Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  The other walls were taken up by a pair of Stanford diplomas, a collection of Norman Rockwell plates, a framed replica of the Declaration of Independence, and a ceiling-high rack of athletic trophies. Golf, squash, swimming, baseball, track. Awards dating back twenty years and inscribed to Warren Glenn Anger. More recent ones made out to Warren Glenn Anger, Jr., and Eric James Anger. I wondered about the two boys who hadn’t brought home any gold-plate and tried to pick them in the photos but couldn’t. All four were smiling.

  Anger took a seat behind the desk, shot his cuffs, and looked at his watch. Dark curly hair with red tips sprouted along the tops of his hands.

  Milo and I sat in the tweed chairs. I looked down at the table. The leather-bound books were membership directories— rosters of three private clubs still battling the city over admission of women and minorities.

  “You’re a private detective?” said Anger.

  “That’s right.”

  “What kind of education are you after?”

  Milo took out his pad. “Mrs. Ramp’s net worth for starts. How her assets are divided. Any significant withdrawals recently.”

  Anger’s eyebrow dipped at the center. “Why exactly do you need all this, Mr. Sturgis?”

  “I’ve been hired to hunt for Mrs. Ramp. A good hunter gets to know his quarry.”

  Anger frowned.

  Milo said, “Her banking patterns might tell me something about her intentions.”

  “Intentions in terms of what?”

  “A pattern of unusually large withdrawals might suggest she was planning to take a trip.”

  Anger gave several very small nods. “I see. Well, that hasn’t been the case. And her net worth? What would that tell you?”

  “I need to know what’s at stake.”

  “At stake in terms of what?”

  “In terms of how long she can stay out of sight— if her disappearance is voluntary.”

  “Are you suggesting—”

  “In terms of who stands to inherit, if it isn’t.”

  Anger’s jaw moved back and forth. “That sounds ominous.”

  “Not really. I just need to define my parameters.”

  “I see. And what do you think’s happened to her, Mr. Sturgis?”

  “I don’t have enough information to think anything. That’s why I’m here.”

  Anger tilted back in his chair, rolled the bottom of his tie upward, then let it unfurl.

  “I’m really concerned for her welfare, Mr. Sturgis. I’m sure you’re aware of her problem— the fears. The thought of her out there by herself . . .” Anger shook his head.

  “We’re all concerned,” said Milo. “So why don’t we get to work?”

  Anger swiveled his chair to one side, lowered it, and faced center again. “The problem is that a bank needs to maintain certain levels of—”

  “I know what a bank needs to do, and I’m sure you do it really well. But there’s a lady out there whose family wants her found a.s.a.p. So why don’t we cut to the chase?”

  Anger didn’t move. But he looked as if he’d slammed his finger in a car door and was trying to tough it out.

  “Who, exactly, is your client of record, Mr. Sturgis?”

  “Both Mr. Ramp and Ms. Dickinson.”

  “I haven’t heard from Don on this.”

  “He’s a bit stressed right now, trying to get some rest, but feel free to call him.”

  “Stressed?” said Anger.

  “Concerned for his wife’s welfare. The longer she’s gone, the greater the stress. With luck the whole thing will resolve itself, and the family will be extremely grateful to those who helped them in their time of need. People tend to remember that kind of thing.”

  “Yes, of course. But that’s part of my dilemma. Having the matter resolve itself only to have made Mrs. Ramp’s finances needlessly public without proper legal justification. Because only Mrs. Ramp has the legal justification to request release of that information.”

  “You’ve got a point,” said Milo. “If you want we’ll walk out of here and record the fact that you opted not to cooperate.”

  “No,” said Anger. “That won’t be necessary. Melissa has reached her majority— if barely. In light of the . . . situation, I suppose it’s appropriate for her to make these types of family decisions in her mother’s absence.”

  “What situation’s that?”

  “She’s her mother’s sole heir.”

  “Ramp gets nothing?”

  “Just a small sum.”

  “How small?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars. Let me qualify that by saying those are the facts as I know them today. The family attorneys are Wresting, Douse, and Cosner downtown. They may have drafted new papers, though I doubt it. Generally I’m kept well informed of any changes— we do the family’s accounting, receive copies of all documents.”

  “Give me those lawyers’ names again,” said Milo, pen poised.

  “Wresting. Douse. And Cosner. They’re a fine old firm— Jim Douse’s great-uncle was J. Harmon Douse, the California Supreme Court justice.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Ramp’s personal lawyer?”

