Motive (31 page)

“He comes with a can in his pocket, borrows the rest,” said Milo. “Premeditating at eighteen.”

“That’s what I figured, Loot. Anyway, West Haven had no idea what to make of it, they were shocked to hear what I had to say. Not that I could tell them much, just that Williams was our prime suspect.”

Milo filled him in.

“Bizarre,” said Binchy. “I asked Chief Molinaro if Williams could’ve worked at the same restaurant as Ms. Sfiazzi. Unfortunately the place closed down, everyone’s gone or dead. But I did compare the date of the murder with Williams’s peep bust and it happened real soon after—ten days.”

“Expelled, so he takes it out on a woman.”

“Not exactly, Loot, he was still enrolled, they took their time kicking him out. Chief Molinaro said it’s always like that, Yale tries to cover up everything. He also said the toughest part about the place is getting admitted, after that you coast. But I guess Williams was feeling unhappy.”

The beer break took place at a tavern called Doc of the Bay, a block and a half west of Café Moghul. I’d never been there but the bartender greeted Milo like an old friend. I thought I knew all his haunts. Learn something every day.

Getting there was interesting, a quick walk prolonged when Milo crossed Santa Monica Boulevard and continued past the tavern before recrossing.

I said, “Why the mini-hike?”

He pointed to the Indian restaurant. “Don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“You guys are going steady?”

“Hey. Stardom has its responsibilities.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Bear in the zoo, does he need to know anything about his keeper except grub gets tossed in on time?”

“But if he’s smart, he doesn’t growl.”

“Exactly.”

The bar was small, stuffy, hung wall-to-wall with sports jerseys in plastic boxes and a single white physician’s coat displayed in the center of the memorabilia.

I said, “Doc of which bay?”

“What do you think? The sick bay. Owner’s a bone-setter named Schwartz, worked as a team physician for the Rams.”

“Rams in L.A. is ancient history.”

“So is Schwartz.”

A plump young barmaid came over. “The usual, Lieutenant?”

“Thanks, Samantha.”

“For you, sir?”

“What’s the usual?”

“Carslberg Elephant chased with Miller Lite.”

“Do you have Sam Adams?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “If we don’t, I’ll bring you something else.”

Mugs arrived, along with wasabi peas and cheese crackers that resembled tiny, flattened basketballs. One long swallow and a mouthful of carbs later, Milo said, “What do you think about having another chat with Corey?”

“Good idea but I wouldn’t confront him.”

“What, be his pal?”

“Stay low-key, business-like, try to work his daughters into the conversation.”

“How?”

“You’re a bit perplexed because they seem to have left town, can he help you locate them. He’ll lie but maybe he’ll give off a tell.”

“How much should I say about Ursula?”

“You’re now wondering if someone in the building was involved. Again, does he have suggestions. Once you’ve planted that seed, you can see if he tries to reach Williams. No sense subpoenaing his phones, both of them will be using prepaids. But maybe you’ll get
lucky and they’ll do a face-to-face. Either way, keep an eye on his movements.”

He finished the Elephant, let out a huge gust of beery breath.

“What’s the alcohol content of that stuff?” I said.

“Seven point two, less than wine.” He lifted the bottle. “Think of it as Chardonnay for the workingman.”

Loosening his belt, he announced, “Time for dessert,” and turned his attention to the light beer.

I said, “When are you planning to revisit Corey?”

“Tonight, soon as the traffic eases up, say seven thirty, eight-ish.”

“In the meantime, we could try for face-time with Cousin Flora. Maybe you can get something out of her that’ll help you find Williams.”

“His psychological makeup?”

“That would also be good,” I said, “but I was thinking last known address.”

Back to Century City. Might as well buy a permanent parking space.

We reached Flora Sullivan’s suite at five thirty-two p.m. Her firm sported a roster of partners that spanned three feet of black granite wall. As the workday drew to a close, lawyers and their staffers exited through three sets of glass doors set on separate walls.

