“I’m afraid we haven’t had the pleasure,” I told Ramon.
Scott smiled.
“You talk funny, you know that, lady?” Ramon said.
“She means we don’t know what your Aunt Rosa looks like,” Scott explained.
Ramon sniggered. “Fat,” he said derisively. “Really fat.”
“So you’re saying there was a sculpture of a fat woman?” Scott asked.
“A naked fat woman,” Ramon clarified. “It was disgusting, man.”
Another obsessee, obviously. If Mark were here, they could have debated the finer points of flab distribution, but all I could think to say was, “You’ve seen your aunt naked?”
“Sure,” he said, unfazed. “Lots of times.”
“Oh.” I had to ask. “Well, try to describe the sculpture some more. How big was it?”
He held his hands about a foot apart.
“Go on,” I prompted him.
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“Ellen, is this really going to do any good?” Scott interrupted. “We don’t even know that there’s any significance attached to this statue anyway. And how can he possibly identify it? He isn’t trained in art.”
“I’ll show you,” I said, digging into the bag for the objects I hadn’t been forced to leave behind. I extracted a piece of paper and a thick marker, its tip too soft and blunt for possible use as a weapon. It would have to do in default of the presumably dangerous pencils and pens that Scott had advised me to leave in the car. “I can do this,” I said to Scott. “You do cross-examination; I do this. It’s my specialty.”
“Okay,” he said somewhat skeptically, “but our time here is almost up.”
“I’m hurrying,” I told him. “What color?” I asked Ramon.
“Brown.” He smiled. “That’s like Aunt Rosa, too.”
“Metal?”
He nodded.
I wrote “prob. bronze” across the top of the page. “Now, how was she standing? Arms up? Arms down?” I didn’t want to demonstrate various positions in a room next to armed guards, prisoners, and their families, but if I had to, I would.
Ramon lifted an imaginary cigarette. He wasn’t allowed to smoke in the visitors’ room. “Smoking,” he said, “like this. But lying down. Man, that was one fat ass, I can tell you.”
I sketched a reclining figure holding a cigarette and held it up. “Like this?”
“Longer hair,” he said, “and she was lying on something, like a rolled-up blanket or something.”
“You remember a lot about it,” Scott told him.
He shrugged. “I noticed, ’cause of Aunt Rosa.” He looked at his feet, the way he did every time he admitted to a decent impulse. “Also ’cause I like to draw things sometimes.”
“You have a good eye,” I told him. “Will they let you have artist’s materials in here?”
He tried to look nonchalant. “Dunno.”
“I’ll find out,” I told him. “If it’s permitted, I’ll send you some.”
“Nah. We have to buy everything from these catalogues.” He looked at me.
“Then I’ll send you some money for them,” I told him.
“Hope I won’t be in here that long, lady.”
“Let’s get back to the sketch,” Scott said.
We worked on it for a couple more minutes until we had a facsimile Ramon was happy with. It was hard going, but at least the choices were a bit narrower than, say, the possibilities a police sketch-artist had to work from.
“Here’s what I’d like to do,” I said. “I’ll try to find some pictures of artworks that might resemble what we’ve sketched here. I’ll send them to you, and if anything looks like what you saw that night, I’d like you to let me know right away.”
“Okay,” he said.
There was nothing left to say. Scott looked at his watch, caught my eye, and stood up. “We should be going,” he said.
Ramon looked from side to side with a hint of panic. His hand rested briefly on the back of his chair. His eyes glistened. “I swear on the grave of my abuelita that I didn’t kill that lady,” he said in a hushed voice. All his bravado was drained away, and he looked as if he needed the back of the chair for support. “I never even saw her. I never saw nobody.” Then he turned and walked across the big room, where they waited to lead him away.
At least one of his grandmothers was still alive; I had met her myself. But it was a minor quibble.
I believed him anyway.
“Calm down,” Scott said to me, as we exited the Level-5 lobby and waited for the bus. “You’re hyperventilating.”
