The Boardwalk Trust (Beach Lawyer Series Book 2)

by Avery Duff

  “Sure,” Kiril said, and watched him walk into Subway, wondering, How do I get the go-ahead to kill this co co alkoholik and not die myself?

  CHAPTER 13

  An hour after leaving Carlos’ house, Robert arrived early for his scheduled meeting with Philip Fanelli and managed to grab time to learn more about the trust, courtesy of Evelyn’s flash drive and his own records.

  At a corner banquette at Bistro Fresco, laptop open, he read a personal e-mail chain between Evelyn and Carlos.

  Like she’d said, her warnings had started about eight months before he died. About the same time, Evelyn had told him, Carlos had met the girl:

  Carlos,

  What’s gotten into you? My God, these investments are not suitable for you—and no, I didn’t review them closely at all. I just know. Look at them. They’re too risky for the trust—for that matter, they’re too risky for you, personally. I don’t want to hear about it anymore and don’t want any association with it, so do yourself a favor and drop it.

  A few more similar-in-tone e-mails followed from Evelyn, threatening to resign, until Carlos received this one in their attorney-client thread:

  Subject: Vincent Famosa Family Trust (“Trust”)

  Effective as of the end of business today, I resign my position as counsel to the Trustee of the Trust, and as counsel for the Trust itself. I wish you continued success in this, and all of your other endeavors. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to call. Today, I am returning the trust’s files to your home office by courier.

  Regards,

  Evelyn Levine, PC

  Her letter of resignation was professional, to the point and without recrimination. Nothing she wrote to him in his capacity as trustee could ever bounce back and hurt Carlos personally, a man she’d believed to be making an epic investment mistake with SoccMom and Vegas Rail.

  Six weeks later, this from Carlos:

  Morning, Evelyn,

  Wanted you to know, I received my first monthly payment on the SoccMom note today. Right on time. Always said, you worry too much!

  Best, Carlos

  Evelyn’s reply:

  Carlos,

  In case I wasn’t perfectly clear with you, I resigned as counsel to both you, as trustee, and the Vincent Famosa Family Trust. Whenever you have time, catching up on a personal basis would be welcome.

  Best, Evelyn

  Interspersed with these e-mails and others that followed were personal volleys—shots, really—from Carlos:

  Evelyn,

  Sunrise outside Sonora, there’s nothing quite like it. We both believe there’s something spiritual about this place.

  You and I always talked about going to our favorite places in the world. You should travel more. I insist!

  Best, Carlos

  Several days passed:

  Carlos,

  I managed to travel a bit in my younger days. Days gone by, I’m afraid. Glad to hear you’re expanding your horizons.

  Best, Evelyn

  For Evelyn, travel a bit meant Chet Jordan on Learjets, yet she didn’t rub Carlos’ nose in it.

  Then this short one:

  Evelyn,

  In San Francisco this week. Between Fiat Lux and Bulgari, it’s hard to decide between the two for top-of-the-line trinkets. Good problem to have, right?!

  From Evelyn:

  Carlos,

  Happy travels!

  From Carlos:

  The Four Seasons, Santa Barbara. Elegant, quiet, yet sensational. We love it, would move up here in a heartbeat!

  More of Carlos’ travelogue and big-spender e-mails appeared after Evelyn resigned. He might as well have told her: I’m happy. I’m getting laid. On a spending spree. I’m in love. You have none of those things. Your former friend, Carlos.

  Reading how this man had cut her off, maybe his only friend, after two decades of service, much of it unbilled, Robert marveled at Evelyn’s restraint. Carlos Famosa, the little man who was going to hit it big, now stepping out on his own. He remembered something Evelyn had told him: I never knew his father, Vincent, but I believe that man cast a long shadow over his son’s life. Putting that together with Teo’s tales about Don Vincent’s three suits, Robert had to agree.

  Then he read trustee Carlos’ first written letter to SoccMom Corporation:

  Mr. Saxon,

  Your next monthly payment, which was due on the 1st, is now late. Be advised, by the terms of your promissory note, the late payment penalty is due as well, on top of your regular payment. Please remit your check for the new total by return mail.

