I then checked the house’s appraised value. Scrolling down, I let out a long, low whistle. Wow. Here was the reason Peter and I would never be able to buy a house in a place like Santa Monica. Abigail’s admittedly lovely but certainly not palatial home was appraised at 2.1 million dollars. Yes, you read that right: 2.1 million. And that was only the appraised value. Who knows what she could have sold it for on the open market?
So much for the house. I clicked over to the central coast property. The line of title on that was even simpler. The property had been purchased in 1914 by Alexander Hall Hathaway. It was now owned by the Hall Hathaway Family Trust, with Abigail Hathaway listed as trustee. The ranch’s appraised value was a cool twenty-six million dollars. Good news for Abigail, but meaningless to Mooney. Inherited property is not subject to the community property laws. He would have gotten none of it had they divorced. Presumably, however, he wouldn’t get any part of it at her death, either. I was pretty confident that the ranch would go to the Hathaway heir—Audrey.
The only thing left to figure out was the ownership status of the commercial holdings—the various apartment buildings and lots sprinkled throughout town. It took me a while, but I finally managed to figure out who owned what. It appeared, curiously, that Abigail was the sole owner of each of the rental units and of the vacant lots. The commercial building on Wilshire Boulevard was owned by an entity called “Abigail Hathaway Ltd.,” a limited partnership. Clicking over to the business listings, I entered the name “Abigail Hathaway Ltd.” and, after a short wait, came up with a description of the partnership. Its sole member was Abigail Hathaway herself.
I returned to the property screens and spent some time trying to figure out the chain of title of the various buildings. They were all sold to Abigail Hathaway between 1989 and 1995. Interestingly, all the properties except the Wilshire office building and one of the empty lots had been sold to Abigail by the same entity, Moonraker, Inc. Moonraker—it had to be Daniel Mooney.
I tried to figure out who, exactly, constituted Moonraker, Inc., but found myself lost in a tangled web of owners, partners, lienholders, and the like. Finally I gave up. I needed someone with real experience in the field to help make sense of what I’d found. I carefully downloaded all the relevant documents and put them into my Animal Musings file.
It was only once I’d logged off, and put my computer to sleep, that I realized how sore my neck was and how my back ached. I stretched my head from side to side and cracked my neck. Detective work was exhausting. And it made me hungry. I waddled to the kitchen and made myself a bowl of ice cream. I added a dollop of butterscotch sauce and a squirt of whipped cream. I was about to return the whipped cream canister to the fridge when I had a sudden, irresistible urge: I leaned my head back, opened my mouth, and sprayed it full of whipped cream. Coughing and swallowing, I took my light snack to bed.
Twelve
THE next morning, after I’d fed Ruby and settled her in front of Sesame Street, I sat at the kitchen table and tried to think of someone who could help me figure out the meaning of what I’d discovered the night before. I needed a real estate lawyer. Fortunately, one of the benefits of going to Harvard Law School is that my old friends and classmates are successfully employed all over the country in good law firms, and, generally, when I need some legal advice, it’s easy to find. Unfortunately, in this particular instance, I could come up with only one name: Jerome Coley. Jerome had come to Harvard Law School via the governor’s office in Sacramento, where he’d been one of the youngest press secretaries ever to hold the position. Before that he’d been a linebacker for Stanford’s football team and had been named All-American two years in a row. He was a complete hotshot. After graduation, Jerome had taken a job in Los Angeles at a prominent local firm and, as I recalled, specialized in real estate law.
There was, however, a slight complication: Jerome had been my boyfriend throughout my second and third years of law school, although our relationship never got as serious as it might have. We just weren’t meant to be. He was one of those guys whose ambition is palpable. He knew exactly what he was going to do with his life. He told most people that his goal was to be a senator from the state of California. He confided in me his real dream: to be president. I didn’t have much doubt that he’d succeed.
