“Casings?”
Milo shook his head. “If there were, they were taken. There’s a thousand bucks and change in her purse as well as a Lady Rolex that isn’t working, maybe she was planning to take it in for repair. Plus a whole bunch of platinum cards and the bling she’s wearing. Need to see more?”
I studied the face for a second. All that cared-for beauty brought to this. “No.”
He rolled the body back, covered it up. “Thoughts?”
“She was probably targeted and followed on foot. Unless you’ve spotted fresh tire tracks that I missed.”
“Nope.”
“How many security cameras are in the lot?”
“Ready for this? Not one in the actual parking areas.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was. There’s a unit above each elevator door and at the main entrance to the lot, plus a couple at the front and rear doors of the building.”
“Why nothing down here?”
“You tell me.”
“Who found her?”
“Another woman walking to her car. Poor thing was so shook up I had to back her Mercedes out for her. Took a while to calm her down for a statement, hence the relative quiet by the time you got here. What do you think about it being a frontal attack?”
“Shooting her from behind would be easier,” I said. “So maybe whoever did it wanted her to know who was killing her. Or the plan was to get her from the back but she heard footsteps and turned. Who is she?”
He handed me the small white rectangle.
California driver’s license of Ursula Corey, forty-seven years old, blnd/blu, five eight, one twenty-nine. Address in Calabasas.
“I mapped it,” he said. “Horse country. Fits an affluent lady.”
“Any idea what she was doing here?”
“Matter of fact I do. It was her housekeeper I was just on the phone with. Señora Ursula had a meeting with her lawyer, maid’s not sure what his name is, something with an ‘F,’ maybe Feldman or Fellman. Any other ideas? If not, I’m ready to check the directory.”
The lobby was half a football field of gray granite and brown marble under a thirty-foot coffered ceiling centered by a six-foot-wide Venetian glass chandelier. Bank of four elevators on each side. People in suits and business casual hustling back and forth. Plenty of gravity on some faces but no shortage of workplace levity—smiles, jests, bouncy strides. The news of the murder hadn’t made its way up from the basement.
I wondered if Ursula Corey had begun her final elevator ride feeling chipper.
Most of the tenants listed on the directory were law firms, the rest sounded like outfits that moved money around for fun and profit. Hundreds, maybe a thousand attorneys. The way people sue one another in L.A. you could probably develop an entire city occupied by legal types. But what masochist would take on the job of law enforcement, let alone toxic cleanup?
Milo and I scanned the F’s. A Feldman and a Feld were listed, both business managers.
He said, “Maybe to the housekeeper anyone with an office is an abogado,” and copied the suite numbers in his notepad. Dropping his eyes he stopped. Pointed to the spot where I’d just arrived.
Grant Fellinger. Law offices of Weintraub, Harrow, Micziewski and Fellinger. The entire south wing of floor seven.
“Best bet, right, lad?”
“Definitely,” I said. “Let’s give the housekeeper credit for knowing who’s an abogado and who isn’t.”
“There you go again,” said Milo. “Wanting to see the good in everybody.”
The lift was souped-up, barely audible, let us off seconds later facing a glass door backed by an inner wall of black slate. The law firm’s name was etched so discreetly you could barely read it. Maybe one of those if-you-have-to-ask-you-don’t-belong deals.
The young woman behind the reception desk was a pretty, bright-eyed Latina in a tasteful black dress and pearls. Serious mien. Terrific posture. Sitting that straight all day implied self-discipline. Milo’s badge evoked no change in expression.
“What can I do for you, Officers?”
“Is Ursula Corey a client of Mr. Fellinger?”
“One second please.” Deft fingers pushed buttons on a panel faster than I could follow. Handheld devices may have damaged attention span but they’ve done wonders for fine-motor coordination.
Half a minute later a tall man in his thirties wearing jeans with rolled bottoms, a tiny-collared white shirt, and a red paisley tie appeared. Longish dark hair was combed to look careless. Black-rimmed glasses and red-brown saddle shoes added up to hipster, not corporate lawyer.
