She introduced herself to the secretary, who asked her to take a seat. The other woman went in next but didn’t stay long, and Nicole was soon shown into Freeman’s office. Middle-aged, with thinning, dark hair and rimless glasses, he was almost nondescript, the kind of man who could easily fade into a crowd. She was sure she’d never met him before, but something about him was familiar. His desk was clear, except for a computer and a single folder. The office had a tidy, settled look.
His first words were, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She stared at him, digesting this. He was talking about Robert. He, too, thought she was Robert’s girlfriend.
“Thank you,” she said, deciding not to bother explaining.
“Mr. Blair was a new client,” Freeman said. “He came in on—,” he paused to look in the folder on his desk, “October 14, about five weeks ago, and said he wanted to establish a trust. He said he’d be turning sixty on his next birthday and thought it was time. Then he came back to sign the papers, about a week later. He wanted to keep the matter private and paid in cash.”
She didn’t say anything, just waited.
He cleared his throat, removed his glasses, polished them, and put them back on. “Now, for the business at hand,” he finally said. “You are the sole beneficiary of Mr. Blair’s estate.” Freeman looked back in the file. “That means he left you his house, worth an estimated $3.9 million; a checking account worth roughly $30,000; a small cabin in the Owens Valley worth an estimated $80,000; and an investment account of $380,000.
“The total value is below the threshold for estate tax, and Mr. Blair set up a testamentary trust to be effective immediately upon his death. This means you won’t have to wait for probate or other legal procedures before you assume ownership. There will be a short delay before you actually receive the property, only because the coroner must first issue a death certificate. That can take a week or so. I’m named as trustee, so I’ll take care of these matters.” He smiled, apparently under the impression he was delivering good news.
Nicole was speechless. How could Robert have done this to her? It appeared to give her a motive for killing him. Would the police be taking an even closer look at her? And what would the news hounds do with that? She didn’t want to think about it, nor did she want anything to do with his house or his money. But who would believe her? People have killed for less.
“Mr. Blair’s body,” the man went on. “Do you know when they’ll release it? I have his final instructions.” He held up a piece of paper.
“I have no idea.”
He smiled again. “Don’t worry. I’ll find out and let you know when they do. Meanwhile I’ll just keep this in his file.”
She felt herself flush. “Is the trust going to be filed with the county? Is it public record?”
“No,” Freeman said. “Mr. Blair wanted these arrangements to remain private. He didn’t want to embarrass or cause you inconvenience in any way. He was very clear about that.”
She sat there a moment, absorbing this. Robert didn’t want to embarrass or inconvenience her. What a joke! People were going to find out. There was no way around it.
Freeman waited patiently, his hands folded on his desk. At last, realizing their business was concluded, she got to her feet. Freeman handed her his card and offered her his services if she needed anything. “Now that you’re a woman of property,” he said, “it might be wise for you to make out a living trust.”
She thanked him, and they shook hands again. This time, he covered their interlocked hands with his left hand in a gesture of sympathy. It was at that moment she thought of who he reminded her of—a funeral director. Still stunned by the news he’d delivered, she found her way out of the office.
When she was back in her car, she called to make an appointment with Sue. She had to tell her about the inheritance, and she didn’t want to risk doing it over the phone. The secretary immediately put her through.
“I’m free until after lunch,” Sue said. “Why don’t you come now?”
By the time Nicole arrived, Sue’s receptionist had gone to lunch, and Sue herself greeted Nicole in the waiting room. In Sue’s office, a small table had been set with two places and a platter of sandwiches, as well as a coffee pot.
The sandwiches looked good, a choice of Brie with watercress and apple slices, pastrami on rye, and tuna on wheat. “I didn’t know what you like,” Sue explained, “so I decided to give us some choices.
Nicole reached for half a pastrami and explained to Sue about Robert’s attorney and the bequest.
Sue was quiet for a moment, munching on her apple and Brie sandwich and washing it down with a sip of coffee. “Well,” she finally said, “here we have a perfect example of good news and bad news. That much money could completely transform your life and give you some wonderful opportunities. On the other hand, in the eyes of a lot of people, Mr. Blair’s bequest would give you a motive for wanting him dead.”
She pressed a napkin to her lips and continued, “Here’s what I’m wondering: Mr. Blair appears to have believed his life was in danger. The fact that he set up this trust a few weeks before his death is just too powerful a coincidence. So why would he leave you his estate, when it could make you a suspect?”
“I have no idea,” Nicole said. “The fact that he was stalking me shows he was more than a little nuts. Maybe it never occurred to him that he was putting me in a bad position. The bottom line is that I don’t want his money. It makes me sick to think that he had feelings for me. He never should have made me his beneficiary. And here’s what I want to know: What if I refuse to accept the inheritance? What happens then?”
There was a pause while Sue thought it over. “You could do that. Then the money would go to the state. But, Nicole, I want you to think very carefully before you make a decision. This man obviously had mental problems, and if he’d lived, he might have—no, probably would have—become a nuisance, or worse. Believe me, having a stalker can wreck your life. But that didn’t happen. Instead, he was killed and he left you a substantial amount of money. At the same time, he’s disrupted your life in a big way. That money, whether you claim it or not, will cast suspicion on you. Refusing his bequest isn’t going to change that.