  “Jim Junior— Jim Douse’s son. James Madison Douse, Junior.”

  Milo copied it down. “Got his number handy?”

  Anger recited seven numbers.

  “Okay,” said Milo. “The fifty thousand that goes to Ramp— that the result of a prenuptial agreement?”

  Anger nodded. “The agreement states— to the best of my recollection— that Don forfeits claim to any part of Gina’s estate beyond a single cash payment of fifty thousand dollars. Very simple— shortest one I’ve ever seen.”

  “Whose idea was it?”

  “Arthur Dickinson’s essentially— Gina’s first husband.”

  “Voice from the grave?”

  Anger shifted in his chair and gave a look of distaste. “Arthur wanted Gina well taken care of. He was acutely aware of the difference in their ages. And her fragility. He specified in his will that no subsequent husband be eligible to inherit.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “You’d have to consult an attorney on that, Mr. Sturgis. Don certainly showed no desire to challenge it. Then, or since. I was present when the agreement was signed. Notarized it personally. Don was totally amenable. More than that— enthusiastic. Stated his willingness to forgo even the fifty thousand. It was Gina who insisted on sticking to the letter of Arthur’s will.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The man is her husband.”

  “Then why didn’t she try to give him more?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Sturgis. You’d have to ask—” Self-conscious smile. “Yes, well, I can only guess, but I suppose she was a bit embarrassed— this was a week before the wedding. Most people don’t like dealing with financial matters at a time like that. Don reassured her it was irrelevant to him.”

  “Sounds like he didn’t marry her for her money.”

  Anger gave a cold look. “Apparently not, Mr. Sturgis.”

  “Any idea why he did marry her?”

  “I assume he loved her, Mr. Sturgis.”

  “They pretty happy together, far as you know?”

  Anger sat back and folded his hands across his chest. “Investigating your own client, Mr. Sturgis?”

  “Trying to fill in the picture.”

  “Art was never my strong suit, Mr. Sturgis.”

  Milo looked at the trophies and said, “Would it help if I phrased it in sports terms?”

  “Not one bit, I’m afraid.”

  Milo smiled and scribbled. “Okay, back to basics. Melissa’s the sole heir.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Who inherits the estate if Melissa dies?”

  “I believe her mother does, but we’re really getting out of my field of expertise.”

  “Okay, let’s move back into it. What’s inherited? How big of an estate are we talking about?”

  Anger hesitated. A banker’s prudishn
ess. Then: “About forty million. Give or take. All of it in highly conservative investments.”

  “Such as?”

  “State of California tax-free municipal bonds rated double-A or above, blue-chip stocks and corporate bonds, treasury bills, some holdings in the secondary and tertiary mortgage markets. Nothing speculative.”

  “How much yearly income does she get from all that?”

  “Three and a half to five million, depending on yields.”

  “All interest?”

  Anger nodded. Talking figures had drawn him forward and relaxed his posture. “There’s nothing else coming in. Arthur did some architecture and development early on, but most of what he accumulated was the result of royalties on the Dickinson strut— it’s a process he invented, something to do with strengthening metal. He sold all rights to it just before he died, which is just as well— there’ve been newer techniques that have superseded it.”

  “Why’d he sell?”

  “He’d just retired, wanted to devote all his time to Gina— to her medical problems. You’re aware of her history— the attack?”

  Milo nodded. “Any idea why she was attacked?”

  That startled Anger. “I was at college when it happened— read about it in the papers.”

  “That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

  Anger said, “What exactly was your question?”

  “The motive behind the attack.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Any local theories you’re aware of?”

  “I don’t engage in gossip.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, Mr. Anger, but if you did, is there something you would have heard?”

  “Mr. Sturgis,” said Anger, “you need to understand that Gina’s been out of circulation for a long time. She’s not a topic of local gossip.”

  “What about at the time of the attack? Or shortly after, when she moved to San Labrador. Any gossip then?”

  “From what I recall,” said Anger, “the consensus was that he was out of his mind— the maniac who did it. Does a madman need a motive?”

  “Guess not.” Milo scanned his notes. “Those highly conservative investments you mentioned. They also Dickinson’s idea?”

  “Absolutely. The rules of investment are spelled out in the will. Arthur was a very cautious man— collecting art was his only extravagance. He would have bought his clothes off the rack if he could.”

  Milo said, “Think he was too conservative?”

