Motive (10 page)

“How’re the girls doing?”

“They still look seriously stressed. Ashley did mention that she’s considering therapy. I fielded a call from the old lawyer, Cohen, wanting to know when I planned to release Ursula’s house from the warrant. Apparently, Richard’s thinking of selling it and taking his inheritance from the proceeds rather than cash in any of Ursula’s stocks and bonds. I had no good reason to keep it going, so I freed it today. And that’s it, boys and girls, unless you can come up with something to nurture hope.”

I said, “The only thing I can think of is a man Ursula dated but didn’t list in her book. Maybe because it
didn’t
go well. Or someone managed to squeeze into her busy Asian schedule and long distance didn’t protect her.”

“Dark secrets of the Orient?” he said. “Hey, I know, I’ll ask the chief to pay for a trip over there, will even settle for business class. On the other hand, to keep things a bit more realistic, I could serve as a model on
Project Runway
. Meanwhile, I surrender.”

Two cold cases in a row. I couldn’t recall that ever happening before, had no idea how he’d handle it.

Two days later, I was having lunch with Robin out in our backyard, sitting near the pond, eating sandwiches I’d slapped together after finishing a couple of psych reports. Our French bulldog Blanche positioned herself at our feet, panting and burping, trapdoor mouth ajar, waiting for fallen manna.

Robin had been working overtime and I figured drawing her out of the studio was a good deed. At first, she declined, citing a deadline. A
quarter hour later she agreed but remained preoccupied. Then I fed the koi and she watched them burble and slurp and that seemed to draw her into the present.

She picked up a sandwich. “Roast beef. You read my mind, darling.”

“Really?”

“No, but had I been thinking about food, roast beef might’ve come up eventually.”

The phone in my pocket rang.

“Aren’t you going to get that?”

“Not right now.”

She shrugged and kissed my cheek.

Ninety seconds later, more chirping from my jeans.

Robin said, “You might as well.”

I checked the window. Someone calling on my private line, not the business extension my service would pick up. Unfamiliar number. I let it go to voice mail. Seconds later, it rang again.

Robin laughed. I picked up. “Dr. Delaware.”

Moe Reed said, “We kind of need you, Doc. Over at the Corey house.”

“Which one?”

“Pardon?”

“His or hers?”

“Oh. Hers. L.T. wants to know if you can come over A-sap.”

“Any reason he didn’t call himself, Moe?”

Reed said, “Hold on, let me move away from the scene.”

“Another murder?”

“No, this is … maybe even weirder. Why didn’t he call himself, Doc? Because to tell the truth, Doc, he’s kind of … I don’t know, I guess stunned is the word? Never really seen him like this.”

He explained why.

I said, “Be over as soon as I can.”

Robin began wrapping up the sandwiches. “Drive carefully.”

“You never say that.”

“That’s because I assume you will.” She kissed me again. “But now, my darling, you’re looking a little … accelerated.”

I told her why.

She said, “That’s crazy. Then again, who better to handle crazy than you?”

This time, the gatehouse at Rancho Lobo Estates was staffed by a young man who looked nervous. I announced myself. He let me in between “Alex” and “Delaware.”

The four-slot parking area on the north side of Ursula Corey’s house was filled, overflow vehicles parked on the side of the road. The quartet that had beaten me onto the property were Milo’s Impala, two other unmarkeds, and a red BMW 3. I left the Seville behind a white Infiniti sedan, a bronze Jaguar S-type with customized plates reading
RE MIK
, and a white van bearing the seal of the crime lab. The cars were unoccupied. Two techs sat in the van listening to something on earphones.

The horses were gone but the smell of horseshit lingered. The house’s front door had been propped open and Detective I Sean Binchy stood in the octagonal entry, wearing his usual dark suit, deep-blue shirt, black tie, and Doc Martens. His red hair was spiked, his long, big-jawed face smooth and freckled and glowing.

“Doc!” he said, as if my arrival made his day.

Years ago Sean had begun a metamorphosis that took him from
surfer to punk-ska bassist to born-again crime solver. Maybe it’s faith that keeps him cheerful, maybe he’s just wired that way, but nothing bores him, nothing disappoints him, and he’s got the attention span of a severe obsessive-compulsive without the anxiety and the troublesome habits.

Cloning his neural fluid could make someone rich.