The directory listed each partner as N, E, or W. Sullivan was W. The woman at the front desk of that section was large, white-haired, and imperious and locking her desk as we arrived. The first tip-off that she took herself far too seriously was her nameplate in oversized faux gold mounted on a beefy walnut stand.

ROSE MARIE GRUHNER

The second was her ignoring us completely.

Milo waited for a lull in the foot traffic before identifying himself as LAPD, no specialty cited, and asking to see Flora Sullivan.

Rose Marie Gruhner dropped keys in her purse. “She’s busy.”

“For how long, ma’am?”

“For as long as she chooses.”

Milo said, “I’m with the—”

Gruhner said, “I got it the first time, makes no difference.”

He edged closer to Gruhner’s desk and stood there. Gruhner finally looked up. “Sir. We get law enforcement all the time, the rules don’t change. No one without an appointment.”

“Cops all the time?”

“Frequently,” said Gruhner. “This is a real estate litigation firm, claims and counterclaims are the nature of the business.”

I said, “Process servers are always trying to con their way in.”

“Including marshals in uniform, sir. I tell them what I just told you two: No one gains entry without a prior appointment. We’d have chaos.”

“I’m a detective, ma’am, not serving papers on anyone.”

“I don’t make the regulations, sir, I only enforce them.”

I said, “Tell Ms. Sullivan that Leon Bonelli sent us.”

“I won’t tell her anything of the sort because she gave clear—”

“Trust me,” I said. “She’ll want to know. Leon Bonelli.” I spelled it.

Gruhner said, “Sounds like a tall tale.”

“It’s an extremely short tale.”

“Ach.” She punched an extension and relayed the information. As she listened, her face blossomed pink around the edges. “She is
not
happy. See yourselves in.”

As we walked past her, she called out, “Don’t you want directions?”

No need; Flora Sullivan was waiting in the middle of the corridor, arms crossed. Same pose Grant Fellinger had assumed. Maybe they taught it in law school.

She had on a black pencil skirt and white silk blouse with a Peter Pan collar. The heels on her red shoes put her into NBA guard territory. Dark curls were drawn back tight. Silver-rimmed eyeglasses dangled from a chain around the long stalk of her neck.

The resemblance to Jens Williams was hard to avoid.

She watched our approach, blank-faced. The trek to her door was longer than to Fellinger’s, offering a sideshow of abstractions in pastel tones. Hidden speakers streamed a soft-strings version of “Eleanor Rigby.” Scary song, when you thought about it.

When we were twenty feet away, Flora Sullivan swung into action like a bronco released from a pen, race-walking toward us on stick-limbs, face splotched salmon-pink.

A flamingo who’d imbibed too much rosy plankton.

She planted herself in the center of the hallway. “Who do you think you are to bandy about personal information to my staff?”

Milo said, “Ms. Sullivan, I’m Lieutenant Milo Sturgis, LAPD—”

“That is not an answer.”

“Sorry, ma’am, but the moat was deep and we needed to lower the drawbridge.”

Flora Sullivan blinked. Her eyes were dark blue and wide. The miserly mouth I’d seen in her photo was glossed crimson. Not a pretty woman by a long shot, but she had presence.

“I am not interested in medieval architecture, Officer Whoever You Are. Now you answer me: What gave you the right to lie your way in here by referencing a dear friend of mine?”

“Your personal life has no concern for us, Ms. Sullivan. We need to talk about your cousin John Jensen Williams.”

“Jens? What in the world about? He’s a distant cousin, I barely know him.”

“You knew him well enough to get him a job in this building.”

“I did him a favor—oh,
that
. I was assured that once J. J. was gone the matter would be resolved.”

Milo said, “This is about homicide.”

“What?” she shrieked. A tide of noise rolled behind her and caused her to shut up. A group of well-dressed, tired-looking people rounded a corner and headed our way. One of the men gave a finger-wave. “Flo.”

“Mark.”

