Milo said, "Think he was too conservative?"
"One doesn't judge," said Anger. "With what he'd put together from the strut royalties, he could have invested in real estate and parlayed it into a really sizable estate two or three hundred million.
But he insisted on security, no risks, and we did as told. Continue to do so."
"You've been his banker since the beginning?"
"Fiduciary has. My father founded the bank. He worked directly with Arthur."
Anger's face creased. Sharing credit with reluctance. No portraits of The Founder in here. None out in the main room of the bank, either.
None of Arthur Dickinson in the house he'd built. I wondered why.
Milo said, "You pay all her bills?"
"Everything except small cash purchases-minor household expenditures."
"How much do you pay out each month?"
"One moment," said Anger, swiveling to face the computer. He turned on the machine, waited until it had booted up and beeped a welcome, then hunted and pecked, waited, typed some more, and sat forward as the screen was filled with letters.
"Here we go last month's bills totaled thirty-two thousand two hundred fifty-eight and thirty-nine cents. The month before that, a little over thirty-that's about typical."
Milo got up, walked behind the desk, and looked at the screen.
Anger began to shield it with his hand, protecting his data like a Goody Two-Shoes kid guarding an exam. But Milo was looming over him, already copying, and the banker let his hand drop.
"As you can see," he said, "the family lives comparatively simply.
Most of the budget goes to cover staff salaries, basic maintenance on the house, insurance premiums."
"No mortgages?"
"None. Arthur bought the beach house for cash and lived there while he built the main house."
"What about taxes?"
"They're paid out of a separate account. If you insist I'll call up the file, but you'll learn nothing from it."
"Humor me," said Milo.
Anger rubbed his jaw and typed a line. The computer made digestive noises. He rubbed his jaw again and I noticed that the skin along his mandible was slightly irritated. He'd shaved before coming over.
"Here," he said as the screen flashed amber. "Last year's federal and state taxes amounted to just under a million dollars."
"That leaves about two-and-a-half to four million to play with."
"Approximately."
"Where does it go?"
"We reinvest it."
"Stocks and bonds?"
Anger nodded.
"Does Mrs. Ramp take any cash out for herself?"
"Her personal allowance is ten thousand dollars per month."
"Allowance?"
"Arthur set it up that way."
"Is she allowed to take more?"
"The money's hers, Mr. Sturgis. She can take whatever she wants.
"Does she?"
"Does she what?"
"Take more than ten.
"No."
"What about Melissa's expenses?"
"Those are covered by a separate trust fund."
"So we're talking a hundred twenty thousand a year for how many years?"
"Since Arthur died."
I said, "He died just before Melissa was born. That makes it a little over eighteen years.
"Eighteen times twelve is what," said Milo. "Around two hundred months.
"Two sixteen," said Anger reflexively.
"Times ten thou is over two million dollars. If Mrs. Ramp put it in another bank and earned interest, it could have doubled, right?"
"There'd be no reason for her to do that," said Anger.
"Where is it, then?"
"What makes you think it's anywhere, Mr. Sturgis? She probably spent it-on personal items."
"Two million plus worth of personal items?"
"I assure you, Mr. Sturgis, that ten thousand dollars a month for a woman of her standing is hardly worth considering."
Milo said, "Guess you're right."
Anger smiled. "It's easy to be staggered by the idea of all those zeroes. But believe me, that kind of money is inconsequential and it goes fast. I have clients who spend more on a single fur coat. Now is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Sturgis?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Ramp share any accounts?"
"No."
"Mr. Ramp do his banking here, too?"
"Yes, but I'd prefer you talk to him directly about his finances."
"Sure," said Milo. "Now how about those credit-card numbers?"
Anger's fingers danced across the keyboard. Machine-burp.
Flash. "There are three cards. American Express, Visa, and MasterCard." He pointed. "These are the numbers. Below each are the credit allowances and purchase totals for the current fiscal year."
"This all of it?" said Milo, writing.
"Yes, it is, Mr. Sturgis."
Milo copied. "Between all three, she's got around a fiftythousand monthly credit line."
"Forty-eight thousand five hundred and fifty-five."
"No purchases on the American Express-not much on any of them. Looks like she doesn't buy much."
"No need to," said Anger. "We take care of everything."
"Kind of like being a kid," said Milo.
"Beg pardon?"
"The way she lives. Like being a little kid. Getting an allowance, having all her needs taken care of, no fuss, no muss."
Anger's hand clawed above the keyboard. "I'm sure it's amusing to ridicule the rich, Mr. Sturgis, but I've noticed you're not immune to material amusements.
"That so?"
