Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 by Billy Straight

bell looked to be a knockoff of the one in Philadelphia. Wings flared at oblique angles, like those of a turkey that had cooked too long and loosened. Lots of odd-shaped windows, some leaded and stained. Verandas and balconies were fronted by verdigrised iron railings and the roof tiles had been artificially antiqued rust-gold. To the right of the limed doors was a five-door, extra-deep garage. Room for Ramsey’s studio-supplied limo, she supposed.
    No other houses nearby. King of the mountain.
    More palms rose behind the house, their fringed tops extending above the roofline like some kind of New Age buzz cut. Petra could smell horses, but she couldn’t see any. The Santa Susannas were chalky blue in the distance. No live oaks here. Too many sprinklers.
    Stu nosed the Ford close to the box. “Ready, O ye messenger of doom?”
    “Oh yeah.”
    He pushed the button. Nothing for a second, then a woman’s voice said, “Ya?”
    “Mr. Ramsey, please.”
    “Who this?”
    “Police.”
    Silence. “Hold on.”
    A long minute passed, during which Petra looked back at the sheriff’s car. Hector De la Torre was at the wheel, saying something she couldn’t read. Banks was listening, but he saw her and gave a small wave just as a short, stout Hispanic woman in a pink-and-white uniform came out through the double doors. She walked halfway down the driveway, stared at them. Fifty to sixty years old and conspicuously bowlegged, she wore her hair tied back tight and had a face as dark and static as a bronze casting. She pressed the remote.
    The gates opened and the cars drove onto the property. All four detectives got out. The air was a good ten degrees warmer than in Hollywood, and now Petra spotted a section of posts and stakes to the left of the house—a corral. Brown patches of equine flesh moved in and out of view.
    Dry heat; her eyes felt gritty. Off to the north, a small plane hovered over the mountains. A cloud of crows burst out of a thicket of sycamore, then dispersed, squawking, as if in fear.
    “Ma’am,” said Stu, showing his badge to the maid.
    She stared at him.
    “I’m Detective Bishop and this is Detective Connor.”
    No answer.
    “And you are, ma’am?”
    “Estrella.”
    “Last name, please, ma’am.”
    “Flores.”
    “Do you work for Mr. Ramsey, Ms. Flores?”
    “Yes.”
    “Is Mr. Ramsey here, Ms. Flores?”
    “Playing de golf.”
    She looks scared, thought Petra. Immigration anxiety? Unless Ramsey planned on running for office, he didn’t need to worry about checking papers, so she could easily be illegal.
    Or something else. Did she know something? Problems in the Ramsey household? Ramsey’s comings and goings last night? Petra wrote down the woman’s name and then an asterisk: Be sure to recontact.
    Closing her pad, she smiled. Estrella Flores didn’t notice.
    “Mr. Ramsey’s not here?” said Stu.
    If so, it was a contradiction of what the guard had said.
    “No. Here.”
    “He is here?”
    “Yes.” The woman frowned.
    “He’s playing golf, here?”
    “De golf in back.”
    “He’s got his own putting green,” said Petra, remembering Susan Rose’s recollection of the TV show.
    “May we speak to him, please, Ms. Flores?”
    The woman glanced at the two sheriffs a few feet away, then back at the wide-open doors to the house. Inside, Petra saw cream walls and floors.
    “Wan’ come in?” said Estrella Flores.
    “Only with Mr. Ramsey’s permission, ma’am.”
    Puzzlement.
    “Why don’t you go tell Mr. Ramsey we’re here, Ms. Flores.”
    Petra smiled at her again. Lot of good it did. Estrella Flores bow-legged herself back to the house.
    Not long after, Cart Ramsey came running out, followed by a blond man.
    The TV sleuth wore a bright green polo shirt, jeans, and running shoes. Good shape for a guy his age, which Petra figured to be forty-five, fifty. Six-two, 200, with big shoulders, narrow hips, flat gut, tight waist, no love handles. Black curly hair, TV tan.
    The