Heart to Heart

by Don Pendleton

  Ms. Kelly was about seventy too, and obviously ran the joint. I think she'd been in the john when I arrived, because she came in from the hallway while I was on my second coffee and took care to replace a fobbed key on a hook behind her desk, after which the reception sweetie glanced my way and announced, "Mr. Ford is here to visit, Claire."

  Mr. Ford sloshed his coffee onto his slacks while pre-

  paring to meet Claire's enthusiastic charge-in-greeting. She cried, "Oh dear!" and went to work on the damage with a paper towel despite my insistence that it was okay. I think she made it worse, but I agreed with her when finally she decided, "There, that's better. You must never let a coffee stain set, you know."

  It took a minute or two to get around the inauspicious beginning, to get me properly and comfortably seated at her desk, and to get her composed at the business side and glowing at me in expectation of who knows what. She was a sweet lady.

  She said, "Well! Did you have a nice conference with Mr. Sloane?"

  "Yes, I—"

  "Everything in order?"

  "Perfect order," I assured her. "I want—"

  "It was such a shock but also such a pleasure to see Mr. de Medici yesterday! I cannot get over that man. I was telling Eunice, he hasn't changed a bit since the first time I saw him, and that must have been... my goodness, all of thirty years ago!"

  I smiled and said, "Yes, amazing man."

  "You tell him I want the name of his plastic surgeon."

  We laughed.

  I said, "Have you heard from Jim today?"

  She sobered as she replied, "No, he hasn't come in yet." She glanced disapprovingly at the clock. "Not that I should be surprised. Did you have an appointment?"

  Sometimes I lie, when the cause is right.

  I told her, "Sort of informally. I told him I wanted to

  drop by and get a copy of the file. Perhaps I misunderstood; I thought he would be here too..."

  She waved a hand and set that matter straight. "That would depend on his golf schedule. No need for you to wait one minute, Mr. Ford, unless you just wish to discuss birdies and pars and whatever it is they do with those little balls. Jimmy would not know where to find the file anyway. Since his father..."

  I ventured into what I perceived as a sore spot. “Well, he's still young. Maybe he'll take hold and surprise you one of these days. What about the other partner? Doesn't he...?”

  "Well no, poor Mr. James has been an invalid for more than five years now. He is still in the firm, but only nominally."

  I grinned as I asked her, "You don't play golf with Jimmy, eh?"

  She replied, "Goodness, I wouldn't even know how to drive one of those dumb little carts they zoom about in."

  Ms. Kelly excused herself and went into another room, reappeared a moment later with a legal folder tucked beneath an arm, took it to the copy machine.

  The other lady—Eunice I presumed—informed me, "Mr. Thomas Sloane was a very good golfer too. It's all his fault if Jimmy tries to run his practice from the golf course. That boy was raised at the country club."

  I shrugged and said, "Must be nice."

  She said, "Well...we really have a very limited practice. Mr. de Medici's retainer rather dictates that."

  Interesting idea. I said, "Dictates what?"

  "I hope I haven't spoken out of turn. I assumed that you knew..."

  I said, "Oh, yes, the limitation."

  "And, after all, how many people around here need legal specialists in estates and trusts?"

  I smiled and said, "That's right."

  "But we keep busy enough," she added brightly.

  I looked at my hands and wondered what the hell it was all about.

  "Where is Thomas Sloane now?" I inquired.

  "He's at Windmere Hill."

  Sounded like a convalescent hospital. I let it rest right there, knowing that I could track it down if necessary.

  Ms. Kelly completed her chore at the copier. She brought me a duplicate file, all properly assembled and bound into a legal folder, placed it in my hands. I had produced identification for neither of these ladies. They took me at my word and face. And of course I'd been giving them a bit of help at the subliminal level; no doubt they would not otherwise have been so trusting and open with even a familiar client.

