Marissa folded her arms across her chest. “Okay, what?”
“I need to talk to you about your mother.”
“Mom?” By the end of the syllable her voice had shot up half an octave.
Ashley’s eyes narrowed. “What about Mom?”
Milo did his best to be gentle but there’s no way to mute the horror, no way to prevent yourself from becoming yet another survivor’s worst memory.
Ashley and Marissa Corey shrieked in unison then began shouting “No, no, no” in a syncopated rhythm that smoothed out to a cataract of grief.
Marissa’s arms dropped. She began punching herself in the chest. Ashley wrung her hands and drummed her own forehead. Tears gushed. Both girls slammed against each other, remained locked in a terrible embrace.
Milo chewed his cheek and tapped his foot and wiped his face so hard with one hand that he raised a pink splotch where his left eye met his temple.
We continued to watch and wait and feel useless as Ursula Corey’s daughters began gulping and wailing something that sounded like youyouyouyou.
It took a long time for that to taper to downcast sniffling and involuntary shudders. Milo was ready with tissues that were ignored.
Marissa said, “No, no, no,” and shoved waves of hair away from her tear-soaked face.
Ashley said, “Why would anyone hurt her?”
Milo said, “Don’t know that yet, Marissa.”
“When? When did it happen?”
Milo said, “This morning.”
Ashley said, “It wasn’t Daddy. I’ll tell you that for sure.”
Her sister looked at her. An instant passed before she said, “Shit, no, it wasn’t Daddy.”
Milo said, “Let’s go inside and talk.”
Bawling, the girls stumbled toward the house. Milo and I followed, giving them a four-step lead.
Mourners always head the line.
When they reached the house, Ashley shoved one of the limed-oak double doors and it swung open silently.
Unlocked. The Corey girls had grown up assuming safety.
From now on, they’d never feel completely safe.
Milo and I continued to trail as they staggered, sobbing and clutching each other clumsily, past a flagstone rotunda topped by a wrought-iron chandelier. The fixture was crusted with beautifully forged songbirds and set up with mock candles tipped by LED bulbs. A niche to the right hosted a crudely fashioned Virgin Mary, the kind you can get all over Tijuana. The girls continued into a huge, high-ceilinged great room backed by windows and walled in rough-hewn granite. The furniture was expensive, perfectly placed, determinedly casual: distressed buckskin sofas and love seats, iron and glass tables, kilim throw pillows, straw-backed chairs painted the color of summer-dried sage.
The Corey sisters collapsed together on the largest sofa.
Marissa Corey snatched a pillow, hugged it to her chest, and dropped her head, weeping and letting out sad little burp-like noises. Her younger sister sat pressed against her, erect and blank-eyed, hands on her knees. Since learning of their shared tragedy, both girls had undergone a strange, contradictory transformation: rendered younger, almost child-like by helplessness, but aged decades around the eyes by the ultimate loss of trust.
Milo said, “Girls, we’re so, so sorry.”
Ashley slung her arm around her sister’s shoulders. Marissa rested her head on Ashley’s bosom. Two years older but more dependent? Maybe that was the reason her sister dormed out but she lived at home.
Ashley said, “Oh my God, Daddy!” As if she hadn’t just mentioned him. “Does he know?”
“We just informed him.”
The girls looked at each other. Ashley said, “He didn’t call us.”
Milo said, “He’s pretty broken up, girls. We offered to talk to you first and as soon as we’re through, he’ll be over.”
“He’s our dad,” said Marissa. “He should be here.”
“He will,” said Ashley. “Poor Daddy.” She sighed, cried a bit. “It’ll be the first time since the divorce.”
Milo said, “That he’s here?”
“Uh-huh.”
Marissa said, “Mommy probably wouldn’t have minded, they got along. But Daddy said it was best that he get his own life in gear.”
Milo said, “At the condo.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You guys spend much time there?”
“Not really,” said Ashley. “Sometimes.”
Marissa said, “I need to throw up,” struggled to her feet and ran across the room. Ashley turned to Milo: “What now?”