He gripped my hand and said, “You’re going to be interested, Doc, it’s really
psychological
.”

“Can’t wait, Sean.” Walking past him, I encountered Detective I Moses Reed at the mouth of the great room. Reed had probably played cop in the crib. His half brother had once been an LAPD ace and his father’s life distilled down to military service, Central Division patrol, premature death.

He said, “Doc,” and thumbed me forward.

Milo was sitting on the big leather couch. No sign of Ashley Corey but Marissa sat next to him, looking like the victim of a natural disaster.

Perched on chairs to the right were a man and a woman. He was forty or so, dark-haired with a perfectly triangular soul patch below a pouting lower lip, wore a gray sharkskin suit and green crocodile loafers, no socks. She was midthirties, plump and pretty in a brown silk top over black leggings. She glanced at me, returned her attention to Milo.

I wondered how he’d introduce me. He didn’t, just said, “Okay,” and stood.

Soul Patch said, “We’re done?”

Milo said, “Not quite.”

Soul looked at his watch.

Milo said, “I’ll be quick, Mr. Ballou.”

Mr. Ballou’s lower lip didn’t take the news well but the rest of him sat there.

Milo led me into the giant kitchen where I’d fetched water for the Corey sisters. This time I took in details.

What had to be a thousand square feet, one of those designer
“caterer-ready” showpieces rarely used for anything beyond microwaving.

Milo kept going, past the dual Traulsen fridges, the nine-burner Wolf range, the quartet of sinks, a host of warming drawers, convection ovens, commercial-sized dishwashers, equipment I couldn’t identify. Everything was brushed steel and black wood and white marble.

The room echoed as Milo ended up at the far end, where the space tapered to an eat-in breakfast area. Rusticized table and chairs centered an octagonal area that was mostly windows, offering an eyeful of lawn, well-placed shrubbery, and mountainside.

Pretty, but the relevant view was interior.

The table could accommodate eight but was set for two. The menu du jour was a pair of tossed salads, now wilted, wineglasses half poured with something the color of straw, a crystal pitcher of water, ocher-colored plates arranged precisely.

Boneless grilled chicken breasts, blanched fennel, cakes of little round things that were probably lentils. On smaller plates, some sort of dried fruit concoction was molded like sand in a child’s beach bucket.

On a nearby counter stood a wicker basket of grapes, peaches, and plums.

I said, “Bon appétit.”

Milo said, “Goddammit, I’m never gonna be hungry again.”

That was as likely as the Messiah detouring to the craps tables in Reno.

I said, “See what you mean.”

We returned to the great room. Milo said, “Please repeat what you told me, Mr. Ballou.”

Ballou, warming to his new audience of one, smiled and gave a finger-wave. “Mick Ballou, West Valley Executive Properties. I’ve got the exclusive listing on this wonderful estate. It looked great from the outset but obviously we wanted to explore a bit of staging. To make it more polished but lived-in, you know?”

Marissa Corey made a choking sound and began dabbing her eyes furiously.

Mick Ballou, puzzled by her reaction, stared for a moment, then resumed. “As I was saying … this morning … around ten, I arrived with Candy to set up a plan.”

The woman in the brown silk top said, “Candace LaGuardia, Bijou Staging.” Low volume, low enthusiasm.

Ballou said, “Anyway … Candy brought a
van
ful of items but first we had a look. And lo and behold, someone had begun staging the breakfast room. Or so we thought. That made us wonder if our wires had somehow gotten crossed so we called the client but he was out. So we called our secondary number and that turned out to be Marissa here.”

Marissa said, “Daddy didn’t tell me he’d given them my number. I didn’t know what the frick they were talking about.”

Ballou winced. “Anyway … Marissa, here, wanted to come down to see exactly what was going on. That’s when she saw what we saw and got pretty upset.” To Marissa: “I’m sorry but I had no way of knowing.”

Marissa looked at me. “I freaked because I was here yesterday afternoon to make sure Sydney and Jasper were okay and none of that frickin’ shit was here.”

I said, “What time was that?”

“Like two to like six,” she said. “It made me thirsty so I went inside to get some juice so I was definitely in the kitchen and
that
frickin’ shit wasn’t.”

I said, “Someone got in after six.”

Marissa smirked. “You
think
?”

“Who has a key?”

“Me, Ashley, and him.” Pointing to Ballou.

