“Rams in L.A. is ancient history.”
“So is Schwartz.”
A plump young barmaid came over. “The usual, Lieutenant?”
“Thanks, Samantha.”
“For you, sir?”
“What’s the usual?”
“Carslberg Elephant chased with Miller Lite.”
“Do you have Sam Adams?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “If we don’t, I’ll bring you something else.”
Mugs arrived, along with wasabi peas and cheese crackers that resembled tiny, flattened basketballs. One long swallow and a mouthful of carbs later, Milo said, “What do you think about having another chat with Corey?”
“Good idea but I wouldn’t confront him.”
“What, be his pal?”
“Stay low-key, business-like, try to work his daughters into the conversation.”
“How?”
“You’re a bit perplexed because they seem to have left town, can he help you locate them. He’ll lie but maybe he’ll give off a tell.”
“How much should I say about Ursula?”
“You’re now wondering if someone in the building was involved. Again, does he have suggestions. Once you’ve planted that seed, you can see if he tries to reach Williams. No sense subpoenaing his phones, both of them will be using prepaids. But maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll do a face-to-face. Either way, keep an eye on his movements.”
He finished the Elephant, let out a huge gust of beery breath.
“What’s the alcohol content of that stuff?” I said.
“Seven point two, less than wine.” He lifted the bottle. “Think of it as Chardonnay for the workingman.”
Loosening his belt, he announced, “Time for dessert,” and turned his attention to the light beer.
I said, “When are you planning to revisit Corey?”
“Tonight, soon as the traffic eases up, say seven thirty, eight-ish.”
“In the meantime, we could try for face-time with Cousin Flora. Maybe you can get something out of her that’ll help you find Williams.”
“His psychological makeup?”
“That would also be good,” I said, “but I was thinking last known address.”
Back to Century City. Might as well buy a permanent parking space.
We reached Flora Sullivan’s suite at five thirty-two p.m. Her firm sported a roster of partners that spanned three feet of black granite wall. As the workday drew to a close, lawyers and their staffers exited through three sets of glass doors set on separate walls.
The directory listed each partner as N, E, or W. Sullivan was W. The woman at the front desk of that section was large, white-haired, and imperious and locking her desk as we arrived. The first tip-off that she took herself far too seriously was her nameplate in oversized faux gold mounted on a beefy walnut stand.
ROSE MARIE GRUHNER
The second was her ignoring us completely.
Milo waited for a lull in the foot traffic before identifying himself as LAPD, no specialty cited, and asking to see Flora Sullivan.
Rose Marie Gruhner dropped keys in her purse. “She’s busy.”
“For how long, ma’am?”
“For as long as she chooses.”
Milo said, “I’m with the—”
Gruhner said, “I got it the first time, makes no difference.”
He edged closer to Gruhner’s desk and stood there. Gruhner finally looked up. “Sir. We get law enforcement all the time, the rules don’t change. No one without an appointment.”
“Cops all the time?”
“Frequently,” said Gruhner. “This is a real estate litigation firm, claims and counterclaims are the nature of the business.”
I said, “Process servers are always trying to con their way in.”
“Including marshals in uniform, sir. I tell them what I just told you two: No one gains entry without a prior appointment. We’d have chaos.”
“I’m a detective, ma’am, not serving papers on anyone.”
“I don’t make the regulations, sir, I only enforce them.”
I said, “Tell Ms. Sullivan that Leon Bonelli sent us.”
“I won’t tell her anything of the sort because she gave clear—”
“Trust me,” I said. “She’ll want to know. Leon Bonelli.” I spelled it.
Gruhner said, “Sounds like a tall tale.”
“It’s an extremely short tale.”
“Ach.” She punched an extension and relayed the information. As she listened, her face blossomed pink around the edges. “She is not happy. See yourselves in.”
As we walked past her, she called out, “Don’t you want directions?”
