Motive

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “It didn’t bother you?”

  “Did I say that? Sure it bothered me, I loved her. And the image of her with that ape—not exactly pretty but what could I do? And frankly the fact that Ursula was so open about her behavior kind of … reduced it. Trivialized it.”

  I said, “The fact that it meant nothing to her emotionally.”

  “Exactly,” said Corey.

  “And you think she also might’ve slept with Earl Cohen?”

  “The old scrotum? She never said but, again, I was pretty attuned to Ursula’s nonverbals and one time we were in Earl’s office, he’s my lawyer but I’m getting the distinct vibe he’d rather be Ursula’s lawyer. After we left, I made a crack about that but she just laughed. Still … my bet is she was aggressively promiscuous after the divorce.”

  “Are you aware of anyone else—”

  “Not by name but my daughters intimated she was dating pretty heavily.”

  “How did you feel—”

  “Initially it hurt, but I realized that wasn’t rational, we were divorced, I had no claims on Ursula. So rather than eat my guts out, I learned to live with it. Told myself it was like learning to live with an alcoholic or an addict or a hoarder if you cared about them. I mean, let’s face it, everyone’s got quirks, that was hers.”

  He studied the bottom of his empty glass. “I know you guys are judging us but I loved her and wanted her happy, so you can believe me or not, I don’t care.”

  I said, “Did you and Ursula continue to—”

  “From time to time,” said Corey. His eyes fluttered, closed, reopened at half-mast. Looking at his glass with yearning, he said, “With me she made love. With everyone else it was sex. Once I was able to stop thinking of it as betrayal, to consider it like having lunch with friends, I was okay.”

  He put the glass down. “This is going to sound brutal but did you attend Ursula’s autopsy? Detectives do that, right?”

  “It’s a bit early for that, sir.”

  “Well,” said Corey, “here’s a prediction for when you do attend: They’re going to remove Ursula’s clothing—tight jeans, right?—and find out she wasn’t wearing any panties. How do I know? Because after the divorce Ursula told me her new motto: ‘Ready for action.’ ”

  I said, “Adventurous.”

  “Like a gun cocked and ready to shoot.”

  If the metaphor gave him pause, he didn’t show it, began turning the glass between his palms. “Trust me, guys, that’s what’s going to solve it. She went overboard and slept with the wrong guy. Some scumbag she thought she understood but didn’t. I mean you can only engage in high-risk behavior for so long before it bites you, right?”

  Milo said, “Why did the two of you get divorced?”

  Corey crossed a thin leg. “Because Ursula wanted to and at that point I couldn’t find a reason to tell her no.”

  I said, “She’d brought it up before.”

  “Constantly. Whenever she was in a low mood or stressed about something, she’d start in on three topics: running off to a remote place to find a slower pace of life, moving back to Asia because even though she didn’t believe in God she admired the Buddhists and their ability to move on.”

  Retrieving the glass, he gazed toward his kitchen.

  I said, “What was the third topic?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You said she talked about three things when she was—”

  “Divorce,” said Richard Corey. “As in she wanted one, sooner the better. No reason, no warning, nothing I’d done. I guess all three added up to the same thing: She was feeling trapped and wanted out. Was it hurtful? At first, but then she’d drop it so I basically tuned her out.”

  I said, “What changed that?”

  Corey shifted his weight. “I need to talk about that, huh?”

  Milo and I sat there.

  “Okay, what changed is that I thought I’d found someone so when Ursula started in for the zillionth time, I said sure, let’s do it. That really threw her. She got pissed, stomped out. Maybe she figured out I was bluffing when the next day she told me she’d hired Fellinger. I said sounds like a good idea and hired Cohen and the rest, as they say, is marital anti-history.”

  “The stress points you mentioned—”

  “Petty stuff we could deal with. I get pissed because she hasn’t sent in all her order forms, she gets pissed because I haven’t informed her about accounts receivable. Ridiculous stuff, we’d have a snit, make up, move on. But this was different. I found someone. Someone I thought I might develop something with. So when Ursula started doing her bullshit divorce routine and I told her fine, it was like a … runaway train. Was it stupid? Probably. But Ursula and I remained friends and frankly that was always the good part of our relationship, the friendship. So getting rid of the other stuff was almost a relief. And the business kept rolling. Better than ever, if you have to know, we had our best years since the divorce.”