Ballou said, “Your father, as well, seeing as he’s the client.”

“Whatever.”

Candace LaGuardia said, “I don’t have a key, this is the first time I’ve been here.”

Marissa said, “I called Ashley and Daddy, both of them thought it was insane. Cooking a meal and leaving it frickin’ here? What the frick is that about? It’s like … perverted. Breaking in and saying this is
my
place.”

Out of the mouths of babes.

“Then,” said Marissa, “because it was frickin’ weird, I called him.” Her eyes drifted to Milo’s. Everyone else’s eyes tagged along.

Mick Ballou said, “After you said not to touch anything, Lieutenant, obviously everything ground to a halt.” Another look at his watch.

Candace LaGuardia said, “They did a pretty good job décor-wise. Except for the food, you never do that. Food goes bad fast.”

I pretended not to probe for nonverbal tells from Ballou, LaGuardia, or Marissa Corey. All three looked stunned. I nodded at Milo and he said, “Appreciate your patience, we’ll take it from here.” We accompanied Ballou and LaGuardia out of the house, stayed with him at the bronze Jaguar, and let her approach the white Infiniti. Marissa Corey had already raced far ahead of them and was backing the red BMW fast enough to set off a dust storm. Fishtailing, she straightened and sped off toward the gatehouse, tires squealing.

Ballou said, “Whoa, Speed-Racer. So can we go ahead with the staging, Lieutenant?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“When?”

Milo motioned to the crime scene van. The two techs got out, retrieved cases from the rear, and walked toward us.

Ballou said, “Whoa. CSI?”

“Just like on TV,” said Milo.

“You think something bad actually happened here? I mean there was nothing but food. Maybe it’s just a kid pranking.”

“Maybe but we need to check it out.”

Mick Ballou said, “Can you at least give me an estimate of when?”

The techs reached us, a couple of men in their twenties. Milo said, “Breakfast area at the end of the kitchen. I’ll be in soon, tell you what to do.”

Ballou said, “Can you give me an approximate—”

“No, sir.”

“Candy’s got a tight schedule.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“In a fluctuating market, timing’s everything, Lieutenant.”

“Have a nice day, sir.” Milo opened the Jaguar’s driver’s door.

Mick Ballou said, “Shit, I thought this would be an easy one.”

As he drove off, Milo said, “Join the club, moron.”

As we returned to the house, Binchy and Reed emerged and Milo told them they could go. In the breakfast room, he instructed the techs to check out every inch of the space, then move on to the entire kitchen. One man was six four and thin, the other a head shorter and even skinnier. Both wore stubble goatees and eyeglasses.

“Humongous place,” said Tall. “Give me a poor victim in a one-room shithole any day.”

“No victim I see,” said Short. “We’re checking out food, dude.”

Tall looked past him. “Vast, we could be here all day.”

Milo said, “If you get hungry, I’ll call out for dinner.”

Short said, “Ironic. Ha. I vote for Mexican.”

Tall said, “I vote for finishing before dinner.”

Milo and I returned outside. He leaned against the empty corral, rubbed his face, stared at the pretty sky.

“You know and I know,” he said. “Ain’t we the lucky ones?”

A beat.

I said, “Hennepin redux?”

He cursed. “How the hell can it be, Alex? Someone’s out to plague me?”

Suddenly he loped toward his car, slapped the trunk hard enough to redden his palm, returned looking ready to commit an atrocity.

“First salmon, now goddamn boneless chicken breast?”

I said, “The kind of meals a man might see as girlie.”

“Meaning?”

“Low fat, plenty of fiber, moderate portions.” I wasn’t sure if I was kidding. Milo didn’t see any humor in it.

“C’mon, Alex, what the
hell
? Someone with a thing for
me
? Poor Ursula was nothing but a
pawn
? I mean how would they know?”

I thought of his favorite bumper sticker:
Even paranoids have enemies
. “Maybe Hennepin and Corey are somehow connected.”

“An accountant and a tycooness?”

“Tycoonesses need accountants. Who was Ursula’s?”

His smile was instantaneous, feral, frightening. “You probably think that question will stymie me but
as
a matter of fact, I’ve got the answer at my fingertips because I combed through her and Richard’s finances for a solid goddamn week and it’s not the Hennepin’s bosses—the Grosses. No sir, Urrick’s taxes are handled by a hoohah firm in the same building as Fellinger.”