The Return of the Fallen Angels Book Club (A Hollis Morgan Mystery 3)

by R. Franklin James

  Richard had prepared a worksheet and now he handed copies around the table “Hey, guys, you’re just looking at one year. When you dig into the schedule, there are fourteen instances of declared gambling proceeds from previous years offsetting twice that number of gambling losses.”

  “You are kidding me,” Gene repeated.

  Rena lifted a single well-arched eyebrow. “Are you telling us Jeffrey was rich? I’m sorry, but there’s something wrong here. I don’t believe it.”

  Hollis frowned. “We all put him on a pedestal, but he’s still human. Besides, having money or even being a gambler doesn’t make him a criminal.”

  “Hey, he was honest enough to report their gains on a tax return.” Miller smiled. “You’ve got to give him credit for that.”

  “He doesn’t need our credit,” Hollis snapped. “Is that all, Richard?”

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.” He straightened his papers into a small stack. “Maybe you could ask Brian to hunt around for Frances’ old tax returns. Then we would know for sure she’s the shark.”

  Gene nodded. “Let Hollis and me see what we can do. Did you find out anything, Rena?”

  “Well, Frances doesn’t circulate in any social circles I’m familiar with. I’m checking with some friends to see if she has made any significant fundraising or charitable contributions. But now—knowing she hangs out with a whole different crowd—I’ll check some other sources.”

  Richard smiled. “You know any mobsters?”

  Rena didn’t smile back. “Maybe.”

  “Okay, let’s focus,” Hollis chided. “We’re pulling in all these pieces about a man’s life. But what does it have to do with Brian’s hunch that Frances is up to no good?” She rubbed her forehead. “Miller, see what you can find out about their vacation last year in Hawaii.” She handed him a sheet of paper. “Here. Brian provided a copy of their reservation. It’s a real long shot that anyone will remember them—”

  “Actually, I know someone who heads the Hawaiian hotel trade association. They might be able to give me a contact with the hotel staff.” Miller pulled out a highlighter and underlined the hotel name and date.

  Hollis smiled. “That’s good. I’m going to see if I can speak with the attorney who drew up the trust. He might have insights that he’d be willing to share.”

  “And I’ll keep digging,” Richard said.

  The next morning, Hollis’ first call was to Brian Wallace. She was relieved when he agreed to sign a client form appointing her co-executor, although at half her hourly rate. Still, George was right to insist she sign him. Now she’d have access to Triple D’s resources and the clout of the firm’s name when she contacted the trust attorney for the Wallaces—her next call.

  The firm offices of Sloane & Stivers weren’t far from Hollis’ own. When she reached Anthony Stivers over the phone, she could tell that he wasn’t wild about speaking with her.

  She thought she heard papers shuffling as he spoke. “I’m not sure what I could tell you about the trust. The contents speak for themselves. It’s clear the family didn’t want to continue with my services.”

  Hollis understood his reluctance to brief someone he perceived as stealing his client.

  “Yes, I could tell it was a well-written trust, but I represent his son, who is the executor. My questions are not about the trust itself. I won’t take a lot of your time.”

  Shuffle. Shuffle.

  “I have an opening at two o’clock this afternoon. Will that work for you?” he said.

  Hollis smiled to herself. “That will work just fine. See you then.”

  She marked her calendar and then tried again to reach Shelby. No answer. She left another message on her cellphone.

  Hollis took out Jeffrey’s trust and took detailed notes on a separate pad. It was a boilerplate revocable trust with Frances having use of all the assets until her death, at which time the remainder would pass to Brian. Both Frances and Jeffrey had separate pour-over wills, which specified that assets not included or known at the time of the original trust would become assets of the trust upon the party’s death. It also allowed specific bequests to be made outside of the formal trust. Hollis knew that clients used it primarily for personal items they wanted to go to specific beneficiaries. The trust was very straightforward. She flipped through the pages of the wills.

  Jeffrey had bequeathed all his separate and personal possessions to Brian. The remainder of his estate, if Frances did not survive him, would go to Brian while he was alive, then to the Public Library Foundation.

  She read on. Frances’ will paralleled Jeffrey’s, except that all her personal items went to a sister in Oregon.

  For a brief moment, Hollis thought of her own possessions. Did she have anything of value to leave behind to someone who would care? Just as quickly she put the thought aside. She hadn’t spoken to her family since before the trial. Her sister had emailed her after it was over to say that the family was embarrassed by her involvement but relieved that Hollis wasn’t implicated.

  She squared her shoulders. No one in her family had responded to her letter indicating she had passed the bar.

  Anthony Stivers didn’t have a corner office, but he had a real fireplace and an expansive sixteenth-floor view of the San Raphael Bridge. More importantly, he validated parking. All these advantages gained him high marks from Hollis. His firm was located in a recently renovated early 1900s bank building. The original structure had only five floors. A UC Berkeley architectural student had won a national contest for the best reuse design, allowing the building to retain its historic interest while gaining eleven new floors. The original façade treatment was carefully integrated, giving the landmark a new life.