The group passed. Lots of quizzical over-the-shoulder looks.

Flora Sullivan said, “Shit. Let’s talk in my office.”

Size- and layout-wise, her work space was a near twin of Fellinger’s, softened a bit by more pastels and blond furniture. Only two photos, both of Sullivan and her husband, headshots offering no hint of disability.

She unfolded her long frame behind her desk. “Before I hear any more nonsense about homicide, you’re going to give me a straight answer: What does Mr. Bonelli have to do with your business?”

“Nothing,” said Milo.

“You lied in order to con your way in here. Is that proper police procedure?”

“Ms. Gruhner was a bit of an obstacle.”

“Ms. Gruhner does her job properly. Without her, this place would be a zoo.” Sullivan looped the eyeglass chain over her head, placed the specs on the desk. “I’m not satisfied with your answer. What’s your interest in Mr. Bonelli?”

I said, “None other than he’s your friend.”

Some of the salmon spots deepened to crimson. “He’s a dear acquaintance, from all the way back to college. So?”

“When we Googled you, Mr. Bonelli’s name came up in conjunction with yours several times. Charitable fund-raisers, that kind of thing. We really need to speak with you so we grasped at straws. Sorry.”

Giving her an out; I doubted she’d prolong the argument.

Another finger-jab. “Why are you nosing around me, period? And don’t try to weasel out of an honest answer.”

Litigation 101: Take control of the situation.

Milo said, “We’re here because you’re J.J. Williams’s only local relative and he’s a person of interest in several homicides.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Sullivan laughed, finished off with a snort. The equine comparison grew stronger. “You’re wasting your time and, more important, you’re squandering mine.” She stood. “Now it’s time for you to exit these premises.”

“We need to locate Mr. Williams—”

“Need what you want but I can’t help you.”

“You knew him well enough to recommend him to—”

“I was being nice! And look where it got me. They’re the ones who hired him. Ask them for an address.”

“The one he gave Mr. Fellinger’s firm was bogus.”

Sullivan blinked. “Really.”

“Really. Where can we find him, ma’am?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Even though—”

“He’s a distant relative who I helped get a job. That’s something I’d do for a nonrelative if they were qualified.”

“Mr. Williams’s qualifications were—”

“He went to Yale,” she said.

I said, “You’re close enough to know that.”

She glared at me. “It wasn’t exactly a family secret.”

“J.J. was known in the family as bright.”

“Bright enough …” Deepening her tone for dominance. But then she ruined it by blinking and glancing down and fooling with her glasses.

I said, “He told you he graduated Yale.”

“And?”

“Actually he left after a year.”

A sleek red fingernail pinged the top of her wedding picture. “Obviously, I’m not privy to his life history, it was a long time since I’d seen him.”

I said, “He called you when he arrived in L.A.?”

“He phoned out of the blue and told me he’d moved to L.A. We hadn’t spoken in years. You’re positive about his leaving Yale?”

“No doubt about it,” said Milo.

“Hmm,” said Sullivan. “Well, that’s a shame, but no way for me to know that. If my mother was lucid, I suppose she might’ve known. She and J.J.’s mother grew up together, more like friends than cousins. But
Leticia—his mom—passed years ago and there’s not much left of my mom, mentally.”

I said, “Did you and J.J. grow up together?”

“Not at all, he’s from Connecticut, I was born in L.A., my father moved here to work for Lockheed—who cares about my life history? Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

Milo said, “So J.J. calls out of the blue, saying he needs a job—”

“He asked if I knew any openings for a paralegal, any kind of assistantship in the legal field. It just so happened that I’d been talking to Fellinger and he mentioned he was looking for someone. I thought, perfect match.”

“Because J.J. was smart.”

“Smart and experienced,” she said. “He’d worked at Skadden in New York, which is white-shoe, heavy hitter.”

Milo and I said nothing.

Flora Sullivan played with her glasses. “Did he lie about that, too?”

“We’ll look into it,” said Milo, “but almost certainly.”