His voice was soft, as if eager not to offend. “I’m Jens Williams, Mr. Fellinger’s paralegal. How can I help you?”
Milo repeated his question.
Jens Williams said, “Um, may I ask why you’re asking?” New England in his accent.
Milo smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Jens Williams’s return smile was lopsided. “Okay, yes, sir. Ms. Corey is a client. I’m just not at liberty to …” He shrugged. “She was just here, as a matter of fact.”
“How long ago?”
“I’d say … an hour ago, give or take. Why?”
“She was here to see Mr. Fellinger?”
A beat. “This is above my pay grade. Um, can you tell me what it’s about?”
“Ms. Corey was just found dead in the parking lot.”
Jens Williams’s hand shot to his mouth. “Oh my God, a car hit her?”
Milo said, “What kind of law does Mr. Fellinger practice?”
“Family and business litigation—my God, I just saw her.” Williams looked at the receptionist. One hand worried her pearls. Her jaw had dropped open and her posture had gone to hell.
Milo said, “We need to talk to Mr. Fellinger.”
Jens Williams replied, “Yes, yes, of course you do, I’ll go check, please hold on.”
He hurried away.
The receptionist said, “This is horrible. She was just here.”
Milo turned to her. “Sorry to deliver bad news.”
She shook her head. “That place is crazy dangerous.”
“The parking lot?”
“Don’t quote me but all those turns where you can’t see around the corner? Are you kidding?”
Milo said, “Scary.”
“I can’t tell you how many times I nearly got run over on the employee level.”
“Which level is that?”
“Second before the bottom.”
One above the death tier.
The receptionist said, “Did the person stick around or was it a hit and run?”
“No trace of the offender,” said Milo.
“God, that’s evil! Maybe now they’ll do something about it.”
“They?”
“The management company.”
“What should they do?”
“Like—I don’t know. Something. I mean look what happened.”
A voice said, “Gentlemen?” Jens Williams was back, standing ten feet behind the reception desk, crooking his thumb to the left.
We followed him up a long hall hung with generic abstractions. A short, stocky man emerged from an office midway up the corridor and stood with his arms folded across his chest. Fifty or so, he wore a pink shirt over blue pin-striped slacks held in place by leather-braid suspenders, a mint-green tie patterned with orange French horns, brown calfskin loafers.
Black hair combed straight back and thinning at the top was probably tinted. Bushy eyebrows topped a shelf-brow. His face was full, somewhat simian—more chimp than baboon. Clean-shaven but already blue in the beard zone by late morning.
Jens Williams said, “Mr. Fellinger, these are the police—”
Grant Fellinger silenced him with a hand-slash. A deep voice with an odd echoing quality emerged from plump but narrow lips: “Do me a favor and go down to the café and get me a white jasmine tea. Make sure they leave the flower in.”
“Plai
n, one Splenda?”
“Plain, no Splenda. I’m not feeling particularly sweet given the circumstances.”
Peevishness but no anxiety.
Williams said, “Done,” in a faint voice and hurried off. Maybe his was a job that required aerobic training.
Grant Fellinger kept his arms folded as he studied us. Everything about him was thick—flat nose nearly as broad as the bud-lips below it, banjo-earlobes sprouting a few dark hairs, bull-neck, sturdy wrists, stubby fingers, sloping shoulders.
As if a sculptor had applied an extra layer of clay.
Milo introduced himself.
Fellinger nodded. “Ursula run over? I can’t believe it, she was just here, Jesus.” He gnawed his lip. “Forty-five minutes ago, she’s on top of the world. Now this. Jeesus.”
A finger swiped at the corner of one eye. “Damn. Did you get the moron who did it? If he didn’t have the decency to stick around, it should still be easy because there’s a surveillance camera above the exit.”
Milo said, “Ms. Corey left here forty-five minutes ago?”
“Give or take,” said Fellinger. “And not that much take, maybe five minutes, so check out who left the lot during that period and you’ve got your bad actor.”
