Free Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 by Billy Straight

would be great.”
    “So exactly how do you want to proceed?” said De la Torre. “I mean, seeing as we’re just here for the chorus line, we don’t want to screw up your solo.”
    “Appreciate it,” said Stu.
    “So what’s the plan?”
    Stu looked at Petra.
    “Low profile,” she said. “No treating him like a suspect, no biasing the case prematurely.”
    “Ramsey’s an actor, so everyone’s got to put on a performance—don’t you just love this town?” said Banks. “Okay, we’ll just hang behind, be discreet. Think you can do that, Hector?”
    De la Torre shrugged and said, “Me no know,” in a cartoon Mexican voice.
    “Hector’s an intellectual,” said Banks. “Earned a master’s degree last summer, so now he thinks he’s entitled to have opinions.”
    “Master’s in what?” said Petra.
    “Communications.”
    “Thinks he’s going to do sports on TV one day,” said Banks. “Or the weather. Do the weather for them, Hector.”
    De la Torre smiled good-naturedly and looked up at the sky. “High pressure hitting a low pressure coming down and encountering a medium pressure. Possibly leading to precipitation. Also, actors beating on their wives, possibly leading to murder.”
     
    Both unmarkeds pulled up to the pink column. The gates had a green pseudo-patina. On the left column was a talk-box and a sign that said DELIVERIES. Twenty feet up the drive on the other side of the gate was a guardhouse.
    Stu leaned out, pushed the button on the box and said, “Police for Mr. Cart Ramsey.”
    The uniformed guard stuck his head out and came forward. Stu’s badge was out, and by the time the gates slid open, Petra could see from the guard’s body language that he was ready to cooperate.
    “Help you?” he said. Older guy, round gut, deep tan, lots of wrinkles, hair dyed beige. Walkie-talkie and baton, but no gun.
    “We need to talk to Mr. Ramsey,” said Stu. “Privately. I guess you understand how highly Mr. Ramsey and his neighbors value privacy.”
    The guard’s eyes widened. “Oh, sure.”
    “So we can count on you, Officer . . . Dilbeck, to be discreet?”
    “Sure, sure—should I call ahead to tell him you’re coming? Usually, that’s what we do.”
    “No thanks,” said Stu. “As a matter of fact, please don’t. Tell me, Officer, has Mr. Ramsey entered or exited RanchHaven today?”
    “Not during my shift—that’s from eleven o’clock on.”
    The normal thing would be to ask who’d been on night shift. Instead, Stu said, “Thanks. How do we get up there?”
    “Keep going to the top and take the first left, which is Rambla Bonita. Go up again, straight to the top, and that’s his place. Big pink place, just like these columns.”
    “Pink,” Petra repeated.
    “Pink as it gets. When he bought it it was white, but he and the wife repainted.”
    “Ramsey have any problem with that?”
    “Not that he told me. But he don’t say much at all. Like that character he plays—Dack whatever his name is.”
    “Strong and silent?” said Petra.
    “You might say that.” Dilbeck stepped aside.
    As they reached the top of the first rise, Petra said, “Well, that clinches it, doesn’t it? It’s always the quiet ones.”

CHAPTER

9
    The park took me in like a friend. I learned.
    Things like what times the rangers patrolled and how to avoid them. Which restaurants threw out the freshest food and how, if you worked in the dark, you didn’t get bothered while Dumpster-diving.
    Who people were.
    The guys on Western were drug dealers and all they wanted was to do their business without being annoyed, so I stayed on the other side of the street. After about a month, one of them crossed over and said, “Smart boy,” and gave me five dollars.
    I learned how to get stuff.
    If you go far enough east on Los Feliz, the fancy houses stop and there are apartments. On Sunday, the people who live in the apartments sell stuff out on their front lawns, and if you wait till the end of the day,