The Bequest

by Nancy Boyarsky

  Nicole glanced through the glass partition that separated her from the rest of the office. The place was deserted. She picked up her phone, dialed 09, which got her the desk in the lobby, and said, “Let me speak to security.”

  At that, the man turned and hurried out of the office, still clutching her five-dollar bill.

  She looked at the flowers, then pulled out the card and opened it. The flowers were from Sargosian. The card read:

  Great time last night. I’d like to see you again outside the office, but I don’t want to push. Let me know when you’re ready to get together. Rick

  Nicole tossed the card in the wastepaper basket. A few minutes later, her sandwich arrived. While she ate, she turned back to her work.

  §

  Sue Price’s law firm was in a much more modest suite than the one where Nicole worked. It was cozy rather than elegant, and Nicole imagined it would be more pleasant to spend her time here than in the sterile glass highrise in Century City. She had to wait only a few minutes before she was shown into her new lawyer’s office. Sue Price was tall and strikingly beautiful, with a creamy complexion and a cloud of red curly hair. She smiled at Nicole, introduced herself as “Sue,” and almost cooed with sympathy. “You poor thing,” she said. “Rick told me what you’ve been going through. It’s a nightmare when an innocent bystander gets swept up in one of these high profile cases and the media goes crazy. I’ll ask Margo to bring us some coffee and then we’ll sit down and figure out how we’re going to handle this.”

  While Sue was ordering the coffee, Nicole looked around. The office had a corner fireplace, and the shelves around it held a figurine collection instead of law books. The figures ranged from pricy Lladro china to pipe-cleaner creations, all of cats, some cute and cuddly, some comical.

  Sue’s secretary walked in, carrying a tray with a white china coffee pot, cups, and saucers. There was also a dish of chocolate cookies. She set the tray on the coffee table and left, quietly closing the door. Sue sat in a chair next to the table and motioned for Nicole to sit in the chair on the other side. After Sue poured her a cup of coffee, Nicole helped herself to a cookie.

  At the lawyer’s invitation, Nicole recounted everything she could remember about Robert’s death and even shared the heartbreak of her lonely week in London and her concerns about her missing lover.

  “Well, one good thing,” Sue said. “I just spoke to Rick, and he says the D.A. doesn’t have a case at this point. No murder weapon, no evidence, no leads. That doesn’t mean they won’t try to make a case—the forensics haven’t come in yet. But they’re not going to find your DNA if you’ve never been inside Mr. Blair’s house.”

  “I haven’t, but they did find my underwear and a nightgown in his bedroom,” Nicole said. “At some point Robert seems to have broken into my apartment and stolen my lingerie. The detective showed it to me. Robert also had some framed photos of me.” She explained that Robert had removed Reinhardt from the one at the beach.

  Sue was quiet for several moments, seeming to consider what she was going to say. “Now I’m going to give you some marching orders,” she finally said, “and I want you to listen very carefully. Whatever you do, do not speak to the media or the police. About the media, the only words to come out of your mouth when a reporter asks anything—even ‘How are you?’—is this: ‘I’m referring all questions to my attorney, Sue Price, at Lombard, Price & Thompson.’ And when they call me, I will tell them, ‘We have no comment other than to say Nicole Graves had no involvement in this crime.’

  “I want you to go about your business as you normally would. Do not hide from the press. Remember, you’ve done nothing wrong. Sure, if there’s a back door and you can easily avoid them, do so. If not, just hold up your head and—this is important—avoid being defensive, no matter how aggressive they are.

  “Besides, once you tell them you have an attorney and give them my name, they’ll be calling me. Just present your best self. Try to smile. Show those pretty dimples and act like you’re really sorry you aren’t allowed to talk to them. Let them see what a nice person you are. Keep in mind that it won’t be long before the next big story comes along, and they’ll forget about you.”

