Balch moved papers around atop his desk, making no impact on the clutter. “Anyway, one thing led to another and we decided to stay in L.A., got a few more jobs over the next year, nonunion stuff, barely enough to make the rent. Then I didn't get any more calls, but Cart started getting lots, better ones, then an agent, and he was making some decent money, mostly in westerns. I decided to go home. It was winter, almost Christmas, I remember thinking my folks were already mad at me for taking the year off, what would Christmas dinner be like.”
“So you lost faith in Hollywood?”
Balch smiled. “It wasn't a matter of faith. I wasn't qualified, didn't have the talent to make it- never got speaking parts, just crowd fillers, walk-throughs, that kind of thing. Couldn't find any accounting jobs and I'd blown all my job offers back East, but I figured something would turn up. Then Cart asked me to stay, said it would be fun, we could continue to hang out, he'd find me something. And he did. Bookkeeping gig at Warner Brothers.”
He spread his arms, smiled again. “And that's the whole glamorous story.”
“When did you start managing Cart's business?”
“Soon as he began making serious bucks. He'd seen what unscrupulous managers could do, wanted someone he could trust. By then I was working in business affairs at ABC, knew something about the industry.”
“Do you manage anyone else?”
Balch shifted his weight, smoothed out a black velvet fold of sweatshirt. “I do a few favors for people, facilitate a deal now and then, but Cart's investments keep me busy.”
“So he's done pretty well.”
“He's earned it.”
Spoken like a true lineman.
“So you handle his contracts?”
“He's got an entertainment lawyer, but yeah, I vet things.”
“What else do you do for him?”
“Prepare his taxes, keep track of things. We're diversified- real estate, securities, the usual. There's some property management. It keeps me busy- anything else I can do for you?”
“Just what you're doing,” said Petra. “Filling in personal details.”
“About Cart?”
“Cart, Lisa, anything.”
As if the matter required great contemplation, Balch closed his eyes. Opened them. The hands were back on his middle. Blond Buddha.
“Cart and Lisa,” he said very softly, “is a very sad story. He really flipped for her, felt embarrassed about it. The age difference. I told him it didn't matter, he was in better shape than guys half his age. And Lisa was crazy about him. I thought they were the best thing ever happened to each other.” A pained expression crossed his puffy face. “I really don't know what happened. Marriage is tough.” The eyes opened. “Been there twice. Who's to say what makes people tick?”
Petra produced her pad and Balch moved back a bit, as if repulsed by that bit of procedure. “If you could please give me the timetable for Sunday- the trip to Tahoe and after you got back. As precisely as possible.”
“Timetable… sure.” His story matched Ramsey's and that of the pilot, Marionfeldt, detail for detail. The Tahoe trip, nonstop business, uneventful flight back, both men asleep before 10 P.M., waking up, exercising, showering, eating breakfast, putting golf balls.
Pleasant dreams during the time Lisa had been murdered.
Petra said, “Okay, thanks… by the way, I was just curious why you call your company Player's Management.”
“Oh, that.” Balch let out a snort-laugh. “Football days. We were amateurs, looking for something catchy. And anonymous- no mention of Cart's name. I came up with it.”
Petra wondered if that was all of it. In the industry, players were those with power. Had he dreamed of that once?
“So your job,” she said, “is protecting Cart's interest. What did you do after Lisa went public with the domestic violence incident?”
“What was there to do? The damage was already done.”
“You didn't ask her not to go public again?”
“I wanted to, but Cart said no, it was personal, not business. I disagreed.”
“Why's that?”
“This town, personal and business sometimes can't be separated. But that's what Cart wanted, so I listened.”
Flipping pages, Petra said, “So you pay all of Cart's bills.”
“They go through me, yes.”
“Including Lisa's spousal support.”
“Yup- there's an example of the kind of guy Cart is. Lisa's lawyer made an outrageous request. They'd only been married for a little over a year. I'd been through it twice, had a pretty good idea what she'd settle for, but Cart said no negotiation, give it to her.”
Frowning now. Resentful? Jealous?
“So he's pretty generous,” said Petra.
“Exactly.” He stood up. “Now, if you don't mind, it's a little late-”
“Sure,” said Petra, smiling and rising, too. He waited by the door again, and as she passed close she smelled him. Heavy fruity cologne and sweat.
Out in the front room, she said, “Oh, one more thing. Cart's maid Estrella Flores. Any idea where she went?”
“Cart told me she quit without notice. How's that for loyalty? I got him a new girl.”
“Through the same agency?”
“Yup.”
“Remember the name?”
“Of the agency? Some place in Beverly Hills- the Nancy Downey Agency.” He shot a cuff and looked at his watch.
“I appreciate your time, Mr. Balch.”
Before she left the office, she glanced at the wall of photos. Two young guys striking poses. Players. Next to the pictures, Balch did look old.
36
She drove to a gas station pay phone, got the num- ber of the Nancy Downey Agency, and called it, though it was well past business hours. No machine. Something to wake up for tomorrow.
Taking Laurel Canyon back to the city, she reviewed the interview with Balch.
Nothing dramatic, but he had provided a possible lead to Estrella Flores, and had offered evidence of friction between Lisa and Ramsey.
She went off on him all the time.
Consistent with what Kelly Sposito had said about Lisa's sarcasm.
Impotent ex-hubby; sharp-tongued wife. Ramsey said she had a habit of shoving him. Had she finally pushed him too far?
How much did Balch know? Had he heard Ramsey leave the house during the early-morning hours? Go into the car museum and pull out the Mercedes? Or the Jeep?
How far would the lineman go to protect the quarterback?
Players. Actors. What was real, what was scripted?
Time to talk to the night guard who'd been on shift Sunday. Then she thought of something. RanchHaven. A place that big, smack in the fire zone, there'd have to be a second way out for safety. If so, was it guarded too? Or was there some way for residents to exit without tipping off the security staff?
Too many question marks. Not quizzing the guard right away had been amateurish; she felt like a blind painter.
Was it worth a ride out to Calabasas right now? She'd been going all day, and if she didn't let go of it, she wouldn't sleep and wouldn't that be pretty- one groggy, impaired D mucking things up further.
Tomorrow morning her artwork would appear all over the news and leads about the boy in the park would start pouring in, most of them useless. The whole thing was a distraction. And something about the boy's eyes bothered her- he'd already seen plenty. She didn't even want to think about an eleven-year-old witnessing something like that.
She thought about him. Eating dinner alone in Griffith Park. Reading. Stealing books. Pathetic but charming- enough! Go home, E.T. Soak in tub, eat sandwich- oh, Jesus, she couldn't go home. The eight o'clock appointment with Ron Banks! What had possessed her to do that?