  Ms. Kelly accepted another mental cue to tell me, "No, dear me, I'm afraid I couldn't keep up, on a golf course. Jimmy usually plays with his college friend, Henry."

  It tumbled right out of a flaring synapse: "You mean Hank...Hank Gibson."

  "Yes. Nice boy. And a bit more ambitious than Jimmy, I'm sure."

  I said, "I thought they'd had a falling-out."

  "At least once a week," Ms. Kelly said smilingly. "But it doesn't interfere with their golf game."

  Maybe it had, this week.

  But I did not wish to be the one to break the news to these dear ladies.

  I tucked the Medici file beneath a fevered arm and got the hell away from there before someone else could do so.

  But I had not really "stolen" anything, you know.

  Hell. I had the power.

  Chapter Sixteen: Goose Eggs

  The de Medici file was very interesting, even if not entirely enlightening. It was compartmentalized under subfiles labeled the Retainer, the Grant, the Estate, and Transactions.

  The Retainer subfile contained a ruling document dated November 18th, 1918. It empowered Arthur J. Sloane, an attorney, to conduct business relative to the preservation of certain real estate "and ancillary interests" on behalf of Valentinius de Medici. It had a provision for "successors in interest" to ensure long-term application, and contained a "covenant" to the effect that Sloane and/or his successors would restrict their legal practice as a condition of the retainer. Apparently Valentinius had wanted assurance that his own interests would not become suffocated under competing interests within the firm—and he was willing to pay well for the exclusivity. The annual fee for services was stated as "an amount equal to seven-and-one-half percent of the latest assessed value of the estate."

  Go figure it. Seven and a half percent of a million dollars is $75,000. Multiply that result by twenty or thirty— the modern value of the estate—and it is not difficult to understand why a law firm would gladly bind itself to a single client.

  What was not readily understandable was why—with such a beautiful deal for the lawyers—they had allowed the golden goose to become so legally endangered. I mean, all they had to do with their lives was protect the estate that was enriching them. Why had they not done so?

  The Grant subfile offered a possible clue. It contained the legal language necessary to empower the attorneys for specific activities and to specifically exclude them from others. For example they could disburse moneys for routine maintenance and upkeep but could not authorize alterations or modifications on their own. Another restriction had to do with—"in no wise...undertake, implement, conduct, encourage or support any legal proceeding which would have the effect of"—changing legal ownership of the property.

  I did not have the luxury of time required to sit down and analyze the several documents of that subfile—all in heavy legalese—but it was fairly apparent from just a light scan that Valentinius had screwed it down rather tightly.

  The Estate subfile contained the documents shown to me earlier by Jim Sloane—also architectural abstracts for the rebuilding of Pointe House in 1921 and subsequent remodelings and renovations across the years.

  The Transactions section brought a quiver or two. It was a detailed ledger of money flow from Swiss numbered accounts to an international bank in Newport Beach, and there were several entries per year from 1918 to the present. The latest entry was several months old and reflected a transfer of $3.2 million into the Newport Beach account; a related subentry diverted 2.25 million of that to Sloane, Sloane and James for "annual retainer."

  Two and a quarter million per year sounds like something worth fighting for, doesn't it. Or stealing for?
/>   Put it together. Seven and a half percent per year gives you an amount equal to the whole thing every thirteen years or so. So Sloane, Sloane and James had, in effect, rolled it over five times already—and were still sitting astride that golden goose. Forget what Pointe House may be worth on the open market; it was worth far more as a producer of wealth for its custodians. How would you put a fair market value on something like that? If you had custody of the goose and someone approached you with the intention of buying your right to the annual fee—how much would you sell it for?

  Of course they had not been receiving two and a quarter million each year since 1918. Their fee rose as property values in general rose—but it is all the same in the relative sense. If a hundred grand would have bought the property in 1918, then seven and a half percent of that in 1918 would buy you the same thing that the same percentage of the current market value would buy you today.

