Motive (7 page)

How they’d cope now, with everything crumbling.

The house Ursula and Richard Corey had once shared lay behind a guard-gated entrance six miles south of the freeway. Iron lettering atop the left-hand gatepost proclaimed
RANCHO LOBO ESTATES: A PRIVATE COMMUNITY
.

The gate was more symbol than barrier, an X of metal set into a wooden frame, the spacing more than wide enough to admit a large man. The road beyond the gate snaked quickly out of view, a narrow S of decomposed granite shaded by sycamores native to the region and eucalyptus, once Australian interlopers, now granted amnesty as resident aliens.

The guard was a stout, middle-aged woman in a blue gingham shirt with western-style pearl snaps. As we idled next to her booth, she continued
reading
Modern Equestrian
. I thought Milo did a great job of simulating patience.

Finally, he cleared his throat. Loud.

The woman blinked but her attention remained fixed on the page. “Who’re you here for?”

“The Coreys. Don’t call ahead.”

She turned to find Milo’s badge in her face. “Is there a problem?”

“Not on this side of the gate.”

She waited. He stared her down.

Finally, she said, “That’s good,” and pushed a button.

A wooden sign ten yards in warned against speeds above five mph. I dared to tackle the granite road at fifteen, the Seville’s tires playing a crunch sonata as we passed estates ranging from generous to vast.

Most of the properties were named:
La Valencia, Cloudburst Ranch, El Nido, StraightWalker Farms
. Grass was as green as it could ever be, dirt was uniformly cream-colored and raked smooth, fencing was stark white when it wasn’t burnished pine.

The beautiful beasts confined to the corrals flashed flanks groomed to sateen and sported manes and tails so composed, they might have been blow-dried.

When people accompanied the horses—riding, walking, pampering—they were always female and, with the exception of one woman cantering in a maroon dressage uniform, attired in snug jeans and tailored shirts. More English saddles than Western. Trim bodies abounded, as did jewelry glimmering at the same body parts as Ursula Corey’s corpse. I pictured her alive, turned out perfectly, riding or leading a mount around the ring or just enjoying the quiet.

Her homestead was the ninth property past the main gate, closer to generous than vast. Two, maybe two and a half acres hosting a low-slung tile-roofed Spanish Revival house and three outbuildings of similar style, including a two-story barn.

With most of the acreage fronting the residence, the view was an
unobstructed swath of terraced lawn, privet-hedged flower beds, swooping meadow, and impeccable corral. Choice lot, backed by an outcropping of granite and set high enough to block the scrutiny of neighbors.

Two horses occupied the riding ring, both statuesque and dark brown with black manes and tails and white ankles that suggested gym socks. They circled slowly, bearing the easy weight of slender young women. Finally a break in the dress code: This pair wore form-fitted T-shirts tucked into their jeans, one red, the other yellow. Loose hair the color of clarified butter streamed in the breeze. The sound of laughter sailed through the high, dry air.

No need to disturb the reverie yet; entrance to the property was a coast under a white-painted arch crowned
Aventura
. Easing onto an asphalt patch, I parked in one of four slots delineated by white paint.

The T-shirted girls brought their horses to a halt.

Milo said, “Here we go. Damn.”

Two years separated the Corey sisters but they could’ve been twins. Tall, leggy, effortlessly svelte, their faces were smooth bronze ovals graced by symmetrical features. Narrow hips, tight waists, and generous shoulders suggested athleticism. Straight blond hair flowed past the belt line of the girl in the red tee. Luxuriant waves fanned the shoulders of Yellow.

Both girls remained straight-backed on their horses as we reached the railing of the corral, pretty mouths set firmly, blue eyes watchful.

Milo said, “Ashley and Marissa?”

Wavy said, “I’m Marissa, she’s Ashley,” in a husky voice. “Who are you?”

“Lieutenant Sturgis, L.A. police. We need to talk to you, please.”

“Cops? L.A.?” said Ashley Corey in an even throatier tone. Once upon a time, their mother probably had a sultry voice.

Marissa Corey said, “Agoura sheriff’s in charge and we already told them we had nothing to do with it.”

“With …”

“Laura’s car. We knew totally nothing about it and the sheriff finally believed us so only Laura has to go to court so I don’t know what you think—”

Ashley squeezed her sister’s arm. “Fellinger said you shouldn’t even be talking to them, Rissy.”

