Unlucky in Law (33 page)

He had been reading his Russian history. He knew that most of the last tsar's family had been found, but that the young tsarevitch's body had never been recovered. So intriguing. And there had to be millions buried behind that story somewhere, in the jewels they tried to take with them when they escaped, or in money smuggled out before the revolution. How much had the tsarevitch made off with? Had their father managed to hide some away? How much did she have, anyway?

“Women need to be able to protect themselves because men won't anymore. I believe in bearing arms,” he said.

“Me, too,” she said.

And then the conversation got around to what kind of gun, and what she would carry, given a choice. They groaned about the difficulty perfectly honest people had getting guns for their own protection.

He offered to get one for her.

She thought that was a great idea.

27

Monday 9/29

M
AYBE HE WAS TELLING THE TRUTH ABOUT ALL OF IT.
A
LL OF IT LED
up to the night Christina Zhukovsky had died, and they were returning to that night in the words of the man who had evidently killed her.

Let him talk. From Salas's rigid shoulders and Jaime's intent eyes, Nina saw that they had no intention of inventing obstacles. Immersed in the testimony, the entire courtroom seemed to vibrate.

“What did you do after approaching Christina Zhukovsky in the guise of a home-security salesman?”

“The next day, I went to a lawyer. Alan Turk. The lawyer who handled Constantin's estate.”

“I want every nickel accounted for,” Gabe had told the lawyer. He had dressed carefully in dry-cleaned navy blue slacks and a light blue dress shirt. He didn't want to show up at a law office looking poor, like he was begging for something. Look powerful, be powerful. Across a shiny desk, Alan Turk played busy man, rearranging the orderly paperwork stacked in front of him, beside him, and behind him on a credenza.

“I've got a right to know the terms of my own father's will, don't I? As a member of the family.”

“Of course,” the lawyer said. He had listened to Gabe's story about spying on Christina, about the theory that Constantin Zhukovsky had something to do with the Romanovs, and about how Gabe had offered Christina a gun in order to meet her, with an expression of complete disbelief. Then he had taken the 1973 copy of the marriage certificate of Wanda Sobczyk and Constantin Zhukovsky and read it word for word. Turk didn't look very interested or very encouraging when he was finished. The lawyer held a folder up, like he ought to be thanked for achieving the bureaucrat's eureka, the relevant closed file. He opened the file and read. “Hang on. My apologies,” he murmured, “just a second to review.” He scanned quickly.

Gabe looked around the office, at the Chinese vase on its carved pedestal, the silky rug, the display case of netsuke figurines, thinking he would have gone to law school if he'd had the money. He had cracked a few law books recently, since his mother's little revelation and Christina's blockbuster surprise, and he could understand most of it. You just had to want to know something.

He examined the books in cases against one wall. Yes, he could imagine himself, glasses on his nose, a client across from him needing his help, leafing through one of those red tax books, slapping it shut with satisfaction.

The lawyer looked up. “Tell me, Mr. Wyatt, why did you come to me?”

“Pretty obvious, isn't it? I want to know the terms of his will, which I was left out of. This is California. My mother, who was legally married to the guy, was entitled to half the estate, wasn't she, at least whatever he made while they were married. Well, she got gypped.”

“Ah,” he said. “I contacted your mother after you called, because I had a few questions, too.”

Well, in that case, Gabe thought, annoyed, why the big show about reading his notes again? He must have read them before calling Wanda. Maybe he was the forgetful type. Or maybe he was stalling Gabe for some reason.

“I was not aware Mr. Zhukovsky had remarried. However, he and your mother signed a prenuptial agreement. They weren't that common in those days, but apparently it was something he had drafted by another attorney. She was kind enough to send me a copy. It's all very aboveboard.”

“Secretive bastard didn't even want his own lawyer to know about my mother,” Gabe said. “Either that or he didn't trust you anymore.” He laughed.

The way Turk's jowls hardened showed he did not find Gabe's little joke funny at all. He was younger than Gabe's mother, maybe in his middle to late fifties, not too wrinkled, but with a receding hairline he tried to disguise.

Turk tapped a pen against the edge of the desk, arched his back, and got comfy in his leather swivel chair. “I'd like to know more about your interest in the will, if I could.”

Inside, Gabe laughed at the language. He could do that too, push people around with a delicate hand. However, unlike this fancy attorney, he didn't have to. “I don't see why,” he said. “Obviously, I have a right to know.”