  “One doesn’t judge,” said Anger. “With what he’d put together from the strut royalties, he could have invested in real estate and parlayed it into a really sizable estate— two or three hundred million. But he insisted on security, no risks, and we did as told. Continue to do so.”

  “You’ve been his banker since the beginning?”

  “Fiduciary has. My father founded the bank. He worked directly with Arthur.”

  Anger’s face creased. Sharing credit with reluctance. No portraits of The Founder in here. None out in the main room of the bank, either.

  None of Arthur Dickinson in the house he’d built. I wondered why.

  Milo said, “You pay all her bills?”

  “Everything except small cash purchases— minor household expenditures.”

  “How much do you pay out each month?”

  “One moment,” said Anger, swiveling to face the computer. He turned on the machine, waited until it had booted up and beeped a welcome, then hunted and pecked, waited, typed some more, and sat forward as the screen was filled with letters.

  “Here we go— last month’s bills totaled thirty-two thousand two hundred fifty-eight and thirty-nine cents. The month before that, a little over thirty— that’s about typical.”

  Milo got up, walked behind the desk, and looked at the screen. Anger began to shield it with his hand, protecting his data like a Goody Two-Shoes kid guarding an exam. But Milo was looming over him, already copying, and the banker let his hand drop.

  “As you can see,” he said, “the family lives comparatively simply. Most of the budget goes to cover staff salaries, basic maintenance on the house, insurance premiums.”

  “No mortgages?”

  “None. Arthur bought the beach house for cash and lived there while he built the main house.”

  “What about taxes?”

  “They’re paid out of a separate account. If you insist I’ll call up the file, but you’ll learn nothing from it.”

  “Humor me,” said Milo.

  Anger rubbed his jaw and typed a line. The computer made digestive noises. He rubbed his jaw again and I noticed that the skin along his mandible was slightly irritated. He’d shaved before coming over.

  “Here,” he said as the screen flashed amber. “Last year’s federal and state taxes amounted to just under a million dollars.”

  “That leaves about two-and-a-half to four million to play with.”

  “Approximately.”

  “Where does it go?”

  “We reinvest it.”

  “Stocks and bonds?”

  Anger nodded.

  “Does Mrs. Ramp take any cash out for herself?”

  “Her personal allowance is ten thousand dollars per month.”

  “Allowance?”

  “Arthur set it up that way.”

  “Is she allowed to take more?”

  “The money’s hers, Mr. Sturgis. She can take whatever she wants.”

  “Does she?”

  “Does she what?”

  “Take more than ten.”

  “No.”

  “What about Melissa’s expenses?”

  “Those are covered by a separate trust fund.”

  “So we’re talking a hundred twenty thousand a year for how many years?”

  “Since Arthur died.”

  I said, “He died just before Melissa was born. That makes it a little over eighteen years.”

  “Eighteen times twelve is what,” said Milo. “Around two hundred months . . .”

  “Two sixteen,” said Anger reflexively.

  “Times ten thou is over two million dollars. If Mrs. Ramp put it in another bank and earned interest, it could have doubled, right?”

  “There’d be no reason for her to do that,” said Anger.

  “Where is it, then?”

  “What makes you think it’s anywhere, Mr. Sturgis? She probably spent it— on personal items.”

  “Two million plus worth of personal items?”

  “I assure you, Mr. Sturgis, that ten thousand dollars a month for a woman of her standing is hardly worth considering.”

  Milo said, “Guess you’re right.”

  Anger smiled. “It’s easy to be staggered by the idea of all those zeroes. But believe me, that kind of money is inconsequential and it goes fast. I have clients who spend more on a single fur coat. Now is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Sturgis?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Ramp share any accounts?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Ramp do his banking here, too?”

  “Yes, but I’d prefer you talk to him directly about his finances.”

  “Sure,” said Milo. “Now how about those credit-card numbers?”

  Anger’s fingers danced across the keyboard. Machine-burp. Flash. “There are three cards. American Express, Visa, and MasterCard.” He pointed. “These are the numbers. Below each are the credit allowances and purchase totals for the current fiscal year.”

  “This all of it?” said Milo, writing.

  “Yes, it is, Mr. Sturgis.”

  Milo copied. “Between all three, she’s got around a fifty-thousand monthly credit line.”

  “Forty-eight thousand five hundred and fifty-five.”

  “No purchases on the American Express— not much on any of them. Looks like she doesn’t buy much.”

  “No need to,” said Anger. “We take care of everything.”

  “Kind of like being a kid,” said Milo.

  “Beg pardon?”

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