Motive (23 page)

“Auld acquaintances aren’t forgotten,” I said. “Any sign of pleather?”

“Can’t speak for her undies. Normally, I wouldn’t begrudge a girl her fun. Hubby’s incapacitated, she gets lonely, life’s short. But the possibility Sullivan had something to do with Fellinger’s game means I’m gonna blame her every chance I’ve got. Where’s that scarlet letter, Nathaniel?”

I said, “Maybe the tense conversation Reed saw between her and Fellinger means their relationship is fraying because she upgraded to a richer, more powerful man.”

“She’s in a Rolls, Grant’s paying for sex? Yeah, could be.”

“If we’re right about Fellinger, he doesn’t take well to rejection.”

He turned to me. “Flora put herself in the crosshairs? So I keep watching her … he wouldn’t be stupid enough to shoot a second woman in the parking lot.”

“Not unless he’s disintegrating mentally.”

“You see signs he is?”

“No, but if he starts taking crazy risks, you might have to warn her.”

Fish burbled. I threw in pellets.

Milo took the bag and tossed a few more. “Flora as Ursula Redux. That damn parking lot bothers me, if the morons would install cameras, it could make all our lives easier.”

I said, “Why not offer to provide the equipment if Al Bayless gets authorization?”

“The barter system.”

“It worked for a helluva long time.”

Bayless thought it was a great idea. Then he backtracked. “Got to clear it with the bosses and they take their time.”

We were half a block from the building, sitting in the arena-sized lobby of a tourist hotel, ignoring ESPN on multiple screens and nursing soft drinks.

Milo said, “What’s to clear, Al? You’re scoring freebie hardware.”

Bayless picked at the lapel of his uniform jacket. “You know how it is.”

“Not really.”

“C’mon,” Bayless insisted. “Those guys live for rules, everything needs to go through channels.”

“We’re talking cameras installed unobtrusively that you get to keep, not a penny outta your budget.”

“Yeah, that’s another thing. Unobtrusive. You’d have to do it after hours, no way I could agree to disrupting business.”

“We’d want to do it after hours.”

“That costs,” said Bayless. “Opening up the building.”

Milo glared at him.

“Okay, okay, I’m just being honest. And where would the feed go?”

“To you and to us,” said Milo. “Which is the definition of a high-end system, right? Anyone else you know feeds directly to the cops?”

“Yeah, but that’s not going to be forever,” said Bayless. “Your investigation ends, you cut off the feed.”

“But we’ll leave the damn equipment, Al. Talk about the ideal partnership
between private and public sectors. One day you can run for mayor.”

“Oh, great,” said Bayless. “How about just shoot me, now—Look, I’m sorry for being a pain, I just can’t promise more than I know I can.”

“Do your best, Al. But quickly.”

Bayless sipped his diet Sprite. “You seriously think it could happen again? Another shooting down there? ’Cause that would
not
be good.”

“I can’t rule it out.”

“Why?”

“Better you don’t know, Al. Trust me.”

“Damn … when I say it has to be done after hours I mean like one, two a.m. I’d have to come in, too.”

“Pacific Dining Car’s open twenty-four hours. I’ll buy you a big steak afterward.”

Bayless cracked his knuckles. His shoulders bunched but his eyes were submissive. “You bribing me, huh?”

“Absolutely.”

Bayless snorted. “I’m a slut, ready to bend over, and spread for prime rib?”

“I was thinking the big surf-and-turf combo, that potato they have the size of Idaho, sour cream, chives, salsa if you’re into that. Also Martinis, wine, cognac with the dessert. My preference is the pecan pie. Goes well with cognac.”

Bayless rolled his eyes. “I’m getting reflux just listening. Dining Car on Sixth Street or Santa Monica?”

“Take your pick.”

“It’s not a matter of food, Milo, but yeah, I’ll try to get it nailed down A-sap.”

“Appreciate it, Al. And do let me buy you dinner.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” said Bayless. “Stomach isn’t what it used to be and the idea of cholesterol clogging my pipes terrifies me—tell you what, bring some herb tea, I’ll supply the hot water.”

“You’re destroying me, Al.”

“Wish I was the man I used to be,” said Bayless. “Make it decaf chamomile, no mint, mint reminds me of toothpaste.”