“If you really don’t want it, think of the good you could do if you contributed to some worthy causes. When everything settles down, you could sell his house and use the proceeds plus his other assets to set up a foundation. It’s not like you have billions to give away, but you could make a difference. Or you could keep the money. As I said, it could change your life. Frankly, after all this man’s behavior has put you through, you deserve some kind of compensation.”
Nicole had finished her sandwich and was pouring herself more coffee. “What would you do?”
“The decision is yours, Nicole,” Sue said. “I’m just laying out the options.”
Nicole gazed out the window for a long moment. This wasn’t just about Robert and whatever creepy delusions he was harboring about her. It could determine how she lived her life, what her future might be.
Finally she said, “Do I have to tell the police about it?”
“No,” Sue said. “Certainly not. This is a private matter, and it’s none of their business. The way Mr. Blair set it up, it shouldn’t even come to their attention. Even if it does, they have no case against you. They would need evidence. According to Rick, his source in the D.A.’s office tells him they have nothing to build a case on. If they did, and you were an actual suspect, they could put a hold on the transfer of Mr. Blair’s property until you’re no longer under suspicion. But I don’t think that’s likely.”
“OK,” Nicole said, “but it would get ugly if the media found out about it.”
“Very ugly,” Sue agreed.
Nicole thought about it for a moment and said, “Why didn’t Rick himself tell me what the D.A.’s office is up to?”
“Well,” Sue said, “I hope I wasn’t talking out of turn, but I did suggest to Rick t
hat he back off for a bit. From what you said, I gathered you didn’t like the attention he was giving you—especially after your experience with Mr. Blair. I thought you’d appreciate some peace and quiet in that department.”
“You’re right,” Nicole said. “It’s a relief not having to worry about being hassled right now.”
“Don’t expect it to last,” Sue said. “He seems to have his sights set on you. He isn’t used to women who say ‘no’ and mean it. That just makes you more desirable.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Nicole said.
Seven
Twenty minutes after leaving Sue’s office, Nicole was in Century City, pushing her way through the paparazzi to get into her building. Back in the quiet of her office, she tried to focus on work, but her mind was abuzz with all that had happened since she’d returned from London. She thought of her close call that morning, and the guy she’d agreed to meet for a drink. He’d probably Google her and see what the tabloids were saying. Considering today’s story, she doubted he’d actually call. Even so, she was curious about him. Why not check him out on one of the firm’s databases? A thorough search would give her a lot of information about him, including judgments and liens, property titles, professional licenses, marriages, divorces, and police and court records.
On the California Architects Society’s site, Josh’s photo popped up. He was smiling. What she liked about his looks was his open, honest gaze, his square jaw, and his rather sensuous lips. He had a warm smile that was somehow both sweet and sexy.
A quick look at his profile seemed to indicate he was an upstanding citizen: a licensed architect with a masters in architecture from U.C. Berkeley. Next she looked him up in one of the firm’s subscription databases, which went deeper into individuals’ backgrounds. Here she learned that, for the past fourteen months, he’d been living alone in a house he owned—estimated value of $650,000—modest by L.A. standards. But, she noted, he held title to three other houses in Studio City and nearby Van Nuys. No marriages on record. She looked at his previous address, which had been a rental. He’d lived there for a couple of years with a woman, Eleanor Winter. Nicole left Josh’s profile to look up Eleanor. The single photo of her—it looked like a professional glamour shot—showed a sexy brunette with sculpted cheekbones and a seductive smile. Her listed occupation was as a realtor. Aside from Eleanor, she also used the name Elle. The record confirmed that this woman had moved from her earlier address—the same as Josh’s—about the same time he’d moved into his house. Huh, she thought. This was an ex-girlfriend. She stared at the woman. Elle looked cool and sophisticated, and in no way did she resemble Nicole. She wondered what the story on that romance was and why they broke up. Unfortunately, this information—the kind she was most curious about—wasn’t available on any database.
She went back to Josh’s record. He’d never been arrested or had a judgment against him. His credit rating was good. He was born in 1986. This made her hesitate. He was 29, almost four years younger than she. She’d never dated a younger man. But she wasn’t going to date him, was she?
This wasn’t the first time she’d searched the web to check on people she knew. She used it every time her sister started up with yet another nightmare boyfriend. Stephanie was tall, blonde, and truly beautiful. She was cynical about men as well as about marriage, and the men she dated seemed specially selected to confirm her cynicism. To Nicole, they were all hopeless losers. Several things they had in common: They were tattooed—some all over, some to a lesser extent. To a man, they were muscular and shorter than Steph. Another shared trait was that they were all slackers, either unemployed or underemployed. Her current flame had dreadlocks, even though he was a fair-skinned Caucasian. Stephanie said he got the effect by washing his hair and treating it with gelatin. Stephanie thought it looked cool.
