The director of security was a black man named Alfred Bayless wearing a black blazer, gray pants, and white turtleneck. He’d come down to the crime scene just as we were leaving.
Milo asked to see security tapes.
Bayless said, “This is a disaster. Okay, let’s go to my place.”
On the ride up, Bayless said, “Worked auto and burglary at Hollenbeck, sixteen years. Thought retirement would be quiet.” He looked at me.
Milo said, “This is Dr. Alex Delaware, our psych consultant.”
“You think this was a nut-job?”
“It’s not run of the mill, could be anything.”
The moment we arrived at Bayless’s office, he copied several disks, placed them in paper sleeves, handed them over.
“Thanks. How much time do these cover?”
“From seven a.m. when the lot opens until just before you called me.”
Bayless led us to the wall of monitors and fooled with one of the recorders. A blank screen at the bottom lit up then filled with a steady parade of incoming vehicles. Bayless pushed a button that shifted the view to outgoing traffic. Clear view of machines but not of the drivers. If a car didn’t move too quickly you might make out a license plate.
“That’s it?” said Milo.
“Yeah, I know, nothing in the parking tiers.” Bayless shook his head. “Disaster, nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“Hopefully it won’t happen again.”
“You work the bodies and still believe in luck?”
“Only the bad kind.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Bayless.
“Listen, I don’t want to ask but I have to—”
“Yeah, yeah,
why
no cameras in the tiers.” Bayless motioned us out of the security room, continued a couple of steps up the hallway, dead-ended at a door marked
Utility
, looked around.
Milo said, “You’re being surveilled yourself?”
Bayless smiled. “You never know. In answer to your question, you want the official reason or the real one?”
“How about both?”
“Officially, we’ve got state-of-the-art surveillance and safety, hardware and software as well as top-notch expertly trained personnel. Reality is we’re bush league. One of the first things I
suggested
when they hired me eight months ago was cameras on the parking levels. I mean where does bad stuff happen? Not in the damn lobby.”
He scanned the hall. “But the wise men who manage this place saw
no reason to take on the expense, this is Century City, people don’t come to Century City to do bad things.”
“All those lawyers and it’s a shrine to virtue?”
Bayless managed a snorting laugh. “Anyway, those are yours to keep. I hope some of that bad luck converts to mediocre.”
Back down to the parking lot under discussion. I’d parked my Seville on the top tier, my name on a list allowing me access to a section guarded by a uniformed cop. Four spaces away sat Milo’s current unmarked, a bilge-green Impala.
We stood near my driver’s door and he called Moe Reed, told him he’d be bringing the CDs to the office, Reed should copy and go through every second. “Exit’ll be soon after the murder but entry could be anytime after seven. Run any plate you can decipher. Look for anything that stands out.”
“Will do, L.T.”
Clicking off, he placed his hand on the Seville’s forest-green hood. “Shiny. You take it to a detailer?”
“Did it myself last Sunday.”
“Talk about dedication. I could use some shiny, you get to drive, I’ll come back to get mine.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the ex-husband slash prime suspect and if we can’t find him, the daughters.”
“You didn’t buy Fellinger’s character testimony on Mr. Corey’s behalf?”
“Sticking up for the enemy? Yeah, that was different, wasn’t it?”
“So were Fellinger’s kind words about Richard’s lawyer.”
“One big happy family. Except that the Coreys have been shelling out legal fees for five years and now one of them got executed. No, I’m not buying it. I’m thinking Fellinger just bullshat us shamelessly and I want to know why.”
“Maybe you should talk to Richard’s lawyer, see if the love really is mutual.”
“Before we see Corey and the girls?”
“If he’s close enough and available.”
“Sure, why not?” Milo looked up Earl Cohen, attorney-at-law. Roxbury and Wilshire, Beverly Hills. Ten-minute ride.
He phoned. Cohen gasped when he heard about the murder. When Milo asked if he had time to chat, Cohen said, “Yes, of course.”
The brass plaque on the walnut door made Earl Cohen, Esq., the senior partner in a three-lawyer firm. Second in command was Beverly Cohen, number three was Rajiv Singh.
Smaller setup than Fellinger’s but similar geometry, including the use of hardscape behind a receptionist/gatekeeper, this wall, travertine marble.