"Your Porsche. You chose it because of what it means to you."
"Oh, that," said Milo, rising. "That's borrowed. My regular transportation's much less meaningful."
"Really," said Anger.
Milo looked at me. "Tell him."
"He drives a moped," I said. "Better for stakeouts."
"Except when it rains," said Milo. "Then I take an umbrella."
Back in the Porsche, he said, "Looks like little Melissa may have been wrong about Stepdaddy's intentions."
"True love?" I said. "Yet they don't sleep together."
Shrug. "Maybe Ramp loves her for the purity of her soul."
"Or maybe he intends one day to contest the prenuptial."
"What a suspicious guy," he said. "In the meantime, there's all that allowance money to wonder about."
"Two million?" I said. "Chump change. Don't get staggered by a few zeroes, Mr. Sturgis."
"Heaven forfend."
He got back on Cathcart, drove slowly. "Thing is, he's got a point.
Her kind of income, a hundred twenty a year, could seem like petty cash. If she spent it. But after being up in her room, I don't see where it went. Books and magazines and a home gym don't add up to a hundred twenty gees a year-hell, she didn't even have a VCR.
There's the therapy, but that's only for the last year. Unless she's got some secret charity, eighteen years' worth of unspent allowance would have accumulated to something pretty tidy. By anyone's standards.
Maybe I should have checked her mattress.
"Could be that's where the money for the Cassatt came fromboth Cassatts."
"Possible," he said. "But that still leaves plenty. If she did deposit it in another bank, we'd be hard-pressed to find it any time soon.
"How could she deal with another bank without leaving the house?"
"That kind of money at stake, plenty of banks would come to her."
"Neither Ramp nor Melissa mentioned any visits from bankers."
"True," he said. "So maybe she just stashed it. For a rainy day.
And maybe the rainy day came and she's got it clutched in her hot little hand right now.
I thought about that.
He said, "What?"
"Rich lady hauling megabucks in a Rolls. It spells victim."
He nodded. "In a hundred goddam languages."
We
drove back to Sussex Knoll to get my car. The gates were closed but two floodlights above them had been switched on. Welcome Home lights.
A stretch at optimism that seemed pitiful in the stillness of the early morning hours.
I said, "Forget the car. I'll pick it up tomorrow."
Without a word, Milo turned around and headed back toward Cathcart, putting on speed and handling the Porsche better than I'd ever seen.
We sped west onto California, made the transition to Arroyo Seco in what seemed like seconds. Then the freeway, barren and dark and wind-lashed.
But Milo kept searching anyway, turning his head from side to side, checking the rearview. Waiting until we'd hit the downtown interchange before cranking the volume up on the scanner and listening to the hurts people were choosing to inflict on one another as a new day began.
When I got home I was still wound up. I went down to the pond and found clusters of spawn clinging bravely to some of the plants at the edge of the water. Heartened, I climbed back up to the house and wrote. Made myself drowsy in fifteen minutes and barely got my clothes off before tumbling into bed.
I awoke at six-forty A. M. Friday and called Melissa an hour later.
"Oh," she said, sounding disappointed it was me. "I already talked to Mr. Sturgis. Nothing new.
"Sorry."
"I did exactly as he said, Dr. Delaware. Called every airline at every airport-even San Francisco and San Jose, which he didn't mention.
Because she could have headed north, right? Then I phoned every hotel and motel I could find in the Yellow Pages, but no one had any record of her checking in. I think he's starting to realize it might be serious."
"Why's that?"
"Because he agreed to talk to McCloskey."
"I see.
"Is he really good, Dr. Delaware? As a detective?"
"Best I know."
"I think he is, too. I actually like him better than when I first met him. But I've really got to be sure. Because no one else seems to care. The police aren't doing anything-Chickering acts as if I'm wasting his time by calling. And Don's gone back to work-can you believe that?"
"What are you doing?"
"Staying right here and waiting. And praying-I haven't prayed since I was a little kid. Before you helped me." Pause. "I keep going back and forth between expecting her to walk in at any moment and feeling really sick to my stomach when I realize she could be-I've got to stay here. I don't want her coming home to an empty house."
"Makes sense.
"In the meantime, I think I'm going to try some hotels up north. Maybe Nevada, too, because that really isn't very far by car, is it? Can you think of anywhere else that would be logical?"
"I guess any of the bordering states," I said.
"Good idea."
"Is there anything you need, Melissa? Anything I can do for you?"
Bye."
"No," she said quickly. "No, thanks."
"I'll be coming out there today anyway. To get my car."
"Oh. Sure. Whatever."
"If you want to talk, just let me know."
"Sure."