  “What if the District Attorney decides to charge me with Robert’s murder?” Nicole said. “What if they think I hired someone to kill him for his life insurance?” she paused. “Forty-thousand dollars—wouldn’t a hired killer charge that to do the job?”

  “I doubt they’ll put together such a case,” Sue said. “But in that unlikely event, we’ll see what evidence they have and take it from there. You don’t own a gun, do you?”

  “No.” Nicole thought of her sister, Stephanie, who did, in fact, own a gun. As a female, living alone, she had a permit, but never took the weapon out of her apartment. Nicole disapproved of the gun, warning Stephanie that it was more likely to be used against her than to protect her. But her sister said all her single friends owned guns, and it made her feel safe.

  “Good,” Sue was saying. “Now, if Detective Miller calls and wants to talk to you, refer him to me. Meanwhile, I’ll let him know I’ve advised you not to make any more statements, and that should be the end of it. If he calls you and tries to convince you that you’re not a suspect, and he only wants to meet with you as a possible witness or to help with his investigation, do not believe him. That’s an old trick. The police lie, you know, to get people to talk. Don’t fall into that trap. Tell him to talk to me.

  “There are only two rules the police go by: Either they have a case and they arrest you, or they don’t, and they won’t. If they have evidence that convinces them you’re guilty, nothing you can say will change that. On the other hand, if you’re innocent, and you change your story, even in some minor, inadvertent way, they can use that against you. You can’t imagine how difficult it is to tell the same story twice in exactly the same way. It’s so easy to trip yourself up. You have nothing to gain by telling them any more than you already have.”

  Sue stood up. “I think that’s all for today. If you have questions or anything comes up, I’m giving you my cell phone number, so you can reach me any time, day or night.” She jotted the number on the back of her card and handed it to Nicole. “Don’t hesitate to call. Now be aware of what’s going on around you. You may be followed, probably by paparazzi, or maybe the police. I’d avoid going out much, except to work, mainly because of the media. It isn’t pleasant having them pop up everywhere you go. Stick close to people you know and trust. Have you somewhere to stay other than your own place?”

  “I can stay with my sister.”

  “Perfect. Best keep away from home for a bit. You’ll just be pestered by reporters. And one more thing. About Rick—he has a good heart but usually there’s an ulterior motive. When it comes to the ladies, he’s a bit of a bad boy.”

  “You didn’t have to warn me,” Nicole said. “He’s not too subtle about it.”

  They both smiled, and Sue surprised Nicole by reaching out and hugging her. “Take care,” Sue said. “You’re such a sweet little thing, I don’t want to see you crushed by this.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Nicole said. “People who make the mistake of thinking I’m sweet find I’m not sweet at all. When it comes down to it, I can really kick ass.”

  Sue laughed, revealing one imperfection: a slightly crooked incisor. “Glad to hear it.”

  Nicole arrived back at the office around 5:15. The media pack had shrunk to a mere two dozen or so and a single TV van. She drove past the paparazzi into the valet lane that ran close to the building, gave the key to the valet, and stepped out. They all rushed at her with their cameras. She looked around at them, trying to keep from scowling. It wasn’t easy. She was being pushed and jabbed by elbows and camera gear; the reporters clustered around her, sticking their microphones in her face. “How do you feel about the murder of Robert Blair?” one said, while another asked her to describe the murder scene. “Did you kill him?” a sweet looking young woma
n said, without appearing the least bit embarrassed.

  Nicole managed what she hoped was an apologetic smile and referred them to Sue in the words she’d been told to repeat. Then she walked through them—forcing them to step aside—past the guards and into the building with her head held high. It made her feel empowered, and for a brief moment, she was almost enjoying herself. She thought of turning and waving goodbye. But, no, that would be going too far.

  When she got back to her office, Breanna handed her a telephone-call slip. It was from an attorney named Daniel Freeman. “I looked him up on the web and the phone number listed there is the one he left,” Breanna said. “He looks legit.”

  Nicole went into her office, closed the door, and made the call.

