I said, “Those hesitations sound like fear. It could be real.”
“Too scared to use his own phone and leave a name, gee thanks. And just to keep you current, my most weak-willed judge said nyet to subpoenaing the Holmans’ financials so it’s air sandwich for brunch.”
“Could you play the message again?”
When the tape ended, I said, “He knows this Monte well enough to use a name, has seen her with Monte but doesn’t know her well enough to use her name. Maybe I’ve been wrong, the two of them had no relationship and this’ll turn out to be one of those wrong-time, wrong-placers.”
“Bite your tongue, right now I’m going with Mr. Tipster being too freaked to give me everything he knows. Damn pay phone—guy was lucky to find one that works.”
“Where is it?”
“Venice Boulevard near Centinela. Lots of apartments all around.”
I said, “He sounded elderly. The pre-cell generation.”
“Brigid’s been seen at Borodi by herself, maybe she had some connection to it—worked for one of the subs and she was the one who initiated the tryst with Backer. And maybe she knew Monte—or he knew her because your guess about a tradesman was right on. I’m going downtown, get a hands-on with all the permits for the job. Who knows, maybe it’ll be constructive.”
At two p.m., he showed up at my house, lugging his scarred vinyl attaché case. The customary kitchen scrounge produced last night’s chicken and mash, a bottle of ketchup, stalks of celery in need of Viagra. Everything ingested at warp speed while standing at the counter then chased with a carton of orange juice. When he offered Blanche a scrap she turned away.
“Picky?”
“She doesn’t want to deprive you.”
“Empathic.”
“She takes the psych boards this year. I’m predicting a pass.”
Stooping to pet, he sat at the table, unlatched the case. “The general contractor was an outfit named Beaudry, out in La Canada, they specialize in big projects, got a website full of ’em. Not including Borodi.”
“Another confidentiality agreement?”
“I pressed a V.P., couldn’t pry a damn thing out, including any subs. And no knowledge of anyone named Monte. As if he’d tell me different.”
The attaché case rattled, twitching atop the table like a frog in a nasty experiment.
He pulled out his cell phone. “Sturgis ... you’re kidding... on my way.” Standing and brushing bits of chicken from his shirt. “Bit of conflict at the dream palace.”
Scraps of yellow tape blew in the breeze. Two uniformed patrolmen held Doyle Bryczinski by his skinny arms. Thirty feet up, another pair of cops restrained a well-dressed, white-haired man, who wasn’t going down easy. Shouting, one foot stomping; the uniforms looked bored.
Bryczinski said, “Hey, Lieutenant. Could you tell them this is my turf?”
Milo addressed a female officer tagged Briskman. “What’s up?”
“This one and that one took issue with each other’s presence. Loud issue, a neighbor phoned 911. We got it as a 415, possible assault. When we arrived, they were just about ready to tussle.”
“No way I tussle,” said Bryczinski. “Why would I tussle? He’s an old fart, this is my turf.”
Milo placed a finger near Bryczinski’s lips. “Hold on, Doyle.”
“Can they at least let go of me? My arms hurt and I need to get off the leg.”
Milo glanced past Bryczinski, at something big and green-handled, lying just outside the fence. “Bolt cutters, Doyle?”
“Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“An emergency.”
“I put that chain there, Doyle.”
“I wasn’t going to cut nothing. It was just in case I had to go in.”
“For what?”
“What I said, an emergency.”
“Such as?”
“I dunno, another crime? A fire?”
“Why would there be another crime or a fire, Doyle?”
“There wouldn’t, I’m just saying.”
“Saying what?”
“I like to be prepared.”
“If I search your car, Doyle, am I going to find anything criminally useful—or flammable?”
“No way.”
“Do I have permission to search your car?”
Hesitation.
“Doyle?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Let go of him, guys, so he can give me his car key.”
Milo rummaged in the Taurus, came back. “Nothing iffy, Doyle, but I’m gonna have these officers bring you to my office so we can chat some more.”
“I didn’t do nothing, Lieutenant. I can’t leave, I’m on the job—”
“The job’s temporarily suspended, Doyle.”
“What about my car? I leave it there, I’ll get a ticket.”
“I’ll put a sticker on the windshield.”
Bryczinski’s eyes watered. “If I don’t work, company’ll can my ass.”
“We’ll talk at the station, Doyle, everything works out, you’re back here today. But don’t mess with neighbors.”
“He ain’t a neighbor, he’s a maniac. Claims he owns the place and tried to hit me upside the head when I told him to buzz off.”
“Charles Ellston Rutger.”
The man cleared his throat for the third time, smoothed back thin white hair, cast a derisive look.
