Motive (24 page)

Milo said, “You think he had something to do with Ursula’s death.”

“I don’t know,” said Cohen, “but it gnaws at me. How triumphant he was, as if he’d pulled something off. I’ve worked with enough clients to be a pretty good amateur psychologist myself, and I couldn’t help think the real reason Richard asked for the appointment was to brag.”

He shook his head. “If I’m wrong, so be it. If I’m right, to hell with him.”

Milo said, “Appreciate your telling us—”

“What will you do about it, Lieutenant?”

“Here’s the problem, sir. Richard was the first person we looked at but there’s no possibility of his shooting Ursula. Obviously, people of means often hire out but Richard opened his financial records to us, as well as his phone logs, and no suspicious money transfers came up.”

Cohen’s smile was chilly. “You’re serious.”

“What, sir?”

“No recorded transfers? Big deal, Lieutenant. Richard keeps substantial cash on hand and in terms of his calls, what’s to stop him using one of those disposable phones? Which I happen to know he does use, because I’ve seen them in his possession. Cheap little doodads. One time I asked him why he needed them when he had normal phones and he said for backup.”

Milo and I looked at each other. A disposable had come up as a means of controlling Frankie DiMargio.

Milo said, “How much cash are we talking about?”

Cohen said, “That I can’t tell you but it’s not pennies. The way the business works, the importing is done on the up-and-up but once the goods reach here and Richard negotiates with buyers in Chinatown or wherever, it can switch to all-cash.”

“Tax evasion.”

“I’m not a tax lawyer.”

“Who does Richard use?”

“No one,” said Cohen. “He does his own taxes. Which tells you something about his personality, what businessman at his level takes that upon himself?”

I said, “Easier to hide cash.”

Cohen shrugged. “Let me tell you something else: Even when Richard said nice things about Ursula, I always felt that down deep he hated her. Not disliked,
hated
. His mouth would be saying one thing but his eyes would be communicating something else.”

“Any idea why?”

“Sex, Lieutenant. He was convinced she was sleeping with everyone from the pool boy to the postman. Would gripe to me then explain it away. They were divorced, she was free to do what she wished, she was a woman with needs. I can’t back this up but my feeling was he had longtime performance issues. He told me about Ursula’s sex life—what he believed was her sex life—the first time we met. I thought this is one that could get toxic but Grant and I pulled off a minor miracle. Maybe
major because I didn’t think much of Grant, still don’t. But I’ll give him one thing: He listened to his client and Ursula was always about making peace. So we managed to settle amicably.”

“After three years.”

“That, Lieutenant, is a blink of an eye, divorce-wise.”

I said, “Amicable but now Corey’s smirking.”

“It doesn’t sound like much but I know.” Cohen patted the area over his heart. “Tomorrow, I formally retire from the practice of law and prepare myself for what lies ahead. I couldn’t hope for peace of mind if I didn’t tell you.”

He staggered to his feet. Held out a wavering hand for balance, drew himself up. “Good day, gents.”

Milo said, “Can I give you a ride, sir?”

“No, thanks, I don’t live far.” Smiling lopsidedly. “Walking’s good for longevity.”

Milo and I remained on the rim of the fountain. The personal trainer was jogging in place and the retriever was back to running in frantic circles. A new homeless man had wandered in, pushing a shopping cart full of brown things. He spotted us and the malice in his eyes was unmistakable.

Shaking a fist, he kept going.

It’s impossible to know how many street people listen to the worst kind of voices. That made me think about Deirdre Brand. Aggressive panhandler, not unwilling to face off with a man in a suit. Good odds paranoia swirled among the ridges and sulci of her addled brain.

Would someone like that be bought off on the cheap, by a bottle of fortified wine?

In light of Cohen’s account—of all our preconceptions crumbling—that logic began to melt.

Perhaps she’d been killed by a man she’d never met. Someone who knew about her from his lawyer and decided to take matters into his own hands.

Milo’s voice broke into my thoughts. “—you call what just happened
with ol’ Earl? A paradigm shift? Think I should take him seriously?”

“He’s a smart man,” I said. “Knows Richard as well as anyone and he has no obvious motive to lie. And if Richard does keep serious cash on hand and uses a prepaid, his previous alibi’s useless.”

“Prepaid. What we figured Frankie might be using.”