  More to the point though: why was it that important to Valentinius?—so important that he was willing to pay such disproportionate fees for custodial care?

  It was a question not to preoccupy the mind at that

  point, but to be tucked away for future consideration. I had other bases to cover and not much time left in the game, so I set my sights for Newport Beach. Henry Gibson's Realty Holdings International Corp. was officed there, and Windmere Hill was situated in adjacent Costa Mesa.

  It has been said, and I am willing to believe it, that Newport Beach is the financial capital of the West. It has a population under 100,000 and stands a full hour south of the Los Angeles Civic Center, but it is a business stronghold of immense diversity and is said to house more corporate power per square foot than any U.S. city. Much of that is grouped upon a hillside overlooking the Pacific in a business complex known as the Newport Center.

  If California should one day tumble into the sea, as various prophets and soothsayers have predicted, then Newport Center will probably become the new Atlantis to be discovered and explored by some distant generation as a lesson in twentieth-century civilization, to be marveled at in its watery grave and to provoke endless discussions as to the significance of the architecture and the mysteries of the life-styles suggested by the ruins—the various temples and palaces, expansive promenades and courtyards, the bazaar and the wide, curving boulevards and immense stone and glass structures soaring into the sky. They probably will not get it right, but all will agree that this new Atlantis was an important cultural center of twentieth-century mankind.

  And so it is.

  The monolithic structure that housed the international bank through which Valentinius moved his funds also provided corporate home for Gibson's Reality Holdings. I stopped at the bank first and presented my credentials to a delighted vice-president who unfurled the red carpet for me and happily presented the accounts for my scrutiny. Accounts, yeah, two of them—one a sort of general fund accessible by Sloane, Sloane and James, with a current balance of $432,816.32—the other a household account under the care of one Ming Hai Tsu containing $37,280.90.

  I transferred $400,000 from the general fund to the household account. The banker seemed a bit nervous about that, but what the hell could he do? I had the power. I took a transcript covering the past twelve months' activity in both accounts, thanked the guy for his efficiency, and went on to Gibson's offices.

  Something was going on there; I could feel it in the air—a sort of electrical tingling that sensitive people can sometimes pick up on—some sort of mental energy I believe. Whatever, I experienced it even before I ventured through the double glass doors that admit you to this superswank alter ego of Sloane, Sloane and James. It must have cost the guy more per month than the law firm paid all year to present themselves to the public. From the gilt lettering on the doors to the space-age stylings inside, surrounding in splendor the yuppie receptionist who at least presented the suggestion of MBA, the entire gestalt reeked of moneyed success and undeniable position on the business ladder.

  The receptionist was about twenty-five. She had square shoulders and a stiff upper lip, an easy smile that came maybe too easy at the surface with no involvement below; if there is a magazine for young upwardly mobile career women, she could qualify for the cover.

  I told her I had a golf date with Hank—so where the hell was he.

  She had me dissected and analyzed even before I opened my mouth. She gave me one of those quick surface movements of the lips—okay, call it a smile—and said, "I'm sorry... you are mister... ?"

  "Ford," I said.

  "Of course," she said and reached for the intercom.

  I retreated to a neutral corner, still wondering how I wanted to play it when or if Gibson did or did not invite me in.

  Didn't have long to wait.

  A door opened behind the receptionist and Sergeant Alvarez leaned through.

  He said, "Ford, what the hell!"

  "Small world," I said, my throat suddenly gone almost too dry to speak.

  "Small you ain't seen yet," he assured me. "Get in here!"

  So I went in there.

  The room was full of cops. I guess both Newport Beach and county cops—a coroner's homicide team and all that implies.

  A guy about my age sat in a high-backed swivel chair behind a massive desk containing all sorts of hi-tech gadgets of the modem business world. He was blond, well built, handsome.

  Well, call it exhandsome.

  The guy was dead, lips stretched back in a familiar grimace, eyes open, body stiffly upright in advanced rigor mortis.