This woman sat typing. No need for her to break her stride because Earl Cohen stood in front of her, motioning us in.
Richard Corey’s legal rep was eighty or close to it, thin and narrow-shouldered in a beautifully draping mocha suit, a blue shirt with a high, starched Eton collar and a yellow tie that had to be Hermès. Mesh loafers tinted somewhere between orange and brown revealed a hint of aqua-and-orange argyle sock. His hair was thick, long, snow white, swept back. The right side of his neck was hollowed out; surgery to remove a parotid or salivary tumor. Bright-blue eyes dulled to gray at the edges.
He said, “Hello, policemen. Come in, please,” in a soft, raspy voice.
Cohen’s personal office was enormous, with French oak walls and deep-pile burgundy carpeting. Grant Fellinger subjected his guests to hard seating; Earl Cohen indulged them with cushy leather club chairs.
The old lawyer’s desk could’ve been swiped from the White House attic—a carved Georgian piece, the one discovered to be too large for
the Oval Office. Crystal decanters, designated
Gin, Whisky
, and
Brandy
by silver badges on silver chains, sat atop a brass cart. Windows facing Roxbury Drive were blocked by oak shutters and tie-back brocade drapes that could’ve been sliced from an Aubusson tapestry. Soft light issued from a blue-and-gold dragonfly-patterned chandelier that was probably real Tiffany.
Cohen’s paper was from Harvard. His own collection of certificates shared space with photos of himself with senators and every governor since Reagan, as well as multiple shots of a blond woman who could’ve been an actress when Reagan was an actor. One child reappeared progressively, a blond daughter who favored her mother. In one picture, Cohen handed her a degree, both of them decked out in crimson caps and gowns.
“Sit, please,” he rasped, lowering himself with discomfort. The scar tissue on his neck bore the gloss of long-ago intrusion. Not a recent incision; something else was bothering him.
Near his pen set was an ebony humidor from which he took three claros. “You fellows smoke?”
“No, thanks.”
“Then I won’t either,” said Cohen. “Maybe it’ll extend my life by five minutes.” He looked at Milo. “You’re the one I talked to.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you …”
“Alex Delaware.”
“I know that name,” said Cohen. “Unusual name. American Indian?”
“Supposedly that’s part of the mix.”
“There’s a psychologist with that name, does custody work.”
“That’s me.”
Cohen’s stare was long and appraising. “Small world. You were recently recommended to me as someone who doesn’t take guff from shysters. Fortunately, the case settled and I didn’t need to test that hypothesis.”
“Lucky break,” I said.
“Oh, boy, it sure was,” said Earl Cohen. “When I started out, I took every client that came my way, such ugliness, such vitriol. When I turned sixty-five, instead of retiring, I decided only to take cases where a high degree of animosity was unlikely.” His chuckle was faint, a puff of dust. “Those I inflict on my daughter. She’s young, her cardiovascular system can take it.”
“The Coreys were low risk.”
“Cut to the chase, eh?” Cohen turned to Milo. “Might I inquire why a psychologist is here?”
Milo said, “We sometimes consult Dr. Delaware.”
“This isn’t child psychology. The Corey girls are older. One’s a legal adult.”
“We use Dr. Delaware on cases that are unusual.”
“I see. Actually, I don’t.”
Milo said nothing.
Cohen said, “Okay, no sense dillydallying, you’re here to learn about poor Ursula. Not my client but a lovely, lovely woman, nonetheless. They don’t come more gracious. Brits of a certain class learn manners in a way we don’t.”
“You represent her husband—”
“And I still have nice things to say about her? That’s my point, fellows. I consider myself an arbitrator, not a warrior, and the Coreys fit that perspective. They disputed issues from time to time, but it was all about working things out, not drawing blood.” He blinked. “Unfortunate choice of words.
Vey, vey
, this is terrible—how did you come to know about me?”
“Ms. Corey was killed in the parking garage of her lawyer’s building.”
“Fellinger’s building?” said Cohen. “He sent you to me?”
“We inquired and he gave us your name, Mr. Cohen.”
“Let me guess: Grant’s take was he and I are best friends, ready to pack off on a cruise together.”
“He did speak highly of you, sir.”
“Look,” said Cohen, tilting back and lacing his hands over his belt buckle. “I don’t want to be perceived as ungracious, but the truth is I tolerate Grant because he’s been tolerable.”