  Stivers’ appearance matched the building. He wore a crisp white shirt, gold cuff links, button-down navy sweater vest, navy bow tie, and gray slacks. He looked very early 20th century. Hollis couldn’t help but glance at his desk, expecting to see the kind of green eye shade worn by professionals in the early 20th century to protect them from the glare of the newly invented light bulb.

  “Water? Juice?” His wiry Ichabod Crane frame moved stiffly, and gestures were almost robotic.

  Hollis declined.

  “Very well.” He came from around his desk and sat in the adjacent chair. “What can I tell you about the Wallace trust?”

  Hollis had her opening. “Does the client meeting stand out in your mind at all? Do you remember Jeffrey and Frances Wallace?”

  “When you called, I remembered them only slightly. Since then I reviewed their file and re-read their trust documents.” He picked up a pair of glasses, put them snugly up against the bridge of his nose and opened up a green legal file. “I remember them well. It’s hard to believe Jeffrey is dead. Do they know who did it? He didn’t really want a trust—too expensive for his tastes. Like most people, he thought a will would be sufficient. Fortunately, he left all decisions on finances up to his wife, who was very financially savvy. Jeffrey Wallace, except for his favorite charity and one side matter, left everything to Frances and Brian. After that he didn’t want to get involved.”

  “What kind of person did Frances seem to be?”

  “She seemed quite charming. Like I said, she was the one I dealt with most. She made arrangements for him to be notarized because he didn’t want to find time to come into the office.”

  “So, no red flags went up?”

  “No, why would they?” He took off his glasses “Ms. Morgan, I don’t know what the current financial holdings are in the estate, but we were not talking a large estate here—more like a moderately funded estate.”

  “Call me, Hollis.” She gave him a small smile. “Did you have any indication that Frances Wallace was a gambler?”

  He snapped his fingers. “That’s what I was trying to remember.” He flipped through the file until he found his notes. “During the only time Mr. Wallace was actually here he kept making teasing comments about his wife’s trips to Las Vegas, and could h
e get custody of her frequent flyer miles. Only she didn’t laugh.”

  It sounded like Jeffrey might not have been pleased with Frances’ gambling habits.

  “Mr. Stivers,” she paused to give him time to say she could call him by his first name, but he didn’t, “did Jeffrey and Frances appear happy? I mean did you get the impression that everything was all right in the relationship?”

  He thought a moment. “Yes, yes. I would say they seemed fine. At least they didn’t seem hostile in any way. In fact, I remember them being somewhat affectionate with each other.”

  “Yet three months later Frances was talking divorce,” Hollis said.

  “Hollis, you’ve got two phone messages from a Denise Patterson-Hoyle.” As Hollis passed through the lobby, Tiffany handed her two pink call-back slips. “She said she also left a message on your phone.”

  Hollis frowned. Something must be wrong. She filed her notes from her meeting with Stivers.

  She was ready to push the voicemail button, but decided to call Denise instead. She picked up on the half-ring.

  “Shelby is missing.”

  “Missing?” Hollis closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. “Tell me what happened.”

  “That’s just it. We don’t know what happened.” Denise’s voice quavered. “I went to meet her at the airport this morning, but she wasn’t on the plane. She must still be in the Bay Area.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with her?”

  “Day before yesterday. I tried to reach her all day yesterday to confirm her arrival time. Did you tell her that unless I spoke with Darol you would leave her case?” Denise’s tone was accusatory and she sounded exhausted.

  “First of all, I didn’t say I would leave her case if you didn’t speak to her father. Second,” Hollis tried to keep the worry out of her voice, “I’ve tried to reach her myself with no success. Have you called Darol?”

  “Yes, this morning from the airport, but I couldn’t get him. I think his cellphone might be disconnected. He doesn’t always pay his bill on time.” Denise choked. “I’ve been calling and calling her. What do we do now?”

  “Keep trying.” Hollis tried to keep the concern out of her voice. “And since it’s been forty-eight hours, I’m going to contact the police.”

  The San Lucian Police Department was composed of two uniformed officers and two detectives. If they needed more personnel, they had a contract with the County Sheriff to provide assistance.

  Hollis sat in an interview room just off the main lobby with a young officer who was taking her statement.

  “So you represent Shelby Patterson and you’re reporting her missing?”

  Hollis nodded. “I’ve confirmed with her family in Southern California that no one has heard from her in the last three days. I spoke with her by phone around the same time.”

  “Are you aware of any reason why she would disappear?” He did not look up from his laptop.

  “She’s not a magician. She didn’t disappear. She’s missing.” Hollis bit her tongue. “I’m sorry. Shelby is only eighteen and she’s been having problems with her family.”

  “Do you think she could be a victim of domestic violence?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.” Hollis sighed. “I think you should question her stepfather and his son and daughter.”

  “We will. But for now why don’t you tell me what you know.”

  Hollis took the next few minutes to recount her encounters with Shelby and her family.

  “Give me their full names and the address of the house. I’ll see what we can find out. Is there a problem letting them know you’ve initiated a report?”

  “Er … no, it’s okay.”

  “Fine. I’ll get back to you if we find out anything. But there is a very good chance, from what you told me, that she may want to diss … drop off the grid, until you’ve handled the dirty work.”