His houndstooth sport coat was high-grade cashmere with working leather buttons, suede elbow patches, and a cut that said tailor-made, but the lapels were several decades too wide. Knife-pressed cream slacks broke perfectly over spit-shined oxblood loafers. His shirt was once-blue pinpoint oxford faded to lavender-gray and frayed along the rim of the collar. A gold gizmo shaped like a safety pin held the collar in place, elevating the Windsor knot of a pine-green foulard patterned with bugles and foxhounds. More fabric erosion fuzzed the tie. Same for a canary-yellow pocket square.
Charles Rutger’s driver’s license made him sixty-six. Skin as cracked and dry and blotched as the seats of a convertible left open to the elements would have made me guess older. He’d lied about his height and weight, adding an inch or two, subtracting the fifteen pounds that strained the buttons of the sport coat. The white hair, slicked back, waxy and furrowed by comb marks, was topped by a yellowish sheen. Heavy eyelids were specked with tiny wens.
South Pasadena address, not the fashionable part of that city, an apartment unit. The single vehicle registered in his name was a fifteen-year-old maroon Lincoln Town Car. The very same sedan parked haphazardly near the fence.
“Bit of a drive from South Pasadena, Mr. Rutger.”
“This is my homestead, I can get here in my sleep.” Plummy voice, vaguely mid-Atlantic, explicitly disapproving.
“You say you own this property?”
“I don’t say it, basic decency says it. When I heard about what happened, I rushed right over.”
“How’d you find out?”
“The news. Of course.” Charles Ellston Rutger tugged his lapels straight.
“The registered owner is a company named DSD.”
“Towelheads,” said Rutger. “And I won’t shrink from saying so. They bomb us and then we kowtow? Utter rubbish.”
“Arabs,” said Milo.
“Who else? Oil money, otherwise known as blood money, came into play, oh did it! In my day, they’d have been told what for.”
“Not allowed to buy property?”
“Covenants we called them, and a good thing they were.” Turning back toward the framework. “Monstrosity. This was a lovely neighborhood, put Beverly Hills and those people to shame.”
“Those people being...”
“Beverly Hills people. Hollywood. Now it’s them with their oil.”
“Can you give us names of people associated with DS—”
“I can’t give you something I never knew,” said Rutger. “The entire transaction was manipulated by slick Jew lawyers. You’d t
hink they’d avoid each other like the plague. Jews and towelheads. But when it comes to money, there’s common ground.”
“Sir,” said Milo, “we’re investigating a murder, so if there’s something you can—”
“I know what you’re investigating, I just told you I heard it on the news.”
“And rushed right over.”
“Absolutely.”
“Why, Mr. Rutger?”
“Why?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why not? Last I heard this was still a free country.”
“Mr. Rutger, this is a serious case and I don’t have time—”
“Neither do I, Officer. Why did I rush over? Because I’ve been violated. Again.”
“Again?”
“This place was mine, Officer. They took it from me. And now blood has spilled. Barbarians.”
“Tell me how they took it from you, sir.”
“Tell?” said Rutger. “I could write you a book. In fact, I’ve been thinking about doing just that. ‘Pillage of the Innocent.’ It could be a bestseller, given the way people feel about them.”
“How about a summary, Mr. Rutger?”
“Why would you want that?”
“So I can understand—”
“Fine, fine, here’s your summary: a tragedy that symbolizes everything vulgar this country has become. When I was a boy, a beautifully proportioned home sat here. A lovely Georgian Revival designed by Paul Williams. Not that you’d know who that is—”
“Top architect in the forties and fifties,” said Milo. “Black, so he couldn’t live in most of the neighborhoods where he worked.”
Rutger smoothed his tie. “Be that as it may, he knew how to design a home. My father paid for it with honest work, not by manipulating currency or money-changing or scheming.”
“What business was your father in?”
“Honest business. My sister and I grew up in bucolic splendor. Not that she cares... so what do they do? Demolish our lineage and put up that.” His chin quivered. “Visigoths.”
“You were opposed to selling DSD the property but your sister disagreed?”
Rutger glared. “Haven’t you been listening? They stole it from under me.”
“How?”
No answer.
“Sir?”
“No need to get into any of this, Officer.”
“I’d like to anyway.”
“Bully for you, but I do not wish to discuss personal matters.”
“Homicide makes everything public, Mr. Rutger.”
“That does not concern me.” More chin calisthenics. Rutger’s eyes filled with tears. Ripping the pocket square loose, he dabbed. “Blasted dust.”
I said, “You came here because you felt your family’s memory was being sullied all over again.”
Rutger stared at me. “You’re Jewish, aren’t you? My father used to play golf with Rabbi Magnin. Now, there was a shrewd man, used family money to build that temple of his. Big money, from San Francisco. His brothers were haberdashers, knew how to turn a nice profit.”