Jerome had his whole life planned out. After establishing himself in the legal community, he intended to run for Congress, serve a few terms, and then make a play for the Senate seat. A white wife didn’t figure into his plans. Jerome believed that Californians would have a hard enough time electing a 6-foot-6, 280-pound black man to office without the added benefit of a 5-foot-tall Jewish wife standing proudly at his side. He was probably right.
Anyway, after we’d broken up he’d met and married a sweet young woman of the correct race, the daughter of friends of his parents. We hadn’t spoken since our final blowout in the middle of commencement ceremonies (I’d accused him of being a calculating son of a bitch, and he’d responded by accusing me of using our relationship as a sop to my white, liberal guilt), and I wasn’t sure how he’d react to a phone call from me. But no matter how hard I racked my brain, I could not come up with a single other real estate lawyer. I had no choice but to give Jerome a call.
I telephoned information, got the name of his firm, and dialed the number before I had time to change my mind. The receptionist put me through to him.
“Jerome Coley.” He answered his own phone.
“Hi, Jerry. You’ll never guess who this is.”
“Juliet Applebaum.” There wasn’t even a pause!
“Wow. You recognized my voice after all this time!”
“I’d never forget your voice. How you doing, baby?” Baby?
“Um, okay, pregnant. Again.”
“Really? I’d heard you had a kid. Girl, right?”
“Right. Her name is Ruby. This one’s a boy.”
“Ruby. Pretty name. Is she as beautiful as her mama?”
“Well, since her mama weighs about three hundred pounds right now and has ankles the size of soccer balls, I’d say she’s definitely more beautiful.”
“I can’t believe that. You always look good. Even fat, you’d look good.”
This conversation was unbelievable. With a little shiver I remembered how Jerome had always made me feel. Kind of like a melted ice-cream cone. Pulling myself together, I quickly redirected the conversation.
“So you’re not mad at me anymore?” I asked.
“Of course not. Are you still mad at me?”
“Of course not. Bygones and all that.”
“Right. So you calling to ask forgiveness, or is there some ulterior motive up your adorable little sleeve?”
I laughed. “You still know me a little, don’tcha, Jer.”
“Yes, I surely do.”
“Well, I do have an ulterior motive, but first tell me how you’re doing. How’s Jeanette? Do you guys have any kids yet?”
“She’s fine. She’s been home for the past year and a half with our twin boys, Jerome, Jr., and Jackson.”
“Twins? Wow! You must be exhausted!”
He laughed the deep, rolling chuckle that I remembered so well.
“Indeed. Indeed we are.”
“And your job, Jer? How’s that going?”
“Just fine. I made partner last year.”
“I’m not surprised.” I wasn’t. He was a smart guy, and more importantly, he had always been a team player.
“Congratulations. That’s terrific.”
“And, Juliet, you probably won’t be surprised to hear that I’m running for Congress next fall. Richard Baker is stepping down, and I’m going to be running for his seat.”
“Now, that’s what I expected to hear!” I said. “I figured it was about time for you to be heading to Washington.”
“You know the plan, girl. You know the plan.”
We both paused, considering for a moment that, but for “the plan,” there was a good chance we would be living together right now,
making little café au lait babies of our own. Ah, well, such is life. We were both happily married, at least I was, and the better off for our breakup.
I decided to get down to business. “Jerome, I have a couple of questions about a series of real estate transactions that I’ve been looking into, and I wonder if you might be able to give me some help.”
“Of course, baby.”
Baby again. He used to call me that in that same deep, sweet voice while we made love. Over and over again. Steeling myself, I got my mind out of the gutter and into the present and concentrated on my questions.
“Okay. First of all, do you have any idea what Moonraker, Inc., is? Have you ever heard of them?”
“Moonraker. Moonraker. That rings a bell. Hmm.” He paused for a moment. “I think I remember something about that company. Hold on a second, let me check a file.”
He put me on hold long enough for me to get a little too involved in a fond recollection of the past.
