“So what are you thinking?” he finally said. “That Bolt killed Maggie and Linney?”
“Maybe not. Maybe Linney killed Maggie by accident, and called Tim to help him get rid of the body.”
Connors's frown said he wasn't buying it.
“Linney was like a father to him, Andy. He was ill. Bolt probably didn't want to see him in jail for the rest of his life, or in an institution.”
“Where he belonged. So why would Bolt kill Linney?”
The whys had been my last thought before I finally fell asleep, and my first on awaking. “Linney was always babbling about Margaret. He told Walter Fennel he dreamed he heard her scream. Maybe he was remembering more. Maybe Bolt was nervous that someone would start listening, and tell the police. I was snooping around. I think he knows where I live, by the way.” I told Connors about Bolt's comment. “So maybe he's the one who vandalized my car and tried to get into my apartment to see what I knew.”
Connors chewed a cookie while he thought that over. Then he shook his head. “The guy was obsessed with her, Molly. Why would he help the man who killed her?”
That was a good question. I broke a cookie into crumbs while I brooded about it.
“I'll run it by Rico,” Connors said. He pushed himself away from the table. “You have more of those?” He pointed to the plate of cookies.
I put a handful in a bag and walked him to the door.
I worked for an hour on my column, then turned on the TV and switched channels until I found local news. The CEO of a major telecommunications company had been arrested for fraud. An AMBER alert had been issued for a seven-year-old girl who had disappeared with her nanny. I was about to switch to another channel when I heard the silver-haired male anchor say “Reston.”
The screen showed the scene of the digging.
“. . . update on the body that was discovered yesterday in Hancock Park. Although the police have not identified any suspects, they are talking to Roger Modine, the contractor who built the patio under which Margaret Reston was buried five months ago. Police are also talking to Margaret Reston's husband.”
I listened another minute, then shut off the TV. Zack had phoned and asked me to join him for lunch. I was fishing through my purse for a lipstick when I came across the small piece of paper with Joan Eggers's phone number.
Where had I seen that name?
I checked my notes and ten minutes later I found it: She was one of the people who had phoned Oscar Linney the day before he died.
I was running late for lunch, but I placed the call.
“Joan Eggers's office,” a woman said. “Megan Hanley speaking.”
I introduced myself. “Ms. Eggers made a phone call a few weeks ago to an Oscar Linney. I wanted to talk to her about it.”
“She's in a meeting right now. If you give me your number, I'll have her return your call when she's done.”
I gave her my cell number. “What kind of—”
I was talking to a dial tone. I hung up, grabbed my purse, and drove to the restaurant on Pico and Beverwil.
Zack was there when I arrived, fifteen minutes late and breathless. He's more punctual than I am, but if he was annoyed, he didn't show it. We ordered soup and sandwiches, and though I told myself I wouldn't bring up the case, of course, I did. I repeated what Connors had told me, then told Zack what I'd seen in Tim Bolt's house. I was prepared for a lecture, but it didn't come.
“I'm still wondering whether Linney killed Maggie,” I said, and explained. “Connors says Bolt wouldn't have helped him get rid of the body, but maybe he did.”
Zack looked thoughtful. “There's a discussion in the Gemara about a thief who steals into a person's house.” The Gemara is the collection of commentaries on the Mishna, the oral law. Together they form the Talmud. “The commentaries ask whether the homeowner can kill him. The answer is yes. The thief knows that the homeowner is allowed to kill him to protect his property, yet despite that, he sneaks in. So we assume he's prepared to kill the homeowner.”
“Zack, this isn't about—”
“But if the thief is the homeowner's father? In that case the homeowner can't kill to protect his property. Because the earlier logic doesn't apply. The father may have sneaked into the house to steal, but a father has mercy on his child. He hasn't come prepared to kill him.”
I thought about that. “So you're saying that as angry as Linney was, he wouldn't have killed Maggie.”
Zack nodded. “Unless, of course, at that moment, he viewed her as his enemy, not his daughter.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
AT HOME I PHONED CONNORS AND LEARNED THAT HE'D relayed my suspicions about Bolt to Hernandez.
