Phil said no problem, and left.
St. John turned to Munch. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah," she said, wiping her face, "just sad."
He pointed at the list. "I'm going to need that."
She held it out to him. The Bergman Cancer Center stationery listed its officers in the left-hand margin. "Is this the same Sarnoff you just called? Logan Sarnoff?"
"Yes, it is. Do you know him?"
"I know who he is. I'm going to a thank-you reception at his house on Friday. He's the first vice president of the Bergman Cancer Center Foundation."
"He's also the family attorney I'm on my way to meet with him now. "
"I do know this guy the treasurer, Ken Wilson," she said, pointing to the third name down. "He's a customer."
"Was he at the party?"
"Yes, and he's on the guest list, too, with his name checked off."
"What does he do?"
"He's a stockbroker. Lou uses him. He drives a red Jeep. Funny vehicle for a white-collar guy don't you think? He lives in Encino and has an office on Wilshire. When does he need four-wheel drive?"
"Do you know the address on Wilshire?" St. John said.
Munch reached under the service desk and pulled out the phone book. She could find no individual listing for Ken Wilson.
"I'll have to get it from Lou's Rolodex."
She copied Ken Wilson's office address on a sheet of paper and brought it back to St. John.
"Hmm," he said. "I'm heading over there now. This is the same building Logan Sarnoff's office is in."
"I'm not surprised. Birds of a feather and all that."
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, St. John was ushered into the comfortable office of Logan Sarnoff. It was on the eighth floor of a modern office building on Wilshire Boulevard. An oval window looked out toward the Pacific Ocean. Catalina Island was a vague lump on the orange-brown horizon. He sat down in a plush leather chair opposite the attorney a trim, clean-shaven man in his sixties, wearing a suit that probably cost as much as the detective's privately owned vehicle.
"I'm investigating the death of one of your clients," St. John said without preamble.
The attorney didn't speak immediately and when he did, he spaced each word theatrically. These guys charged by the hour.
"Yes, Diane Bergman. Alfred called me."
"I understand that Mr. Bergman preceded his wife in death. What did he die of?"
"Pulmonary cancer. It came on very suddenly. His loss still saddens us all."
"I'm sorry," St. John said.
"But you're here about Mrs. Bergman—Diane." The attorney looked thoughtful. "The newspaper reported that an autopsy was scheduled."
"Yes, and I've been assigned to investigate the death," St. John said. "When was the last time you saw Mrs. Bergman?"
"That would be last Friday night. There was a charity function in the Palisades that we both attended. I'm not even sure if I spoke to her that night. She was so busy with all the arrangements."
"Did she seem upset?"
"More like harried, which was to be expected."
"Did Mrs. Bergman have a will or life insurance policies?"
Again, the attorney paused before replying. "I'm sure you're familiar with the concept of quid pro quo, Detective," Sarnoff said at last. "Before I can give you any information, I need to know that I'm not compromising the interests of any of my other clients. I don't expect you to reveal to me all aspects of your investigation, but I will need to know more than what you've told me so far. Do you have any suspects?"
This time it was St. John's turn for contemplation. He balanced the attorney's offer in his time-honored fashion, weighing what he stood to gain against possible losses. "This is to be kept confidential."
The attorney nodded sagely.
"Diane Bergman's body was discovered on the shoulder of the San Diego Freeway early Monday morning."
Sarnoff nodded. "I knew that much from the media reports."
"We are ruling the case a homicide. To date we have neither suspects nor a motive. Anything you can tell me that you think would be pertinent, I would appreciate. I've been to her house. I know she was widowed earlier this year. I need to know what her financial assets were and who might profit from her death."
The attorney closed his eyes, but neither his expression nor his tone wavered. "Mrs. Bergman did make arrangements with me," he said. "In the event of her death, her entire estate reverts to the Bergman Cancer Center. "
"Where is this?"
"At UCLA Medical Center. It's a remarkable facility. Quite state of the art. The latest in diagnostic tools. Early detection often means the difference between life and death. It most certainly would have made a difference in Sam's case."
"Any life insurance?" St. John asked.
Sarnoff nodded. "Again, the Cancer Center was the beneficiary Diane wanted our work to continue."
"And who controls those funds?"
"The foundation is fully incorporated and governed by a board of directors."
"Yourself being one of them?"
"Yes. I and eight others."
"And what about Alfred?"
"He wasn't on the board."
"Were provisions made for him in either of the Bergmans' wills?"
"Between you and me?"
St. John made reassuring noises.
"Sam and I discussed this very thing and decided against splitting the estate. Alfred Bergman has his own money and no dependents. Sam wanted to pass on knowing that Diane would be well provided for. "
St. John nodded and made a pretense of checking his notes. Logan Sarnoff steepled his fingers and let them come to rest on his nose. The room was quiet enough to hear the secretary typing at her desk in the reception area. Finally the attorney seemed to come to some inner decision.
"There was one other thing."
"Yes?"