“Courtesy of her master. And if Cohen’s right about Corey’s sexual issues, it could explain Corey’s looking for alternatives.”

“Hiring out,” he said. “Doesn’t have to mean a hit man. Could be a girlfriend.”

I stared at him. “Frankie was the shooter?”

“Master–slave setup, why not? Someone with Frankie’s personality—isolated, reads people poorly—she’d be perfect, right? Like one of those cult members, follows the master straight to the grave. Grooming her as a button-girl would be a dandy reason to control her, Alex. It would also be a nifty motive for blowing
her
brains out when he was through with her.”

I said, “If that’s how it happened, Frankie being familiar with the building takes on a whole new meaning.”

“You bet. The Corey girls told us Richard knew about Ursula’s appointment. Making it easy enough for him to set it up. And what better way to express hatred than have your love slave do the dirty work and report all the bloody details?”

I ran the images through my head. Pictured how the DiMargios would react to the news.
Not only is your daughter dead …

Milo said, “It fits even better when you consider that Frankie didn’t have a normal job, no one to complain if she didn’t show up.”

He made a phone call. “Bekka? Milo Sturgis … Fine, you?… Listen, I know Frankie didn’t keep to a regular schedule but would you know if she was at work on …”

He listened. Frowned. Hung up laughing. “She has no idea.”

“Why the mirth?”

“She asked me out.”

“You accept?”

“Very funny.” We began walking out of the park. “I told her I was flattered but committed.”

“What she say to that?”

“She hung up.”

We walked out of the park. He said, “So maybe Svengali is Corey, not Fellinger, but the production’s the same.”

I said, “Problem is, Deirdre Brand had a problem with Fellinger, not Corey.”

He stopped. “What’s that, tough love?—damn, I’m getting ahead of myself, Deirdre
doesn’t
fit.”

“Maybe she does if she was barter material. As in Corey traded favors with Fellinger.”

“Corey killed Deirdre in order to buddy up to Fellinger? What could Fellinger offer him, he was Ursula’s lawyer—ah.”

“Ah, indeed,” I said. “We already know Fellinger cheats on his wife. Maybe he also betrays his clients. Leaking Ursula’s finances, her intentions—anything to give Richard a heads-up during negotiations.”

“In return for taking care of a crazy-woman problem? Fellinger would take that big of a risk? Also, Corey didn’t like Fellinger, just the opposite, he lost no time telling us Fellinger was sleeping with Ursula.”

“He also told us Ursula was likely sleeping with Cohen. And according to Cohen, everyone else on the globe. Maybe that was a diversion on Richard’s part. Trying to look like an emotionally fragile guy rather than a calculating mastermind. I’ve been wondering for a while if misdirection is the psychological essence of the killings. If the real trademark is setting up textbook crime scenes that lead to dead ends and humiliate the cops. Corey watches true-crime shows, maybe he thinks of himself as an expert on police procedure.”

“You’ve been wondering for a while but didn’t think to mention it.”

“I didn’t see it as helpful. Now I do.”

“Or,” he said, “you didn’t want to hurt Uncle Milo’s feelings, seeing as I’m the cop getting humiliated—hey, are those your special kid gloves?”

“Nope, left them at home with the self-esteem lotion.”

He laughed. “Okay, an immediate problem: the surveillance on Fellinger and Sullivan. All this time and the only thing to show is some extramarital hanky-panky, not with each other. With Corey on the radar, it’s even harder to justify the manpower.”

“If I had to choose one of them to keep watching, it would be Fellinger because Deirdre Brand still remains a big question mark and Sullivan’s big sin is receiving packages from Frankie DiMargio. Now that we know she has a boyfriend, the odds of a personal relationship with Fellinger drop and the tense chat Reed witnessed doesn’t really add up to an emotional breakup scene, more likely business as Moe thought. But now I’m going to add to your problems: Ashley and Marissa. If their father is behind four murders, the fact that he’s no longer feeling warm and paternal toward them is worrisome. The first time we met the girls Ashley blurted, ‘It wasn’t Daddy.’ She claimed she was reacting to all the true-crime shows she watched with him, but gut reactions can be revealing. If Corey’s showed his hand and they’re scared, they may be more willing to talk.”

“Why do you think his attitude
has
changed suddenly?”

