She saw me and crossed the street. My waiting around made her glance at me nervously. Forties, brunette, tight body in a jean jacket, black leggings, yellow running shoes.
As she passed, I smiled and said, “Excuse me.”
She kept going but the dog skidded to a halt and studied me. She tugged; grimaced as her canine boss stood its ground. Stocky brown-and-white mutt, probably heavier than its size would imply. Staffordshire terrier mixed with something low-rise like corgi or dachshund.
The woman said, “Shit, Petey! Go!”
Petey planted his legs and kept appraising me.
I said, “He’s cute.”
The woman finally made eye contact. Yanking the now taut leash and cursing silently. Her glare said it was all my fault.
No sense pushing it. I began walking.
“Hold on, there!” I looked behind me. She’d recrossed the street and was charging toward me. Whipped out her phone and began jabbing buttons while in motion. Made a mistake and cursed and tried again and dropped the phone.
Petey looked amused. I retrieved it and handed it to her. She snatched it. Petey assumed an obedient sit.
“Now you behave?” Scowling and sun-creased, but not a bad face. Maybe even capable of pretty when not compressed in anger.
I said, “Is something the matter?” I flashed my LAPD consultant badge.
“What’s that?”
“I work with the police.”
“With? What does that mean?”
“My name is Alex Delaware. Feel free to call Lieutenant Sturgis at the West L.A. station.” I recited the number.
She said, “Why should I believe you?”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “Call and verify.” I smiled at Petey. He produced a noise that began as a low growl but ended up as a friendly purr.
I said, “Hey, there, little guy.”
No aggression but no smile; Blanche is the only dog I’ve known who can strikingly simulate human joy.
The woman tugged the leash for no apparent reason. Petey bared his teeth. Big teeth for a small pooch. He raised a leg and let out an impressive fart. Shook himself off with pride. I laughed.
The woman said, “I don’t see what’s funny. Especially not here. This is a terrible place.”
“The murder. I was called to the scene.”
“Hmm…give me your name again.”
“Alex Delaware.”
She stared at her phone but did nothing with it. “No one’s telling us a thing and we don’t feel safe. Let me see that thingie again.”
She squinted at the badge. In need of glasses but not wearing them. “Behavioral science?”
“I’m a psychological consultant—”
“Oh, shit,” she said. “You’re profiling? There’s a crazed serial killer here?”
“Definitely not. I’m here to do follow-up—”
“About what?”
“I’m talking to people who live here and might be able—”
“The police already came door-to-door. Not very polite, considering they wanted my help. Now they send a psychologist? To do what? Shrink our heads.”
I sighed.
She said, “Am I causing you stress?”
I pocketed the badge, walked to the Seville.
“What?” she said. “This happens and I have to be nice about it? What’s nice about someone being killed? About that piece of shit.” Pointing to the construction.
“The project?”
“Piece of absolute shit. They tear down a perfectly nice Spanish and plan a ten-thousand-square-foot piece of I-don’t-know, everything’s lovey-dovey according to her, meanwhile everyone knows he’s bringing bimbos home while she’s traveling. And when he’s gone, she’s going off with the contractor. They’re lowlifes. From Europe!”
“Where in Europe?”
“Sweden, Denmark, someplace like that. Don’t ask me how they made their money, what I do know is they brought bad karma here when they tore the Spanish down. Then someone gets murdered? Un-be-liev-able. Who was the victim?”
“No one from here,” I said.
“That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“Sorry, Ms.—”
“Like I’m going to give you my name? Last time I gave my name I got served with papers. By the rat-bastard.”
“Your ex.”
“Don’t call him that. He’s nothing to me.”
Petey looked up at her and let loose more wind.
She said, “Look at this, you’ve delayed his bowels, now his schedule’s going to be all screwed up.”
“Could I take a sec to show you a photo?” Before she could answer, I flashed Bakstrom’s image.
“Shit! He did it?”
“You know him.”
“He was one of them, pretending to work here, mostly they’re standing around the roach coach a million times a day, we have to listen to ‘La Cucaracha’ over and over.”
I said, “What was his trade?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Was he a framer, a mason, a—”
“How would I know? I never saw him doing anything. He sure wasn’t doing anything when he hit on me.”
She waited.
I said, “Really.”
“What, you think I’m making it up? I walk by, not with Petey, just power-walking for the burn, he’s on the sidewalk drinking some sugar drink. Smoking.” She stuck out her tongue. “Like I’d give him the time of day. He tried it the next day, also. Hello, ma’am. Moving his hips. Yeah, right, I’m supposed to be impressed by a sleeveless shirt? Filthy nails?”
She took another look at the image. “Lowlife.”
I said, “Did he look like this?”
“It’s your picture. Don’t you know what he looks like? That’s exactly him, thinks he’s God’s gift. Why’re you asking about him?”
“He knew the victim, so the cops want to talk—”
“God, that creeps me out. Was it a sex crime—they won’t even tell us if it was a woman or a man, everyone’s betting on a woman, women always get victimized.”
“It wasn’t a sex crime.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
“Another lowlife from the job or someone innocent?”
