Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 by Billy Straight Page A

jaw.
    The mustache. What was his character’s name? Dack Price.
    His companion was about the same age, just as big, the same kind of halfback shoulders, but wider hips. More of the typical middle-aged setup here: significant swell of belly above the belt, looseness at the jowls, jiggling of the breasts as he ran. The fair hair was thinning, longish at the back, pink skin showing at the crown. He wore little round sunglasses with black lenses. His bright blue silk shirt was long-sleeved and oversized, and his pleated black cotton pants were tight around the waist. Ramsey outpaced him easily and reached the car breathing normally.
    “Police? What is it?” Deep TV voice.
    Stu showed his badge. “I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve got some troubling news.”
    Ramsey’s blue eyes startled, blinked, froze. Very pale blue, dramatic against the ruddy-tan skin, though up close Petra could see that the hair was too sable to be real and the skin was grainy, with open pores in the cheeks and veins spidering the nose. Too many dressing-room vodkas? Or all those years of pancake makeup?
    “What kind of news? What are you talking about?” Ramsey’s voice had started to thicken with panic.
    “Your ex-wife—”
    “Lisa? What happened?”
    “I’m afraid she’s dead, sir.”
    “What!”
Bug-eyed. Ramsey’s big hands tightened into huge fists and his biceps swelled. Petra put on a sympathetic look as she looked for cuts and bruises up and down his arms. Nothing. De la Torre and Banks were doing the same thing, but the actor didn’t realize it. He was bent over and covering his face with one hand.
    The big blond man in the blue shirt arrived huffing, shades askew. His hair was too blond, another probable tint job. “What’s going on, Cart?” Ramsey didn’t answer.
    “Cart?”
    Ramsey spoke from behind his hand. “They . . . Lisa.” His voice choked up between the two words.
    “Lisa?” said the blond man. “What happened to her?”
    The hand dropped, and Ramsey turned on him. “She’s
dead,
Greg! They’re telling me she’s
dead
!”
    “Oh my God—what—how—” Greg’s mouth gaped as he looked at the detectives.
    “She’s dead, Greg! This is
real
!” Ramsey roared, and for a moment it looked as if he’d haul off and hit the blond man.
    Instead, he turned back suddenly and stared at them. At Petra. “You’re sure it’s her?”
    “I’m afraid so, Mr. Ramsey.”
    “How can you—I can’t—she—how? This is crazy—where? What happened? What the hell happened? Did she total her car or something?”
    “She was murdered, Mr. Ramsey,” said Petra. “Found this morning in Griffith Park.”
    “Murdered?”
Ramsey sagged and covered the bottom of his face, this time with both hands. “Jesus God—Griffith Par—what the
hell
was she doing
there
?”
    “We don’t know, sir.”
    It was an opening for Ramsey to fill, but the actor just said, “This morning? Oh God, I can’t believe this!”
    “Early this morning, sir.”
    Ramsey shook his head over and over. “Griffith Park? I don’t get it. Why would she be there early in the morning? Was she—how was she . . .”
    Blond Greg came closer and patted Ramsey’s shoulder. Ramsey shook him off, but the other man didn’t react—used to it?
    “Let’s go inside, Cart,” he said. “They can give us the details inside.”
    “No, no, I need to know—was she shot?” said Ramsey.
    “No, sir,” said Stu. “Stabbed.”
    “Oh Christ.” Ramsey sank an inch. “Do you know who
did
it?”
    “Not yet, sir.”
    Ramsey rubbed his head with one hand. Liver spots, Petra noticed. But a big, strong-looking hand, fingers as thick as hour cigars, with sturdy squared-off nails.
    “Oh shit!
Lisa!
I can’t believe it! Oh, Lisa, what the hell did you
do
?” Ramsey turned his back on the detectives, walked a few steps, doubled over as if about to vomit, but just remained in that position. Petra saw a shudder course along his broad back.
    The blond man let his hands