“Oh, Lord,” said Milo. “My mood’s dropping beyond Prozac territory.”

“Hey,” said Bayless, “we actually save someone’s life, your mood’ll be fine.”

The purchase:

Yellow triangle within a white rectangle bearing a message:
You’re on Film! CCTV Cameras in 24 Hour Use

Subtotal: $515.75
Ca. State Sales Tax @ 9.00%: $46.42
Grand total: $562.17

Milo wrote a personal check.

I said, “The department wouldn’t have to pay sales tax.”

“I’ll bring that up when I face Saint Peter.”

Labor was free; Milo, Reed, Binchy, and I, all versed in the instructions and armed with tools from home.

Al Bayless and a computer cop named Hal Wiggins made sure the signal fed to Bayless’s console upstairs as well as to Milo’s home and work computers.

Bayless had made sure no cleaning crews would be on-site but despite that, when the installation was over and we rode up to his lobby-level office, we came face-to-face with a man and a woman toting cleaning supplies across the expanse of granite and marble.

“What the hell.” Bayless barreled toward them.

Terrified, the woman dropped a plastic bottle of glass spray. The man just gaped.

Bayless said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Clean,” said the man, heavily accented, barely audible.

“Without authorization?”

“We always,” said the man.

“What do you mean you always?”

“Clean. Two time a week.”

“Where?”

“A’vent, thir’ floor.”

“Advent Investments?” said Bayless.

“Yeah.”

“They bring their own crew in?”

The man fished a key out of his pocket. Bayless snatched it. “This is for the delivery door out back. You do deliveries?”

No answer.

Bayless said, “No one goes in or out of the delivery door unless they’re accepting deliveries.”

Silence.

“Comprende?”

“A’vent give,” said the man. He looked at the woman. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the bottle of glass spray.

Bayless said, “Go pick that up before someone trips.”

The woman scurried to comply.

Bayless said, “Give me your company’s name.”

The man fished out a business card.

Bayless said, “Advent owns its own cleaning business?”

“Yeah.”

“You wait here while I check.” To Milo: “Keep an eye on these two.”

The woman began to cry. The man said, “S’okay s’okay.”

Milo’s smile did little to calm her. The rest of us hung back.

Bayless returned a few minutes later. “Okay, apparently there’s an arrangement no one told me about. Good night, you two.”

The couple stood there.

“Go,” said Bayless. “But you’re not going to be able to use the delivery door anymore, I don’t care what someone told you. Comprende?”

“Sí.”

“At least someone gets something.”

The couple hustled toward the freight elevator at the rear of the lobby.

Milo said, “Who’s Advent?”

“Subsidiary of the company that owns this place. They take up floors three and four.” He pointed to the directory. “Bastards, you’d think they’d tell me. You probably think I’m an idiot.”

“I think you work for idiots.”

“Ain’t that the truth—damn, this is worse than the damn department.”

Milo clapped his back. “Don’t be hasty in your judgment.”

Bayless looked ready to spit. “Spare me optimists and people with tiny dogs.”

“What’s wrong with tiny dogs?”

“They’re fine, it’s the people. My second wife owned a hairless mutt could fit in her purse. Liked me better than her. Ugly thing but it had good taste.”

Helping install the cameras got me home just before five a.m. I was sleeping six hours later when the phone rang.

Milo said, “Late enough? I waited.”

“You pulled an all-nighter?”

“I crashed at home until nine, then a call came in from Earl Cohen, Corey’s lawyer. He wants to meet, wouldn’t say why.”

“Where and when?”

“An hour, mini-park at Doheny and Santa Monica.”

“See you there.”

“Hoped you’d say that.”

The park was little more than a circle of grass centered by an old limestone fountain. A couple of homeless guys lolled, soaking up sun. A woman who looked like a personal trainer put her Labrador retriever through a workout.

No seating; Beverly Hills’s idea of hospitality?

I settled on the rim of the fountain and Milo joined me moments later. Soon after that, like a character in a stage play, Earl Cohen appeared,
walking eastward from the residential streets of the Beverly Hills Flats, with a slow, unsteady trudge.

Despite the sun, he wore a full-length black coat over dark slacks and sneakers. His white hair blew in the breeze. A couple of times he looked as if he’d fall. No cane; he used his arms for balance. When he finally reached us, he was breathing hard and sweating, the scooped-out section of his neck glossy and pallid as tapioca.

