Billy Straight

“A young man like that,” said Petra.

Tauber clucked his tongue. “These things happen.”

Lauch eliminated as a suspect for Lisa. Meaning the similarities between Lisa and Ilse Eggerma

Or were they?

Ramsey a multiple killer? No, too weird.

Tauber's call had burned away any drowsiness. She was wired. Going into the kitchen, she drank ice water, paced, sat down at the table, got up, and put on the stereo. Derek and the Dominos. There'd been no music in the apartment since Ron's visit.

Think, think… Lauch eliminated for Lisa meant concentrate on Ramsey. Stalking Lisa, following her. DV offenders were often obsessive; it made sense.

Did his dispatching Balch to get the Jeep mean the four-wheeler was the murder vehicle? The Mercedes a distraction, just as she'd wondered? She recalled the way Ramsey had flicked on the lights in the car museum. Showing her the gray sedan- probably hoping she'd ask for a look, because he knew she'd learn nothing.

Balch doing the dirty work.

All at once- maybe it was the dark room, her fried nerves- her mind took a hairpin turn.

What if Balch was an active part of it?

Or working for himself?

She sat there, tight as a fiddle string, viewing the case through a whole new prism.

Just a slight shift of angle and everything changed.

Balch as bad guy. Flashing back to all her hypotheses, she inserted Balch's name in Ramsey's slot.

Everything fit.

Lisa and Balch… yet another older man. Something romantic-and financial?

Because Balch wrote the checks, managed Ramsey's finances, probably understood them better than the boss. You heard about that all the time- business managers soaking celebrities.

Balch colluding with Lisa to soak Ramsey? Ex-wife and long-suffering lackey finding common ground in their resentment of the man with the dough.

Lisa had talked to Ghadoomian the broker about setting up investments, being financially independent, soon. But she'd never followed through.

Daddy reneging on the fifty thou? Or other plans laid to waste?

Had Lisa gotten greedy, leaned on Balch, caused their partnership to disintegrate?

Petra thought about it for a long time. Balch was no prize, but Lisa was no conventional girl. Balch's motivation was no big puzzle: Bedding the quarterback's ex- the woman Ramsey had failed to satisfy- would be the ultimate thrill for an underachiever like him.

All those years protecting Ramsey on the football field and in real life, watching his own screen dreams fade as Ramsey earned millions. For all of Balch's adoration of his buddy, the payback had been limited: Ramsey hadn't helped Balch progress past those first few grade-D flicks. Balch said he had no talent, but the same was true for plenty of small-time players. Surely Ramsey could have gotten him something in the industry. Instead, he'd stuck Balch in that dingy office, shuffling papers, while he himself lived a star's life. Why not a better office, at least?

Ramsey telling Balch: You don't deserve better.

What if Balch finally decided he did?

With Lisa's help. She liked taking risks. Had she stepped too far over the edge?

Then something else hit her: Balch lived in Rolling Hills Estates, near Palos Verdes. Ilse Eggerma

She pictured Balch stopping off at the Redondo pier for di

Noticing Ilse because she reminded him of Lisa?

Picking her up wouldn't have been that tough. Kindly older guy, chivalrous. Ilse would have been vulnerable, alone at night, a foreigner.

After a pig like Lauch, Balch might have even seemed suave.

The resemblance between Lisa and Ilse not a coincidence! Because Balch had been lusting for Lisa for years.

The underling, always the underling… Balch rescues Ilse, tries for sexual payback, gets shut down.

In a rage, he butchers her. Gets away with it.

Years later, blackmailed, up against the wall, why not do it again?

She ran it through again. Balch managing to get out of the house while Ramsey sleeps. Using the fire road, driving one of Ramsey's cars. But Estrella Flores spots him. She'd never liked Balch in the first place, might have viewed anything he did with suspicion.

He eliminates her.

One more time: It still fit.

Maybe in the morning it would seem ludicrous. Right now, she liked it.

51

Wil Fournier had changed into his best suit for the date with Lea

Selling T-shirts, tourist crap, the outward trappings of a legit business; but those eyes, that demeanor. Wil had worked Wilshire Bunco and Fraud for two years, collaborated with West Hollywood Sheriff's on lots of Russian scams. The weirdest case was five years ago, an immigration racket, strong-arming new arrivals. Wil and a sheriff's D making a call to the apartment of one of the suspects, the guy opening the door, covered with blood, holding a carving knife. He'd just dismembered another Russian. What had he been thinking, answering the door like that?

Sharing the bust, Wil found out he liked Homicide, transferred.

He was sure the souvenir vendor had run angles.

The way Zhukanov had leaned over his counter giving him the eye, all that junk hanging from every inch of the stall. Trying to stay cool, like the whole thing didn't matter to him, he was just a citizen trying to do his civic duty. But Wil's mention of the twenty-five grand raised sweat on the Russian's pitted nose.

Absolutely certain he'd seen the kid. It sounded to Wil like he'd practiced all day convincing himself. Because how could he be that sure? Petra's drawing was good, but to Wil the kid didn't look that distinctive.

He smiled to himself. All white kids looked the same, right?

He was noncommittal with the Russian, took notes as Zhukanov pointed north, up Ocean Front, where the kid had supposedly disappeared. But when Wil traipsed there, showing the picture to café owners, none of them knew a thing. Most of the other businesses were closed for the evening, so he supposed a revisit was called for. But he doubted it would produce anything. This whole case had a futile smell to it.

He retraced his steps and the Russian was still there, way past closing time, waving as Wil passed him and headed toward his car. Lea

“Sir!” Zhukanov called out.

“Yes, Mr. Zhukanov?”

“I will keep my eyes open for you. I call you when I see him again.”

Just what Wil needed, some Moscow mafioso playing junior detective.

Now here it was, the next morning, and all he could think about was the sun on Lea

He'd arrived at seven on the dot, energized. A bunch more crank tipster messages on his desk, but the Russian hadn't called, so maybe the kid was gone from Venice or, more likely, he'd never been there.

Those two tips from Watson interested him a lot more. Two righteous-sounding old women both thought they might have seen the boy in town. He was still waiting for a callback from the Watson sheriff.

His phone rang. A new day dawns.

“Hey, Dubba-yew, it's Vee.”

“Vee, long time.”

Val Vronek was a D-II Wil had worked Narcotics with at Wilshire, now handling hush-hush major crime stuff from downtown. Vronek loved undercover- his favorite thing, posing as a biker meth dealer. Big and heavy, he'd grown his hair shoulder-length, raised a beard that looked like a health hazard.