  Hollis was not ready to concede that possibility. “Just let me know if you hear anything.”

  Chapter 12

  Hollis caught up to George the next morning in his office and told him Shelby was missing.

  “I’m not surprised,” he said, sounding nonchalant. “From what you told me, she’s a little immature and fully capable of running away and hiding.” He kept his attention on his paperwork.

  She was a little taken aback by his response.

  “The police think that’s a possibility, too.”

  He looked up. “Are you sure you still want to represent her?”

  “If she wants me.” Hollis shrugged. “I’m certainly not ready to throw in the towel.”

  George closed the file he was reading. “Okay, then keep me informed with any updates.”

  She waited an hour to check back with Denise, who let her know that she still hadn’t heard from Shelby’s father. The police had gone to the house and talked with Joy and Sonny. They both said they knew nothing about Shelby’s going missing. There was little more Hollis could do than wait.

  She worked a little later than usual that day, waiting for her phone to ring.

  Where was Shelby?

  Hollis put her concerns about Shelby on the back burner as she ran Frances Wallace’s name through PeopleSearch, an information database. By submitting a bare minimum of personal information, you could access an individual’s public records, and a short time later, pages about their life would scroll out like a dossier.

  While she waited for the search and download, she called John.

  He’d left a message earlier that day extending an offer to cook dinner for her. She called him back to accept his invitation and to ask for the name of the detective assigned to Jeffrey’s case. Even though he was transitioning to Homeland Security, he was able to find out that the Wallace case was being worked out of the community policing office near Lake Chabot and assigned to a Detective Mosley.

  “John, I forgot to ask, can I bring anything to dinner?” she said.

  “Nope, just your smile,” he said. “I didn’t bring anything for dinner when you cooked.”

  “How’s the new job going?”

  “I can’t go into any detail right now, but I’m doing okay. We can talk about it tomorrow. How about you; how’s the search going?”

  “I don’t have any revelations. But Brian has raised some interesting questions. Maybe I can meet with Mosley sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Hollis, remember, we have a deal,” John cautioned. “If you come across anything that could help out Homicide—without doing any detecting—be sure and tell them.”

  “I’m an attorney. I think I would know that.” Hollis knew her irritation was evident. “I’ve got to get a client letter ready. Sorry, gotta go.” She hesitated, “And no, I haven’t forgotten. Talk to you later.”

  She could hear his protests continue as she hung up. She was in no mood to be lectured. She turned her attention to the stack of pages on her printer.

  Frances Wallace was one busy lady. As Hollis paged through the printout, she wondered if Jeffrey had done a background check before he’d married her.

  He should have.

  Prior to Jeffrey, Frances had been married twice. Born in Carson, Nevada, she went to college in Reno but didn’t graduate. Cross referencing dates and names, Hollis discovered she’d married the first time during her junior year. Her first husband died four years later. She married again eight years after her first husband’s death. The second husband died in a stateside military hospital after they’d been married three years. Hollis felt a chill.

  She took her time reading the rest of the report. One thing was clear. Frances was a survivor—literally and figuratively. Detective Mosley likely knew all the facts by now and Hollis was more than curious about his take on them.

  She finished making notes to the Wallace file. She was ready as she could be for Mosley.

  Once again, she tried to reach Shelby. No answer.

  “Ms. Morgan, good to meet you. Let’s go into my office.”

  Ted Mo
sley led her to a room off a hallway. The man was unimpressive in every way. He’d make an excellent undercover cop because no one would ever be able to describe him: average height, average build, brown eyes, and brown hair. Unremarkable and unassuming. Hollis took the seat he offered her.

  They made small talk for a few minutes.

  “Is there anything you can tell me about how the investigation is going?” Hollis asked.

  “We’re making progress, but it’s going slow. It seems like the guy was well-liked. We can’t find anyone who might want him dead.”

  Hollis frowned. “I can’t imagine you would. He was one of the good ones.”

  “Well, somebody didn’t think so.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. When was the last time you saw Wallace?”

  “About a year and a half ago. I needed a recommendation from him.”

  “A lot can change for a man in a year and a half,” Mosley said, his demeanor solemn.

  Hollis sat up. “What do you mean? Did something happen to him? Is there more than the murder?”

  “No, of course not.” He shook his head.

  He’s lying.

  Hollis prided herself on her internal lie detector. It was a gift she’d exploited since childhood, and it served a dual purpose: she was adept at telling lies and just as adept at detecting a lie as soon as it left a person’s lips.

  Hollis peered at him more closely. “Brian Wallace has asked for assistance in determining the circumstances surrounding the Wallace trust.”

  “I don’t understand. Assist him in determining what?”

  “His stepmother may not have been entirely upfront about the assets in the estate. Brian is the executor, but Frances Wallace controls the estate.”

  “We checked into the money motive. His estate is modest. There doesn’t appear to be enough to risk a prison sentence.”

  Hollis persisted, “Brian seems to think that his father and Frances were divorcing. She’d initiated proceedings. Obviously now it’s moot.”

  Mosley leaned back in his chair and made a note on a pad. “Really? We interviewed Frances and Brian, and neither brought that up.”