“I’m back. I just checked with a colleague. I thought I’d remembered that name. Moonraker played a small role in a series of deals the firm did in the mid-eighties or so. Things got a little ugly when the market went bust in 1989, and we haven’t done any work with them since. They might have gone under. A lot of smaller companies did back then.”
Pay dirt.
“Do you happen to remember the name of the principal owner of Moonraker?”
“I didn’t, but my partner did. He told me that it was owned by a guy named Mooney. Hence the name. Cute.”
“Daniel Mooney?”
“He didn’t say. Maybe. Are you doing some kind of deal with Moonraker? Is he back in business?”
“No, nothing like that. Tell me, can you think of a reason why Moonraker would sell off its properties?”
“Well, that’s a no-brainer. Real estate transactions are highly leveraged. That means everyone borrows heavily to make each deal. If enough of its deals fell through to force Moonraker to go under, it would have to sell off its assets to pay off its debt.”
“That makes sense. Now, can you think of a reason why Moonraker would sell its assets to Mooney’s wife?”
“Interesting. Well, maybe Mooney wanted to protect his properties from creditors and was under the impression that if he made them the personal property of his wife they would be exempt from dissolution and distribution. That would have been a mistake on his part, however. You can’t protect property just like that.”
“Why not?” I asked. I didn’t do that well in property law.
“Well, think about it, baby. If you could just sell off your assets to your family, no creditor would ever get anything when a business went bankrupt.”
“Oh, right. Then why did he do it?”
“Maybe his wife bailed him out. That’s the only thing I can think of. Maybe his wife bought his properties to give him the cash to pay off his creditors. Does she have that kind of money?”
“I think she must have.” Abigail Hathaway had the money to pay off her husband’s debt, but instead of giving it to him, she bought his properties. So she ended up owning everything and he ended up owing her for the rest of his life.
“Juliet, what’s your interest here? Who are you representing?”
“Nobody. I’m not representing anybody. I’m just, well, I’m just sort of investigating a murder.”
“You’re what?”
“Abigail Hathaway, Daniel Mooney’s wife, was killed last week. I knew her and I’m sort of trying to figure out who killed her.”
“You know, I always thought you’d make a good cop. So you think this guy Mooney killed her and you’re going to cuff him and bring him in.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny, Jer. I’m not cuffing anybody. It’s just that the cops have decided that this is a hit-and-run, which it may well be. Nonetheless, I think it’s worth an extra look. I’ve been spending a little time nosing around. I think you’ve helped me discover something pretty important.”
He laughed again. “Juliet Applebaum, private eye. Hey, girl, don’t go getting yourself into any trouble.”
“You know what, I kind of like the sound of that: Applebaum, P.I. Anyway, don’t worry, I’m not getting into any trouble. And, Jerome?”
“What?”
“Thanks. You’ve been a great help.”
“You’re welcome, baby. Anytime.”
“Watch out or I’ll take you up on that. Regards to your wife and sons.”
“Good luck with your new baby, baby.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. I said good-bye, thanking him again for his advice, and hung up the phone.
I sat for a moment, staring into space, indulging a brief but nonetheless highly disconcerting fantasy about Jerome and the lazy afternoons we used to spend in his studio apartment in Cambridge. I had fond, very fond, memories of the god-awful, green shag carpeting. It was made out of some horrible acrylic and once gave me such a bad rug burn on my rear end that I could barely sit for a week. With a shiver, I realized that there was only one way I was going to exorcise the demon of Jerome Coley. After checking to make sure that Ruby was still busy with the number 16 and the letter R, I snuck into my bedroom and woke up my husband. Substituting reality for fantasy turned out to be just what I needed.
AFTER I had successfully reminded myself that I was happily married, Peter and I took a quick shower together. I grabbed a pink razor that was sitting in the soap dish and tried to shave my legs. I leaned over and, about halfway down toward my knees, I got stuck. I couldn’t bend over far enough. I looked up at my husband, who was rinsing the shampoo out of his hair.
“Um, honey?” I said beseechingly, holding the razor up to him. “It’s that time again.”
