Mindy, Di Angelo’s secretary, appeared in the doorway, where she’d migrated from the attorneys’ side of the office. She was the cheerleader when it came to office gossip. Nicole had spoken to Mindy about it each time she had a performance review. “What about Robert’s life insurance?” Mindy said, her voice all innocence. “Is it true he left it to you?”
Nicole paused a moment. No one knew that but herself, Breanna, perhaps Di Angelo, and, of course, Detective Miller. Had Breanna been gossiping? Well, the news was out, so she admitted it was true, and went on to add, “It came as a complete surprise. I have no idea why Robert would do such a thing, except that he was a loner—you know that. He didn’t have many people in his life.
“The important thing to remember is that this is a tragedy,” she said. “He was a good person who did his job well and preferred keeping to himself. And these news stories suggest he was mixed up in some kind of criminal activity, which is ridiculous. Now if there’s nothing else, I have an appointment. If any more questions come up, I’ll be back this afternoon.”
Four
On her way out of the building, she found a group of paparazzi and reporters waiting in the lobby. The security guards had roped off an area to keep them away from the elevator banks.
“Say, miss,” one of them called to her. “Do you work at the Bascomb-Rice law firm?”
“No,” she said, averting her face as she dashed for the elevator that went down to the garage. Several others began to follow her on the other side of the rope barrier, yelling “Wait,” and “Just a couple of questions.” She kept going, ignoring them. Just then another elevator across the lobby opened, discharging three more people. The paparazzi reversed directions, rushing toward them.
Nicole made it to the garage and found her way downtown without incident. In the visitors’ lobby of LAPD headquarters, she waited while one of the receptionists, a cop in uniform, picked up the phone and summoned Detective Miller.
Miller came down and escorted her to a small office with a table and three chairs. On the table was a small, white plastic crate containing several plastic bags.
“Have a seat,” Miller said, gesturing to a chair. He still emanated the same negative attitude he’d shown the day before.
Nicole took a deep breath, determined not to let him get to her. She took off her cardigan, put it on the back of her chair and sat down while he settled across the table from her. “We’re going to videotape this,” he said. “That hunky-dory with you?”
“Fine,” she said.
“Just explain what happened,” he said. “Start with when you noticed Blair was missing and what you did to get in touch with him.”
She began by explaining that she hadn’t known Robert was absent from work until the previous morning when she’d returned from an out-of-town trip.
“Wait a minute,” Miller said. “You didn’t say you were away. Where were you?”
“I’d been in London for a week, visiting a friend.”
“And you got back—when?”
“Yesterday morning around 8:30. I got a message from my assistant about Robert. So I went to the office, then to Robert’s house to find out what had happened to him.”
Miller frowned. “I suppose you have proof of your trip, boarding passes or something.”
“Not with me, but I can get them. I’m sure it’s easy enough for you to check.”
He nodded in agreement and said, “Go on.”
So she did, explaining everything she could remember up to the discovery of Robert’s body. It was hard for her to believe all of this had happened only the day before.
“And you still maintain that you and Blair were not romantically involved,” Miller said. “And you were never inside his house before yesterday. You didn’t enter it at that time, except maybe a foot or two inside the front door.”
“That’s right.”
“Then let me ask you this,” he said. “Was he stalking you? Sexually harassing you?”
“Harassing me?” she said. “No. He wouldn’t do that.”
“OK,” he said. “Then explain this.” He took three plastic evidence bags from the white crate and placed them on the table in front of her. Each held a framed photograph of her. One showed her in a bikini, leaning back on her elbows and smiling at the camera. She remembered when it was taken—on the trip to Majorca with Reinhardt. They were on the beach behind the hotel, and a waiter had used her phone to take it. In the original, Reinhardt had been sitting next to her. But in this version, he’d been deleted. There was another photo of her at an office party, and a third of her alone. She couldn’t figure out where this one was taken. She seemed to be standing on the sidewalk, waiting. Her head was turned so her face was in profile.
“Where did you get these?” she asked.
“They were in his bedroom,” Miller said. “We also found these items.” He cleared his throat, then held up three more evidence bags, one containing a sheer, blue, print nightgown. Two others each held a pair of frilly bikini panties. “Are these yours?”
Nicole was speechless. These were hers, all right, sexy lingerie she’d bought for her visits to Reinhardt. Several hundred dollars worth of filmy nothings. When she’d packed for her most recent trip, she’d been unable to find some of her lingerie. She’d wondered if she’d left them in Majorca, then remembered seeing them when she’d unpacked and tossed them into her laundry basket.
A realization hit. “He was stalking me,” she breathed. Then louder. “He must have broken into my place and taken my clothes.” She rushed on to explain. “In September, a few days after I got back from a trip to Majorca, my condo was broken into.” She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the memory. “I called the police, but they didn’t come out because nothing seemed to be missing, and there was no damage to my place. I didn’t think to check my underwear drawer.”
“What made you think there was a break-in?”
