“Me?” I said, grinning.
He grinned back. “Gonna bust someone?”
“Given the opportunity. So you don’t know her?”
“Nope.”
“Been having shoplifter problems?”
“You kidding? Turn your back and half the sugar packets are gone. Turn again and there’s no ketchup.” He huffed. “Rich people are cheap.” Third look at Hennepin. “Yeah, she’s definitely sketchy.”
I returned to the center of the lobby swarm, mingling aimlessly as people eddied around me.
Something Bayless had said stuck with me. The murder at the opera.
Met her in the elevator.
No cameras in these elevators. What better place to hunt unobtrusively?
I got closer to the bank of lifts, watched doors open and close, disgorging hungry-looking folk. Some had their cigarette packs out in anticipation. The sound level rose. Or maybe that was just the noise in my head.
Nothing more to do here and no sense annoying Bayless. I made my way toward the exit.
Got that itchy feeling on the back of my neck.
Someone watching me? More likely, too much coffee and failure.
I half turned anyway. Saw nothing. Then I did.
A sudden shift as a man moved into the crowd quickly.
Not quick enough to avoid identification: Grant Fellinger trying to wedge his stocky frame into the throng. Hustling toward the elevators.
Had he been watching me? Even if he had, the explanation could be simple: recognizing me but not in the mood to deal with police business.
I resumed my exit, allowed myself a brief half turn.
Fellinger had turned also. Tight-faced. Fear? Anger? Both?
For a second, we locked eyes. Then he swiveled fast and showed me his back.
Not a phantom? A man who worked here, had good reason to be here?
A professional man who’d had a professional relationship with Ursula Corey? Far beyond professional if Richard Corey could be believed.
Who better to put a woman at ease as she walked to her car than her own lawyer? The man she’d come to see in the first place.
What bigger surprise than to see that man aiming a gun at her face?
No one—not the pretty receptionist in the black dress nor Fellinger’s assistant—had mentioned Fellinger leaving the office with Ursula the morning of her murder. But bosses didn’t check in or out and if the young woman had stepped away from her desk, who’d have known?
Sheep. Uncharitable appraisal of humanity but as I’d just seen, accurate.
I left the building, was talking on my phone by the time I got across the street.
Earl Cohen, Esq., had agreed to meet me in his office if I got there soon but when I arrived, his secretary said, “Mr. C.’s having lunch. Café Europa, it’s next door.”
“Café” turned out to be hype for a niche with a three-foot take-out counter on the ground floor of an adjoining medical building. Two young women in nurse’s uniforms waited for packaged salads. The single eat-in table in the corner was occupied by Earl Cohen.
In bright light, the old man was a wax apparition in bespoke tailoring. Lunch was monastic: unflavored yogurt, plastic spoon, glass of water.
I sat down. Cohen waited for the nurses to leave before speaking. “What now, Dr. Delaware?”
“As I said the first time, Grant Fellinger spoke highly of you. First time I’ve heard that from an opposing attorney.”
Cohen grinned. “Maybe I deserved the accolades.”
“No doubt,” I said. “But you weren’t as enthusiastic about him.”
“How uncharitable of me.”
“Anything you can tell me about Fellinger would be helpful.”
“You suspect him of having something to do with Ursula’s death?” No trace of surprise.
“It’s not at the level of suspicion but I find him interesting.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, we’ve been told he was sleeping with his client.”
Cohen smiled. “Which client, in particular?”
I smiled back. “It’s like that, huh?”
“Well,” said Cohen, “I’ve never heard of Grant going for men, but several female clients are reputed to have fallen under his charm. Such as it is.”
“Legal lothario.”
Cohen laughed. “Hard to understand, but so I’ve been told.”
“This is common knowledge among your colleagues.”
“Not common. The topic has come up a few times. Off the record and destined to remain that way. Including this conversation, Doctor. I’m too old for complications.”