  "Gibson?" I asked Alvarez.

  "You bought it," he said.

  Hell, I hadn't bought anything. Not even golden eggs from the prize goose.

  But I had to wonder what the hell was buying me.

  Chapter Seventeen: The Elect

  Alvarez himself had discovered this corpse. An appointment diary found on Sloane's body recorded a planned meeting with Gibson on the evening that Sloane died. Routinely checking that connection, Alvarez called on Gibson at his office and was told by the receptionist that her boss had not come in yet.

  This was past eleven o'clock.

  Alvarez had one of those cop quivers probably, and insisted on being shown into Gibson's private office.

  In defense of the receptionist, who later stated that indeed she had looked inside that office earlier, the presence of a corpse was not that obvious when Alvarez first stepped inside. The swivel chair is high-backed, and it was turned sort of toward the windows; the angle of view from the doorway was such that you saw only the back of the chair at casual glance. So if the young lady had looked into that office earlier, then the discovery hours later that her boss had been sitting there dead all the while must have been an unnerving experience, to say the least. I sent her a mental apology for my initial reaction to her executive style; she was doing very well under the circumstances.

  Alvarez was of course stretching the protocol on city turf by his very presence there, so he called it in to the Newport Beach police and stepped aside for them to handle it, though remaining to assist in view of the possibly related death at Laguna Beach.

  There were no obvious wounds or signs of violence on this body. It looked as though the guy had just been sitting there at his desk, had some sort of seizure, and died.

  "But look at the face," Alvarez unnecessarily added. "Same as the other guy. What is that?—terror or what?"

  I said, "Yeah...or pain, rage...whatever, death abruptly stopped it."

  He pulled me aside and lowered his voice to ask me, "So what brings the psychic detective to this latest scene of death?"

  This was somewhat embarrassing. I had not deliberately withheld the information regarding Gibson's interest in Pointe House and Sloane's apparent animosity toward the guy; with all the other mystery, and the shock of finding myself a possible murder suspect, I simply had not thought to tell Alvarez about it. Now I tried to gloss it with vagueness. I told him, "Sloane mentioned this guy when he was briefing me on the legal problem
. Seems that Gibson had been trying to broker a deal for some developer before the state stepped in with their claim. But that was the only connection I had until about an hour ago. Now it seems that these two were old college chums and still get together frequently on the golf course."

  Alvarez said, "Uh huh. Where'd you get this?"

  "Sloane's office."

  "Why didn't you bring it to me then?"

  "Would have," I said, "if something had turned. You and I are not working the same end of the stick, you know. You're investigating a suspicious death. I have been retained to prevent a confiscation of the estate. I guess that's what I'm expected to do. So—"

  “What d'you mean, guess?'

  "Just that. The guy just dropped the money on me and told me to get my ass down here on the double quick. He said there was a crisis that had to be resolved within ten days. Then Sloane comes over and lays this power of attorney on me. He is as baffled as I am. He's looking to me for answers; I'm looking to him for answers. All he knows is that the state will prevail on their claim unless he can produce a legal owner within ten days. So I put the ten days together and decide that this must be the crisis that Valentinius mentioned."

  The cop had been giving me careful attention during that spiel. Now he fixed me with a fish-eye and asked, "What exactly did this Valentinius tell you?"

  "You want total recall?"

  "That would be nice."

  "I am not here by error, Ashton. You are—"

  "What's that?"

  "You said total recall."

  "Oh. Okay. Go ahead."

  "You are the man for me. Let me assure you that you shall enjoy the assignment. A very beautiful woman is involved. And, of course, the pay is good. I understand that your usual fee is five hundred dollars per day. I offer you this, for ten days' services maximum. The job defines itself. Go to Laguna Beach. Contact Francesca Amalie. You shall find her at Pointe House. You must go today. The crisis is now. Help her to resolve it. Ten days maximum, or all is lost."