"Sam Bergman left burial instructions in his safety deposit box. A box that was in his name only. His illness prevented him from retrieving these instructions before he died, but he did alert me to their existence. Acting in the role of his executor, I met with the bank president and presented the situation. Because I could show cause as to why I needed access, I was able—in the presence of one of the bank's officers—to enter that safety deposit box. My privileges only extended to the document I was there to retrieve. However, I did see other things." He stopped talking and looked at St. John. "I wouldn't mention this except in these extraordinary circumstances."
"Yes, sir. "
"There were photographs in the box. Photographs of Diane. Compromising. Pornographic. Who knows? Perhaps grounds for blackmail."
"Are these photographs still in the safety deposit box?"
"Yes, no one else would be able to open the box. Even you would need a court order. Sam's estate is still in the probate process."
"Yes, sir." St. John was well aware that flashing his badge wouldn't get him far at the bank unless he was willing to pull his gun as well.
He took down the name of the bank branch where Diane Bergman's husband had had his safety deposit box and thanked the attorney for his time.
"I hope you'll be discreet," the attorney said as he ushered St. John out the door.
"Don't worry," he said. "I have to live with myself, too."
St. John left the attorney's office, took the elevator down to the fifth floor, and found Ken Wilson's office. He showed his badge to the receptionist and was pointed to an open cubicle in the corner. The broker was on the phone but glanced up at the detective and nodded to a chair.
Wilson had no sooner completed one call when his intercom buzzed and he was alerted to two more. The broker looked at St. John with a helpless smile and took his calls.
St. John waited one more minute and then pulled out his badge and held it in front of the broker's eyes.
Ken Wilson's face went pale. "Let me get back to you," he told his caller.
St. John introduced himself and expla
ined he was investigating the death of Diane Bergman.
"How can I help you, Detective?"
"Were you at a party with her last Friday night?"
"Yes. It was a fund-raiser for the Cancer Center. I'm on the board of directors for the foundation,"
"Did you speak to Diane Bergman at the party?"
"Briefly"
"Were you aware of any arguments she might have had with anyone?"
"The only annoyance I was aware of at the party was the man we hired for security. He was an off-duty police officer and he kept cornering guests and talking their ears off."
"About what?"
"I believe he thought he was networking. He said he was retiring soon from an important chief of detectives position. He was telling all the lurid details of his cases. I guess he thought we'd be interested or impressed or something. I know he wanted references from us, the board members."
"Do you remember the guy's name?"
"Owen. Peter Owen. Do you know him?"
"Yeah," St. John said. "I know him, all right."
* * *
The hardware store down the street makes keys, but he never goes to the same locksmith twice. That would be stupid. You get a routine going and people start recognizing you. All he needed was some nosy hardware clerk to ask why he needed so many keys duplicated. Ask him what line of work he's in that requires so many different car and house keys. He has a strategy prepared if anyone ever recognizes him from another time. He'll just start asking them questions about themselves. People never noticed you were being evasive if you got them talking about their own lives.
Well, regular people anyway not cops.
But it isn't going to come to that, he's reasonably certain. West Los Angeles has too many places where they make keys. Even some of those private mailbox places made them, although he doesn't quite trust their expertise. The other secret to his success is his ability to blend in. The trick there is to act bored. You sure don't accomplish anonymity by pulling a hat brim over your face or wearing dark shades indoors. That only attracts attention and he's learned his lessons well. Like what you leave behind can nail you, whether it's something as nebulous as suspicion in some witness's mind or something more concrete, like a footprint or strands of hair or semen.
He's also grateful for the abundance of RadioShacks. He always pays cash for his purchases of resistors and transformers. To date only one clerk has tried to get chummy asking him what he was going to do with the toggle switches, twenty-gauge wire, and box of alligator clips. He mumbled something about picking the stuff up for his boss; then he looked at his watch so the guy would take the hint and his money and let him out of there. He isn't exactly on the clock, but his absences are noted by some and he doesn't need that kind of attention.
His dream is to invent something. He knows a guy who got rich just from one stupid idea. The guy worked at some Styrofoam plant and one day noticed all those curly shavings that they swept up and threw away every day. The guy gets the idea that they would be good packing material, takes out a patent, and the next thing you know this guy is living in a mansion, driving Italian sports cars, and dating babes young enough to be his daughter.
Just one good idea, that's all it takes. He's been playing around with one gizmo for a while. It's simple, like most brilliant concepts. He took a piece of two-by-four and drove two ten-penny nails through it. The nails are six inches apart. He has soldered wire to the heads of each nail. The other ends of these wires are connected in series with a common, everyday desk lamp. He's got a field generator, found it in an army-navy surplus store in Santa Monica. When he spears a hot dog—an ordinary raw hot dog—on the tips of the two nails, cranks up the generator, and flips the switch: voila! Within only ten seconds the hot dog is thoroughly cooked. The beauty of his invention is that the device can be used over and over.
* * *
That night Munch woke from what must have been a nightmare. She opened her eyes as soon as she was conscious. As wide awake as if she'd had a jolt of adrenaline. She got up and checked on Asia, then read, then turned out the light and just lay there. In the dark. Feeling unnamed and unwarranted panic. It was three in the morning. She had to get up in the next few hours. If she didn't get some more sleep, she'd be brain-dead all day. She tried lying quietly so at least her body would be rested. She realized she was clenching her fists and relaxed her fingers. Her neck and shoulders were also taut, so much so that she was barely using the pillow to support her head. She pressed finger-tips to her wrist. Her pulse was still accelerated; it was as if whatever flight-or-fight impulse her dream had triggered would not shut off.