I was, though whether it was from excitement or the desire to breathe Free Air again, I couldn’t be sure. I looked around; even the desiccated brown foothills had taken on a more attractive hue.
“You’re jumping to conclusions,” he added.
“I haven’t even said anything,” I protested.
He smiled. “You don’t have to.”
“Are we talking nonverbal clues here?”
He laughed.
“Okay,” I said, “then tell me this: How did you know Ramon was lying about the police planting evidence on him?”
“I didn’t, but it seemed likely, so I decided to bluff.”
“You mean you didn’t watch his eyelids flutter or anything like that?”
He looked at me, amused. “I see you’ve been doing your research again,” he said.
“Mystery novels, I told you.”
“Well, there are studies that indicate that when somebody is feeling distress—maybe because he’s lying—the inner portion of the eyebrow lifts frequently. It’s not a movement you can generally control, so it’s often a dependable indicator. But I wasn’t watching Ray’s eyebrows. He didn’t even believe his own story. He shifted all over the seat and couldn’t come up with anything like a reasonable explanation. It’s a good thing he didn’t take the stand.”
“What difference did it make? He got convicted anyway.”
“Very true,” he said, “but if he’d made a liar out of himself on the stand, you probably wouldn’t be on this quest.”
“Maybe not,” I admitted.
“Still, I’m not so sure we helped him this morning.”
“How can you say that? We found out he didn’t touch the files, and about the statue.”
“Let’s set those aside for a minute. What we found out for sure is that Ray did break into Ivanova Associates and that he was mightily pissed off at Natasha because of the way she treated his mother. Which you failed to mention, I might add.”
“I forgot,” I said.
“A convincing argument,” he said dryly. “In all events, we now have a powerful motive for murder, and it looks a lot like premeditation.”
“So do you think Ramon really killed her? Even after what we heard today?”
“What I think doesn’t count. What matters is how the judicial system, which has already tidily disposed of Ray Garcia—after due process, I must point out—will react to our discoveries. It takes rather compelling evidence to get anyone to reconsider a done deal, unless 60 Minutes decides to do a story. And sometimes not even then.”
“So, short of calling in Mike Wallace, what we have to do is find the real killer,” I said glumly. Both possibilities seemed equally remote.
“It’s not necessary to find the real killer,” he said “But we have to have something more than what we’ve got, to exculpate Ray. And I’m not sure that’s going to happen.”
I noticed that “real killer.” I turned to him. “You don’t believe it was Ray, then!” I was surprised to discover how important it was that he agree with me.
He looked sheepish, as if he’d been caught in something he’d rather not admit to. “Let’s just say I have my doubts.” He sighed. “For whatever good that does.” He was silent a moment. “Are you hungry?”
He must have heard my stomach growling. I winced. “I’m afraid so,” I said.
“Would you consider lunch? As long as it’s a working conference and not a date?” He grinned.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked him. The only place I had ever been to eat near Bakersfield was a Basque restaurant, where the waiter had talked Michael and me into ordering mutton. There are people who swear by it. I’d discovered I was not one of them.
“It’s a surprise,” he said, “if you’re up for one.”
“I like surprises,” I told him.
It was so hot by the time we got back to the car that we had to put the top up. It was either that or heat stroke, and I wanted to keep a clear head. “How far to the surprise?” I asked Scott.
“A ways,” he said. “Just keep on the highway till I tell you where to turn off.”
“Then let’s reconstruct what we found out,” I said. I felt both elated and relieved by my certainty, finally, that Ramon was innocent. I didn’t want to lose all the thoughts tumbling around in my head before I could put them in order. “You can challenge me on every point,” I offered generously.
He laughed. “I’m on your side, remember?”
“You can’t help yourself,” I told him. “Anyway, I mean it. Play Devil’s Advocate. It might be useful,” I admitted.
“How flattering,” he said. “Do you want to start?”
“Okay.” I wiped my hands on my pants to keep from getting the steering wheel sticky with sweat. “Let’s start with the time of the phone call reporting the ‘break-in.’ If we can believe Ramon—”
“Big ‘if,’” Scott commented.