“Has anyone ever filed a harassment complaint against him?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” said Cohen. He spooned yogurt. “Maybe he’s a command performer, leaves the gals happy and sassy.”
“What exactly have you heard?”
“Exactly? At my age, precision is out of the question. Approximately? Seeing as poor Ursula’s dead? Anything’s possible,” said Cohen. “As long as it remains off the record.”
He deposited yogurt on the tip of his spoon, treated himself to half a calorie. “Off the record means you keep it to yourself.”
I shook my head. “Off the record means your name doesn’t enter any official files. But anything relevant will be passed along to Lieutenant Sturgis.”
“Well,” said Cohen, “I appreciate your honesty, don’t encounter it often in my line of work.”
He fingered his tie. “You say you don’t suspect Fellinger but you want to pry into his personal life.”
“If it has to do with Ursula Corey.”
He put down his spoon. “I don’t know why I agreed to see you. I’m getting the distinct impression you’re a young man who thrives on complications.”
“Just the opposite, Mr. Cohen. My goal is always to simplify.”
He studied me. “If you were a woman, I’d call you a yenta.”
“Busybody’s fine,” I said. “And it’s gender-neutral.”
Cohen laughed loud enough to draw attention from the counterman. He finished with a wheeze, stroked the section of his neck that had been hollowed out. “For a psychologist, you’re direct. Aren’t you people all about nuance?”
“What I hear you saying is that your feelings could be explained by emotional factors but on the other hand …”
He laughed again. “Wise guy. Listen, I’m a geezer who’s had two types of cancer and what the heck, what can anyone do to me? So here’s the dirt: one day I noticed Grant’s pudgy paw finding its way to Ursula’s shapely buttocks when he thought no one was looking.”
“Where did this happen?”
“In the elevator of his building. We were all riding down—Richard, Ursula, Grant, and myself—having finished a conference.”
“Fellinger groped her with Richard right there.”
“I imagine that was part of the thrill.”
“How’d she react?”
“Tiny little smile.”
“The meeting was in Fellinger’s office, but he left too.”
“He was accompanying Ursula,” said Cohen. “Going the extra mile, a gallant.”
“But the real reason was sticking it to the ex. For both of them.”
“That was my interpretation.” He lifted a quivering hand, curled knobby fingers. “Not just a tap, he was squeezing her repetitively.”
“And she was enjoying it.”
“She smiled throughout the process,” said Cohen. “The inescapable conclusion was a long-standing private joke. I realized Richard hadn’t been blowing smoke when he claimed Fellinger was having his way with her all through the process.”
Richard had claimed the same about Cohen. I said, “Thanks for the information. Anything else?”
“It offended me,” said Cohen. “Not the sex part but the fact that Fellinger would breach professional ethics so baldly. I’m old-school, Dr. Delaware. Work is work, play is play.”
“Did Richard e
ver tell you Ursula had cheated on him while they were married?”
“No, that was the point.”
“The point of what?”
“I can’t speak to their lives prior to the divorce but any sexual adventurousness on Ursula’s part that he cited occurred only after the divorce. Therefore, I advised him to mind his own business.”
“How’d he take that?”
“He said he understood intellectually but it made him sad. Ursula doing that to herself.”
“Worrying about her welfare,” I said. “A caring ex-husband.”
Cohen took a dainty sip of water and got up shakily. “No more, Dr. Delaware.”
I said, “Let me just clarify: Richard implied Ursula was somehow hurting herself by sleeping around.”
Cohen pointed to the ceiling. “Time flies. I’m headed upstairs to see one of my doctors who will be of no use to me.”
I phoned Milo.
He said, “Probably no big deal, but Darius Kleffer’s back in L.A. No local address or car reg but he’s been working at an Italian place called Beppo Bippo for around a month. Got that bit of wisdom by surfing the food blogs.”
“He’s that well known?”
“No, he posted the news himself on a site called Big-Eyes Gourmandize. I phoned the place, it’s Kleffer’s day off. Manager said he’d give Kleffer the message. If he doesn’t, I’ll go over there. What’s up?”
