The hills… great place to get rid of a body.
Was Estrella Flores buried somewhere out there?
Did the fire road lead anywhere other than out to the Santa Susannas?
She backed down till the nearest shoulder, turned around, and returned to the guardhouse. Simkins saw her coming, put down his Rolling Stone, and opened the exit gate. His window was closed; no desire to talk. Petra stopped alongside the booth. He screwed up his mouth and came over. His big moment over, feeling down, he wanted her gone.
“Find anything?”
“Nope- just like you said, Doug. Tell me, where does the fire road go?”
“Out into the mountains.”
“And then?”
“It connects to a bunch of little side roads.”
“Doesn't it merge with the 101?”
“It kinda hooks back toward it, but doesn't actually merge.” He managed to make the last word sound dirty.
“But if I wanted to reach the freeway through the back roads, I could.”
“Yeah, sure. Everything reaches the freeway. I grew up in West Hills. We used to come out here, hunt rabbits, before they built this place. Sometimes they'd run onto the freeway, get turned to freeway butter.”
“The good old days,” said Petra.
Simkins's weak face firmed with recollection, and a resentful frown captured his features. Rich folk moving in on his childhood memories?
“It can get beautiful out there,” he said. Real emotion. Longing. At that moment, she liked him a little better. But not much.
49
Sam says, “Hey, not bad.”
I've been working all day, going over and over the windows until there are no streaks, mopping the wood floors, using the Pledge to shine them up. I've done only half the seats, but what I finished looks pretty good, and the room has a nice lemon smell.
Sam tries to give me the rest of the money.
“I'm not finished yet.”
“I trust you, sonny- by the way, now that you work for me, are you ready to give me your name?”
That catches me by surprise, and Bill pops out.
“Nice to meet you, Bill.”
It's been so long since anyone's called me by my name. Since I've talked to anyone.
Sam shows me a paper bag. “I got you some dinner- Noah's Bagel, just a plain one, 'cause I didn't know if you liked onions or one of those fancy bagels. Also, cream cheese- do you like cream cheese?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Hey, you're a working man now, need your nutrition.” He hands me the bag and walks around the shul. “You like the Pledge, huh? Running out of the stuff?”
“Almost.”
“I'll buy some more tomorrow- that is if you want to work tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
“Go ahead, take the money.”
I do. He looks at his watch. “Time to quit, Bill. We don't want to be accused of exploiting the working man.”
We walk outside and he locks the shul. The alley is empty, but I can hear the ocean through the space on the side of the building, people talking on the walkway. That big Lincoln of his is parked crazy, the front bumper almost touching the building. He opens the driver's door. “So.”
“'Bye,” I say.
“See you tomorrow, Bill.” He gets in the car and I start to walk away- south, away from that Russian perv. I'm liking the feel of all that money in my pocket but wondering where to go. Back to the pier? But it was so cold. And now I have money…
I hear a loud squeak, turn, and see Sam backing the Lincoln out of the alley. He has plenty of room, but he keeps backing up and stopping, jerking the car; the brakes are squeaking.
Uh-oh, he's gonna hit the fence- no, he misses it. I figure I should direct him before he hurts himself, but he makes it, turning the steering wheel with both hands, his head kind of pushed forward, like he's struggling to see through the windshield.
Instead of driving forward, he backs up, stops next to me. “Hey, Bill. You really got somewhere to go for the night?”
“Sure.”
“Where? The street?”
“I'll be fine.” I start walking. He stays next to me, driving really slowly.
“I'd give you money for a hotel, but no one's gonna rent to a kid, and if you show all that cash, someone's gonna take it from you.”
“I'm fine,” I repeat.
“Sure, sure… I can't let you sleep in the shul because what if you slip and fall, we got a liability problem- you might sue us.”
“I wouldn't do that.”
He laughs. “No, you probably wouldn't, but I still can't- listen, I got a house, not far from here. Plenty of room; I live alone. You wanna stay for a day or two, fine. Till you figure out what to do.”
“No thanks.” That comes out kind of cold, and I don't turn to see his face, because I know he's going to look insulted.
“Suit yourself, Bill. Don't blame you. Someone probably hurt you. You don't trust no one- for all you know, I could be some crazy person.”
“I'm sure you're not crazy.” Why did I say that?
“How can you be sure, Bill? How can you ever be sure? Listen, when I was your age- a little older- people came and took away my family. Killed all of them, except me and my brother. Nazis. Ever hear of them? Only, when I knew them, they weren't nazis, they were my neighbors, people I lived with. My family lived in their country for five hundred years and they did that to me- I'm talking the Second World War. Goddamn nazis. Ever hear about any of that?”
“Sure,” I said. “Learned about it in history.”
“History.” He laughs, but not a funny laugh. “So who am I to tell you to trust people- you're right, plenty of schmucks out there.” He stops driving and I stop walking. More money lands in my hand. Two tens.
“You don't have to, Mr. Ganzer.”
“I don't have to, but I want to- oh hell, sleep in the shul tonight. Only, don't fall and break your neck. And if you do, don't sue us.”
Then he jams his car into reverse and backs up all the way to the shul. It's scary, the way he weaves and swerves all over the place. It's a miracle he doesn't smash into anything.
50
Petra opened her front door exhausted, not feeling like a night owl anymore. Thought of Kathy Bishop's ordeal tomorrow. Real problems. No self-pity allowed for you, kid.
She popped a can of Coke, checked the phone machine. A long-distance phone service promised to be her slave if she signed up, Ron Banks had called at seven, leaving an 818 number, probably home, please get back to him. Adele, one of the civilian clerks at the station, requesting the same thing at eight-fifteen.
She would have loved to talk to Ron first. To be with him, the two of them talking, making out on the couch, wherever that led. Business first: She called Adele.
“Hi, Detective Connor. Got a message for you from Pacific Division, a Detective Grauberg. Here's his number.”
Pacific was Ilse Eggermann territory. Had something new come up? Grauberg was out, but a D named Salant came on. “Already spoke to you guys.”
“To who?”
“Hold on- says here Captain Schoelkopf. Guess Grauberg couldn't reach to notify, got kicked upward.”
“Notify what?”
“Got an auto carcass you were interested in. Black Porsche, registered to Lisa Boehlinger Ramsey.”
“A carcass? Gutted?”
“Gutted and left for the vultures. Probably a Tijuana taxi by now. Got a witness says it was parked there for at least four days.”
“Where?”
“Behind the bus lot near Pacific Avenue. The witness is one of the drivers.”
“Gutted right from the beginning?”
“Progressively gutted. Someone set fire to it last night. That's how we got called in.”