“So what did he say, Andy?”
“He's looking into it.”
I was restless, edgy. I found myself walking from room to room. I kept seeing the demolished patio, the gloved hands about to slide Maggie Reston's remains from her grave to the plastic sheet. I kept seeing the room Tim Bolt had created. I heard the music. I smelled the lavender and jasmine.
I phoned Connors back.
“Maybe Tim killed Maggie,” I said when he came on the line.
“The woman he loved?”
“He didn't mean to do it. Maggie and her father had a huge quarrel that day. The housekeeper heard it. So did Mrs. Coulter. What if Tim heard it, too? Suppose he went over to ‘save' her from her father, or from her marriage.”
“Come on, Molly.”
“Charlene Coulter told me he punched a boy who was bothering Maggie. And he threatened to kill himself if she didn't marry him. Suppose that night Maggie told him to mind his own business and leave. Maybe he got angry. And Maggie got scared and picked up the phone to call the police. So he pushed her, and she hit her head.”
Connors didn't say anything. I took that as a sign that he was thinking.
“How would he get in the house?” he finally asked. “Scratch that. He was the Realtor. He probably had a key. So why kill Linney?”
“Maybe Linney did hear things that night, but everyone thought it was his Alzheimer's. And then Bolt worried that someone would pay attention. So he lured Linney to the house with the spliced tape and canceled the caregiver.”
“Where'd he get the tape?”
“He was obsessed with Maggie, Andy. He probably kept tapes just so he could hear her voice.”
Connors sighed. “I'll phone Rico. Maybe he'll pay a visit to Bolt.”
I hung up and turned on the TV. I was searching for a news channel when my cell phone rang. By the time I dug it out of my purse, the ringing had stopped.
The blinking envelope on my cell phone told me I had one new message. I accessed my voice mail and learned that Joan Eggers had returned my call.
I phoned her, and this time she answered herself. I told her what I'd told the assistant.
“To be honest, I'm disappointed,” Joan Eggers said. “I assumed Professor Linney had decided to drop the matter.”
So she didn't know that Linney was dead. “Actually, Gordon Tiler suggested that I talk to you. He's an intellectual properties attorney.”
“I know Gordon. Look, Miss Blume.” Her voice had taken on a steely edge. “I'll tell you what I told Professor Linney.”
The anchor said, “Reston.” I glanced at the screen and caught a glimpse of Hank opening the door to his black Mercedes. He was deluged by reporters.
“I'm listening,” I told Joan Eggers.
“Professor Linney may have been planning to write a book about architecture in Los Angeles. But a title, two pages of notes, and a few photos isn't the same as a manuscript.”
MS as in manuscript, I thought. Not multiple sclerosis. Pb was publisher. For a writer, I'd been incredibly dumb, but to be fair, I'd been looking at everything in Maggie's planner as though it were connected with the construction of the Muirfield house.
“That's what I told the daughter, too,” the woman continued. “She said there was a partial manuscript, but she couldn't produce it.”
My stomach knotted. “When did she tell you that?”
“When she phoned half a year ago. I thought you knew all this,” Joan said, suddenly wary.
“I'm just trying to get all the facts straight.”
“The facts are simple, Miss Blume. Our legal department says Professor Linney has no claim whatsoever. We're proceeding with Mr. Vaughan's book.”
I was certain I hadn't heard correctly. I grabbed the edge of the table and found my voice. “You're publishing Mr. Vaughan's book? You're serious?”
“We've paid him a six-figure advance. I'd call that serious.”
“And that was in June?”
“No, in April.” She spoke with exaggerated patience, as if I had limited intelligence. “If Professor Linney continues to insist that he's entitled to some part of the advance we gave Mr. Vaughan, that's between him and Mr. Vaughan. I told that to the daughter, too.”
My hand was shaking when I hung up.
Vaughan had received an advance months ago on a book he told me he'd recently agreed to take over—reluctantly. Vaughan, who was at the Fuller house all the time and could have used Linney's key to get inside. Vaughan, who was probably not making a mint teaching architecture but was spending thousands of dollars restoring his dream house in Angelino Heights and, come to think of it, had probably been pissed as hell that he hadn't been given the plum job of designing his best friend's dream house.
