Gillette scowled. “Even assuming you’re right, there’s still that ‘V’ to be explained. Anything you know about any of the suspects that has a ‘V’ in it?”
Well, I now had a bigger audience for my capsule commentaries regarding the major players in the drama. I went over them, with particular emphasis on the letter “V.”
“There’s George Wilson, who was the vice president for finance in her husband’s corporation. There’s a ‘V’ in vice president.” Gillette scowled again. He had a face made for scowling. Pete was similarly unimpressed. “He and Alma’s husband both went to Vanderbilt.” Both of them scowled.
“What’s his motive?”
“Alma seemed to think he was messing with the books of the corporation. Anyway, next on the agenda is son Al.” I thought for a moment. “Oh, yeah! He was married to Vicki Ventana! Remember her?”
Gillette nodded. As expected, Pete drew a blank. Gillette thought for a second and said, “Could Vicki Ventana have been involved?”
I shrugged. “You’ve got me. Check her alibi. Alma’s son and sister live with her.” Gillette looked at her appointment book and pointed out that Wilson had a ten o’clock appointment.
When Gillette got off the phone, I continued, “The last member of the household is Alma Steadman’s sister, Gwen Turner.
“What about ‘V’? She moved here from Vail.” More scowls. “She was interested in Vaughn Ellis, Alma’s boyfriend.” At least I had stopped the scowling, for they both looked thoughtful.
Pete had stayed silent throughout the duration, content to let the real detectives (Gillette and yours truly) work on the problem. He had spent his time staring at the envelope with the bloody “V.” But Pete evidently had an idea because he suddenly entered the conversation.
“I think I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, looking pleased.
I’d seen that look before, but Gillette hadn’t. I’d also learned that Pete was very ego-involved in his solutions to puzzles. That can be a good thing, but it can also cause a solution to be blurted out before money has changed hands. I’d have to caution him about this in the future.
However, I didn’t see any way that the solution to the murder of Alma Steadman would be worth anything to us financially. I should add that, as a detective, I was well aware of the adage that the person (or persons) who discover the body automatically moves to near the top of the most-favored suspect list. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least to learn that Gillette was having us checked out at this very moment. So I let Pete continue.
“I think it’s a dying clue,” Pete stated. “I think Alma Steadman was trying to name her murderer.”
Gillette looked disgusted. Even I looked disgusted. “We’ve been working along those lines,” Gillette said dryly. Gillette and I had one thing in common; we believed that people who speak slowly do so because they think slowly. Well, I used to believe that before I met Pete. Gillette, however, didn’t know Pete and looked at me with an unspoken question: Is your buddy a little dim between the ears?
“Then why wouldn’t she just write the name of her killer?” Pete asked. “I’m sure that’s what I’d do.”
“Maybe she thought the killer was watching, and she wanted to leave a clue that the killer wouldn’t be able to decipher,” I suggested.
“I don’t think so,” Gillette interjected. “The first thought that a murderer usually has is to get out fast. According to your story, the murderer was apparently in such a hurry that he or she forgot to close the door. Besides, according to the doc, Mrs. Steadman died shortly after she was hit over the head.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Pete said. “It fits in perfectly with my theory.”
“Which is?” I prompted.
“That Alma Steadman named her killer.”
“But there are two people whose names begin with V,” I remarked. “Her boyfriend and her former daughter-in-law. And they’re both long shots. Her death seems to be connected with the information in that envelope, and neither Ventana nor Ellis had anything to do with Steadman back in 2004.”
“Look,” Pete said, “if the killer was Al Steadman, she would have started out by writing an ‘A’ for Al or an ‘S’ for Steadman or son. So I think he’s eliminated.”
“If you’re right, that leaves her sister Gwen and George Wilson,” Gillette stated. “But which one?”
“Alma Steadman knows she is fatally wounded,” Pete replied. “She hasn’t got much strength left. Maybe she senses that, if she tries to write the first name of her killer, she won’t make it past the first letter. Remember, their first names are Gwen and George, and both start with “G.” So she starts to write down the last name of her killer.”