  “Hello, Ms. Graves,” the voice on the line said. “I’m Robert Blair’s attorney, and I need to speak with you as soon as possible.”

  “About what?”

  “His estate and his final instructions,” Freeman said. Then, as if in response to her silent confusion, “About disposal of his body.”

  Her stomach knotted. “What has this got to do with me?”

  “Let’s make an appointment and I’ll explain. We can’t discuss it on the phone. There’s been too much publicity, and you never know who might be listening.”

  “OK,” she said. “Where are you located, and what’s a good time?”

  “I’m in Studio City,” he said, “I have time at 11:00 tomorrow morning, if that’s convenient.”

  She said it was, and he gave her his address. After she hung up, she began to feel uneasy. What if this Freeman person wasn’t who he said he was? But if he was, and he was handling Robert’s estate, what did that mean? Robert had left her his life insurance. What if he’d also left her something in his will? The possibility made her feel queasy, but she had to find out. She’d drive to Studio City, scope out the scene, and decide what to do.

  Six

  Thursday morning was pretty much the same as the previous day. Nicole got to work at 8:00, an hour early, only to encounter the same crowd of paparazzi and TV crews as the day before. She left her car with the valet and fought her way through the pack, who were again assailing her with questions. She told them to call her lawyer. The building’s entrance was fortified with security guards, who made her show her pass before they’d let her in. She cringed at the idea of facing the same mob in a couple of hours when she left to meet with Robert’s lawyer. But there was nothing to be done about it.

  Before settling down to work, she couldn’t resist checking XHN. Sure enough, there was a new story. This one went into her divorce from Brad and the fact that he’d spent time in prison in the UK for money laundering. Oh, no, she thought. This is really bad. She went to the other tabloid and newspaper sites, including the Los Angeles Times. They all had the story. In fact, the Robert Blair murder had gone viral, and every news outlet she checked seemed to have at least a few paragraphs about it.

  She looked at her email and was upset to find it filled with messages from friends, acquaintances, and people she didn’t even know. Her friends offered sympathy and support, while the rest seemed motivated by morbid curiosity. What had happened? What had she seen? Was she a suspect? It occurred to her that some of these messages might be from reporters who’d found her email address on the law firm’s website.

  When Nicole looked at her watch, she was surprised to see it was time to leave for the meeting with Robert’s lawyer. She’d blown most of the morning and accomplished nothing. She grabbed her purse, then retraced her route back down the elevator to the valet station. She handed her parking ticket to the valet, then slipped back into the building to wait. Security guards kept the paparazzi at bay. When her car was brought around, she came out again and shoved her way through the forest of microphones and barrage of questions. The media was especially aggressive today, demanding to know more about her ex-husband and his conviction. They pressed against her as she tried to open the car door, and she had to squeeze her way in. She started the car, then remembered Sue’s instructions. Lowering her window, she told the reporters to call her attorney.

  As soon as she pulled out of the valet lane, a contingent of paparazzi on motorcycles was close behind. She drove quickly, weaving through side streets, but she couldn’t shake them. On Sunset Boulevard, she planned to turn left onto Beverly Drive, which would take her into the San Fernando Valley via Coldwater Canyon. But she knew she couldn’t arrive at Freeman’s office with these jerks on her trail. She slowed, signaling for a left, allowing the paparazzi to pull up beside her in the outside lane. When the light turned green, instead of turning onto Beverly Drive, she made a 120-degree left turn into the driveway of the sprawling grounds of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Meanwhile, her pursuers flew past her up Beverly Drive. Traffic was so thick at the intersection that it was impossible for even the most audacious of them to make a U-turn. She passed the giant pink hotel, then exited the grounds and wove her way westward through back streets. When she reached Beverly Glen, one of the few streets that lead into the San Fernando Valley, she turned north, emerging several miles west of her destination. She was running late, but at least she’d lost the paparazzi.