“Really? Already? Last time you could shave your own legs up until the last couple of weeks,” he said with a laugh.
“Well, I’m just fatter now, if you don’t mind.”
“All right, prop your leg up here.”
Groaning with the effort, I balanced my leg on the side of the tub. Peter bent down under the spray of the shower and delicately and carefully shaved my leg clean. I reached over and wiped the streaming water out of his eyes. What I really wanted to do was kiss the top of his head, but I couldn’t reach it. What a lovely man. How many guys do you know who would shave their pregnant wife’s legs? I know exactly one. And I married him.
Suddenly, with a crash, the bathroom door burst open. Peter and I both jumped, and I felt a sting as the razor sliced into my shin.
“Ow! Dammit!” I hollered. “Ruby! What in heaven’s name are you doing?”
“Nothing!” she wailed. “I’m lonely!” I ended up crouched on the bathmat, soaking wet and dripping blood and water, trying at the same time both to dry off and to comfort a righteously indignant toddler.
Thirteen
PETER did me a favor and took Ruby out for the rest of the morning so I could do a little more research. I noodled around on the Internet for a while, trying to see if I could come up with some more dirt on either Daniel Mooney or his feline friend. After an unsuccessful hour or so, I was getting very frustrated. Looking at my watch, I realized that if I rushed, I could make my prenatal Yoga class. I definitely needed to clear my head, and moving my body probably wasn’t a bad idea. I hoisted myself out of my chair, waddled into my bedroom, and began the arduous process of cramming my body into my maternity Yoga cat suit. Getting my thighs into that Lycra outfit was an awful lot like stuffing a sausage casing.
I was stuck somewhere between my knees and my butt when the phone rang. I lunged over to the night-stand, and fumbling for the phone, knocked the receiver onto the floor. I spent a couple of frantic seconds on my hands and knees, tangled in my leggings, trying to reach under the bed where the receiver had rolled. Finally, I managed to herd the dust bunnies into a corner and answer the phone.
“Yeah? Hello?” I was panting from exertion.
“Um, hello? Juliet? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, fine. I’m fine. Who is this?”
“It’s Audrey. Audrey Hathaway. Abigail’s daughter. I’m sorry. I hope it’s okay to call you. I mean, you said I could call but you were probably, like, just being nice or something. I shouldn’t have called. Forget it. I’m—”
“Audrey! I’m so glad to hear from you,” I interrupted her. “Of course you can call. I wanted you to call. Are you okay? Why are you calling? I mean, it’s fine, but is there something wrong?”
“No. Yes. I dunno.” And she started to cry. I sure had a calming effect on that girl.
“Honey, shh. It’s okay, sweetie. Are you just sad? Is that it?”
“No.” She hiccuped. “I mean, yes, I’m sad, but that’s not why I’m calling. I’m totally freaking out here and I have no one to talk to and then I found your number and you’re so sweet and I thought you maybe might be there because you’re, like, pregnant and can’t go anywhere anyway.” With that, she began to wail.
I looked down at my legs, still trapped in Lycra. She wasn’t far wrong—I certainly didn’t give the appearance of anyone who should be leaving the house.
“Should I come over? Do you want me to come over?” I asked.
“No!” she shouted. “No! Not here!”
“Can I meet you somewhere? Do you want to come over to my house?”
She was sitting in my kitchen, drinking hot chocolate, within twenty minutes.
I let Audrey sit quietly for a little while, slurping cocoa and eating cookies. Her multicolored hair was shoved into a baseball cap, and she was wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of pants so big they looked like I could climb into them with her. I wasn’t sure if she was pathologically ashamed of her body, or just expressing the height of a teenage fashion I was too clueless to even know about. Finally Audrey squared her shoulders and seemed to make some kind of decision.
“If I tell you something, like absolutely, totally insane, will you swear that you won’t think I’m crazy?”
“You’re not crazy, Audrey.”
“I know I’m not crazy. I just don’t want you to think I am.”
Nursery Crimes Page 12