“But neither Turner nor Wilson starts with ‘V,’” Gillette observed.
“I think she died halfway through the ‘W’ of Wilson.”
Gillette and I looked at each other. “Could be,” he remarked, “but I’ll have to check it out.”
The case was wrapped up in less than twenty-four hours. George Wilson, who had been the executor of her husband’s estate and in desperate need of funds to support a failing real estate venture—of which there were lots after the crash of 2008—had indeed been looting Steadman’s business. Alma had gotten wind of it and had confronted Wilson with the evidence. Wilson had somehow managed to get behind her on some pretense, grabbed a heavy marble ashtray, and clobbered her. They found a thumbprint with traces of blood on the door.
According to Gillette, we were free to go. He said he’d have to keep the retainer check until they closed the case. Knowing that you can’t cash a check written by someone who has died, I had no objection, but it always hurts to bid farewell to $5,000.
A few days ago, I received a call. It was from Brad Gillette. He told us that everything had been cleared up. It was true that Al Steadman had stolen $400,000 from his mother’s trust fund, but since he inherited far more than that, there was no one around to prosecute and no point in doing so anyway.
“By the way,” Gillette said, “you should be receiving a check for $5,000 within a day or so.”
I nearly dropped the phone. “From who?”
“Gwen Turner. I told her about your partner’s deductions and suggested that you deserved to be paid. This isn’t for publication, of course.”
I was still stunned. “That’s very decent of you, Lieutenant.”
“Captain. I was coming up for promotion, and they were so pleased with the way I handled the case that they speeded it up. I may have omitted to mention that, when I filed my report, I took credit for some of your friend’s deductions.” He hesitated. “Of course, this isn’t for publication either.”
“Of course,” I agreed. When I told Pete, he agreed that $5,000 in the bank and the friendship of a captain of the Beverly Hills police was well worth not taking credit. So if you run into a Beverly Hills police captain, late thirties, bald, and needing a shave, I’d appreciate it if you kept quiet, too.
Author’s note: The notes for this chapter are on the mathematics of finance, which is probably not the world’s most interesting material—until it is your own money that is on the line. Even though you may not want to read this now, it wouldn’t hurt to keep it handy for when you make a major purchase, such as a car or a house. There’s so much money at stake in these purchases that it’s worth spending a little time understanding the math, so you can make the deal that works best for you.
CHAPTER 7
ANIMAL PASSIONS
Pete disconsolately pushed aside his plate, leaving the remains of the tofu salad, the day’s featured offering at our neighborhood vegetarian restaurant, unconsumed. I followed suit.
“Nobody said it would be easy, Pete,” I remarked as we got up to leave. “But then again, nobody said you had to join me in this vegetarian experiment. I must admit, though, that I’m glad you did. Misery loves company.”
What, you may ask, were Pete and I, red-blooded (and red-meated) Americans doing at an eatery specializin
g in vegetables? We both had excuses—there has to be an excuse for deviating from nature’s plan. In case you need a refresher course in nature’s plan, more than three billion years of evolution have gone into producing Homo sapiens, an omnivorous species. This means that we are able to eat everything, and nature intended us to eat everything. But every so often, things get a little out of hand. Pete’s excuse for eschewing animal protein was that his cholesterol level had gone off the chart. But I had started this whole thing.
My excuse for a meatless diet? Let me take you back in time to a message on my cell phone roughly ten days ago.
“Freddy? It’s Lisa. I’m coming out to L.A. for a visit. Can I stay with you? Give me a call. Miss you. Bye.”
Lisa hadn’t said she missed me for months. I dialed one of the few numbers I never have to look up.
“’Lo?” Lisa always answers the phone so that the first syllable of “hello” is clipped off.
“Hi, Lisa. Got your message. Just tell me when, and I’ll clear my calendar.”
“Well, I’m arriving a week from Monday and leaving the Friday after that.”
