Reggie told Paul the story of the arms, then showed him the map of ocean currents, the shoreline marked with two X’s. “I suspect the body was dumped around April 13. Twenty-one days later, the left arm washes up here on Venice beach. Twenty-three days later, the other one shows up in Malibu.”
Paul nimbly folded the sail like a pastry chef working phyllo dough. He set it aside and put on his bifocals to look at Reggie’s map. “That time of year, the main current turns north about five knots. It comes off the coast of Catalina, then east where two deep currents meet, one cold, one warm. The water outside this current moves real slow. The body could hang out there till it rotted away. On the other hand, a warm current moves swiftly up along the coast.”
“What if he took a sailboat? Where do you think he’d dumped it?”
“I don’t think he’d take a sailboat. He’d want to get rid of the body fast. He’d take a motorboat and go straight out until he lost sight of land. As soon as he thought he was pretty safe, he’d dump the body.”
Reggie tried to remember the last time he’d been in a motorboat but couldn’t. “How long does it take to motor out before you lose sight of land?”
“Depends on the smog, but I’d say about forty-five minutes.”
“Where would that put you?”
“Somewhere on this side of Catalina. Ten or twelve miles out. Of course, that’s if we don’t have much smog. Smog’s not usually bad in April.”
“How long would it take for a body to wash up from there?”
“Well, that puts you in that area of still water I talked about. Eventually, it would drift into the currents. Then it would probably take about a week to wash up.”
It occurred to Reggie that Scott could have rented a boat south of the marina. “What if he took a boat from Long Beach, motored out till he couldn’t see the shore, then dumped the body. How long would it take to reach Venice?”
Paul walked over to a wall map. He measured with a compass and punched in numbers on his calculator. “If it got caught up in the fast northerly current . . . I would say a week or so.”
“I guess you’re saying there’s no real way to tell where the body was dumped, right?”
“I’m not helping much, am I?”
“You’re helping a lot.”
Paul scratched his beard. “You know, a guy who’s shittin’ his pants ’cause he’s just killed his girlfriend and is trying to dump the body before anyone sees him isn’t gonna be too careful about it. He’s gonna get a boat, motor out a mile or two, then dump it.”
“But wouldn’t the arms have shown up earlier?”
“Guess the guy was lucky.”
“No. If he was lucky, they wouldn’t have shown up at all.”
* * *
It was Tuesday, trash day in Scott’s neighborhood. He got up early, divided up Laura’s clothes into three small trash bags, then took a stroll. He supposed he should probably drive to a different part of Los Angeles, but on the other hand, he didn’t know the trash schedules for other neighborhoods and figured it was safer for stuff to be picked up immediately in his own neighborhood rather than sit around a few days in another.
As Scott walked home, he remembered the box of Laura’s financial papers in his closet. He figured he had better get rid of that, too—at least not keep it in his apartment.
He made himself a cup of coffee, then pulled the box out from underneath piles of shoes and sports racquets. He felt he should at least go through it. He dragged it over to the couch and sat down, then took off the corrugated cover and began to finger through the files.
She was so organized it was a little scary. She had manila files with typed labels, each in a Pendaflex hanging file with its own typed label: Charles Schwab, Mutual Funds, Taxes, Insurance, Credit Cards, Bank, Pension Fund, Auto (she actually kept all those auto repair receipts), Warranties (she filed those too). Then Scott found a file marked Will. Curious, he pulled the will and the stock files, then took them over to the couch. He put his feet up on the glass coffee table, which was covered with dust and coffee rings, and relaxed back into the sagging cushions.
He read the will first. Since she had no family, she had divided everything among a half-dozen environmental groups such as California Land Conservancy and the Sierra Club. Something about the will’s language struck Scott as curious; it referred to separate trusts going to each beneficiary. Laura had been an accountant, but what was all this about? Something to avoid taxes?
He took out the last Schwab statement for March. Slowly, he pulled his feet off the coffee table. His heart began to flutter. She was practically a day trader. He imagined her sitting at work in her gray cubicle, docile as a mouse, model employee, sneaking on to the Internet to trade stocks. It looked like she made a couple trades every day. On her lunch hour? How’d she get away with it? Then he reached the report summary at the end.
His mouth dropped open. She had assets of $298,462.35. He realized that was simply one Schwab account. He flipped through the others, then the bank accounts and the trust accounts. Shit! She was worth millions. At least one million anyhow. He was astonished.
She never once mentioned money. She never complained about it, like everyone else he knew, but then she never complained about anything. He’d known she was doing okay. She always carried a couple hundred on her, but that wasn’t so unusual. Maybe he should’ve guessed. She lived in Marina del Rey, for chrissake. That wasn’t cheap. But her car, a Toyota Camry, was a few years old. He didn’t think her wardrobe was anything special, although he did notice once how all her clothes were soft and never seemed to wrinkle. She wore no jewelry except the pearl necklace Scott had given her. She took weekend vacations on impulse, like to Vancouver or Cuernavaca, but he’d never thought about it much. But if she’d been so fucking rich, why did she work at that accounting job? He knew she didn’t like it. Who would?