Milo and I stood. Cohen said, “Sit,” and followed his own advice. The three of us perched awkwardly on the rim. Cohen’s position forced us to twist to see him. He gathered his coat, sank into the garment.

Milo said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Cohen?”

Cohen watched as the woman with the Lab began running it around the circle. The dog panted but she was merciless. One of the homeless men looked up. Glint of glass as he took a swig of something.

“Exercise,” said Cohen. “I used to think it helped. Maybe it did … they say I’ve lasted longer than I should. Now they’re giving me months, not years. That’s why I decided to get in touch with you.”

He chewed his lip. “What I’m doing is clearly unethical. If I was planning to be alive for an appreciable period …”

One of the homeless men got up and began walking north on Doheny. Cohen watched his exit. “The cards we’re dealt … all right, enough mawkishness. I’m not even sure this is relevant but if I didn’t tell you I’d be unsettled.”

Several more silent moments. Cohen laced his hands, let them drop. Deep breath. “Yesterday, I had an unsettling experience with Richard Corey.”

He coughed hard enough to flush his face, brought out a handkerchief, swiped his lips, licked them. “Until now, Richard’s attitude regarding Ursula’s death has been what you’d expect.” Turning to me. “Psychologically speaking.”

I said, “Grief.”

“How much he missed Ursula, how terrible it was for the girls. Yesterday, he phoned asking for an appointment and I assumed the
reason was to continue our previous discussion: how best to keep the business going without Ursula’s expertise. Richard felt he’d either have to learn Ursula’s job, which he wasn’t sure he could do, or hire someone. I’d given him the name of an executive headhunter, but he hadn’t followed through.”

He coughed again, played with a coat button. “Yesterday was different, not only wasn’t he grieving, he was ebullient. Physically he was different, as well, had shaved off his beard, was sporting a suit from Battaglia on Rodeo, where I’ve always told him to go. But he’s never listened to that, either. His sartorial tastes generally leave much to be desired.”

“New man,” I said.

“Quite,” said Cohen. “I’ve always seen him as one of those
farbissiners
, the type who’d win the lottery and complain about a paper cut from the ticket.”

Milo and I smiled.

Cohen said, “You want jokes, I’ve got plenty. Worked my way through college doing summer shtick at the Pioneer Country Club in the Catskills.”

Another bout of coughing, followed by wheezing. “It starts in the prostate, you’d think you could at least breathe … the new Richard wasn’t limited to changes in clothing and mood. He’s barely sat down when he’s going on about to
hell
with the business, to
hell
with the girls’ trust funds, they’re spoiled enough. I said, ‘What happened, Richard?’ He said, ‘Nothing, I just finally got smart, I’ve got enough dough, don’t need to be working for a couple of brats.’ I say, ‘Richard, I understand your frustration, but let’s not forget what they went through, losing their mother. Maybe it’s better to wait before making changes.’ ”

Cohen sat up straighter. “That’s when he said—and there was fire in his eyes—he said, ‘To hell with them
and
their mother, Earl. It’s time for a change.’ I was taken aback, but okay, the man’s been through a lot, he’s riding an emotional roller coaster, I see it all the time in people, anger at the victim. True, Doctor?”

I said, “Absolutely.”

Cohen said, “Then all of a sudden, the anger’s gone and something strange has taken its place. He’s grinning ear-to-ear. Glee. Smugness. Repeats ‘To hell with their mother.’ Just in case I missed it the first time. Not even using her name, which he always did in the past. Now it’s ‘their mother.’ To hell with their mother. He’s distancing himself from Ursula as a person, smirking, chuckling. Letting me know he couldn’t care less that she’s dead. Worse, he’s happy about it. I mean, the man is chuckling about the murder of someone he professed to love.”

Milo said, “Weird.”

“Oh, it was, Lieutenant. Then to top it off, he says, ‘You know, Earl, sometimes things just work out great’ and
winks
at me. Then he starts barking orders at me, I need to organize his papers, figure out the best way to dissolve the company, do it immediately. I say, you’re sure about this? And he laughs and winks
again
and says, ‘Happy endings, Earl, happy endings.’ As if we’re sharing his nasty secret and he thinks I’m not free to divulge it because he’s my client.”