“Our only goal is to find out who hurt your mom. That sometimes means questions that can seem out of place, Ashley. So if we ask anything that—”
“Like what?”
“Well, for starts, something you said a few minutes ago. That it wasn’t your dad. I’m curious why you said that.”
“Why I said it was ’cause it wasn’t Dad even though you might think it was.”
“Why would we think that?”
“Because that’s what cops always think, right? They assume it’s the husband, I see it all the time on the murder shows.”
“You watch a lot of murder sho—”
“Dad watches ’em and when I’m over, I do, too.”
“So you wanted to make sure we didn’t assume—”
“Admit it, you focused on him,” said Ashley, louder. “So I cleared it up, okay? They were divorced but still friends—they worked together, no problems, not a single one.”
“Okay,” said Milo.
Ashley pointed a red-nailed finger. “Even if I believed Dad could do something like that and I don’t, I know he didn’t because he wasn’t there when you said it happened, he was home.”
Early on, she’d asked about the time frame. Not as certain of her father’s innocence as she wanted us to believe?
I said, “You know he was home because—”
“I called him this morning and he was there and then he had to take another call from overseas business so he said to email him and I did. And he was right there and he answered me back. Twice.”
We’d seen the email headings, so all true. But irrelevant if a contract killer had been used.
Milo said, “Thanks for clearing that up, Ashley. And let me emphasize, we don’t have any suspects at this time, including your dad.”
“I threw up,” said Marissa Corey, reappearing around the corner. She sat back down, swiping her lips with a tissue and placing a hand on a flat stomach. “Everything just hurled.”
Ashley said, “You okay?”
Marissa stuck out her tongue and grimaced. “Tastes like crap. Yech.”
Ashley said, “I was just telling them that Daddy and Mommy got along well.”
“Uh-huh.” Marissa closed her eyes, threw her head back against the roll of the sofa-top.
Milo said, “I know this is a terrible time but if either of you has any idea who would want to hurt your mom—”
“No one,” said Ashley. “Some criminal probably wanted to rob her.”
Marissa said, “She was wearing total bling. I saw her when I was eating breakfast this morning.”
Ashley said, “Mommy was the queen of blingdom, she loved her bling. That’s why she went out, to make sure her jewelry was given to us fairly. She told us. We felt weird about it but when Mommy had an idea …”
“Fifty–fifty, girls,” said Marissa, shifting to a British accent.
Ashley said, “Mommy was all about being fair, always.”
“Robbery would be a good motive,” said Milo. “Unfortunately, all of your mother’s jewelry was in place. So were her cash and credit cards.”
Both girls gaped.
Ashley said, “So what? Some ghetto-scum tried to rob her, panicked and …” She shook her head. More tears.
Marissa said, “I think I’m going to hurl again.” But she sat there.
Milo said, “You’re making good points and we’ll certainly look into them. Is t
here anything else we should consider?”
“Why would we know?” said Ashley.
“You were close to her.”
“So what, if it was about her bling?”
“True, but let’s consider alternatives. Was your mom dating anyone?”
Both girls shook their heads.
“No one?”
Ashley said, “The business kept her busy, she was always traveling.”
“So no steady boyfriend.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Did she ever speak of anyone hassling her?”
“Like a stalker?” said Ashley. “No.”
“What about a problem with someone related to business?”
Blank looks. Then Marissa shot a glance at her sister. Whatever message she was trying to convey didn’t get through. Ashley continued to look glazed. She slumped low and knuckled her eyes.
I said, “Something came to mind, Marissa?”
“No,” she said. In a soft voice, to Ashley: “Not even Phyllis, right?”
Ashley stared at her. “Phyllis? That’s crazy.”
The obvious next step was to ask who Phyllis was. Milo said, “Tell us about the hassle with Laura.”
“Stupid bitch Laura,” said Marissa. “We’re all going to the city, House of Blues, Chainsaw Waltz is playing, Laura’s like ‘I’ll drive.’ She’s a sucky driver, we should’ve known, but she had her father’s car finally and wanted to show it off.”