“This will was written and probated more than twenty years ago. Naturally, I'm curious.”

Gabe got it now. He might not appear aggressive, but old Turk wasn't going to give until he understood the scene. Well, Gabe considered, what would it cost him anyway? Nothing. This guy couldn't tell anyone about what they said in this room. Gabe didn't have to go to law school to know that.

“I only recently found out my mother was married to the guy, okay? Otherwise, I promise you, I would have stopped by earlier.”

“You had no idea?”

“None at all. My mother kept the information from me.”

The lawyer nodded. “It's straightforward,” he said. “He wrote the will right after he married your mother, but before you or your brother were born. Other than a few small bequests to charity and to his church up in San Francisco, your father divided his estate between his first two children, Christina and Alex Zhukovsky.”

“How much did they get? Exactly.”

Turk's nose hid behind the file for another minute. Then he put it down and stroked it with his hands. “I can't say exactly. That is not in the will, of course. Assets are calculated after debts are paid, holdings are sold, and so forth. But I believe, at least, if memory serves me, each of the heirs received roughly a million dollars.”

“Each.”

“Yes.” He kept his hands on the file as if holding tight to something precious. They looked cold, and the buff color of his skin roughly matched the manila folder.

“That's a lot of apple pie.”

Turk shrugged. “I don't know how he made his money. He must have invested wisely over many years.”

“You know what my mother got?”

“Three hundred thousand dollars, invested in an annuity with certain restrictions that passed outside the estate.”

“Four hundred a month to take care of her for life. I bet she thought that was some chunk. What a laugh by comparison, huh? She's always had to work, you know, for as long as I can remember. While that— Ever seen Christina's apartment?”

The lawyer said nothing.

“Well, I have. It's a penthouse. Must have cost her a bundle. Maybe she owns the building. In those days, back in the seventies when he died, two million bucks was worth something, wasn't it?”

“That's certainly true.” The lawyer smiled slightly. He was still trying to figure Gabe out.

“There's another issue.”

“Oh?”

Gabe couldn't help laughing. “Well, I told you about this Romanov connection. Somehow Christina latched on to the idea that her father, our father, wasn't just a page to the last tsar of Russia. She thinks he was his son.”

Alan Turk let out a snort of disbelief. “His son? His
son
? You mean, like the Anastasia stories?”

“She went to Russia and met some people and came back believing it. And she's ready to go public with the idea, too.”

Gabe enjoyed the flabbergasted look on Turk's face. “She must have some sort of psychiatric problem!”

“Yeah, delusions of grandeur,” Gabe said. “But even my mother says the old man talked more and more about Russia before he died. He said he couldn't tell her all of it. He said he had decided when he came to America to keep his secrets.”

“You mean Christina's going to say that she's some sort of heir of the Romanovs?”

“The heir to the throne. She was the oldest of Constantin's kids, and even though she was a daughter she thought she could be recognized by the Russian church, then the people. She thought she had a shot at it.”

“At what! There hasn't been a monarchy in Russia since 1918!”

“Don't ask me,” Gabe said. “Maybe she just wants to cause an uproar. Or the people behind her do. But here's what I'm thinking. I know it's a long shot, but maybe it's true.”

“You're joking!”

“Kind of, yeah. But. If it's true—one chance in a million, I know—well, then, the old man might have escaped with more than the shirt on his back, you know what I mean? That's why I think we need a thorough accounting.”

“I performed a thorough accounting. I'll make you a copy of the Inventory and Appraisal filed with the Probate Court twenty-five years ago.”

“I'll demand another search of that house he lived in. You didn't know about this theory. We ought to search the chimney and under the house. And check if Christina or Alex grabbed anything they shouldn't have before you did your inventory.”

“That's assuming you have a claim.”

“Isn't there a claim here?” Gabe said, looking the lawyer right in the eye. “I've been doing some reading. Our mother's agreement with Constantin Zhukovsky doesn't mention me and it doesn't mention my brother.” He motioned toward the file Turk clung to so fondly. “Go ahead. Review away.”

“That isn't necessary. You're right. The agreement doesn't mention you or your brother.”

“When people write wills, they are often advised by their lawyers to use a kind of general bequest—like, ‘I leave my estate to my children,' unstated meaning, all of them, born or unborn, named or unnamed, right? But my father's will didn't mention us at all, did it?”