  Milo said, “Speaking of which, where’s your place of business?”

  “You’re looking at it,” said Corey. “Both of us worked out of our houses. Cuts costs, keeps us out of each other’s hair.”

  I said, “The person you found—”

  “Is no longer in the picture,” said Corey. “I realized that soon after.” He laughed. “A Buddhist, how’s that for irony?”

  “Someone you met in the course of doing business?”

  He looked at me. “Good guess. But please don’t ask me more, she’s a good person, I don’t want to screw up her life. Now, is there anything else you need to know about Ursula? Because I still have to figure out how to tell my daughters their mother’s gone.”

  All business, now. Eyes Sahara-dry.

  Milo said, “We could tell them, sir.”

  No answer. Corey’s face had gone blank.

  “Sir?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. You actually do that? With kids?”

  “When necessary, Mr. Corey.”

  “I don’t want them to think I punted …”

  Milo said, “Up to you but we can tell them we insisted on notification because it’s an open homicide.”

  Corey scratched his beard. “You think? Okay, sure.”

  “Soon as we’re done, I’ll call you and you can come over to be with them.”

  “You think doing it this way will be easier for them?”

  Milo said, “Nothing makes it easy but we’re old hands at notification, Mr. Corey. Unfortunately.”

  “Put it in the hands of the experts … like I do with my shipping agents and my drivers—fine, let’s do it. Because I have to tell you, guys, I wouldn’t take your job on a bet. No offense.”

  “None taken, sir. Is there anything else you can tell us that would help figure out who killed Ms. Corey?”

  “If I knew the names of the guys she dated I’d give them to you. It has to be one of them.”

  “We’ll check it out,” said Milo. “You think of anything else, let us know.”

  We got up. Manly handshakes all around. Corey’s palms were as dry as his eyes.

  At the door, Milo said, “Oh, one more thing, sir. You verbalized permission to access your phone records. Could you put that in writing, please?”

  Corey’s eyes slitted. “You’re serious? I’m still a suspect?”

  “It’s not a matter of that, sir. A lot of the job is the process of elimination. Once we clear you completely, we’re free to move on. But if it’s a problem for you, we understand.”

  “No problem, hell, why not?” Corey returned to his makeshift desk, scrawled something on a piece of paper, thrust it at Milo. “Okay?”

  Milo read. “If you could sign and date, please.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Scratch scratch scratch. “Here.”

  Retrieving his glass, he went into the kitchen and poured three fingers of gin. Drank with his back toward us as we saw ourselves out.

  We walked to the harbor side of Corey’s building. The deck railing was crusted with birdshit and in n
eed of refinishing. Several ducks floated past Corey’s slip. Empty slot, no boat. Seagulls hovering above screeched territorially. We returned to the Seville.

  Milo said, “Odd fellow, Mr. C. First he cries, then he gets kind of … I don’t know, matter-of-fact? Maybe a little paranoid, too? Both lawyers screwing Ursula? Unless it’s true and he’s learned to face reality.”

  “Calling her a gun cocked and ready to shoot?”

  “Yeah … so despite his alibi, you don’t see him as any less of a suspect than before we met him.”

  I laughed.

  He said, “Thought you might say that.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  Ursula Corey’s address on Lobo Canyon was a thirty-minute drive from Richard Corey’s Oxnard condo.

  I said, “Freeway-convenient. The two of them split up but Richard didn’t settle far.”

  Milo said, “Maybe he was telling the truth about staying BFFs.”

  “Or only he saw it that way.”

  “He wanted to keep tabs on her?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time an ex hung on.”

  As I raced along the 101, he looked out the window. “I keep thinking about the way he described her sex life. Weird.”

  “Weird, voyeuristic, and ambivalent,” I said.