  Sincerely,

  Carlos Famosa

  Over the next several weeks, more snail-mail letters from Carlos followed, similar in tone and content. Then this e-mail from SoccMom showed up in Carlos’ in-box:

  Mr. Famosa,

  I understand your dealings with the company to date have been unproductive. I fully comprehend your frustration and fully intend to make good on all of our promises, both written and verbal.

  Sincerely,

  Jake Saxon

  Fully intend, huh? Robert was thinking.

  After that, it sounded like Saxon started answering Carlos’ e-mails by text, if at all:

  Mr. Saxon,

  I don’t consider a tossed-off text an adequate response to my correspondence: “Your payment is in the works, I assure you”??? That doesn’t cut it, and your assurances mean nothing to me. We will meet this week—in person—or have no doubt at all, I will refer this matter to legal counsel, and the trust will pursue it with all the means at its disposal!!!

  Triple question marks and triple bangs. Good, Carlos, that’ll get Jake Saxon off your ass.

  Robert already knew from the e-mail dates and the trust’s bank balance: Carlos had no resources to go after these guys anyway.

  According to the next e-mails, Jake Saxon was a no-show for their first meeting at the Lobster in Santa Monica. Then more excuses from Jake Saxon until he stopped responding at all.

  After that, Carlos’ tone with Evelyn changed dramatically:

  Evelyn,

  Think it would be a good idea for us to grab a cup of coffee sometime. It’s definitely been way too long since I saw you.

  Your friend, Carlos

  And then:

  Evelyn,

  Haven’t heard from you since my last e-mail. Are you okay? Should I be worried about you?

  Carlos, your friend

  Evelyn,

  Beginning to think I offended you somehow? If so, I’d like to talk about it when you have time. Either way, let me hear from you, please?

  Carlos

  He’d started showing up at Evelyn’s house, too, and Robert understood Carlos’ about-face. Carlos was wigging out about his two investments, and about the same time, the girl had disappeared on him.

  He pictured Carlos, alone in his rented house. The girl, adiós. Carlos smoking one of those $500 Davidoffs, slugging top-shelf brandy, smoking dope, and wondering why he’d decided to screw up his life. Wondering who else to blame. Maybe blaming spendthrift Teo because of those three lawsuits. But knowing—if he had any sense left—that all of it rested on his own frail shoulders. A man fully invested, both body and soul. Carlos had put it all on red, and Robert knew where the roulette wheel stopped: Carlos Famosa, DOA in his study.

  He’d already reviewed Carlos’ autopsy and a short police report. Carlos’ death was deemed to be from natural causes. Time of death about 1:00 p.m., from a massive coronary, traces of THC in his bloodstream—not alarming levels, according to the report. Evelyn’s account squared with the police report: Carlos’ body had been found by the gardener about 5:00 p.m.

  Philip Fanelli’s voice roused him: “A familiar sight, Robert Worth buried in his work.”

  Robert looked up. Philip and his fiancée, Dorothy Brightwell, stood there, her arm hooked inside his. If possible, they were even more besotted with each other than he and Gia.

  He slid from the booth and gave her a hu
g. “Philip, Dorothy, have a seat.”

  The two lovers were still glued together as they all ordered lunch and caught up with one another and with the case involving Jack Pierce.

  Jack had been Philip’s partner, Dorothy’s ex-husband, and—Robert still found it hard to believe—Gia’s boyfriend of many years. Jack had wound up in a vegetative state after stabbing Robert on the cliffs near Santa Cruz.

  Once Robert had been released from jail and returned to LA, he’d called Philip for an urgent meeting, in spite of their falling out. He’d reminded Philip that Dorothy had thirty days to back out of her recent divorce from Jack and to assert her prenuptial agreement against him. If she did, given Jack’s provable infidelity, he was due nothing under the prenup. Meaning that the $5 million she’d paid in the divorce settlement would go back into her pocket.

  At first, Philip wanted to let sleeping dogs lie.

  “Dorothy’s money has disappeared, Robert. What’s the point?”

  “It’s in the Bank of Hong Kong. I have Jack’s flash drive and the password to his account. Feel like sharing?”

  Sharing the money, he’d meant.