Milo said, “I’m glad the thing with Laura worked out, but that’s not why we’re here. Now, if you could please get off your horses, girls.”

Marissa said, “This is exercise time.”

Ashley said, “We don’t stop because you say.”

“It’s important, girls. Really.”

Ashley tossed her own mane, frowned, and formed silent words that looked nasty, but she complied. When her boots touched ground, her sister followed suit. The two of them left the corral, Ashley locking it behind her. Both girls were over six feet in polished riding boots—snakeskin for Ashley, something that looked like elephant hide for Marissa. Each T-shirt read
Look a Gift Horse
above a cartoon of a wide-open mouth.

Marissa folded her arms across her chest. “Okay, what?”

“I need to talk to you about your mother.”

“Mom?” By the end of the syllable her voice had shot up half an octave.

Ashley’s eyes narrowed. “What about Mom?”

Milo did his best to be gentle but there’s no way to mute the horror, no way to prevent yourself from becoming yet another survivor’s worst memory.

Ashley and Marissa Corey shrieked in unison then began shouting “No, no, no” in a syncopated rhythm that smoothed out to a cataract of grief.

Marissa’s arms dropped. She began punching herself in the chest. Ashley wrung her hands and drummed her own forehead. Tears gushed.
Both girls slammed against each other, remained locked in a terrible embrace.

Milo chewed his cheek and tapped his foot and wiped his face so hard with one hand that he raised a pink splotch where his left eye met his temple.

We continued to watch and wait and feel useless as Ursula Corey’s daughters began gulping and wailing something that sounded like
youyouyouyou
.

It took a long time for that to taper to downcast sniffling and involuntary shudders. Milo was ready with tissues that were ignored.

Marissa said, “No, no, no,” and shoved waves of hair away from her tear-soaked face.

Ashley said, “Why would anyone hurt her?”

Milo said, “Don’t know that yet, Marissa.”

“When? When did it happen?”

Milo said, “This morning.”

Ashley said, “It wasn’t Daddy. I’ll tell you that for sure.”

Her sister looked at her. An instant passed before she said, “Shit, no, it wasn’t Daddy.”

Milo said, “Let’s go inside and talk.”

Bawling, the girls stumbled toward the house. Milo and I followed, giving them a four-step lead.

Mourners always head the line.

When they reached the house, Ashley shoved one of the limed-oak double doors and it swung open silently.

Unlocked. The Corey girls had grown up assuming safety.

From now on, they’d never feel completely safe.

Milo and I continued to trail as they staggered, sobbing and clutching each other clumsily, past a flagstone rotunda topped by a wrought-iron chandelier. The fixture was crusted with beautifully forged songbirds and set up with mock candles tipped by LED bulbs. A niche
to the right hosted a crudely fashioned Virgin Mary, the kind you can get all over Tijuana. The girls continued into a huge, high-ceilinged great room backed by windows and walled in rough-hewn granite. The furniture was expensive, perfectly placed, determinedly casual: distressed buckskin sofas and love seats, iron and glass tables, kilim throw pillows, straw-backed chairs painted the color of summer-dried sage.

The Corey sisters collapsed together on the largest sofa.

Marissa Corey snatched a pillow, hugged it to her chest, and dropped her head, weeping and letting out sad little burp-like noises. Her younger sister sat pressed against her, erect and blank-eyed, hands on her knees. Since learning of their shared tragedy, both girls had undergone a strange, contradictory transformation: rendered younger, almost child-like by helplessness, but aged decades around the eyes by the ultimate loss of trust.

Milo said, “Girls, we’re so, so sorry.”

Ashley slung her arm around her sister’s shoulders. Marissa rested her head on Ashley’s bosom. Two years older but more dependent? Maybe that was the reason her sister dormed out but she lived at home.

Ashley said, “Oh my God, Daddy!” As if she hadn’t just mentioned him. “Does he know?”

“We just informed him.”

The girls looked at each other. Ashley said, “He didn’t call us.”

Milo said, “He’s pretty broken up, girls. We offered to talk to you first and as soon as we’re through, he’ll be over.”

“He’s our dad,” said Marissa. “He should be here.”