I said, “Nice wheels?”
“Bentley Speed? You think?”
Ashley said, “She hit a pole in her Audi the week before so it was in the shop and her dad finally let her use the Bentley. She’s like, ‘C’mon, they’ll valet us in front, we’ll get vipped all night, maybe get into those hidden private rooms they have there.’ So we’re like, ‘okay.’ Then instead of getting onto the 101 she takes some side streets because she wants to show off without highway patrol up her butt. So now she’s up to ninety and we’re like, ‘Stop, Bitch, this is stupid.’ And then a sheriff blue-lights her and we all have to do the Dewey test.”
“The Dewey test?” said Milo.
“Dewey,” said Marissa. “D-U-I? Walking like straight, touching our noses?”
Ashley said, “We passed but Laura didn’t, we didn’t know she had some beers before. So the sheriff fails her and then he says I’m gonna look inside the car and Laura’s like ‘Fine,’ doesn’t even ask for a warrant. Then he searches and finds a Baggie of weed in the glove compartment and Laura claims it’s her dad’s. Which could be possible, he’s like a music executive, got a ponytail. Then another sheriff car comes and we all get taken to the station and we call Mommy but she’s not answering her phone and Laura’s dad finally answers and he comes over and gets totally pissed when he finds out Laura tried to rat him out, tells the cops feel free to teach my daughter a lesson.”
“Cold,” said Marissa. “Usually, he’s mellow. Like friend-type dad.”
I said, “Doesn’t sound as if you guys had anything to worry about.”
“That’s what we figured,” said Ashley. “But they held us and said we’d still have to go to court. Finally we reached Mommy and she called Fellinger and he got us out of there and fixed it so we don’t have to go to court. But Laura still does, only her dad finally mellowed out and hired a lawyer who keeps postponing it. That’s what we figured you guys were here for, like to convince us to rat Laura out.”
She sucked in air. Hung her head. “Now I wish that was the reason.”
The girls gripped each other again, rocked and scrunched their eyes shut and went silent.
Milo got on his cell. “Mr. Corey? Lieutenant Sturgis. Your daughters need you. Good, I’ll tell them.”
Ashley opened her eyes. Marissa did the same seconds later.
“Your dad’s on his way.”
“Okay,” said Ashley. Her voice had gone flat. Her eyes were dull.
I said, “So you dorm at the U., and Marissa, you live here?”
“Um, not really,” said Marissa.
“We share an apartment,” said Ashley, blushing behind her ears.
“Are you in school?”
Hesitation. Slow head shake. “I dropped out. Could’ve studied but it was a total waste. I want to do business like my parents.”
“Import–export?”
“No, by myself, maybe in fashion.” She twisted a foot-long strand of blond hair. “I’m figuring it out.”
“Me, too,” said Marissa.
“So you guys are here today because—”
“Sydney and Jasper need us. We come like three, four times a week to groom and feed them and do a little exercise. Otherwise their muscles go flabby and they get unhealthy.”
“And the other days?”
“Mom does it … oh, God!”
Marissa said, “What’s going to happen to Sydney and Jasper?”
I walked to a cavernous kitchen, found ice water in one of two fridges, and poured glasses for the girls. They began by sipping, ended up slurping.
Milo said, “Thanks for your time, girls. Anything else you want to tell us?”
Fluttering lids. Dual drowsy head shakes.
“We’re happy to stay until your dad gets here.”
Dual “Uh-uhs.”
“You’re sure?”
Ashley said, “We really want to be by ourselves.”
Marissa nodded.
Milo said, “I understand,” and we stood. “Take care of yourselves, girls—oh, by the way, who’s Phyllis?”
Ashley said, “Phyllis Tranh. She was Mommy’s friend and then Daddy dated her.”
“He dated her after the divorce.”
“Of course, after,” said Marissa. “Daddy’s not a cheater.”
“But not for long,” said Ashley. “Maybe it got awkward.”