I calculated rapidly. Two work weeks (Monday through Friday), one weekend came to 12 days, minus parts of two days. We could mend a lot of fences during that period.
One of the things that I always found endearing about Lisa was that she had managed to retain a refreshing 1960s idealism in the second decade of the twenty-first century. If it seemed like a worthwhile cause to her, she joined it and could usually be found marching in the vanguard. Currently, the vanguard in which she was marching was animal rights. Anyway, animal rights activists from far and wide were about to drop in on Los Angeles for a national conference. How would I feel about putting her up for the duration of the conference?
As you may have gathered, I hoped it would be a long conference. I hung up the phone, feeling better about things in general than I had in many months.
A couple of weeks later, I met Lisa at the airport. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her. Well, maybe I had realized. I looked into those incredible clear blue-green eyes and realized that I was still carrying a torch and probably always would.
While we waited for her luggage, she asked me if I would accompany her to a party she had to attend before we went back to Brentwood. Her wish was my command, so we headed up through the hills of Bel Air to a gated mansion behind which lived a noted philanthropist who was devoting the latter years of his life to undoing his robber baron image. My car was parked by a valet, who curled his lip slightly at being forced to drive something other than a Rolls or a Mercedes, and we headed in.
Food and drink were present in abundance. I liberated a couple of glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, and we toasted the success of Lisa’s visit. Not only was I thirsty, but I was also ravenous. A passing platter of paté beckoned. Either animal rights did not extend to edible animals, or the philanthropist had just off-loaded party arrangements on a local caterer and didn’t worry about the details. Also, I reflected, the conference probably entailed more than just preaching to the chorus. At any rate, I was moving in the direction of the beckoning paté when someone else spread some on a cracker. Lisa shuddered.
“Do you realize,” she said, looking up at me with those clear blue-green eyes, “that over 25 geese must be killed in order to produce a single pound of foie gras?”
As you have no doubt divined, I was about to make a move to grab some of the aforementioned paté for myself when a sixth sense warned me to divert my attention to a stick of celery instead. I only batted one for two, however, as my sixth sense did not prevent me from replying, “No wonder it’s so expensive.”
“Strasbourg geese,” Lisa continued, “are confined and forcibly fattened in order to produce overly large livers. But if you think that’s bad, do you know how veal is produced? It makes me ill just to think of it.”
Not me. I salivate like Pavlov’s dogs at the thought of veal piccata. But there is a time and a place for veal piccata, and this clearly wasn’t it.
“Revolting,” I agreed, looking longingly at a plate of langoustine passing just out of reach, and deciding that the denizens of the sea were probably fodder non grata as well. Good thing I made sure the fish tanks were clean before leaving home. “It’s times like this that I’m glad I’ve become a vegetarian.”
Well, I thought to myself, as the aroma from a delicately spiced sausage drifted tantalizingly up to my nose, it’s not a complete lie. There have been periods when I eat no meat. These periods, however, tend to coincide with the periods between meals.
Like any good detective, I had picked up a clue and acted upon it. Lisa grabbed my arm, looked up at me with blue-green eyes that shone as they had during those good times when we always seemed to be on the same wavelength, and declared, “What a coincidence! So have I.”
I soon discovered that Lisa had not only become a vegetarian but she was also a member of the shock troops leading the battle for animal rights. It did not take her long to enlist me in the movement.
In retrospect, maybe I should have resisted. But Lisa can be very persuasive. At least, she never seems to have any difficulty persuading me. Less than an hour after seeing her again, I had converted to vegetarianism. By the next day, she had enrolled me in an animal rights group.
When I told Pete that I was on a meatless kick, I expected a strong adverse reaction. After all, we’re talking about a man who never met a cheeseburger he didn’t like. What I got instead was a mild, thoughtful one. Pete mentioned that his cholesterol count was way too high and said that if he went on a meatless diet for a while, this situation might be rectified. I certainly wasn’t going to argue, especially since I might have had second thoughts if I saw Pete chowing down on thick New York cuts while I was doing rabbit imitations among the alfalfa sprouts.