No need; Flora Sullivan was waiting in the middle of the corridor, arms crossed. Same pose Grant Fellinger had assumed. Maybe they taught it in law school.
She had on a black pencil skirt and white silk blouse with a Peter Pan collar. The heels on her red shoes put her into NBA guard territory. Dark curls were drawn back tight. Silver-rimmed eyeglasses dangled from a chain around the long stalk of her neck.
The resemblance to Jens Williams was hard to avoid.
She watched our approach, blank-faced. The trek to her door was longer than to Fellinger’s, offering a sideshow of abstractions in pastel tones. Hidden speakers streamed a soft-strings version of “Eleanor Rigby.” Scary song, when you thought about it.
When we were twenty feet away, Flora Sullivan swung into action like a bronco released from a pen, race-walking toward us on stick-limbs, face splotched salmon-pink.
A flamingo who’d imbibed too much rosy plankton.
She planted herself in the center of the hallway. “Who do you think you are to bandy about personal information to my staff?”
Milo said, “Ms. Sullivan, I’m Lieutenant Milo Sturgis, LAPD—”
“That is not an answer.”
“Sorry, ma’am, but the moat was deep and we needed to lower the drawbridge.”
Flora Sullivan blinked. Her eyes were dark blue and wide. The miserly mouth I’d seen in her photo was glossed crimson. Not a pretty woman by a long shot, but she had presence.
“I am not interested in medieval architecture, Officer Whoever You Are. Now you answer me: What gave you the right to lie your way in here by referencing a dear friend of mine?”
“Your personal life has no concern for us, Ms. Sullivan. We need to talk about your cousin John Jensen Williams.”
“Jens? What in the world about? He’s a distant cousin, I barely know him.”
“You knew him well enough to get him a job in this building.”
“I did him a favor—oh, that. I was assured that once J. J. was gone the matter would be resolved.”
Milo said, “This is about homicide.”
“What?” she shrieked. A tide of noise rolled behind her and caused her to shut up. A group of well-dressed, tired-looking people rounded a corner and headed our way. One of the men gave a finger-wave. “Flo.”
“Mark.”
The group passed. Lots of quizzical over-the-shoulder looks.
Flora Sullivan said, “Shit. Let’s talk in my office.”
Size- and layout-wise, her work space was a near twin of Fellinger’s, softened a bit by more pastels and blond furniture. Only two photos, both of Sullivan and her husband, headshots offering no hint of disability.
She unfolded her long frame behind her desk. “Before I hear any more nonsense about homicide, you’re going to give me a straight answer: What does Mr. Bonelli have to do with your business?”
“Nothing,” said Milo.
“You lied in order to con your way in here. Is that proper police procedure?”
“Ms. Gruhner was a bit of an obstacle.”
“Ms. Gruhner does her job properly. Without her, this place would be a zoo.” Sullivan looped the eyeglass chain over her head, placed the specs on the desk. “I’m not satisfied with your answer. What’s your interest in Mr. Bonelli?”
I said, “None
other than he’s your friend.”
Some of the salmon spots deepened to crimson. “He’s a dear acquaintance, from all the way back to college. So?”
“When we Googled you, Mr. Bonelli’s name came up in conjunction with yours several times. Charitable fund-raisers, that kind of thing. We really need to speak with you so we grasped at straws. Sorry.”
Giving her an out; I doubted she’d prolong the argument.
Another finger-jab. “Why are you nosing around me, period? And don’t try to weasel out of an honest answer.”
Litigation 101: Take control of the situation.
Milo said, “We’re here because you’re J.J. Williams’s only local relative and he’s a person of interest in several homicides.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Sullivan laughed, finished off with a snort. The equine comparison grew stronger. “You’re wasting your time and, more important, you’re squandering mine.” She stood. “Now it’s time for you to exit these premises.”
“We need to locate Mr. Williams—”
“Need what you want but I can’t help you.”