Milo said, “Are you making an actual claim of ownership to this property, Mr. Rutger?”
“I would if I could find a knight errant willing to do battle.”
“A lawyer to take your case.”
“Cowards,” said Rutger.
“Okay, sir, you need to avoid any more confrontations—hold on, let me finish. Yes, it’s a free country but freedom means responsibility. You’re an educated man, you know that.”
Rutger humphed. “Last I heard, this was still a free country.”
“Sir, this is a crime scene. No unauthorized entry will be tolerated.”
“That’s what he said—that fool in a uniform. He was rude and uncouth and I was compelled to take action.” Holding up two fists. He refolded the handkerchief, repeated until he’d produced a perfect dimple. “I’m leaving now, Officer, but I will not accept any arbitrary pronouncements banning me from my—”
“I have no objection to your driving by, Mr. Rutger. But please don’t stop and try to enter for any reason. And if you do observe something out of the ordinary, call me. Here’s my number.”
Rutger regarded the business card as if it were tainted.
“Sir?” said Milo.
“Just like that?” Rutger snapped his fingers. “You command and I obey?”
“Mr. Rutger, I’m defining limits to avoid future misunderstanding. You may drive by to your heart’s content but do not try to enter the property.”
Charles Ellston Rutger drew himself up. Jacket buttons battled his belly. “At this time, I see no reason to return.”
“Good choice, sir.”
“This is America. I don’t need you to define my choices.”
CHAPTER 13
Rutger’s Town Car rumbled off, squeaking on bad bearings and belching exhaust.
Milo exhaled. “Well, that was different.”
He phoned in Rutger’s name. Several moving violations, nothing criminal. “Crazy old coot but for all his attachment to this heap, I don’t see him having the stamina to climb those stairs with a weapon, dominate, and double-murder.”
“Agreed,” I said. “And despite his age, he doesn’t sound like our tipster.”
We drove back to the station where he let Doyle Bryczinski simmer in an empty interview room and searched the county assessor for the Borodi property’s previous owners.
Only one: the Lanyard A. Rutger Family Trust, established twenty years previously. The trust had sold the place fourteen years later, the transaction handled by Laurence Rifkin, Esq., of Rifkin, Forward, and Levitsky, Beverly Hills. Their website pegged them as tax and estate lawyers.
Milo said, “Start at the top,” phoned and asked for Rifkin. A mellow baritone came on the line surprisingly quickly. “Larry Rifkin here. Police? What’s going on?”
Milo summed up.
Rifkin chuckled. “I’m not laughing about murder. I’m laughing at theater of the absurd. Good old Charlie.”
“You’ve got a history with him?”
“I can’t believe he’s still claiming he was defrauded. He was the one who pushed the sale in the first place, Lieutenant. On top of being crazy, he must be going senile.”
“So any claim of fraud is groundless.”
“Groundless? It’s insane. Here’s what it boils down to: Lanyard, their father—Charlie’s and Leona’s, that’s Charlie’s sister—made some money in manufacturing and investments but by the time he’d died, he’d lost quite a bit in the market and once debts were settled there wasn’t much estate left. You know the rich, my treasures, your junk? Paintings Charlie thought were priceless turned out to be piddling, same for a bunch of supposedly rare books that weren’t first editions. The only sizable asset was residential real estate: three houses, worth maybe five mil at the time. The place on Borodi was the biggest-ticket item. Lan built it back in the forties, got Paul Williams to design, the place was gorgeous. There’s also a chalet-type weekend place with a dock on Lake Arrowhead, and a three-acre spread in Palm Springs. Lan died ten years ago, made it to ninety-one, but Barbara—his wife—died when she was much younger, so everything went to the kids. Leona’s a doctor, oncologist, lovely lady. Lan was a perceptive man and named her the executor. Technically, that was logical but it accomplished the obvious.”
“Family strife.”
“Charlie strife. We—my dad was still alive, headed the firm—tried to talk Lan out of designating Leona, suggested we should execute. Or Lan could find someone at one of his banks. He wouldn’t hear of it.”
“And Charlie went ballistic.”
“Nuclear. Pitting one sib against the other is always a disaster and these sibs never had much in common to begin with. Not that Leona didn’t try to make nice with Charlie. You won’t meet a more reasonable human being. But Charlie’s another matter, you don’t need to be a psychologist to see why he resents Leona. She’s everything he isn’t: smart, accomplished, happily married, a gem.”
“Charlie never got it together.”
“Charlie has spent nearly seventy years in a dream-state.”
“Delusional?”
“That’s another name for it,” said Rifkin. “I can tell you all this because we don’t represent him and nothing’s confidential. In fact, he became our adversary, has threatened to sue us numerous times.”
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