“Things were out of place. The photos on my bookshelf had been rearranged. My bedspread was wrinkled, as if someone had been sitting there. And the toilet seat was up. That was the tip-off. That hasn’t happened since I separated from my husband. Actually, it was the first thing I noticed.” She remembered thinking at the time that whoever had been in her condo had marked his territory with that raised toilet seat.
“Look,” she said, pointing to the photo on the beach. “My boyfriend was in the original of that photo, but he’s been edited out. The second picture looks like it’s from last year’s office Christmas party. Robert must have taken it, although I don’t remember seeing him there. He never went to office events outside of normal business hours. I’ve never seen that third photo before.”
She was wondering how she could have been so stupid. The man she was feeling sorry for—poor lonely Robert Blair—was a nut job with some kind of weird fixation on her. “We found this stuff on the floor of his bedroom,” Miller went on. “The whole house had been tossed:––every drawer, cupboard and closet pulled apart. You notice that?”
“I told you,” she answered. “I didn’t go into the house. I stepped into the entry hall, saw the body, and started to leave. Then I went back for another look. I touched the door and maybe the door frame, but I never went inside.”
“Why did you go back?”
“Because I couldn’t believe my eyes. Listen. I didn’t give these pictures to Robert, and I certainly didn’t give him those clothes or leave them at his house, if that’s what you think.”
“Tell me this: Did Blair have a computer in his house?”
“I guess so. He’d need one for work, especially outside cases. He wouldn’t work on those at the office.”
Blair looked up from his notebook. “I asked this before, but maybe you’ve remembered. Did he give you any hint about the kind of outside work he took on, who his clients were?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea. He never talked about it.”
“You didn’t give any of your things to Blair,” h
e said. “And you never noticed anything inappropriate in his behavior or indication of a romantic interest. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Right,” she said. “Oh. He did ask me out to dinner once, when I was going through my divorce. I told him I was involved with someone else.”
“How did he react?”
“I don’t remember much of a reaction,” she said. “He never brought it up again. He was always very formal, courteous, never even remotely flirtatious. That’s what makes this so strange.”
“What about his life insurance policy? Did you know he’d made you the beneficiary?”
“No.”
“And you say you don’t know anyone who’d want this guy dead.” For the first time, he gave her a smile. It wasn’t a pleasant one. “OK,” he went on. “I think that’s enough for now. But I have to ask you: Did you kill Robert Blair or arrange to have someone else kill him?”
“No.” Nicole felt a little sick.
“Do you own a gun?”
“No.”
“And you weren’t involved with him except as a coworker.”
“Absolutely not. We knew each other at the office and that was it,” she said. “Sometimes we had lunch together if we were working on a case.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Office gossip, shoptalk. Nothing personal.”
“Look-it,” he said, “maybe this guy was stalking you while keeping his interest in you a secret. It usually doesn’t work that way, but—just for the sake of argument—let’s say that was the case. I still think there’s something you’re not telling me.”
He was quiet a moment, then added, “I’m going to be straight with you. If I think that, then it’s likely that the person or people who killed your friend will come to the same conclusion. His place was searched from top to bottom, and from the state of it, I don’t think they found what they were looking for. It would be in your best interest to tell me everything you know before they decide to come after you.”
“But I don’t know anything,” she insisted. Then, after a moment, she added, “Are you saying I need protection?”
“Who knows?” he said, as if it were no concern of his. “But if I were you, I’d be careful. And if you do decide you have something to share with me, give me a call.” He handed her his card.
She understood what he was doing—trying to scare her into telling him whatever he imagined she knew about Robert’s murder. “OK, then,” she said. She got up, put her cardigan back on, and headed back to Century City.
To save time, Nicole had planned to leave her car with the valet in front of the firm’s office building. But, as soon as she turned the corner onto Avenue of the Stars, she saw the chaotic scene on the street—the handful of media representatives had swelled to a crowd with the addition of five TV vans. Tightly packed into the valet lane were several dozen men and women, most of them holding cameras with microphones attached. Five burly security guards stood in front of the double doors centered in the curved glass facade of the highrise. The guards were standing shoulder-to-shoulder to keep the unwelcome visitors out. She drove around the block to the building’s self-park garage entrance. After parking, she took the stairs, which brought her to the rear of the elevator lobby, out of sight of the herd.
Once in her office, she put her things down and went to get some coffee. Three of the attorneys’ secretaries were in the break room. Their conversation stopped as soon as she walked in. She greeted them curtly, then poured a cup of coffee, taking her time adding cream and sugar. Meanwhile the trio stood and watched. After she left, the hum of voices resumed. She couldn’t make out what they were saying.
She managed to settle down to work. There were performance reviews to be filled out, a stack of invoices to approve. God, this was boring, she thought. She had to find something else. She’d never planned to make this her life’s work. It was just a stopgap after college, a favor to a friend whose job this used to be. Her friend needed back surgery, but after she’d recovered, she’d decided she wanted nothing more to do with Bascomb, Rice, Smith & Di Angelo.