“Maybe it hasn’t. Maybe he’s resented them for a while and finally decided to stop faking—oh, boy.”

“What?” he said.

“A lawyer in Fellinger’s firm is the trustee of the girls’ trust funds. Talk about a good reason for Richard to buddy up with Fellinger. One dead homeless woman in return for bleeding the funds. Why would Fellinger risk it? Because he’d receive a commission.”

“Kickback and no crazy person yelling at him when he takes lunch, yeah that’s a decent payoff. Now try to prove it.”

“Why don’t we start by talking to Ashley and Marissa, find out if
they’re aware of any change in their father. For example, has he already begun to tighten the purse strings?”

“Robbing his own kids,” he said. “Maybe planning to do worse.”

“Enough time has passed for him to figure he got away with multiple murders,” I said. “If he’s impotent and a longtime cuckold, all the more reason to build himself up. His mistake was bragging obliquely to Cohen and figuring Cohen wouldn’t break confidentiality.”

“Bad bet, Richie.”

“Let’s hope he makes a few more.”

Neither Corey daughter answered her cell phone.

Milo checked his notes. “Let’s go.”

The apartment the sisters shared was a straight shot up Laurel Canyon, a right on Ventura Boulevard, a left on Vineland. Close enough to their mother’s Calabasas house for laundry drops, far enough to discourage casual parental drop-ins.

The building was four stories of white filling an entire block. Three entry doors, one propped open by a large wooden block. Moving men toted furniture to a van on the street.

The free-form pool centering the interior was big enough for exercising orcas. Bikinied women and men in swim trunks occupied ten percent of the seating. No one swam. The median age was midtwenties. Empty beer cans littered the fake lava-rock decking.

The Corey sisters lived on the third floor. One of two elevators was propped with a similar wooden block. The other failed to respond and we took the stairs.

Milo knocked on the door to 315. A male voice said, “Yeah,” and
the door cracked. The bare-chested young man who stared at Milo’s badge said, “Uh.”

Twenty or so, six feet tall, he had long, curly, blond-tipped brown hair, square shoulders, and a patchily whiskered face. Good-looking kid if you discounted the confusion dulling every facial feature. Still, he’d do fine modeling in the kind of clothing ad that emphasized mental vacancy.

Milo said, “Police, may we come in?” and opened the door. The boy stepped aside, scratching his thigh. He wore white boxer shorts patterned with little red devil heads, nothing else. The area around his crotch looked starchy. The room smelled of sour sex, stale food, and weed. The cheap carpeting that came with the apartment was supplemented by an ankle-deep layer of wadded clothes, paper plates clotted with congealed food, empty cans, bottles divided between soda pop and vodka. The glass bulb of a bong protruded from a Jack in the Box take-out bag.

Milo said, “Are Ashley and Marissa here?”

“Uh …”

“Is it a tough question?”

The kid’s expression said he’d just been handed the physics SAT. Looking over his shoulder, he shouted, “Lo?”

From an unseen location at the rear of the apartment: “Wha?”

“Cops.”

“Wha?”

The kid stamped his foot. Unappealingly effete gesture. “Cahps!”

The third “Wha?” was accompanied by the appearance of a short, curvy girl towel-drying a mass of shiny black hair. She wore a flesh-colored bikini top and hip-riding shorts the color of scrambled eggs. A diamond that looked real pierced a navel that would have made any obstetrician proud. As she made her way through the detritus, a collection of bracelets circling her left ankle jangled.

Gorgeous girl with flawless bronze skin, petulant lips, ocean-blue eyes.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

Milo asked to see the Corey sisters.

“They’re not here.”

“And you’re …”

“I’m not them.”

Milo smiled. “You’re Lo.”

“Laura,” the girl corrected.

Little Miss DUI, the incident in Daddy’s Bentley.

Milo said, “Laura what?”

“Laura Hot.”

The dull young man laughed. Milo’s glare silenced him. He sat down in the garbage.

Milo said, “You’re Ashley and Marissa’s friend—”

Laura jutted an adorable chin and bobbed her head. “I just
seh-ed
. They’re not
he-ere
.” Her speech cadence was rhythmic. Her father was in the record industry.

Sample a few seconds of her attitude, hand it to a rap-thug, and you might have a hit.