“Got a suggestion for you.”
“What?”
I told him.
He said, “Meet me in front of the station. Maybe we’ll grab a snack.”
CHAPTER
12
The Seville had barely come to a stop when he flung the door open and hurled himself in. He landed hard. A truckload of flour sacks hitting the pier.
“Fellinger,” he said. “He gave you that bad of a feeling?”
“I can’t help thinking my being there upset him. And guess what, he’s got a thing for elevators.”
I repeated Cohen’s account.
He said, “That couldn’t be one lawyer getting back at another?”
“I had to pry it out of Cohen and he didn’t enjoy telling the story.”
“Escorting her,” he said. “Then he decides to shoot her in the face? Why?”
“Maybe she knew something that threatened him,” I said. “Or he’s just that kind of guy. If he did Katherine Hennepin, he’s definitely that kind of guy.”
“Your basic homicidal psychopath with a good day job.”
“Unfortunately not so basic,” I said. “He’s an intelligent man. Far from a hunk, in fact he’s a conspicuously homely man. But despite that, he was able to charm a beautiful woman like Ursula into bed. Had the arrogance and confidence to play grab-ass with her ex standing a few feet away and know she’d go along with it and enjoy it. Someone like Katherine—shy, beneath him socioeconomically—would’ve been a snap. But conquest isn’t enough. He needs to be the one who breaks off the relationship. Permanently. To put his brand on it by arranging dinner for two because that’s his way of thumbing his nose at romance. At women, in general.”
“I look like a troll but I rule.”
“Looks aren’t destiny, Big Guy, but they can be a factor growing up. Even toddlers rate their peers on attractiveness. All other things equal, cuter kids get treated better by children and adults.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Such self-pity,” I said. “Rick showed me your high school yearbook. More all-American than troll.”
“That was good lighting,” he said. “He showed you the damn yearbook? Why? When?”
“One night when Robin and I were over for dinner. You were griping about something, big surprise, and when you went to the bathroom, Rick said you always claimed to be a big outcast and he used to believe you until he found the book. Varsity football and wrestling, ROTC, couple of honor societies. He had the page tabbed with a Post-it.”
“He’s always trying to convince me life rises above the dank bog of Irish doom.” He snorted. “So that’s Fellinger’s defense? He was a poor little ape-boy? Sounds like the pop-psych stuff you hate.”
“Not a defense, just trying to understand him.”
“Because he avoided you in the lobby.”
“No one else noticed me,” I said, recounting the experience. “But he did and while I can’t prove it, I think he made sure to avoid me. I know it’s not much but what else do you have? The elevator grope combined sexuality, cruelty, and manipulation. Which is exactly the kind of person we’re looking for. Cohen also felt it looked like a game that Fellinger and Ursula had played before. That shifted my perspective. I’d imagined the killer as an underachiever. Someone who viewed himself as brilliant but fell well short of success. Fellinger’s an outwardly successful man but feelings of inadequacy can come from all sorts of places.”
“He’s got dough and prestige, snags babes like Ursula. So what, he’s working through his childhood? Even if, how does Hennepin figure in, seeing as there’s nothing connecting her to Fellinger?”
“If she visited Fellinger’s building, she figures in nicely. I photoed down his co-tenants on the seventh floor. If we can tie her to any of them, it’s a big step.”
I showed him the snaps.
“You’ve been a busy lad.”
“Anything for a friend.”
He breathed in deeply. “Ape-Man Meets the Accountant. Speaking of which.” He phoned Katherine Hennepin’s bosses. They were in, agreed to meet. Again.
RM-Accu Accounting operated out of a storefront on Woodman just south of Magnolia. Their strip-mall neighbors were four ethnic restaurants: Mexican, Thai, Israeli, Lebanese. Each one seemed to be thriving, with lines forming outside entrances.
What if food really was love and world peace could be a reality?