Milo said, “Appreciate the information, Mr. Fellinger. Unfortunately, Ms. Corey wasn’t hit by a car.”
“No? What, then?”
“She was shot.”
Grant Fellinger’s head thrust forward, as if ready to butt reality. “Shot? Jens said it was an accident.”
“We gave him no details so he assumed.”
“Great,” said Fellinger. “He does that a lot—jumps to conclusions, I’m always telling him about it. Yale, no less. Shot? By who?”
“We don’t know yet, Mr. Fellinger.”
“Shot,” Fellinger repeated. “Shot? Ursula? Jesus Christ.” His meaty arms dropped. Both hands were hirsute fists. He punched a palm. “This just knocks the stuffing out of me.”
“Anything you can tell us, sir—”
The attorney’s cheeks hollowed as he sucked spit, creating a bubbling noise. He threw up his hands. “You’d better come in.”
His office was surprisingly modest with a sliver of sky barely visible to the east. Plain wooden desk and matching credenza, oversized black leather chair, three functional chairs. A tweed sofa and glass coffee table created a conversational area near the rear wall. Fellinger moved behind his desk and motioned us toward the hard-backed chairs.
The grass-cloth wall above the credenza sported diplomas from the U. and its law school, supplemented by certificates in family law and arbitration. Photos hanging askew portrayed Fellinger with a pleasant-looking dark-haired woman and two boys at various stages of development. In the most recent shots, Fellinger’s sons were sullen teenagers. His wife had aged conspicuously.
Milo said, “You do family law. Was Ms. Corey involved in a nasty divorce?”
“They all have the potential to be nasty,” said Grant Fellinger. “If you’ve got two crucial ingredients.”
He waited.
I said, “Kids and money.”
“Bingo. Ursula and Richard had both but the kids weren’t an issue, they’re almost adults. It was all about dollar signs. Tweaking their settlement took five years, three of them after the decree.”
“They came back for more.”
“Fine-tuning,” said Fellinger. “We finally arrived at a mutually beneficial settlement. By we, I mean myself and Richard Corey’s attorney.”
“Who’s that, sir?”
“Earl Cohen. He’s old-school.”
I said, “Someone wanted rematches?”
“Both of them wanted rematches. Every year or so. For all my experience, it was a weird situation. One day they’d come in looking like best friends, saying the right things, willing to do anything to smooth things out. They’d leave looking cozy. Affectionate, even. I’d see them like that and wonder why the hell they divorced in the first place.”
Fellinger leaned forward. “This was not a situation where the lawyers kept it going to churn fees. Earl and I are both busy. This could’ve been the exception—smooth sailing, genuine amicability, move on and have a nice life.”
I said, “The Coreys didn’t see it that way.”
“They moved on, all right. Then they’d retrench. What made it a royal pain was that Earl and I would take them at their word and proceed accordingly. Several thousand bucks of billable hours later, we’d both get irate phone calls, all bets are off, back to the trenches. The impetus never seemed connected to a specific event. Nor did they ever seem hostile when they showed up. It was as if they’d saved up their energy and were ready to reenlist. Last go-round was a year ago.”
Milo said, “Anyone walk away angry that time?”
Fellinger stared. “Could Richard do something like this? Good God, I hope not. I mean that would be disgusting. That would make me doubt my ability to judge people. No, Lieutenant, there was no anger from either side. In fact, they seemed genuinely settled.” His eyebrows rose. “Was Ursula robbed? Because she likes her jewelry, was wearing plenty today.”
Milo said, “No evidence of robbery.”
“You’re sure? I saw a whole lot of diamonds on her, maybe something’s missing.”
“We removed and cataloged three rings, Mr. Fellinger, along with a necklace, two bracelets, and a pair of ruby-and-gold earrings. Plus there was an expensive watch in her purse.”
Fellinger’s tiny mouth rotated. “That sounds about right. So you’re considering Richard a suspect? I guess the husband’s always where you start and Lord knows I’ve seen plenty of spouses I’d consider prime suspects if anything happened. But I don’t know about Richard. It really doesn’t fit.”