At the time, Nicole was newly engaged, and this job was a comfortable perch when she was busy planning her wedding. Then she and Brad bought the condo and were fixing it up. The people at the law firm were pleasant and seemed to appreciate her efforts, and the money was good.
It wasn’t until the last year or two that Nicole had become fed up with the job. She’d come to the realization that the work done by the firm was the antithesis of what she believed in. Sure, they handled domestic issues in which each side probably deserved what the other was handing out. But the firm’s main income came from large corporations, protecting them from lawsuits. She didn’t see anything wrong with that. Some were nuisance suits from those looking for a payout from deep-pocket corporate America, and some of the litigants were simply giant corporations trying to get an edge on one another.
But much of the firm’s work was done on behalf of big companies being sued by people who appeared to have genuine grievances: cars that malfunctioned and crashed, killing or maiming people; processed meat or vegetables containing bacteria that made people sick; class action suits for polluted water that, litigants claimed, caused genetic damage. Nicole wasn’t privy to the legal documents in these cases; her job had little to do with casework. But, from what she gathered from the news and from Robert, a good number of the people who sued giant corporations had solid proof of their claims. Up against unlimited money for lawyers and court costs, these little guys usually lost. They simply could not afford to keep up the fight as long as the corporations could.
She also objected to some of the smaller cases the firm undertook. These were often scrapes with authorities by the sons, daughters, and others connected with Bascomb, Rice, Smith & Di Angelo’s major clients. Minor offenses, like cheating on college exams and drug use on campus, for example, were often mitigated with big donations to schools that had threatened to throw the offenders out. For those who’d been arrested for offenses like rape or drug dealing, Rick Sargosian and a couple of others with criminal law experience often could work out a deal for community service or get them off completely by vilifying the victim.
She knew that the accused had the right to a defense. But in too many cases, Bascomb, Rice, Smith & Di Angelo were simply on the wrong side, the side of the moneyed class, the one percenters who just about always won.
At this point, with condo payments to make on her own, she couldn’t afford to leave. Not unless she lined up something that paid as well. No good-works nonprofit was going to match her current salary. She’d once hoped to become a writer or an editor; of course, those jobs, at least the ones that paid, had all but disappeared. More recently, she’d thought about getting her P.I. license and assisting Robert with his investigations. Now that Robert was gone, they were in the process of bringing in an outside firm to do his work on a temporary basis. Maybe, she thought, when all this died down…
She told herself she was too tired, too stressed out to think about the future. So she buckled down, trying to focus on her work.
She’d told Breanna to hold her calls unless it was an emergency, or Reinhardt, or her sister, or someone with legitimate business. In the first ten minutes, however, two reporters managed to get through, one posing as her doctor’s receptionist, the other as her stockbroker. “Stockbroker!” she told him. “I don’t even have a stockbroker.” After that, she had Breanna double-check caller ID, if there was one. Then, if the caller was legitimate, Breanna was to get a name and number for a callback.
The phone rang around 3:30 p.m. It was interoffice, and the caller ID display said “Sargosian.” “So how’s it going?” he began.
“Not that great,” she said.
“I can imagine,” he said. “That mob outside would be enough to wreck anyone’s day. How about dinner? I know a little place—”
“Sorry, Rick, I’m just not up to it. And besides, I’m in a serious relationship. I want
you to understand that.”
“Yeah, I know. The one who sends you all those flowers. Well, where is this guy anyway?” he said. “You’re going through hell, and he’s nowhere to be found.”
“He’s in England.” Several heads turned to look at her through the glass wall of her office, and she realized she’d raised her voice. She swiveled her chair around, so she had her back to them. Then she added more softly, “He lives in England.”
“Well, if I were him…” He left it unsaid. “It’s just dinner. I promise. It would cheer you up.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “But I do have a question.”
“Yes?”
“The police are acting like they think I might have had something to do with Robert’s murder. Or that I know something about it, which I don’t. They found framed photos of me and some of my clothes in Robert’s place. The only way he could have gotten this stuff was by breaking into my place. I told Detective Miller that, but he doesn’t seem to believe me. He seems to think I was sleeping with Robert. I need an attorney. I know the rule: It would have to be someone outside the firm. Do you have any recommendations? The police aren’t threatening to charge me at this point, but I do need advice.”
“Well, sure,” he said. “I can recommend a defense attorney, but you won’t be able to reach anyone until tomorrow. Look,” he went on, “I started out as a deputy D.A. Six years on the job. I can answer your questions. You don’t want to sit home tonight worrying about this. How about we talk about it over dinner?”
Nicole was quiet for a long moment, then said, “OK, but please understand: This is not a date.” She paused, but he didn’t say anything. “Just tell me where the restaurant is,” she went on, “and I’ll meet you there. It’ll make getting home easier.”
“Sure,” he said, naming a restaurant less than a half mile from their office, a half mile that no one in L.A. would dream of walking.
The Bequest Page 4
