“I don't want to sound chauvinistic, but why the sheriff's and not LAPD?”
He grinned. “Wanted to do real police work- seriously, back then Lulu- my ex- was talking about opening up her own equestrian school one day, we figured we'd be living somewhere unincorporated, so I applied to the sheriff. How about you?”
She gave him a very spare version of the artist-to-detective transition.
He said, “You paint? Beatrix is kind of artistic. Or at least she seems that way to me. Her mom tried to do pottery. I've still got the wheel at home- just sitting there, as a matter of fact. Want it?”
“No thanks, Ron.”
“You're sure? It seems a waste.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I just paint.”
“Oh, okay. What kinds of things do you paint?”
“Anything.”
“And you actually did it professionally.”
“I wasn't exactly Rembrandt.”
“Still, you must be good.”
She gave him a rundown of her ad agency days, her mouth running while her brain thought: How cute, each of us shifting the focus to the other. In her case, defensiveness, but Banks seemed really interested in her. Polar opposite of Nick. All the other men she'd dated since Nick- artists, then cops. Even when they talked about you, it was really just a ploy to get it back to me me me.
This one seemed different. Or was she just flattering herself?
She ended her recitation: “Like I said, no big deal.”
“Still,” he said, “it's tough making any kind of living creatively. I had an uncle did some sculpture, could never make a dime- ah, here comes the food, whoa, look at those portions!”
He ate slowly, and that prevented Petra from wolfing. Good influence, Detective Banks.
In between bites, they chatted about work. Dry stuff: benefits, insurance, the usual gripes, comparing blue and tan bureaucracies, good-natured kidding about intramural sports competitions. Finding more common ground than differences. She noticed he wasn't wearing his gun.
When their sandwiches were gone, they each ordered apple pie à la mode. Petra finished hers first, tried idly to pick up crumbs with the tines of her fork.
“You like to eat,” said Banks. “Thank God.”
The fork paused midair. She put it down.
He blushed again. “I- no offense- what I mean is, I think that's great. Seriously. It sure doesn't show- at least as far as I can-” He shook his head. “Oh, Lord, I am not good at this.”
She found herself laughing. “It's okay, Ron. Yes, I do have a healthy appetite when I remember to sit down for a meal.”
He continued to shake his head, wiped his mouth with his napkin, folded it neatly, and placed it next to his plate. “Whatever I just gargled out, please take it as a compliment.”
“So taken,” said Petra. “You're saying love of food's a healthy thing.”
“Exactly. Too many girls these days get crazy about food. I think about that because I have daughters. My ex always bugged them, obsessed with being skinny-” He stopped himself again. “Not too cool, bringing her up every minute.”
“Hey, she was a big part of your life. It's normal.” Implying that she'd done the same with Nick. But she hadn't. She'd never talked about him to anyone.
“Was,” he said. “Past tense.” He raised one hand and sliced air vertically. “So… how's the case coming?”
“Not too brilliantly.” She talked about it without giving him details. Liking him but not forgetting that he was non-LAPD.
He said, “Situations like that, publicity, no way you can do your job properly.”
“Ever have one like that?”
“Once in a while.” Touching his napkin, he looked away. Wary, too?
“Once in a while?” she echoed.
“You know us country bumpkin lawmen, runnin' down rustlers, protectin' the pony express.”
“Ah,” said Petra. “Anything I'd have heard about?”
“Well,” he said, “Hector and I did do some work on the County Gen slasher.”
Mega-case, three years ago. Wacko killer cutting up nurses on the grounds of the county hospital, four victims in three months. The bad guy turned out to be an orderly who'd served time for rape and assault. He'd faked his way through personnel screening- worked the surgical floors, of all things. Before he was caught, the nurses had threatened to strike.
“That was yours?”
“Hector's and mine.”
“Now I'm impressed.”
“Believe me, it was no big sherlock,” he said. “Everything pointed to an insider. It was just a matter of flipping paper, checking time cards, eliminating negatives till we found the positive.”
Petra remembered the feminist frustration, media noise- hadn't there been an initial task force? “Were you on it from the beginning?”
He blushed again. “No, they called us in after a few months.”
“So you two are rescuers.”
“Sometimes,” he said. “And sometimes we get rescued. You know how it is.”
What she knew was that the County Gen slasher was a major case and that he was a rescuer, top dog. And that's who the sheriff had sent for the notification call to Ramsey?
Why was he being so cagey about it? Modest? Or sent by the tans to pump her for details?
“Any ideas on Ramsey?” she said.
“Like I said at his house, the guy rang my bell, but I'm not a big one for bells.” He smiled. “Give me time cards anytime.”
She smiled back. He drummed the table. Rubbed the spot where his mustache had been. The waitress gave him the check and, over Petra's protests, he insisted on paying for it. “Hey, you put up with me, you deserve a sandwich.”
“Nothing to put up with,” she heard herself say.
They left the deli and he walked her to her car. A warm night; still a bit of foot traffic on Fairfax and the newsstand across the street was crowded with browsers. The food smells from Katz's followed them. He didn't walk close to her, seemed to be consciously avoiding it.
“So,” he said, when they got to the Ford. “This was great. I- is there some place you'd like to go? If you're not too tired, I mean- maybe some music. Are you into music?”
“I'm a little bushed, Ron.”
The crushed look on his face said the evening was personal, nothing to do with the case, and she felt bad for suspecting him.
“Sure,” he said. “You'd have to be.”
He held out his hand and they shook briefly. “Thanks a lot, Petra, I really appreciate it.”
Had a man ever thanked her before just for spending time? “Thank you, Ron.”
He tilted forward, as if ready to kiss her, then rocked back, gave a small, salutelike wave, and turned, hands in pockets.
“What kind of music do you like?” she said. Figuring country; it had to be traditional country.
He stopped, faced her again, shrugged. “Mostly rock. Old stuff- blues, Steve Miller, Doobie Brothers. Used to play that kind of stuff in a band.”
“Really?” She fought a giggle. “Did you have long hair?”
“Long enough,” he said, walking back to her. “Don't get me wrong- we weren't professionals. I mean, we did a few club dates, played the Whiskey way back when. That's where I met my-” Clamping a hand over his mouth.
“Sure,” said Petra, laughing, “and not just her, right? You met tons of babes. That's why you joined a band in the first place. Don't tell me- drums.” Those active hands.
“You got it.”
“Drummers always get the girls, right?”
“Don't ask me,” said Banks. “I was always too busy trying to keep the beat.”
“Still play?”
“Not for years. My old kit's rusting in the garage.”
Along with the potter's wheel, bikes, probably piles of old toys, kid stuff, heaven knew what else. Petra pictured a small house full of Levitz furniture. Far cry from the horse ranch that had never materialized.
“So where do you go to listen to music?” she said.