I reached for the receiver to call Hernandez when my phone rang. I jerked my hand back, then picked up the receiver.
“Molly?” It was Charlene. “I don't know if I should call someone. I'm really worried about Tim.”
I had no time for Tim Bolt. “Charlene—”
“He has a gun, Molly. I saw him through the window. He was sitting in his yard, on a swing. I think he was crying. The gun was on his lap. I'm afraid for him, Molly.”
My heart skipped a beat. “You're sure it was a gun?”
“Yes. I thought he was going to hurt himself, but then he got into his car with the gun and drove off. Where do you think he could have gone?”
My head was spinning. “I don't know. I'll call the police.”
The TV anchor was still talking about Maggie Reston. “Authorities are declining to discuss the case, but they have confirmed that Mr. Reston is not a suspect at this time. In other news . . .”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
I PHONED RESTON, BUT HE WASN'T HOME. EITHER THAT, or he wasn't answering. I didn't want to think about that.
I contacted Wilshire. Neither Porter nor Hernandez was in. I told the dispatcher that Tim Bolt had a gun and that I feared he was going to kill Hank Reston, and why. I gave her the address to the Muirfield house.
“You need to calm down, ma'am,” the woman said. “Are you inside the Muirfield residence, ma'am?”
“No, I'm not. Bolt is headed there right now. I'm sure of it. Please hurry.”
“Where are you now, ma'am?” she asked in a maddeningly soothing voice that told me she didn't know how much credence to place in what I was telling her.
“I'm at home. Please, send units to the address. If you don't believe me, find Detective Hernandez or Porter and tell them what I just told you. My name is Molly Blume,” I repeated.
“I'll do that, ma'am. Give me a number where the detective can reach you.”
I gave her my cell number. “Are you going to send the units?”
“We'll take care of it, ma'am.”
I hung up and ran to my car.
Eleven minutes later I was on Third Street, waiting to turn onto Muirfeld. I twisted my head to the left and saw the Volvo parked just off Third. My heart thumped. I looked up the block. Reston's black Mercedes was in the driveway.
There was no black-and-white.
The queue of cars driving past me seemed endless. I looked up Muirfield again. The Mercedes's door opened and Reston stepped out. He headed toward his front door.
I moved my foot to the accelerator and, swerving sharply, cut in front of a black Land Cruiser twenty feet away. The driver braked to a sudden stop. The car behind him slammed into the Land Cruiser.
I heard the crash of metal on metal. The driver of the Land Cruiser was yelling an obscenity out his window, but I was barreling up Muirfield.
Reston was nearing his door.
Where the hell was the black-and-white?
I blared my horn. A gardener mowing the velvet lawn looked at me, but Reston paid no attention.
He opened the door.
I pulled up in front of the house and rolled down my window.
“Hank! Don't go in!”
My words were drowned out by the drone of the mower.
Reston stepped inside the house and shut the door behind him.
I phoned Wilshire and talked to the same dispatcher. “Tim Bolt's inside, and Reston just went in!” I told her after I identified myself. “Where's the black-and-white?”
“I spoke with Detective Porter, ma'am. Two units are on their way.”
I hung up and punched in Reston's number.
After four rings, the answering machine picked up.
“Tim, this is Molly Blume. I know you're there, Tim. Pick up the phone. Hank didn't kill Maggie. Tim, do you hear me?
“Tim, I'm not lying to you. You would be killing the wrong person. Tim—” The tape cut off.
I pressed REDIAL. I ran out of the car and rang the bell. I pounded on the door.
I was still pounding, screaming Bolt's name, crying, when I heard the shot.
I froze for a few seconds. Then I ran past the handcrafted wrought iron gates to the backyard. I thought I heard a siren in the distance, but it could have been the ringing in my ears.
The entire back of the house was lined with French doors. I ran past the first two sets until I was in front of the living room.
Tim Bolt was standing in the center of the cavernous room.
Hank was slumped against the black marble fireplace. His face was pasty. Blood was streaming between the fingers he held against his chest. Maggie smiled down at him.