The firm was a fifteen-by-fifteen room set up with three desks and half a dozen file cabinets. Interior design consisted of flyers spelling out IRS small-print regulations; surrealism for the twenty-first century.
Ralph Gross boomed, “What, you expected Ernst and Young?”
It sounded like something he said all the time. Milo’s weak smile confirmed that.
Ralph was in his eighties, tall and thickset with a hound-dog mien. Maureen looked to be slightly younger with a pie-face and rosy cheeks.
She said, “Lieutenant, nice to see you again. You brought a handsome friend.”
Milo said, “This is Alex Delaware.”
“You’re lieutenant but he’s first-name basis?” said Ralph. “We talking a civilian? Something you don’t want to tell us?”
Clever man attuned to details; this might turn out to be useful. Milo laughed. “Sorry, it’s Dr. Delaware. He’s our consulting psychologist.”
“Yours, as in he works for you? Or he’s a Hessian—a freelance.”
“Freelance.”
“Really,” said Ralph Gross. To me: “That must be interesting, Dr. Hessian.”
Maureen said, “A psychologist! I knew it! You think we’re nuts!”
Milo said, “Hardly, ma’am. I’d like to talk to you again about Katherine.”
“Kathy was killed by a nut?”
“We’re exploring all possibilities.”
“Love how you avoid a direct answer,” said Ralph. “You could work for the government.”
Maureen said, “He already does.”
Ralph said, “I meant the geniuses in Washington … but yeah, you are a civil servant. I hear you people get great pensions. Part of the reason the state’s going broke but heck, don’t feel guilty.”
Milo said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Hope you’re investing it wisely.”
“Doing my best.”
“If you have any pension questions—simple ones—call and I’ll shoot you a freebie, Lieutenant. Show of appreciation, and all that. You may not have solved the case but at least you take the job seriously.”
Maureen said, “We were certain it was that maniac chef but you insisted n
o.”
“He was definitely in New York, ma’am.”
“Too bad. What a nut.” To me: “You should’ve seen him in action. Crazy.”
“Nasty temper,” said Ralph. “He barged in here twice, trying to bully Katherine. Demanding she talk with him. The first time, he left quietly. The second time I had to get in his face, as the kids say.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a hairless but bulky forearm. Semper Fi USMC tattoo.
Maureen said, “I thought they’d come to blows. That wasn’t smart, Ralph.”
“He got the hell out of here, didn’t he? Okay, so what do you want to know, now, Lieutenant? And Dr. Psychologist.”
Milo said, “Could you describe Katherine’s job for us?”
“Her job?” said Ralph. “She was a bookkeeper. She kept books.”
“For any particular client?”
“For anyone we told her. We do the returns but she collated and filed the data. To some it might sound boring but Kathy was very happy here. She was a good employee.”
Milo read off the address of the building on Century Park East. “Do any of your clients have offices there?”
“Century City?” said Maureen. “We do mostly individual accounts. A few small businesses but nothing fancy-shmancy.”
“That crap is too rich for our blood,” said Ralph. “Like sugar diabetes; you indulge but you pay. We had enough of the Big Four, met at Ernst, left that world forty years ago. Why’re you asking about Century City?”
Milo avoided an answer. “Did Katherine run errands for you?”
“What, like gofering?” said Ralph. “No, her value was sitting right there.” He pointed to the left-most desk. “Excellent employee, we’ve replaced her with a girl who comes in part-time. Good enough but Kathy was better.”
Milo said, “So she never left the office.”
Maureen said, “Never? That I wouldn’t say. Occasionally she’d go out for us. Infrequently.”
Milo said, “For what?”
“Picking up lunch next door at Thai Temple, they get an A from the health department. Sometimes we’re in the mood for Mexican but we don’t like Don Pepe since they got a C, so she’d drive to La Fiesta Buffet on Fulton.”
Ralph said, “Mo, they don’t care about our eating habits. Once in a blue moon, we’d ask her to deliver papers to a client.”
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