“The only heirs are specified. He was adamant.”

Protecting himself from any accusation that he did a piss-poor job, Gabe thought. A lawyer worth his salt would plan for the chance a child could be born or adopted after the will was written. “Therefore . . .” He was playing a little game, waiting to see if the lawyer was just testing him. Maybe he thought Gabe was dragging things out but knew nothing. “Come on. Help me out here.”

“You want to know if you and your brother have a right to some of the money your half-siblings inherited under your father's will.”

“I wouldn't have said it quite like that,” Gabe said. “No, I would have used the term ‘pretermitted heirs.'”

Turk stared down at the file as if reading something on its blank surface. When exactly was it that the pleasant, affable fellow who had greeted him at the door to his office just a short while ago turned so homely? Gabe decided he was one of those sorry men who looked best when smiling. Unfortunately, in his business, he probably didn't smile all that much.

“You've been doing your research,” Turk said.

“Right.” Gabe folded his arms. Now it was his turn to be smug. “So, tell me, Mr. Turk. What's our position?”

“You're right. There is a California statute that protects pretermitted heirs, that is, children who have been left out of a testator's will. It's conventional thinking that a testator would have made provision for his or her children if he had given it some thought, which is the reason so many wills do leave a ‘class gift,' including all heirs, named or unnamed. Obviously, Mr. Zhukovsky didn't do that.”

A “class gift” had a ring to it. “He didn't leave us out intentionally, right?”

“You know, Mr. Wyatt, it's my belief, after talking with you and your mother, and remembering his insistence on the wording of his will, that he did, in fact, leave you out intentionally. I don't know why.”

“But what I mean is, he didn't say so in the will, did he? He didn't say, ‘I'm leaving Gabe and Stefan and any other future kids out because I'm a dumb-ass.' He didn't leave us ten bucks or his Lionel train collection so he could get out of leaving us money.”

“That's right.”

“Don't I have this right? The law assumes it was an oversight, his not mentioning us. So, we can make a claim against the estate.”

“Mr. Wyatt . . .”

“Why not?”

“You don't have a case.”

“Why not?”

“The will was executed and probated many years ago, over twenty years ago. A judge has already ordered the assets distributed. The paperwork's done, signed and sealed. If your father had died without a will, your claim might be stronger.”

Gabe shook his head. What was with this guy? Didn't all lawyers love meaty money cases? Where was the greedy glitter in his eye?

Turk was still talking. “An objection might be made that your mother had an obligation at that time to secure or protect your rights.”

“If,” Gabe said, striving for patience, “we had been old enough to figure out what was going on when the man died, or if our mother had the sense of a finch and had consulted a lawyer at the time and staked a claim, then what would have been our share?”

“There's a formula. Quite simple really. You take the amount of the estate left to any children, and divide it by the total number of children.”

“A million each, in 1970s money.”

“Actually, probate was concluded in 1980.”

“Still. In those days, I'll bet a house in Monterey could be had for fifty grand. And in these days, what with interest and all, what with accounting for inflation . . . it would be significant, wouldn't it? Way more than a million. Double that, maybe. Or more.”

There it was, a gleam emanating from the lawyer's brown, reliable eyes, focused directly on him. “Not exactly. It's very complicated. You're determined to pursue this?” he asked.

“Do you need a retainer for something like this, or is it a contingency deal?”

Turk smiled, but it wasn't a warm one. Probably still pissed about failing to put a class-gift clause into the will in the first place, which would have saved them both a lot of trouble.

“This firm can't represent you.”

“Why the hell not?” Gabe had just been getting used to the plush office with its black-shaded lamps.

“Even if there was something to dispute, there's a possible conflict of interest. I handled the probate. I distributed the money. I attended the man's funeral. In a sense, I represented the named heirs. Their interests are in direct conflict with yours. Therefore, it is my feeling that it would be unethical for me to handle your case.”

“Then why did you let me tell you the whole thing? You were curious?”

“It's all pretty curious, but don't worry. This conversation is privileged. I will never discuss it without your authorization, even if I am called into court.”

He stood. “Just for your information, I think it's too late after a quarter of a century to reopen the probate. That's not a legal opinion. I can't advise you. I'd just hate to see you waste all your money on a court case that's destined to go nowhere.”