"Take care, Melissa."
"I will, Dr. Delaware. Better keep this line open, just in case.
The phone barked: "Sturgis."
"Well," I said, "it's a lot better than "Yeah?"
"Hey, I'm a working man now. What's up?"
"I just got off the phone with Melissa. She told me the two of you conferred."
"She talked; I listened. If that's conferred, I guess we did."
"Sounds as if she's been keeping herself busy."
"She worked all night. Kid's got energy."
"Adrenaline overdrive," I said.
"Want me to tell her to cool it?"
"No, it's okay for the time being. She's dealing with her anxiety by making herself feel useful. I am concerned about what'll happen if her mother doesn't show up soon and her defenses start to crack."
"Yeah. Well, she's got you for that. Any time you want her to ease off I just let me know."
"As if she'd listen."
"True," he said.
"So," I said, "nothing new?"
"Not a damn thing. The bulletin has been expanded statewide and into Nevada and Arizona, and the credit checks are all in place.
So far no big-ticket purchases have been phoned in. Small stuff is tabulated when the merchants mail in the receipts, so we'll have to wait on that. I double-checked some of the places Melissa called mostly airlines and luxury hotels. No one fitting Mommy's description checked in during the night. I'm waiting for the passport office to open at eight, just in case she opted for long-distance travel. Told Melissa to keep working the local lines. Actually, she's a damn good assistant."
"She said you agreed to see McCloskey."
"I told her I'd do it some time today. Can't hurt-nothing else is panning out.
"What time were you planning on visiting him?"
"Fairly soon. I've got a call in to Douse the lawyer. He's supposed to get back to me by nine. I want to verify some of the things Anger told me. If Douse is willing to answer my questions over the phone, I'll take on McCloskey soon as I'm finished. If not, it'll mean a couple of hours' delay hassling Downtown. But McCloskey doesn't live that far from the law office, so either way I should be there before noon. Whether or not I find him's another story.
"Pick me up."
"Got plenty of free time?"
"Free enough."
"Fine," he said.
"You buy lunch."
He came by at nine-forty, honking the horn of his Fiat. By the time I got outside, he'd parked in the carport.
"Lunch and transportation," he said, pointing to the Seville I'd picked up from Melissa's house. Milo had on a gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie.
"Where to?"
"Downtown. I'll direct you."
I drove down the Glen to Sunset, got on the 405 south, then switched to the Santa Monica Freeway east. Milo pushed his seat back as far as it went.
"How'd it go with the lawyer?" I said.
"More of the same doublespeak we got at First Fidoosh-I had to engage in the requisite pissing contest before he cooperated. But once he gave in, the guy's inherent laziness took over-more than happy to talk on the phone. Probably bill the estate for every second of it.
Basically he confirmed everything Anger had said: Ramp gets fifty thou; Melissa takes the rest. Mom inherits if anything happens to Melissa.
If both of them go before Melissa's had kids, all of it goes to charity."
"Any specific charities?"
"Medical research. I asked him to send me copies of all the documents-he said he'd need Melissa's written permission for that.
Which I don't see as any big problem. I also asked him if he had any idea how Gina spent her allowance. Like Anger, he didn't seem to think a hundred and twenty grand was anything worth messing with."
Traffic was light until a mile before the interchange, where it started to curdle.
"Get off at Ninth and take it to L.A" said Milo.
I followed his directions north on Los Angeles Street, drove through run-down blocks filled with fashion outlets shrieking bankruptcy bargains, discount appliance stores, import-export concerns, and pay parking lots. To the west a range of mirror-glass high-rises rose like synthetic mountains built on soft soil, Federal redevelopment funds, and Pacific Rim optimism. To the east was the industrial belt that divided Downtown from Boyle Heights.
Downtown was doing its usual split-personality routine: Fasttalking, fast-walking Power Dressers, Wannabee Tycoons, and stifflipped secretaries sharing turf with bleary-eyed, filth-encrusted human shells transporting their life stories in purloined shopping carts and verminous bedrolls.
At Sixth Street, the shells took over, hordes of them congregating on street corners, slumping in the doorways of boarded-up businesses, sleeping in the shadows of overflowing dumpsters. I caught a red light at Fifth. The taxi in the next lane shot the light and nearly ran
over a long-haired, smudge-eyed blond man dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and torn jeans. The man began cursing at the top of his lungs and, with scabbed tattooed hands, slapped the trunk of the cab as it sped on. Two uniformed cops issuing a jaywalking citation to a young Mexican girl across the street paused to observe the tantrum, then returned to their paperwork.
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 06 - Private Eyes Page 28