“Sorry, I can’t—”
“Blah blah blah. Psychologist. All questions, no answers, just like Dr. Montag and you know what we think of him, Petey?”
The dog was noncommittal.
She said, “Why do I bother with you?” and walked away.
—
Milo said, “Sounds like a fun chat. Got a name for this harridan?”
“Nope, but she was certain and I’m sure someone in the neighborhood can I.D. her.”
“Agreed. So you got Bakstrom at the scene, muchas gracias. My next step is Manucci, Thalia’s moneyman. I was going over my notes, realized he never called back, and when I try him by phone I get corporate voicemail. So I’m figuring a drop-in’s called for. Care to participate? I’m thinking Monday morning.”
“I’m clear.”
“More like lucid.”
CHAPTER
21
Joseph A. Manucci, CPA, CFP, was one of twenty-three brokers operating out of the Morgan-Smith Financial Services office in Encino. Senior position, his name near the top of the list in the lobby.
The building was two stories of white marble Greek Revival sandwiched between a Jaguar dealership and a private hospital.
Milo said, “Stocks do well, buy yourself hot wheels. They tank, check into the cardiac ward.”
The security guard in front of the door raised an eyebrow but kept staring straight ahead. Milo flashed the badge and asked for Manucci.
The guard made a call. Said, “Okay,” to the apparatus, and “First floor, that way,” to us.
A man was waiting in a warmly lit, marble-floored hallway. Late forties to early fifties, short and slight, tightly curled hair an improbable ecru. A white-on-white shirt rolled to the elbows wa
s tucked into navy trousers. Brown loafers, pale-yellow suspenders, bright-yellow tie patterned with fat little ducks.
“Joe Manucci, sorry for not getting back to you, on the road, got a desk full of messages. Please. C’mon in.”
Hard shake, soft skin, downcast expression.
He said, “Ricki Sylvester just called and told me. Unbelievable. Please come in.”
He backed into a corner suite. Three windows looked out to a clutch of rubber trees, shiny green leaves nearly masking the parking lot. On the wall were a bachelor’s from Cal State Northridge, Manucci’s certification as a financial planner, his public accountant credentials.
A bookcase was stocked with volumes by financial savants. A sofa was heaped high with paper. No wood visible on the desktop; the space was taken up by quarterly reports, a collection of paperweights, two pairs of eyeglasses, and an alp of loose papers.
Among all that, pink message slips flashed like discarded rose petals. That made me willing to consider Manucci’s sincerity.
“Sorry for the mess, guys. I like to think of it as controlled chaos.”
He put on a pair of eyeglasses, blinked, switched to another pair, blinked some more. “Just got into bifocals, the optometrist gave me two options, can’t stand either. I’ll eventually adjust, what’s the choice, no one’s getting younger.”
Milo said, “Thalia Mars knew about that.”
“Poor Thalia.” Manucci chewed his lower lip. Same expression inept dancers wear when they’re trying to fake cool. “What exactly happened to her, guys?”
“Someone killed her, sir.”
“I know that. Was it robbery?”
“Is there a reason it might have been?”
“I just can’t see anyone wanting to hurt Thalia for hurt’s sake. Do you have any suspects?”
“We were going to ask you the same thing, sir.”
Manucci poked his own chest. “Like I’d know? I did investments and filed her taxes and that makes it sound more complicated than it was.”
I said, “Simple account.”
“Large account but by the time I began with Thalia, she’d put most of her portfolio into munis—tax-free bonds, it’s a typical investment for those wishing to conserve wealth. The only other products she owned were a few blue-chip stocks, mostly preferred, which is actually closer to a bond than a stock, we’re not talking lots of trades. Occasionally she’d sell something for a profit and either balance the gain against a loss or donate it to charity. What I’m getting at is there wasn’t much work to speak of.”
He removed the second pair of glasses. “I filed her taxes for her, as well. Gratis, no reason not to, it was basic.”
Milo said, “Not much movement in her account.”
“Her account was close to inert,” said Manucci. “Sometimes a bond gets called and needs to be replaced but even that was simple. Thalia authorized me to buy lots up to a certain amount without consulting her.”
“What amount was that?”
“Fifty thousand. That basically covered everything because she avoided owning larger issues of any single product. Eggs in one basket and all that.”
“So you had carte blanche.”
“I didn’t view it that way,” said Manucci. “I always think of the client as the boss. I got her the best product available, she never complained. Recently, she’d begun donating mature bonds to charity rather than replenishing.”
“How recently?”
“Three or four years. She had no heirs, why wait until she was gone and give a massive chunk of inheritance tax to Uncle Sam?”
I said, “So she was a low-maintenance client.”
“Dream client,” said Manucci. “When I first began working with her, I’d visit her at home at the end of every year and give her a progress report. After a few years of that, I showed up and she said, ‘Today will be the last time, Joe.’ That threw me, I thought I was being fired. She patted me on the hand and said, ‘I don’t need a dog-and-pony show, just keep me solvent.’ Then she winked and said, ‘I’ll know if you don’t.’ That sounds like a threat but it wasn’t, she was referring to a previous conversation we’d had. When I started out managing her, she told me she was a CPA herself, used to do her own taxes, found it tedious.”