“He will,” said Ashley. “Poor Daddy.” She sighed, cried a bit. “It’ll be the first time since the divorce.”

Milo said, “That he’s here?”

“Uh-huh.”

Marissa said, “Mommy probably wouldn’t have minded, they got along. But Daddy said it was best that he get his own life in gear.”

Milo said, “At the condo.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You guys spend much time there?”

“Not really,” said Ashley. “Sometimes.”

Marissa said, “I need to throw up,” struggled to her feet and ran across the room. Ashley turned to Milo: “What now?”

“Our only goal is to find out who hurt your mom. That sometimes means questions that can seem out of place, Ashley. So if we ask anything that—”

“Like what?”

“Well, for starts, something you said a few minutes ago. That it wasn’t your dad. I’m curious why you said that.”

“Why I said it was ’cause it wasn’t Dad even though you might think it was.”

“Why would we think that?”

“Because that’s what cops always think, right? They assume it’s the husband, I see it all the time on the murder shows.”

“You watch a lot of murder sho—”

“Dad watches ’em and when I’m over, I do, too.”

“So you wanted to make sure we didn’t assume—”

“Admit it, you focused on him,” said Ashley, louder. “So I cleared it up, okay? They were divorced but still friends—they worked together, no problems, not a single one.”

“Okay,” said Milo.

Ashley pointed a red-nailed finger. “Even if I believed Dad could do something like that and I don’t, I know he didn’t because he wasn’t there when you said it happened, he was home.”

Early on, she’d asked about the time frame. Not as certain of her father’s innocence as she wanted us to believe?

I said, “You know he was home because—”

“I called him this morning and he was there and then he had to take another call from overseas business so he said to email him and I did. And he was right there and he answered me back. Twice.”

We’d seen the email headings, so all true. But irrelevant if a contract killer had been used.

Milo said, “Thanks for clearing that up, Ashley. And let me emphasize, we don’t have any suspects at this time, including your dad.”

“I threw up,” said Marissa Corey, reappearing around the corner. She sat back down, swiping her lips with a tissue and placing a hand on a flat stomach. “Everything just hurled.”

Ashley said, “You okay?”

Marissa stuck out her tongue and grimaced. “Tastes like crap. Yech.”

Ashley said, “I was just telling them that Daddy and Mommy got along well.”

“Uh-huh.” Marissa closed her eyes, threw her head back against the roll of the sofa-top.

Milo said, “I know this is a terrible time but if either of you has any idea who
would
want to hurt your mom—”

“No one,” said Ashley. “Some criminal probably wanted to rob her.”

Marissa said, “She was wearing total bling. I saw her when I was eating breakfast this morning.”

Ashley said, “Mommy was the queen of blingdom, she loved her bling. That’s why she went out, to make sure her jewelry was given to us fairly. She told us. We felt weird about it but when Mommy had an idea …”

“Fifty–fifty, girls,” said Marissa, shifting to a British accent.

Ashley said, “Mommy was all about being fair, always.”

“Robbery would be a good motive,” said Milo. “Unfortunately, all of your mother’s jewelry was in place. So were her cash and credit cards.”

Both girls gaped.

Ashley said, “So what? Some ghetto-scum tried to rob her, panicked and …” She shook her head. More tears.

Marissa said, “I think I’m going to hurl again.” But she sat there.

Milo said, “You’re making good points and we’ll certainly look into them. Is there anything else we should consider?”

“Why would we know?” said Ashley.

“You were close to her.”

“So what, if it was about her bling?”

“True, but let’s consider alternatives. Was your mom dating anyone?”

Both girls shook their heads.

“No one?”

Ashley said, “The business kept her busy, she was always traveling.”

“So no steady boyfriend.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Did she ever speak of anyone hassling her?”

“Like a stalker?” said Ashley. “No.”

“What about a problem with someone related to business?”

Blank looks. Then Marissa shot a glance at her sister. Whatever message she was trying to convey didn’t get through. Ashley continued to look glazed. She slumped low and knuckled her eyes.

I said, “Something came to mind, Marissa?”

“No,” she said. In a soft voice, to Ashley: “Not even Phyllis, right?”

Ashley stared at her. “Phyllis? That’s crazy.”

The obvious next step was to ask who Phyllis was. Milo said, “Tell us about the hassle with Laura.”