“You knew him well enough to recommend him to—”
“I was being nice! And look where it got me. They’re the ones who hired him. Ask them for an address.”
“The one he gave Mr. Fellinger’s firm was bogus.”
Sullivan blinked. “Really.”
“Really. Where can we find him, ma’am?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“Even though—”
“He’s a distant relative who I helped get a job. That’s something I’d do for a nonrelative if they were qualified.”
“Mr. Williams’s qualifications were—”
“He went to Yale,” she said.
I said, “You’re close enough to know that.”
She glared at me. “It wasn’t exactly a family secret.”
“J.J. was known in the family as bright.”
“Bright enough …” Deepening her tone for dominance. But then she ruined it by blinking and glancing down and fooling with her glasses.
I said, “He told you he graduated Yale.”
“And?”
“Actually he left after a year.”
A sleek red fingernail pinged the top of her wedding picture. “Obviously, I’m not privy to his life history, it was a long time since I’d seen him.”
I said, “He called you when he arrived in L.A.?”
“He phoned out of the blue and told me he’d moved to L.A. We hadn’t spoken in years. You’re positive about his leaving Yale?”
“No doubt about it,” said Milo.
“Hmm,” said Sullivan. “Well, that’s a shame, but no way for me to know that. If my mother was lucid, I suppose she might’ve known. She and J.J.’s mother grew up together, more like friends than cousins. But Leticia—his mom—passed years ago and there’s not much left of my mom, mentally.”
I said, “Did you and J.J. grow up together?”
“Not at all, he’s from Connecticut, I was born in L.A., my father moved here to work for Lockheed—who cares about my life history? Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Milo said, “So J.J. calls out of the blue, saying he needs a job—”
“He asked if I knew any openings for a paralegal, any kind of assistantship in the legal field. It just so happened that I’d been talking to Fellinger and he mentioned he was looking for someone. I thought, perfect match.”
“Because J.J. was smart.”
“Smart and experienced,” she said. “He’d worked at Skadden in New York, which is white-shoe, heavy hitter.”
Milo and I said nothing.
Flora Sullivan played with her glasses. “Did he lie about that, too?”
“We’ll look into it,” said Milo, “but almost certainly.”
She sighed. “What a mess. Still, homicide? This has nothing to do with the family. Nothing at all.”
“You have no idea where he could be.”
She shook her head. “When he called the first time, I asked him where he was staying. He said he hadn’t settled yet, would let me know. He never did.”
“You never pursued it.”
“There was nothing to pursue. The extent of our contact was that single call. I tried to be social, offered to get together once he settled but he never took me up on it. Since you’ve poked around, perhaps you’ve learned that my social life is rather constricted.”
“We wouldn’t know about that.”
Sullivan’s stare was long, searching, angry. “Well, I’ll take you at your word on that. The occasional fund-raiser, yes, and I try to get in a round of golf once in a while. But my focus is my husband. He’s paraplegic. Drunk driver.”
“Sorry, ma’am—”
“What’s done is done, one soldiers on.” She sat back. “Now please, let’s end this. It’s been a long day.”
Milo said, “We’ll be out of your hair in a sec. Do you have a phone number for J.J.?”
“I keep telling you—hold on … you know, I think I might. Only because I’m compulsive, when I get a call, I log it.”
Flipping open an iPad, she scrolled and read off seven digits.
Milo said, “That’s the one he gave Fellinger, Ms. Sullivan. It’s been disconnected.”
“Oh. Then I guess you’re out of luck.”
I said, “Working in the same building, you’d have to see each other occasionally.”
“Not as often as you might think,” said Sullivan. “Over the past few months I’d estimate J.J. and I have bumped into each other four or five times, tops. Always on the elevator, where else do people mix in an office building? We exchanged smiles but obviously one doesn’t converse in a compartment full of strangers. Now, if—”
I said, “Your father worked in aerospace. What did Jens’s father do?”
