, seeing her on the floor like that. I tried to help her up, but she screamed at me not to touch her. I tried to get her an ice pack- she wouldn't have anything to do with me. So I went out to the pond, and when I came back, her car was gone. She stayed away for four days. During that time she went to Inside Story. But she never told me about it, came back and acted as if everything was fine. Then, a few days later, we were eating dinner and she turned on the TV and smiled. And there we were in the hot tub, and she gives me this grin, says, ‘Insult to injury, Cart. Don't ever lay a fucking hand on me again.' ”
Ramsey studied the offending body part again, opened the palm. “I never did- I'm going to get something to drink. Sure you don't want?”
“Positive.”
He was gone for several minutes, came back with a can of Diet Sprite. Popping the top, he sat back and drank.
Petra said, “You just mentioned going out to a pond. I don't remember seeing one out back.”
“That's because it was our other house.” Our, not my. Another indication he hadn't severed all the ties. Nor had he lapsed into distancing language, the way murderers sometimes do in the middle of their chronologies, starting with we and switching to she and I. Petra had read an FBI report claiming linguistic analysis could offer major clues. She wasn't convinced, but she was open-minded.
Ramsey drank more soda, looked genuinely miserable.
“Your other house?” said Petra.
“We have a weekend place up in Montecito. Actually, a bigger house than this. It's pretty nuts, maintenance-wise. There's a little pond there I used to find peaceful.”
“Used to?”
“Don't go there much anymore. That's the way it is with second houses- I've heard the same thing from other people.”
“They don't get utilized?”
He nodded. “You think you're getting yourself some refuge and it just becomes another set of obligations- the place was too damn big in the first place. God knows this one is, too.”
“So you don't go up there much.”
“Last time had to be…” He looked at the ceiling. “… months ago.”
Suddenly his body jerked, an almost seizurelike movement that snapped his head down and brought his attention forward. His eyes met Petra's. Wet. He wiped them quickly.
“The last time Lisa and I were up there together,” he said, “was that time. We never went back together. A few days after the show aired, she moved out again and I got served with papers. I thought everything was patched up.”
Petra kept the poignancy at bay and thought: The DV episode had gone down in Montecito. She'd call Ron Banks and save him more searching.
Ramsey rested his chin in his hand again.
“Okay,” she said. “This is helpful. Now, if you don't mind, let's talk about the night Lisa was murdered.”
27
Mildred Board would have liked to scrub the kitchen floor.
Years ago, she'd accomplished the task every single day. A one-hour commitment, up to the elbows in soapy water from six A.M. to seven. Excellent thinking time, no distraction from the slosh or the circular movements of cotton rags on yellow linoleum.