  “Love her madly, the filthy slut.”

  “One minute he’s grief-stricken, the next he’s telling us she won’t be wearing underwear because she wanted to be ready for action.”

  “Let’s see if he was right.” He made a call to the crypt. The body had arrived but hadn’t been looked at.

  I said, “What’s especially strange is telling us she slept with both lawyers. Something we’d never have known. If it’s not paranoia.”

  “Wifey doing the monkey-man.”

  “Turning it into a joke,” I said, “was probably his way of keeping Ursula’s sexuality partially under his control. She wasn’t abandoning his bed for another man, she was providing amusement.”

  “So maybe he’s one of those guys gets off watching the missus do another dude.”

  “Maybe, but that’s always a risky game. Priorities change, all of a sudden the actress wants to direct. Maybe that was the real reason for the divorce.”

  “Ursula got too independent,” he said. “He did admit she threatened divorce all the time.”

  “But again, he was out for control: reducing Ursula’s threats to impulsive bullshit and claiming the ultimate decision was his.”

  “Calling her bluff. That’s nothing but hostility. The more I think about it, the more I’m feeling we just talked to an extremely angry man.”

  I said, “What if the choice wasn’t his and Ursula finally made good on her threats? His alibi doesn’t mean much—people at his level hire out. Toss in a few million dollars of additional motive even after estate taxes and you’ve got something.”

  “That assumes Ursula willed him her share of the estate.”

  “As an ex, she might not have wanted to, but as a business partner she could’ve had no choice. That fits with the two of them repeatedly trying to assess the value of Urrick. If the partnership ever came to an end, both their interests would be protected. But even if Ursula willed everything to the daughters, Richard might figure he could control their share.”

  “Daddy knows best,” he said. “Let him continue to run the business and they enjoy the benefits. Sure, makes sense. The only snag I can see in a financial motive is both Fellinger and Richard told us it took both Coreys to keep the business running.”

  “Like I said, priorities change. Ursula knew the Asian markets and was creative but what if Richard met someone he felt could replace her? Business-wise as well as romantically.”

  “His Buddhist girlfriend,” he said, rotating his neck. “I’ll see what I can learn about that. Meanwhile, let’s get to see how Ursula lived. We’re lucky, we’ll get to meet the offspring created by such a glorious union.”

  Lobo Canyon was velvety pasture rolling into fog-capped hills, copses of California oak reveling in the dry spots, grass thriving where sprinklers ruled. Impeccable manses were graced by equally impeccable corrals inhabited by beautiful prancing creatures. All that bucolic loveliness topped by a cloudless Delft sky.

  This was stunning terrain laid out millennia ago by God or Nature or whoever you chose to give credit, then developed and subdivided for decades. For the most part intelligent progress, with an eye toward preservation. But all that serenity came with a price: Once you were this far from the city, you rarely left.

  Back when I saw patients regularly, I encountered plenty of bored West Valley adolescents who’d stimulated themselves with mischief and occasional felonies. I wondered how the Corey girls had fared in Eden.

  How they’d cope now, with everything crumbling.

  The house Ursula and Richard Corey had once shared lay behind a guard-gated entrance six miles south of the freeway. Iron lettering atop the left-hand gatepost proclaimed RANCHO LOBO ESTATES: A PRIVATE COMMUNITY.

  The gate was more symbol than barrier, an X of metal set into a wooden frame, the spacing more than wide enough to admit a large man. The road beyond the gate snaked quickly out of view, a narrow S of decomposed granite shaded by sycamores native to the region and eucalyptus, once Australian interlopers, now granted amnesty as resident aliens.

  The guard was a stout, middle-aged woman in a blue gingham shirt with western-style pearl snaps. As we idled next to her booth, she continued reading Modern Equestrian. I thought Milo did a great job of simulating patience.

  Finally, he cleared his throat. Loud.

  The woman blinked but her attention remained fixed on the page. “Who’re you here for?”

  “The Coreys. Don’t call ahead.”

  She turned to find Milo’s badge in her face. “Is there a problem?”