“For five years.”
“That’s misleading, Lieutenant. True, the Coreys’ divorce was initiated five years ago and finalized after two, but most of the serious negotiation was accomplished within the first year. We are not talking about five years of constant litigation.”
“Just on-and-off engagement.”
“Fine-tuning. So, yes, I’m able to take Grant in intermittent doses. And frankly, the fact that Ursula was his client was a factor. Such a lovely woman. May I ask how she was killed?”
“Gunshot wound.”
“
Vey iz mir
. In the parking lot? A mugging?”
“No signs of robbery.”
“Then what?”
“That’s what we’re trying to ascertain, Mr. Cohen.”
“A gun. Dreadful. It’s hard to imagine Ursula gone. She was a vibrant woman. Creative—she was the creative force in the business.”
“Tell us about the fine-tuning, sir.”
“In that regard,” said Cohen, “I’m severely limited by confidentiality. Unlike Fellinger, my client is alive.”
He rolled a cigar between his palms. Same mannerism Milo adopts with cheap panatelas. “Let me ask you this, Lieutenant: What did Grant tell you about his work on Ursula’s behalf?”
“The Coreys divorced but continued to work together amicably. Occasionally financial disputes came up, mostly regarding the value of Urrick, Ltd.”
Cohen remained silent.
“Is that your view, Mr. Cohen?”
“You’re not hearing me debate anything, Lieutenant.”
“Must’ve been an odd situation, sir.”
“What was?”
“Exes continuing a business relationship.”
“It happens more often than you’d imagine,” said Cohen.
“With positive consequences?”
Cohen suspended the cigar between his forefingers. “Not usually, no. In a perfect world, a business can be divided up equitably with the parties free to pursue their own interest. Sometimes I’m able to do that. If those interests are independent.”
“The Corey interests were intertwined. They needed each other.”
Cohen smiled. “Did Fellinger explain what they do?”
“Import–export of cheap goods from Asia.”
“Flowers of the Orient,” said Cohen. “Yes, trashy
tchotchkes
.”
“And now your client gets everything from stem to petals.”
“Poetic,” said Cohen. “But the truth is, I’m not sure Richard will be able to continue.”
“Ursula being the creative force.”
“Exactly. Without Ursula, I’m not sure there’ll continue to be a business.”
“So your client has no motive.”
“Not that I see.”
I said, “Mr. Fellinger said the latest conflict arose around a year ago.”
Cohen shrugged.
I went on. “Mr. Fellinger also said he was optimistic about the issues finally being laid to rest.”
Cohen laughed.
Milo said, “You disagree?”
“I’m an old man, Detective. My powers of prediction have waned. Why was Ursula meeting with Grant today?”
Milo smiled.
Cohen said, “No matter,” and rested his cigar in an onyx ashtray. Bracing himself on the desk, he rose to his feet, tottered, took a deep breath. “Obviously, you’ll be talking to Richard if you haven’t already
done so. What he chooses to tell you is his prerogative but I can’t say any more.”
He held the door open. “Beautiful, elegant woman. How are the daughters handling it?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“You’ll be informing them soon.”
“Part of the job, Mr. Cohen.”
“Don’t envy you. Will you also be informing Richard? Because I’d prefer not to.”
“We prefer the same thing, sir. Please don’t call him or talk to anyone about the murder.”
“Murder,” said Cohen. “Snap of the finger and we’re gone.” Swaying, he gripped the door frame, took several more deep breaths. “If there’s nothing else, gentlemen, I have a doctor appointment.”
In the lobby of Cohen’s building, Milo said, “Ursula’s mouthpiece sticks up for Richard and Richard’s mouthpiece thinks the world of Ursula. Next, I’m expecting a van full of hippies distributing daisies.”
“Peace and love,” I said. “Meanwhile, Ursula’s in a van on her way to the morgue.”
He stared at me. “Isn’t cynicism
my
gig?”
“A little sharing never hurt anyone.”
“Know what Oscar Wilde said about cynics?”
“They know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”
“Silly of me to ask. Now what’s the atomic weight of molybdenum?”
“No idea.”
“Thank God for small blessings.”
I’d parked the Seville in a Beverly Hills metered lot, found myself looking for cameras. I picked out a few but plenty of blank spots remained.