  Philip liked sharing. So did Dorothy. They would unwind her divorce in Santa Monica court; on her own, she would use Jack’s flash drive and password and reclaim her divorce settlement from Jack’s Asian account.

  She had just the charity for the proceeds—less, of course, Robert’s 15 percent finder’s fee for making it possible. After all, he’d almost died getting his hands on the flash drive.

  Only one wrinkle: Alison Maxwell’s portion of Jack’s Hong Kong account balance. Alison had been Robert’s client, then his girlfriend. A big chunk of the Hong Kong account, over and above Dorothy’s divorce settlement, was money Robert had won her based on Alison’s fraudulent claim against Jack and Philip’s firm.

  The real question became: If Dorothy claimed Alison’s portion, too, would Alison ever be able to collect it from Dorothy? After some back-and-forth about Alison’s credibility problems and easy-to-prove reputation as a scammer, they reached a collective decision: Screw Alison. If she ever found out about it, let her try to come after her money.

  At Bistro Fresco, Philip brought Robert up to speed on neutralizing any objections from Jack’s legal guardian in Santa Cruz. That is, to keep the guardian from challenging Dorothy’s unwinding of her own divorce. So Dorothy had offered to set up a separate $1 million account for Jack’s benefit. To be administered, of course, by Jack’s guardian.

  Philip said, “The man works harder surfing than on his law practice. The idea of controlling a million-dollar account, doling it out for Jack’s extras, sounded fine to him. He can pull down fifty thousand a year in fees for doing what he does best.”

  “Nothing?” Robert asked.

  “Give the man some credit, Robert. Next to nothing.”

  Their food came—steamed fish, vegetables, pot stickers—so they hung out and ate. Robert had always liked Dorothy, and they both liked messing with Philip, who gave as good as he got.

  Philip asked, “Thriving in your new practice, Beach Lawyer?”

  “Can’t beat the rent,” Robert said. “I put in almost twenty hours last week. Gonna take a month off, recharge my batteries.”

  Dorothy chimed in. “How many years would you have needed to work at my darling’s firm to earn what you’ll earn from our one case?”

  “That would’ve depended on my year-end bonus.”

  Philip’s turn: “Given your customary billable hours and work quality, sadly, your bonus would’ve been a token amount. A single dollar seems more than fair.”

  “In that case, Dorothy, I’d need three salaried years working at Boss Man’s hideous sweatshop just to break even.”

  “Sweatshop?” Philip asked. “If only.”

  Dorothy always enjoyed Robert’s back-and-forth with Philip. Robert knew if it were up to her, he and Philip would be practicing together, but that scenario wasn’t in the cards.

  Philip wanted to hear specifics about the Beach Lawyer’s unorthodox practice.

  “I took on a pair of trust beneficiaries earlier this week.”

  “A large corpus?” Meaning assets in the trust.

  “It was set up to buy LA real estate in the ’80s, and we both know about LA real estate.”

  “Again, the corpus? Significant?”

  Never a good idea to run one past Philip Fanelli.

  “Hard times. Mismanagement. Not much at all. My clients are virtually homeless, and I’m trying to help out if I can. Looks like I’ll take over as trustee. So yeah, I’m killing it.”

  “Who is on the other side?”

  “There’s not really an ‘other side.’ But a lawyer, Evelyn Levine, handled the trust’s legal. Smart, reputable, I think. She’s been published in California Trusts and Estates Quarterly.”

  Philip remembered her.

  “Quite a woman-about-town back then. Word was, she pulled it off—hard work and hard play. Quite stunning, if I recall,” he added.

  Dorothy winked at Robert and asked Philip, “Did you happen to date this Levine tramp?”

  Philip said, “How could I? I was hard at work, dreaming of the day you would marry me.”

  “You didn’t even know me back then.”

  “I dreamed you before I met you,” Philip said.

  Dorothy told Robert, “He’s good at this, right?”

  Robert nodded, thinking: Philip is good at lovers’ repartee. Who knew?

  Philip said, “I noticed Evelyn Levine at Le Dome once or twice, back when my firm tried going after entertainment clients. Tried and failed, thank God. She was with that movie star, Chet, you know . . .”

  “Chet Jordan?” Dorothy asked.