She thought about the act of rape, about what Emily Hogan had said about conviction rates being so much higher in attempted rapes as opposed to the completed act. Was that still true today? It would sure be nice if she could believe what that pamphlet said about women not being to blame for their rape. The thought was comforting in some ways but terrifying in others. Maybe she and Asia should move to a security building. Perhaps all this free-floating anxiety had its root in unresolved issues. Had she repressed her emotions all those years ago? Did that kind of psychoanalyzing even apply to practicing drunks? She could barely remember what Culley looked like. Kind of square-jawed, wasn't he? And clean—shaven. And strong. He had been much stronger. Even if she had gotten away where was she supposed to run in a graveyard?
Gypsy had lots of hair, down to his shoulders. It was red and curly. Full beard, too. Who knew what he looked like under all that? She remembered he used to wear Levi's everything, kept his keys on a clip that he wore at his side, and that stupid knife of his strapped to his leg like he was some kind of desperado. They'd all been pretty full of themselves back then. The farther she got away from that life, the more she wondered what she'd ever found to like there. All the men, the lifestyle of selfish partying. All right, enough of that, she told herself. The war was over. She'd surrendered eight years ago, sweating out her addictions in the backseat of her car.
Someone was trying to hurt her. She needed to focus on that. Trying to figure out who wanted to hurt her led to thoughts of anyone she'd ever done wrong, how her own greed always got her into trouble. She thought of that nice guy who used to come in a year ago. He had an old Caddy convertible. She sold him an intake manifold gasket job. She had been convinced at the time that it would solve his rough idle problem. When it didn't, she charged him for the work anyway and sent him off without a word of explanation. If she knew then how that act would still be haunting her at—she sat up and glanced at the clock—three-ten in the fucking morning, she'd gladly give him his money back. But that was just the point, wasn't it? You weren't supposed to wait until the consequences of your sins threatened you before you were sorry for them.
She tried to direct her mind to more pleasant memories but could find none. She couldn't derail her past sins from her thoughts. Logic told her that she must have done something right sometime in her life. She just couldn't put her finger on anything at the moment. Whatever small act came to mind, she could easily tie to some self-serving motive. Like Garret. How long was she going to keep up the charade with him? Wouldn't it just be kinder to end it now? To free him to find someone who'd appreciate him? Was she being selfish? Keeping him around until someone better came along? Or was what they were going through now a phase? Were relationships like sobriety? Did you need to hang on and keep on keeping on even when you forgot all the reasons why?
She threw off her covers and swung her legs out of bed. Now she was standing in the bathroom. She locked the door behind her even though she was alone in the house save for Asia, whose sweet snores were loud enough to penetrate the walls. She faced the mirrored medicine cabinet and crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself. This exercise worked only with direct eye contact. She looked deep into her own hazel eyes and said with as much conviction as she could muster, "I love you, self."
Then she said it again, and once more after that. She returned to bed and r
ecited all the prayers she knew to shut out whatever self-destruct committee members were still gunning for her. Her last prayer to God was for the strength and wisdom to do the right thing.
And then the phone rang.
Chapter 14
Munch reached for the receiver, her heart beating so hard it hurt. Before she picked up the phone, she flicked on the tape recorder.
"Hello?"
"Couldn't sleep either?" the caller's mechanical voice asked.
"What do you want?"
"I never meant to hurt her," the voice said.
"You mean Robin." she asked. "Or Diane?"
"Diane? Don't go putting ideas in her head."
She remembered how St. John had coached her not to be confrontational. They wanted her to develop a level of intimacy, let him do the talking.
"So you mean Robin. You didn't want to hurt Robin."
"I love her. I know this sounds crazy. I'm not saying I understand it myself."
"Were you the one at the school?" she asked.
"I don't mind her having friends," he said. "But I can't have her being poisoned against me, not before I get a chance to win her over. Haven't you ever been so drawn to someone that you would do anything to be with them?"
"I understand irresistible urges," she said.
"Of course. Like so many of these girls, you were a drug addict. It's probably very similar."
She felt a little trill of fear in her stomach. "How did you know that?"
"You don't consider it a big secret, do you?"
She saw her opening then. "It's not something I'm proud of. I don't deny it. I don't pretend it didn't happen."
"Have you told Garret everything? Does he know about the drugs? How you would do anything and I mean anything to get a fix?"
The implied threat of his words triggered her anger. "What is this? You think you have something on me? You think you can blackmail me?"
"So you don't care who knows?"
She realized she was quickly losing control of the conversation. "How is it that you know so much about me?"
"I've made it my business to know. You should be flattered."
"Then you should also know I sponsor other addicts and alcoholics. And the thing is, I've never talked to anyone yet who didn't have a logical reason for what they did. You're obviously a smart guy, to know all you do about electricity and telephones. Can you help me understand what you want?"
Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella Page 11