So now you are up to date. The bank account was in good shape, and so I was well placed to devote my full attention to Lisa. This meant, to Lisa at least, that I could be co-opted into helping with Lisa’s animal rights organization. I certainly didn’t mind. Things were going unexpectedly well between the two of us. Maybe we just needed some time away from each other, or maybe ours was a love that thrived better in the warm climate of laid-back southern California than in the frigid winters, steamy summers, and disposition-frazzling hostility of New York.
Not only was I taking care of a lot of organizational details for the animal rights crowd, I was also showing up at some of their functions. In exchange for my help, I had become a card-carrying member of an organization whose name I hadn’t even bothered to memorize but whose card I had stuffed into my wallet. Oh well, it made Lisa happier.
The aforesaid organization had two upcoming activities, a lobbying effort for an animal rights bill now under consideration by the California legislature and a midnight raid on a university animal research lab. Lisa had asked me to do a survey of 43 members to find out which, if either, they wished to attend. I checked; 8 had been unavailable for either, 33 had been willing to lobby the legislators, and 12 had demonstrated interest in the covert raid on the animal laboratory. I had volunteered for the lobbying effort, but Lisa, who was naturally part of the hard core who were willing to do both, talked me into joining the midnight raiders as well. She asked me how many people were, like her, willing to do both, and I had to admit that I didn’t know. I presented the problem to Pete the next time I saw him.
The next time I saw him turned out to be by the refrigerator in the kitchen in the main house. He had the door open and was casting longing glances at a couple of pounds of chopped round. I shut the door of the refrigerator gently and diverted him with a can of Coors and a bag of potato chips. When his appetite had been partially assuaged, if not his longing for animal protein, I asked him how many people in Lisa’s organization were willing to participate in both activities.
His eyes closed for a moment, possibly to prevent tears from coming to them as he looked at the hamburger, and then he answered
, “Ten.”
Since Lisa was probably going to demand some sort of accounting, I asked Pete how he came up with that number. Just in time, too, for as his eyes opened, a faraway look came into them, which I interpreted as an urge to barbecue, and then consume, part of a cow—or possibly all of it. I won’t say I blocked the refrigerator door, but I positioned myself between it and Pete.
He could tell what I was doing, but he had not yet reached the “Out of my way, Freddy, or I’ll barbecue you as well” stage. He sat down and said, “Of the 43 members, 8 were unable or unwilling to participate in either activity, leaving 35. If one adds the number of people who are going to lobby to the number of midnight raiders, the total is 33 plus 12, or 45. However, those willing to do both have been counted twice, once for the lobbying effort and once for the laboratory raid. Since 45 less 35 is 10, 10 people must have been counted twice. I take it that Lisa has been counted twice.”
(Fundamental Counting Principle continued on p. 182)
“You take it correctly, Pete. But I have also been counted twice. Lisa has talked me into doing both.”
“Freddy, I can see why you find her attractive. But she’s an artist, and artists often have very strange ideas. Have you stopped to consider that interfering with laboratory research might have unfortunate consequences for those whom the research might benefit? Plus, let me add, that there are laws prohibiting certain types of actions in this regard. I don’t know the specifics, but a few years ago members of some extreme animal rights organization set fire to a UCLA researcher’s car. Or something like that.”
“I’m not planning on committing arson. I did mention the laboratory research aspect. She says the ends do not justify the means. I let her have the last word in the interests of harmony.”
“The balance between desirable ends and necessary means is indeed one of the oldest of philosophical dilemmas.” Having elevated the tone of the discussion substantially, Pete marched out of the kitchen, possibly hoping that I too would disappear, so that he could sneak back and make mincemeat of the hamburger. If I knew him, he would then go to the grocery store and replace the chopped meat to cover up the crime.
L.A. Math: Romance, Crime, and Mathematics in the City of Angels Page 8