  “Drunken degenerate,” Philip said.

  She mouthed gorgeous man to Robert.

  Philip said, “She was at Holtzmann and Shapiro. Top-notch couple of guys, solid firm, but we never dealt with them directly, that I recall.”

  “Bradley Holtzmann?” Dorothy asked.

  “Think that’s right,” Robert said.

  “I dated him decades ago,” she said.

  “Was it serious?” Philip asked, joking but not.

  “How could it be, dear? I didn’t know serious until I met you.” Then to Robert: “I ran into Bradley at Bel-Air Country Club last month. Arthritis pain has all but crippled him. Poor dear, he’s in very bad shape.”

  “Want me to give poor dear Bradley a call, ask him about that Levine tramp?” Philip asked Robert.

  “Why not?” Robert said. “Couldn’t hurt.”

  Later, the three of them waited as the valet brought the Brightwell Maybach around.

  As Dorothy started to step inside, she kissed Robert’s cheek and whispered, “Tell Gia I said hi. She’s a lovely person, Robert.”

  Once Philip had closed her door, he said, “If you decide to take on that trusteeship, you’ll need a rider to your malpractice insurance.”

  A moment of regret for their past surged through Robert—their bond wasn’t what it once was.

  “Hadn’t thought of that, Philip. Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome, Robert. As always, so very good to see you . . .”

  CHAPTER 14

  Driving his Bronco down to the beach, Robert called probate court to set up a get-acquainted meeting with Bruce Keller.

  “I’ll set aside as long as you need,” Bruce told him, “and don’t forget to let me know if your plans change.”

  “Okay, you got it.”

  They set a meeting for later that week.

  Don’t forget, Bruce had said. The same phrase that ended Carlos’ Argonaut notice. If he remembered right, Don’t Forget appeared in Carlos Famosa’s work notes, too. Gibberish. That’s how Evelyn had described Carlos’ notes, and with good reason. Not a single bill had gone out in months. No client meetings, either, unless he counted those nonsensical work notes.

  As Robert parked in the alley behind his place, Reyes waved from down t
he way. Robert got out, tossed a garbage bag into his blue can, and joined him.

  “What’s up, BL?” Reyes asked. His shoe soles featured multicolored flashing lights.

  BL? Beach Lawyer. Jesus.

  They took a stroll down the boardwalk to Figtree’s Café. Reyes ordered a grilled ahi tuna sandwich to go, and they waited for the order out front on the boardwalk.

  “Where’s Ed McMahon got off to?”

  “Meaning . . . ?”

  “Your sidekick, Oso Polar.” Calling him Polar Bear.

  “Working on his tan,” Robert said.

  A dreaded-up bikini girl on skates began circling Robert, blowing soap bubbles at him through a plastic circle on a stick. “You that Beach Lawyer dude, right?”

  “Not right now, I’m not,” he said.

  “Want to buy me a drink?”

  “Talk to my lawyer,” Robert said, nodding at Reyes.

  “You want to buy me one, el Guapo?” She asked Reyes this time, calling him the handsome one.

  “Can’t you see I’m talking to my client, Roller Girl? So go ahead and piss off.”

  She stopped circling, went en pointe, and with a toss of her buttocks and dreads, she pissed off down the boardwalk.

  Robert began easing into the idea of Reyes selling Carlos’ hashish.

  “How’s your license and registration these days?” he asked.

  “So-so,” Reyes said.

  “Again, meaning . . . ?”

  “Means I’m always better off rolling in el carro de mi novia.” His girlfriend’s car.

  “That’s what you’re driving today?”

  “Sí.”

  “That little girl you met the other day. How’d you like to help out somebody like her?”

  “Dolphin Girl?” Reyes asked.

  “No. Somebody like her.”

  “Oh, not her. Like her. Sí, anytime.”

  “Tell me this, Reyes, all these drug hospitals around. What happens if they got a good deal on some dope? Let’s say, a half pound of hashish?”

  “Quarter kilo? Westside, they won’t touch it. But out my way, there’s plenty of ’em will.”

  “So if a guy was to drive by my place tonight, reach in my blue can, and find something like that?”

  “Sayin’ maybe somebody dumped it there?”