“Phyllis Tranh,” said Milo. “That’s a Vietnamese name.”
“Yeah, she is. Mommy knows her from business, Phyllis retails.”
Marissa said, “Her and Mommy used to get their nails done together. When Mommy went to Beverly Hills.”
“All the nail places in Beverly Hills are Vietnamese,” said Ashley.
“Everywhere,” said Marissa.
“Phyllis like goes in and talks to them in their language and she and Mommy get vipped.”
Milo said, “Did that change after Phyllis started dating your dad?”
“I don’t know,” said Ashley. “No one ever said.”
“I don’t know either,” said Marissa. “What people do is their own business, anyway.”
CHAPTER
6
As we exited the house, one of the horses neighed and the other stared.
Milo said, “My kingdom for a talking steed—no Mr. Ed comments, please. He was a dilettante.”
He began working his phone as we returned to the Seville.
Phyllis Tranh was chief financial officer of Diamond Products and Sundries. The CEO was Albert L. Tranh. Headquartered on Santee Street, east of downtown, the company sold goods on the web as well as in retail stores and served as a jobber for importers and wholesalers. The website could be accessed in English, Spanish, Chinese, Thai, and Vietnamese.
Milo whistled. “They’re into everything from aquarium supplies to yeast. Including religious supplies for Catholics, Protestants, and Buddhists. Like you said, a woman with that background might serve as a nifty replacement for Ursula.” He loosened his tie. “Fooling with your friend’s spouse, same old story. Okay, let’s see where this entrepreneurial lady lives. Meanwhile, my head’s killing me, try to find a place for coffee before we get back on the freeway.”
I drove out of Rancho Lobos Estates the way I’d come in. The guardhouse was unoccupied but the gate’s exit function was activated by pressure.
As I hooked back onto Lobo Canyon, Milo kept searching for data on Phyllis Tranh.
“Here we go, North Maple Drive in Beverly Hills. Lives with Albert Tranh.” He turned to me. “She’s married, it opens up a whole new c
hapter … looks like neither of them has committed a criminal violation. Pity. Onward to DMV—shit, never looked up Richard’s wheels.”
That info egested quickly: Corey drove a two-year-old black Range Rover, Phyllis Tranh a three-year-old gray Maserati, Albert Tranh a seven-year-old Lincoln Town Car.
Milo reached Moe Reed and asked him to be out on the lookout for all three vehicles on the security tape.
Reed said, “Nice to have diversity, L.T. Been looking at a bunch of German engineering for the last hour. You’d think the whole world’s BMW and Mercedes and Audi.”
“Nothing iffy, so far?”
“Not yet. A couple of commercial delivery drivers who arrived early on did come up with records. But nothing close to homicide.”
“How far from homicide?”
“One guy did a short stint for forgery six years ago, the other had a narcotics conviction.”
“Look into both of them, Moses. Unless something really juicy pops up.”
“Ms. Maserati or Mr. Range Rover,” said Reed.
“A boy can dream,” said Milo.
In a strip mall on Kanan Road just south of the 101 I spotted promising signage over a storefront: Tyrolean Gourmet: Baked Delicacies and Gourmet Coffee. Inside were sweet aromas and immaculate floors, a long take-out counter filled with temptation.
Only two ice cream tables for eating in. But for a woman in her sixties behind the counter, the place was empty.
Instant smile. “Vut ken I do for you, Surzz?”
Milo studied the glass case, selected a headache remedy in the form of a raspberry torte the size of a minor Alp as well as a similarly scaled slab of carrot cake.
The woman said, “Und you, Surr?”
The cake looked good so I ordered my own. We sat down with coffee and calories. He looked at my plate and chuckled.
“What?”
“Adonis actually ingests? Finally, I’m a bad influence?”
“You’re always a bad influence. I just happen to be hungry.”
He finished both of his pastries, returned to the counter, said something that made the woman giggle, and returned with a cream-filled something. A single bite obliterated a third of it. He wiped his mouth. “Real cream, not that aerosol crap. Try some?”
Motive Page 6