Nicole had been surprised, perhaps a little disappointed, when she’d done a background search on “Mr. Dreadlocks,” and he’d come up fairly clean. He didn’t have an arrest record, but there had been several red flags. He had forty unpaid parking violations. More alarming, at least to Nicole, was that, at the age of twenty-six, he was twice divorced and the father of a seven-year-old boy. He’d been in trouble several times for failing to pay child support. When she told her sister about this, Steph had laughed. “I’m not going to marry him, Nicole. How dumb do you think I am?”
After rereading Josh’s record, Nicole decided her first instinct had been right. He wasn’t a criminal, a married man, or (worse yet) a member of the press. It would be perfectly safe to meet him for a drink. She smiled at the idea of possessing such powerful tools for checking out what was basically a blind date. If she ever was out on that meat market again, she’d be able to eliminate a lot of men without bothering to meet them for coffee.
Sue had been right about Sargosian. Returning from the break room, Nicole found a note from him on her desk. Come to my office. I want to talk to you, it said, in his oversized scrawl.
She was just leaving her office to see him when her cell phone rang. To her surprise, it was Josh Mulhern. “About that drink tonight,” he said, “where do you want to meet and what time?”
“How about the V Wine Bar?” she said. “It’s a little place just off Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood. But it would have to be around nine. Does that work for you?”
“The V Wine Bar, 9:00.” he repeated. “Sure. I’ll see you then.”
When she arrived at Sargosian’s office, his door was open. She stood in the doorway and said, “You wanted to see me?”
He smiled, “Always. Come in—have a seat.” He gestured toward the small couch across from his desk. He got up to close the door, then sat down next to her. The couch was a tight fit for two people, and Sargosian was pressed against her a little too snugly. She felt a wave of annoyance.
“I wanted to clue you in on what’s happening,” he said. Then he repeated what Sue had told her about the investigation. “Now there’s been another development,” he added. “The police are going in a new direction, following the money to see if one of Blair’s private clients killed him or had him killed. We just got word that they want us to turn over Blair’s office computer. They have a warrant, but I’ve filed an objection based on attorney-client privilege. Over the years, Blair used that computer to research confidential matters for the firm. The police would be gaining access to them. That’s our objection. Now it’s up to the court.”
“What do you think will happen?” she said. Tired of being crowded, she got up, moved to the window and looked out. The media was still in front of the building, apparently waiting for someone to come out.
“I think we have a good argument,” he said. “Meanwhile, make sure no one touches his computer. Any research done in-house should be from another desk. Blair took on private cases of his own, didn’t he?”
When she nodded, he said, “Do you know if he used his office computer to work on them?”
“I doubt it. He had a pretty heavy caseload,” she said. “Whenever I looked over his shoulder, he seemed to be doing work for the firm. Of course, I wasn’t watching him every minute, and he may have come in after hours or on weekends.”
“Did he ever talk to you about his outside cases?”
“He never talked about anything he did outside the office,” she said.
“You used to go out to lunch with this guy. What did you talk about?”
“Basically, we shared office gossip,” she said. “Everyone thought he was completely tuned out, but he knew everything that went on in this place. He was also a great mimic. For example…” Despite the ill will she was feeling toward Robert, she couldn’t help smiling. “He told me how you used to come into the staff break room to flirt with Melanie. Said he walked in on you one time when you had her backed up against the wall—just this side of in flagrante.” She held up her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “You both jumped when you sensed his presence. He did a hysterical imitation of your come-on and the wa
y she batted her eyes at you.”
Sargosian actually blushed. He cleared his throat, then said, “That didn’t happen. He was exaggerating.”
“No doubt,” she said. “It was still funny. He should have been an actor. He had everyone’s mannerisms spot on. Even yours.”
“So you don’t know what he was doing on the side?” he said, changing the subject. “What kind of cases he took on?”
“No,” she said. “Is that it?”
“How about dinner tonight?”
“I’m busy,” she said. “Thanks for the update, Rick. I really appreciate it.”
§
That evening, Nicole said nothing to her sister about the inheritance. She didn’t want to think about it, much less talk about it. While she and Stephanie were eating a quick dinner of cold, leftover pizza, Nicole mentioned she was meeting someone later in the evening for a drink.
“You mean a date?” Stephanie was surprised.
“Not really,” Nicole said. “This guy rescued me from a speeding car when I was crossing the street. Then he asked me out for a drink.”
“Good for you,” Stephanie said. “Getting right back on the horse.” Stephanie said.
Nicole frowned. Stephanie seemed to think this was the beginning of a new romance, right on the heels of Reinhardt’s disappearance. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Nicole said. “It’s just a drink.”
Stephanie looked at her. “Sure. Don’t get so defensive. I’m just saying it will get your mind off what’s been happening.”
After they finished eating, the two of them piled into Steph’s ancient Volkswagen bug and made the drive to Westwood. Nicole had brought along her garage door opener. She was hoping they could slip into her condo building’s underground garage in a car the paparazzi wouldn’t recognize. But parked vehicles lined the street, with several blocking the entrance to her garage. Stephanie had no choice but to park in the only available spot, directly across the street.
The Bequest Page 7