I’d been an expert witness on scores of divorce cases, couldn’t recall a single one where the opposing lawyer defended the enemy.
I said, “Richard’s a good guy.”
“Honestly?” said Fellinger. “He doesn’t have a winning personality but he’s always seemed to be decent and honest. Five years is plenty of time to dig up dirt and, believe me, I dug. So did Earl—fishing around about Ursula. In fact, last year we met for drinks and had a laugh over it. All those hours spent trying to make each other’s clients look bad with zero success.”
“But they kept fighting.”
“Not fighting,” said Fellinger. “What I said, tweaking. Voices were never raised, they just wanted to nip and tuck their finances. To get an accurate accounting.”
Milo said, “If the divorce was resolved, why did Ursula come to see you today?”
“That,” said Fellinger, “brings us right back to the jewelry. Which is probably why I thought about it. Ursula’s got a lot of bling, expensive stuff she’s been buying for years. With divorce issues out of the way, she began thinking about her daughters, wanted to specify who got what. I don’t do that much estate work anymore but I agreed to handle it if it didn’t get too complicated. It turned out to be simple: two girls, fifty-fifty. It made Ursula feel better putting it in writing.”
“Codicil to her will,” said Milo.
Fellinger looked at him. “Did she sense something bad was going to happen? Not that I saw. Just the opposite, she was in a great mood. It’s what affluent people do, Detective. They think about their toys, fine-tune, try to feel in control.”
“Where did the affluence come from?”
“The business she and Richard built together. Import–export.”
“Of what?”
“Cheap crap,” said Fellinger. “Their description, not mine. You know those rubber sandals you get for two bucks in Chinatown? They’d bring them over in pallets from Vietnam at ten cents per unit.”
Milo said, “Nice profit margin.”
“Cost them twenty, twenty-five cents when you factor in shipping and transport, they wholesale out at seventy-five cents to a buck? I’d say that’s a fantastic profit.”
“What was their working arrangement?”
<
br /> “Ursula did the purchasing. She was familiar with the Far East, her father had been some sort of diplomat. Richard’s the numbers-cruncher, manages the day by day. He’s also done a good job of investing their money.”
“In what?”
“Blue chips, preferred stock, bonds.”
“Conservative.”
“Extremely,” said Fellinger. “There’s also a rental property on the water in Oxnard.”
Milo said, “How large of an estate are we talking about?”
Fellinger’s eyebrows rose again, startled caterpillars. “Does that matter?”
“At this point, sir, everything matters.”
“Well … I suppose you could always access the family court records, numbers have been bandied around for five years.” Fellinger sat back, tented his hands over his firm, round gut. “Last accounting, their total net worth was between fourteen and fifteen million and there’s no debt to speak of.”
Milo whistled.
“Let me temper that a bit, Detective. Three and a half million is the appraised value of the main house, it’s a big spread in the West Valley, the daughters are into horses. That came out of Ursula’s half. Richard received the Oxnard condo, which he uses as his residence. Appraised value there is considerably less, around one point five, so Richard received another two million in stocks and bonds. Everything else was divided evenly.”
“Including Ursula’s jewelry?”
“No, sorry, that was also factored into Ursula’s half but it’s not that much, maybe five, six hundred thousand. Admittedly not piffle, but measured against an estate that size it wasn’t a big deal.”
I said, “Are any commercial properties owned by the business? Warehouses, offices?”
Fellinger shook his head. “Urrick, Ltd.—that’s the name of the company, amalgam of both their names—operates lean and mean. It’s just Richard and Ursula, not even a secretary or a receptionist. They use typing services when the paper piles up and both of them work out of home offices. When merchandise arrives at the docks in San Pedro, one of them is there to facilitate direct shipment to the customer. When inventory needs to be stored, they rent warehouse space east of downtown, a sweetheart lease they signed during the recession—that’s Richard, nose for a bargain. That’s the beauty of their business, no need to stockpile for long, they’re middlemen, essentially get paid for moving goods from one place to another.”
Motive Page 2