  Freeman’s office was on Ventura Boulevard, as were countless restaurants, shops, medical buildings, supermarkets, and other businesses that line the eighteen-mile main corridor of the valley. She realized that the attorney’s office was not far from a street that wound its way up to Robert’s house on the hill.

  She parked across the street from the lawyer’s address and walked a long block to the traffic light to cross the busy thoroughfare. A man was waiting at the corner, leaning against the post that held the button to activate the “walk” signal.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I just want to push the button.”

  He moved away from it, then smiled at her and said, “You know, I did push it.” She pressed the button, taking note of his looks.

  He was about her age, tall and lanky with sandy hair and a light sprinkling of freckles. He had a square jaw, a generous mouth, and an interesting angle to his face that went from chin to cheekbones. His blue eyes were fringed with long, fair eyelashes.

  She smiled at him. “Well, maybe you don’t have the golden touch,” she said. Already, the light on Ventura Boulevard was starting to blink yellow, warning traffic to slow down.

  She looked back at the man. “You see?” she said.

  “Thanks,” he said. “If you hadn’t come along, I’d probably be standing here all day.”

  She smiled at him again. Stop doing that, she told herself. Didn’t she have enough problems without picking up strange men on street corners? What was she thinking?

  The pedestrian light was now green. She looked both ways before stepping off the curb. At that moment a dark gray SUV appeared on the adjacent side street. It revved its engine, sped up, and careened around the corner, as if aiming directly at her. The guy she’d been talking to grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back onto the sidewalk. “My god!” They both said it at the same time. Nicole’s heart was thumping in her throat.

  “Th-thank you,” she managed to say. “I think you just saved my life.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t believe he did that. It looked like he really meant to hit you.”

  She watched as the car disappeared in the distance, too far away for her to read the license plate. She remembered the detective’s warning that Robert’s killer might decide she knew something and come after her. On the other hand, she’d had similar close calls when she was crossing a street. This was L.A., where no one walked, and cars were oblivious to anyone foolish enough to attempt to cross a street.

  “Are you OK?” the man said. “You’ve gone all white. Maybe you should sit down.” He gestured toward a bench at the nearby bus stop.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “Josh Mulhern,” he said, putting out a hand to shake hers. “You work around here?”

  “No. I have an appointment.” She ge
stured across the street and glanced at her watch. “And I’m late.” The pedestrian light had turned red again, and she pressed the button, impatiently hitting it twice.

  “How about getting together a little later for lunch?”

  “I can’t,” she said. “I work in Century City. I have to get back.”

  “What about a drink after work?” he persisted.

  She almost agreed, then remembered. She was planning to ask Stephanie to brave the paparazzi and drive her to her place this evening to get her clothes.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s something I have to do tonight,” she said.

  He looked disappointed, and she felt she was being ungracious, especially after he’d pulled her out of the path of that car.

  “Look,” she said, taking her card out of her purse and noting her cell number on the back. “Here’s how to reach me. Give me a call, and maybe I can meet you later in the evening.”

  He beamed at her, taking the card.

  He seemed about to say something else, but just then the pedestrian light turned green again. She gave him a wave and took a careful look around before she hurried across the street. When she reached the other side, she looked back at him. He was still standing on the corner and seemed to be studying her card. She wondered if he’d recognized her name from the news and was deciding further contact was a bad idea. Whatever, she thought. Yet she did find herself thinking she wouldn’t mind meeting him for a drink if he did call.

  The address the lawyer had given her was in a series of small, individual bungalows, each with its own entrance, like an old fashioned motor court. Low rent, she thought. From the sign on his door, DANIEL FREEMAN, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW, he appeared to be a solo practitioner.

  She could understand why Robert wouldn’t use any of the attorneys he worked with. He was too secretive for that. And if—god forbid—Nicole was mentioned in his will, he wouldn’t want the firm to know.

  She opened the door to the office and peeked in. There was a small reception room and a secretary sitting at a desk. An elderly woman reading a magazine was the only occupant of the small waiting area. Nicole stepped inside.