  “Not on this side of the gate.”

  She waited. He stared her down.

  Finally, she said, “That’s good,” and pushed a button.

  A wooden sign ten yards in warned against speeds above five mph. I dared to tackle the granite road at fifteen, the Seville’s tires playing a crunch sonata as we passed estates ranging from generous to vast.

  Most of the properties were named: La Valencia, Cloudburst Ranch, El Nido, StraightWalker Farms. Grass was as green as it could ever be, dirt was uniformly cream-colored and raked smooth, fencing was stark white when it wasn’t burnished pine.

  The beautiful beasts confined to the corrals flashed flanks groomed to sateen and sported manes and tails so composed, they might have been blow-dried.

  When people accompanied the horses—riding, walking, pampering—they were always female and, with the exception of one woman cantering in a maroon dressage uniform, attired in snug jeans and tailored shirts. More English saddles than Western. Trim bodies abounded, as did jewelry glimmering at the same body parts as Ursula Corey’s corpse. I pictured her alive, turned out perfectly, riding or leading a mount around the ring or just enjoying the quiet.

  Her homestead was the ninth property past the main gate, closer to generous than vast. Two, maybe two and a half acres hosting a low-slung tile-roofed Spanish Revival house and three outbuildings of similar style, including a two-story barn.

  With most of the acreage fronting the residence, the view was an unobstructed swath of terraced lawn, privet-hedged flower beds, swooping meadow, and impeccable corral. Choice lot, backed by an outcropping of granite and set high enough to block the scrutiny of neighbors.

  Two horses occupied the riding ring, both statuesque and dark brown with black manes and tails and white ankles that suggested gym socks. They circled slowly, bearing the easy weight of slender young women. Finally a break in the dress code: This pair wore form-fitted T-shirts tucked into their jeans, one red, the other yellow. Loose hair the color of clarified butter streamed in the breeze. The sound of laughter sailed through the high, dry air.

  No need to disturb the reverie yet; entrance to the property was
a coast under a white-painted arch crowned Aventura. Easing onto an asphalt patch, I parked in one of four slots delineated by white paint.

  The T-shirted girls brought their horses to a halt.

  Milo said, “Here we go. Damn.”

  Two years separated the Corey sisters but they could’ve been twins. Tall, leggy, effortlessly svelte, their faces were smooth bronze ovals graced by symmetrical features. Narrow hips, tight waists, and generous shoulders suggested athleticism. Straight blond hair flowed past the belt line of the girl in the red tee. Luxuriant waves fanned the shoulders of Yellow.

  Both girls remained straight-backed on their horses as we reached the railing of the corral, pretty mouths set firmly, blue eyes watchful.

  Milo said, “Ashley and Marissa?”

  Wavy said, “I’m Marissa, she’s Ashley,” in a husky voice. “Who are you?”

  “Lieutenant Sturgis, L.A. police. We need to talk to you, please.”

  “Cops? L.A.?” said Ashley Corey in an even throatier tone. Once upon a time, their mother probably had a sultry voice.

  Marissa Corey said, “Agoura sheriff’s in charge and we already told them we had nothing to do with it.”

  “With …”

  “Laura’s car. We knew totally nothing about it and the sheriff finally believed us so only Laura has to go to court so I don’t know what you think—”

  Ashley squeezed her sister’s arm. “Fellinger said you shouldn’t even be talking to them, Rissy.”

  Milo said, “I’m glad the thing with Laura worked out, but that’s not why we’re here. Now, if you could please get off your horses, girls.”

  Marissa said, “This is exercise time.”

  Ashley said, “We don’t stop because you say.”

  “It’s important, girls. Really.”

  Ashley tossed her own mane, frowned, and formed silent words that looked nasty, but she complied. When her boots touched ground, her sister followed suit. The two of them left the corral, Ashley locking it behind her. Both girls were over six feet in polished riding boots—snakeskin for Ashley, something that looked like elephant hide for Marissa. Each T-shirt read Look a Gift Horse above a cartoon of a wide-open mouth.