“That’s relevant to his alleged murderous behavior? Which I still find hard to believe, would you care to give me some details?”
Milo said, “Sorry, can’t.”
“One-way street?” said Flora Sullivan. “Then again, you’re men.”
I repeated the question.
She said, “I didn’t answer you the first time because I don’t know what J.J.’s father did and I wouldn’t be surprised if J.J. didn’t, either, because the bastard abandoned Leticia when J.J. was a baby. Mother was always talking about how she had to struggle just to get by.”
“No sibs?”
“No.”
“When did she pass on?”
“Hmm … a long time ago, she wasn’t that old. Heart attack. She smoked and drank and her diet wasn’t great. She worked in a diner—greasy spoon, you know? Probably ate the crap they served.”
I said, “She was a cook?”
“Short-order,” she said. “Poor Leticia spent her life literally slaving over a hot stove.”
CHAPTER
34
The elevator we boarded was packed. I thought of John Jensen Williams using the compartment as a stalking ground, wondered how many other women had qualified as prey.
We got off and walked to where Ursula Corey had met her death. Just another patch of concrete now. Milo stared for a while then we took the stairs up to where I’d left the Seville.
“What’d you think of Sullivan?”
“Probably clean but that doesn’t mean Williams won’t try to contact her again.”
“That’s why I told her he was suspected of homicide. He does call or show up, I want her to be scared shitless and rat him out.”
A block later: “Nifty how you used Bonelli to gain entry, then finessed the issue.”
“I hoped she’d appreciate the discretion.”
“She must’ve, because you also pried out that recap of Williams’s blighted childhood. Mama working the griddle.”
“Mama with a drinking problem,” I said. “Maybe angry and bitter about being abandoned by Papa.”
“Tsk tsk,” he said. “Toss in poor nutrition and it’s all ex
plained.”
Stalled in a queue of cars snailing up the exit ramp, I phoned Robin and told her I’d be heading for Oxnard.
She said, “Now? You’ll sit on the freeway.”
“We’ll grab a bite first.”
“Come home, I’ll cook for both of you.”
“Love to see you but don’t bother, I’ll pick something up.”
“No bother, I’ll do a one-dish,” she said. “How about pasta with leftovers? Those bigoli things you liked the last time and whatever I excavate in the fridge … okay, here we go, there’s some pastrami from the weekend. I’ll toss in eggs, a little bacon, do a riff on carbonara.”
“My bella signorina. If you’re up to it, sounds great.”
Milo said, “What does?”
“Homecooked meal.”
“Yes yes yes.”
Robin heard that and laughed. “Darling, I talk to wood all day. Your handsome face combined with his appetite will make me feel valued. Plus I’m celebrating.”
“What?”
“I just spoke to you-know-who, told him I wouldn’t be making replicas for him or anyone else. Surprisingly, he was a gentleman. Maybe it’s ’cause he’s just out of rehab. And uncharacteristically lucid. Whatever the reason, I’m feeling free.”
The food was on the table when we arrived. Huge batch of spaghetti, three times as much as we usually prepared.
Robin drank wine, Milo and I stuck with water followed by coffee. Blanche positioned herself strategically to the right of Milo’s chair, just out of Robin’s view, sucking up the not-so-occasional strands he dangled near her flews. Anytime Milo reverted to feeding himself, her head rubbed against his leg. If he rubbed back, she did her cat-purr thing.
Robin said, “Intense goings-on under the table.”
Milo said, “Animal magnetism.”
Over a final dose of coffee, she said, “May I ask what you guys hope to learn up there?”
Milo said, “At this point, anything.” He summed up.
She said, “This Williams character did his own killings for fun but Corey’s wife was a business deal?”
I said, “More like mixed media. He got paid but she was his biggest trophy because she was out of his league.”
“Stealing the boss’s bit-of-fun? That and getting rid of an ex I can see,” she said. “But a father going after his own kids?”
Motive Page 25