“See?” I said. “I rest my case.”
“I’m being useful. You’ve already admitted it. Proceed.”
“If we can believe Ramon, he broke in about four in the morning. The call didn’t come in till after five. Unless you suppose he hung around the office for an hour looking at the artworks, why the delay? Doesn’t it suggest there’s something fishy about the phone call?”
Scott shook his head. “In the first place, we only have Ramon’s word about when he broke in, and even he is a little vague about the time. In the second, there’s no proof one way or the other as to how long he was there. They’d demolish you with that argument.” He looked at me. “I’m showing you how a judge would see it. It doesn’t mean you aren’t right.”
“Fair enough,” I told him. “Next is the matter of the files—”
“Inconclusive,” Scott said. “You don’t even know that the files disappeared on the night of the murder. You’re just guessing.”
“I’m assuming. Bear with me.”
“Okay.” He smiled.
“Well, assuming they did disappear on the night of the murder, and assuming again that Ramon didn’t take them or destroy them—”
Scott rolled his eyes.
“—Then their disappearance strongly suggests that someone else was there, doesn’t it? Maybe there was something in them that the real killer wanted to hide. Maybe the files were the reason for the murder in the first place.”
“And maybe somebody took them out the week before, and no one noticed until Natasha was killed,” he said reasonably. “You do realize that you can’t build any kind of a case on ‘maybes,’ don’t you?”
“I’m hoping that if there are enough ‘maybes,’ they’ll add up to a reasonable doubt,” I told him. “Just enough to get somebody interested enough to look again.”
“So far, the likely conclusion would be that you’re grasping at straws,” he said. “Proceed, however.”
“Thank you, Counselor. I haven’t even come to the best part yet—the statue.”
“The putative statue.”
“You sound like a lawyer,” I said.
“I am a lawyer.”
“Okay, the putative statue. Naked, too,” I said. “That statue interests me a lot.”
“Obviously,” Scott observed.
“Well, look, if it was there when Ramon broke in and not there when the police discovered Natasha’s body—and of course we’ll have to check on that, but I’m sure I would have remembered it if it had been in any of the crime-scene photos—then it must have disappeared between about four and five-thirty in the morning on that day. It’s got to be connected somehow. The real killer must have taken it.”
“Even if that were true, you’ve got a lot of problems. One, how are you going to identify it? Two, how could you track it down if you did? If the killer took it, he’s probably still hanging on to it, don’t you suppose?”
I bit my lip, thinking. “I don’t know. It might not be as hard to track it down as you think. I’ll work on it.” I paused. “There’s something else, too.”
“I knew there would be,” he said, with a smile.
“Well, what would an artwork like that be doing on her desk in the first place? I mean, if you’re running a very exclusive matchmaking service for extremely picky clientele, would you want a statue of an obese woman in a prominent place? The men all want to meet models, like Mira or Patrice. Even if the sculpture is a Henry Moore, doesn’t it send the wrong message?”
“Do you think all men are obsessed with women’s weight?” he asked in an interested tone.
“In a word? Yes.”
“Well, you’re wrong. Besides, I think women are more obsessed with the issue than men are.”
“We could certainly debate the point, but we’re getting sidetracked. What I wanted to say is that Natasha’s body was lying on her very lovely rug, right next to her desk. The Erté was lying next to her head. The executive bathroom is behind the desk. If the killer hid in there and surprised her—which is certainly the logical course of events—wouldn’t it make sense that he’d grab something off the desktop to whack her with?”
Scott looked at me. “Oh, yes, I see. And Ramon said the Erté was on the shelf. How close was that?”
I tried to conjure up an image of the office in my mind. “Not very.”
“Don’t jump—”
“I can’t help it! This might even mean that the mystery statue was the murder weapon. We have to find out, Scott!”
“You mean somebody switched the statues? What for?”
“Two reasons. Maybe because the actual weapon is a lot more valuable than the Erté. Or maybe it could be traced to someone specific. That could give me something to go on in tracking it down.”
“And the other reason?”