I twisted the brass handle and pushed the door open a crack.
“I swear. Didn't. Kill her,” Hank said. He was wincing, and I could tell it took great effort for him to speak.
“Liar!” Bolt raised the gun. “She was an angel, and you killed her. You killed the Professor, too. I want you to say it.”
“I didn't—”
“Say it!” Bolt's scream echoed in the high-ceilinged room. He held the gun in his shaking hands and pointed it at Hank's chest.
My heart was racing. I opened the door wider and stepped inside, praying that the sound wouldn't startle Tim and cause him to fire.
“He didn't do it, Tim,” I said, making my voice a soft caress. My chest felt as though someone were squeezing the air out of it.
Bolt started at the sound of my voice, but he kept his eyes on Reston. “Get out,” he said quietly. “I don't want to have to hurt you.”
The sirens were louder now.
“Tim, I know who did it,” I said in that same, soft voice. “It was Ned Vaughan.”
“You're lying.”
“He stole Professor Linney's manuscript, Tim. He stole his money. Maggie found out.”
Reston was staring at me, his mouth open.
Bolt kept the gun aimed at Reston's chest. “You're saying that because you don't want me to kill him. But why should he live? He killed Maggie!”
“If you kill him, you'll go to jail and Ned Vaughan will be free. Maggie's killer will be free. Is that what you want, Tim?”
“I don't know what to think!” His face was red, sweaty.
“You loved Maggie, didn't you, Tim? And you want the person who killed her to pay. Hank didn't do it. Ned Vaughan did.”
“The Professor said Hank hit him! He said Hank stole his money!”
“Professor Linney was confused, Tim. Ned stole his money. I can show you. I can show you everything.”
I heard a loud thump
and looked past the living room into the entry. The beautiful front door crashed onto the marble floor. Two uniformed policemen stood in the doorway, their weapons drawn. I held up my hands and prayed they wouldn't think I was crazy.
“Tim, the police are here,” I said, a little louder so they could hear me. My legs felt like Jell-O. “You need to put down the gun, okay? They'll shoot you if you don't.”
Tim looked confused. “He has to pay. Doesn't he have to pay?”
“Someone will pay,” I promised. “Will you put down the gun? Please, Tim. Put down the gun.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Sunday, December 28. 12:35 P.M. Corner of Havenhurst Drive and Santa Monica Boulevard. A man who later was taken into custody allegedly forced his way into a woman's apartment through a bedroom patio door, choked her for about a minute, and then placed a knife against her throat. (Hollywood)
HALF AN INCH MORE AND HANK RESTON WOULD HAVE been dead. That's what the doctors told him, and what Connors told me.
Tim Bolt was taken into custody. I have to say the cops were gentle with him. He's under observation in the jail's psych ward. I went to see him a week ago but he isn't allowed visitors yet.
Ned Vaughan was home when Hernandez and Porter showed up with a search warrant. Porter says Vaughan was more upset with the marks on his floors and the mess he and Hernandez made during their search than the fact that he was charged with two murders. He's probably having nightmares about what will happen to his house, with good reason. The D.A. is looking at the death penalty, and if they don't go for that, murder with arson attached will get Vaughan life.
I don't think Hernandez or Porter was as certain as I was that Vaughan was their man until they found Maggie's jewelry stashed around his house. Well, they found most of it. Vaughan had removed a few diamonds from the bracelet. Why on earth would he keep the stuff, I said to Connors. There's no way he could explain it. But as I said, criminals are often more greedy than intelligent, and I don't think Vaughan thought he'd be caught.
It wasn't just about money, though he was desperate for it. He was drowning in restoration costs, and his Victorian beauty was a mistress that seduced him with the promise of her charms and demanded proof of his love. Linney's canceled checks showed that the two he'd entered in his register for Skoll Investment had been made out to Vaughan, and Vaughan's bank statements showed deposits matching the amounts on those checks. I can hear him saying, “Oscar, we don't need Hank or Maggie involved. It's your money. You're a grown man, not a child. You signed away your house, not your life.” I'm guessing the smaller checks, made out to cash, had been for Vaughan, too.
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