“An informed client.”
“She read prospectuses, sometimes had ideas. ‘Look for airport issues, Joe, airports never go out of business.’ It was a pleasure dealing with her. She had…an aura, I guess you’d call it. Of elegance, like from another era.”
He frowned. “I guess she was from another era. In amazing shape for someone that old, I never imagined she’d be…what a terrible thing. Are you asking about her finances because money was involved?”
Milo said, “Being thorough. Any idea who’d want to kill her?”
“Of course not.”
“How long was she your client?”
“Eighteen years. I’d just started here, was happy to get her.”
“Because of the size of her account.”
“Of course that,” said Manucci. “But also because she came recommended. Intelligent, easy to work with.”
“Recommended by who?”
“My boss at the time. I inherited Thalia from him after he got sick. Heart attack, right here in the office. Everyone was stunned. Fifty-seven, great shape.”
“What was his name?”
“Frank Guidon.”
Out came Milo’s pad. “Please spell that.”
“G-U-I-D-on.”
“How long did Mr. Guidon work with Miss Mars?”
“All I can tell you is she was his client when I was hired.”
“Your name’s on all her documents.”
“It would be,” said Manucci. “After the companies merged—New Bank with Allegiant then Allegiant with Morgan-Smith, all the paperwork was adapted.”
“Fifty-seven,” said Milo. “So he probably inherited from someone else. Would anyone here know who?”
“I doubt it. At this point, I’m one of the old-timers.”
Milo said, “Those house calls you used to do. After you stopped, how often did you see her?”
“If a lot of paper built up, I’d sometimes hand-deliver documents to her rather than use the mail. I live in West L.A., she’s right on the way.”
“What did you think about Miss Mars’s living circumstances?”
“Meaning?”
“Living in a hotel.”
“The place seemed a little tired but Thalia seemed happy.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Manucci pulled an iPad out of a desk drawer, scrolled, knitted his forehead. “Bear with me…nope…nope…okay, here we go.”
He showed us the screen. Calendar page from nine months ago. TM in a Monday box. Three P.M. A BQR notation.
“A reminder to myself,” said Manucci. “Bring quarterly reports. The home office likes documentation.”
Milo said, “Maybe the home office can tell us the name of Mr. Guidon’s predecessor, how about trying to find out.”
Manucci put on glasses, dialed a number, got someone named Rod, stated his request and waited.
Moments later: “Really? Wow.”
Jotting on a pad, he said, “Go know.”
From The Desk Of
Joseph A. Manucci, CPA, CFP
Vice President
Frank’s predecessor: William P. Wojik.
CHAPTER
22
By the time we left Manucci’s office, it was nearly five and Ventura Boulevard had clotted.
Milo said, “Wojik. The doc who sent Thalia to Eagle. Another grandpa?”
Nosing into the fuming mass without apparent care, he laughed at a chorus of honks. “Be thankful I don’t put on the siren and freeze your asses in place.”
Continuing to weave in and out blissfully, he said, “Sylvester, Wojik, it’s like Thalia was an asset, passed down to the younger generation.”
I said, “Sylvester inherited a client. I
don’t see a pediatrician benefiting from knowing an old woman.”
“She sent a donor to the boss and earned brownie points.”
“Ruben’s not her boss.”
“Whatever, Alex, it made her look good to the hospital. She’s on staff there, right?”
He hit a clear patch, put on speed. “I’m not saying she’s dirty for anything but maybe she can tell us something about Thalia’s past. Where’s her office?”
“Bedford Drive.”
“The Gold Coast,” he said. “Puts us against traffic, excellent.”
—
Belinda Wojik, M.D.’s second-floor suite offered two waiting rooms, Healthy and Sick.
Milo said, “Bit of a stretch but I’m gonna claim Healthy.”
Beverly Hills practice but a Spartan waiting room. White walls, washable vinyl floor, eight blue plastic chairs. A wall rack held back issues of Jack and Jill, Scholastic, Sesame Street Magazine, and Dr. Seuss books. A table stand housed brochures on the wisdom of vaccination.
Empty waiting room. Other than a weird mixture of zwieback and soiled diaper in the air, no evidence of a pediatric presence.
A cough sounded through the wall separating us from Sick, followed by a muffled female voice and more hacking.
Milo muttered, “Health’s in short supply, today,” and rapped on the glass doors shielding the receptionist from germs. The partition slid open and a woman said, “How could I help you?”
The Russian accent I’d encountered on the phone belonged to a woman in her thirties with cheekbones sharp enough to slice cheese and more hair than I’d ever seen on a human head. Brown-black except for magenta bangs. Tight white uniform. Tatiana on her tag.
Milo said, “Police, we’d like to talk to Dr. Wojik.”
“Po-lize…Doctor’s with patients.”
“We’ll wait.”
“It could be long time.”
“No problem.”
“Can I ask for what it’s about?”
“Thalia Mars.”
“Miss Mars?”
“You know her.”
“She sometimes visits—not for a while. She okay?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“Oh. Really?” Blue eyes misted. “Oh, no.”
“How often did she visit?”
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