I shuddered. “Maybe the killer was there all along. Watching. Maybe he saw Ramon touch the Erté, and when Natasha Ivanova surprised him sometime later, he saw a ready-made opportunity to frame Ramon. Whack her over the head, pick up the real weapon, substitute the Erté, and—”
“Wait.”
I paused.
“You’d have to hit her again with the Erté. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have had traces of her blood and scalp.”
I made a face. “That’s right. But you see where this is leading, don’t you?”
He smiled. “It’s a runaway train, and you’re the engineer.”
“Okay, I take your point, but if my scenario is true, then doesn’t it make sense that it was the killer who called the police and reported Ramon? That way he’d make sure they picked up Ray before he got rid of the stolen goods. And the real killer would be in the clear. It’s very smart.”
“It’s a good theory,” Scott said, “but it’s all speculation. There’s no evidence to suggest that anyone else was there when Ramon broke in.”
“What about his feeling spooked? Thinking he heard something?”
“Do I have to say it? He was burglarizing the place. He’s a dumb kid. He was nervous. Of course he’d start at every noise.”
“The light was on. The file drawer was open. Somebody was there, Scott.”
“Even if you’re right, we can’t prove it, can we? It would certainly be nice to know what Ivanova was doing there at that hour of the morning.”
“They said at the trial that she liked to come in early in the morning to work. Make calls to the East Coast. That kind of thing.”
“Bullshit,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Four-thirty in the morning is only seven-thirty on the East Coast. Nobody’s at work at that hour, and I doubt if they’re much interested in potential matches before the first cup of coffee, either. Come to think of it, Natasha was giving little soirées all the time, too, wasn’t she? Doesn’t that seem like burning the candle at both ends?”
I nodded. “Even a twenty-five-year-old would find that schedule punishing. So your conclusion is…?”
He shrugged. “The part about coming in to work early to make telephone calls was a mistake, or a lie, or she was up to something and invented a cover story for herself.”
“I bet on ‘up to something.’ There were rumors even before I heard about the IRS and all the things you’re working on. So maybe she went to the office for this mysterious purpose, and surprised her killer, and—”
“Or she didn’t surprise him.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes.”
“Take a right here,” Scott told me.
“So where do we go from here?” I asked him, when I had made the turn. “We’ve got a lovely theory—well, maybe several lovely theories—and no evidence.”
“At least it’s a starting point,” he said. He looked at me. “I have to hand it to you, you were terrific back at Tehachapi. Most people who’ve never been to a prison are put off by the experience. Quite frankly, I didn’t think you’d be that tough.”
I hadn’t felt tough at all. It was sort of appalling, and more than a little sad. “I don’t have a choice,” I told him. “I’m desperate. It didn’t seem like a good strategy to turn squeamish.”
“Don’t get desperate,” he said.
“I can’t help it. I want this resolved.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he said. “It may never be resolved. You might have to live with the status quo, at least for a very long time. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“Live with sending an innocent boy to prison? I don’t think so! How can I possibly give up now?”
“I’m not saying you should give up,” he answered. “On the other hand, I’m not as convinced as you seem to be that we’ve discovered with absolute certainty that Ray is innocent. I admit there are a lot of doubts, but you have to leave room for the possibility that he could still be lying about the whole thing. A sociopath can be utterly convincing.”
“Is that what you think?” I demanded. His hand was still on my shoulder, which made it hard to concentrate.
“I’ve told you, no. I’m just trying to prepare you, so you don’t get hurt. I can tell that this case means a lot to you. I’m not sure I understand why, but I hate to see you headed for a fall if it doesn’t work out the way you want it to.”
“Lots of things don’t work out the way you want them to,” I said, not looking at him. We both knew I was talking about more than the case. “There aren’t any shortcuts through pain. I’m a big girl,” I said, with a touch more bravery than I felt. “I can take it.” I turned toward him. “But thanks for your concern.”
He looked at me, and I thought he was about to say something more. Instead he pointed to the curb. “Pull over there,” he said.
We were in front of a Basque hotel.