It appeared she handled all her accounts from her computer, and in these files were all her PIN numbers and passwords. Of course she had to write them down—there were too many to remember. Shit. Could he use the PIN numbers and transfer money to his account? Could he set up a dummy trust that wouldn’t be traced back to him? Or maybe he could transfer it to a numbered Swiss account?
It was way beyond him. He needed help. Peter Flynn was the only person he knew who might know such things. But Peter was hopelessly honest. Plus, Scott hadn’t been returning his phone calls; or rather, he’d called Peter’s machine when he knew he wasn’t home. Even Peter would be pissed off at him by now.
Could he get Peter to set up a Swiss bank account? Did he need a big chunk of money first? Dare he borrow a hundred thousand from an escrow account, make the transfers from Laura’s accounts, then replace the escrow money before anyone found out? It was too damn complicated.
The thought, however, was irresistible. He would be set for life. Half the money was rightfully his, anyhow. They were married after all, or should’ve been.
How did she get so rich? It annoyed him that she’d kept this information from him. Didn’t she trust him?
He decided he had to take a little just to see if it could be done. He deserved that, at least. He’d taken care of her affairs. He couldn’t have done better if he’d been executor to her will. Too bad he couldn’t forge a new will and make everything over to himself, then declare her dead.
He picked up the phone and called Peter.
“Hello,” answered Peter sleepily.
“Hey, Pete. It’s Scott. How you doing?”
“Oh, hi Scott.” Peter sounded cool.
“Did I wake you up?”
“No. Just crunching some numbers. What can I do for you?”
What can I do for you? Scott realized Peter must be pretty mad at him to say that, as if Scott were an annoying client, no chitchat, just get to the point. “I’m sorry we’ve been playing phone tag. I’ve been super busy.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” Peter’s voice remained flat.
“I miss racquetball.”
Peter’s silence resonated with hurt. He inhaled sharply, as if there were little room in his lungs for air, then spoke. “I can’t play for a while. I twisted my knee.”
“That’s terrible. What happen?”
“I was running in Palisades Park and my sneaker caught under a sprinkler head. I heard a crunch in my knee and went flying.”
Scott could hear Peter softening up. He never stayed mad long. “Hey, I got some hockey tickets for Staples Center. Kings and the Redwings. Wanna come?”
“You’re kidding. When?”
“Friday night.”
“Absolutely. God, that’s great. Want me to drive?”
“Sure. I have parking passes and everything.” Scott sure hoped he could round up some tickets. He’d have to pay through the nose, but he saw it as an investment. During the game, he’d find a way to ask about the Swiss account.
They arranged to meet at Peter’s office early Friday evening.
After he hung up, Scott began to doze, imagining how he would spend the money. He’d live abroad, someplace where they spoke English, a large city like Sydney or Amsterdam. Maybe he’d have a couple of places. He’d like new clothes, one of those Jaguar XK8 sports coupes in silver, and he’d probably want to start a business of some sort, maybe import/export. He had started to slip into a haze, imagining a gorgeous woman massaging his shoulders as he soaked in a rumbling Jacuzzi, tropical plants all around, looking down over the bustling harbor in Hong Kong, when he bolted straight up.
He got it. He would open a joint account at Schwab with five thousand dollars of his own money. He’d forge Laura’s signature on the new account papers. He didn’t figure they’d check the signature against her other accounts—not when she was depositing money—anyhow, he thought his forgery would pass even close scrutiny. He’d transfer money from her other accounts into the joint account, which he could do over the Internet with her PIN numbers. He would then withdraw whatever he wanted from the joint account. It would all be done over the Internet or the telephone.
If anyone asked, Scott would say he and Laura were engaged and established a wedding account. Lots of people did that. He’d transfer a little at a time until he got the Swiss account set up. Then he’d move it all.
He might have to leave the country, his friends and family. Could he do that? Scott laughed out loud, a laugh he barely recognized, rough and wild. He tasted freedom. They caused him nothing but grief. Good riddance to them all.
Would it work?
He didn’t know, but he felt extremely pleased with himself. He was wide awake now. He slipped on his loafers and a light jacket. He thought he’d go for a drive. Maybe he’d drop in on Connie.
* * *
Isaac Brovsky called Reggie and asked him to drop by. He appeared extremely excited when Reggie got there.
“We got an e-mail back from Cellini in Sainte-Croix. It’s their seal, all right. They sold the ring to a Jacob Steinacker in 1939. Since the ring showed up here, I assumed that he immigrated to Los Angeles, which was very common before World War Two. I also assumed he didn’t change his name to Stein or Steiner, which is a pretty big assumption. I checked through a database for synagogue members in Los Angeles and I didn’t come up with any Steinackers. A lot of Jewish newcomers worked for the studios, so I called the Motion Picture Pension Fund and asked them to check for Steinackers on the payroll from the forties and fifties. Well, we got a Jacob Steinacker who was a film cutter. He died in 1978. His beneficiaries were his wife Ruth, and daughter, Beatrice.”
“You think it’s the same Jacob Steinacker?”
“Sometimes you can only know by checking oral histories with the descendants. I tried to track down Ruth Steinacker, but got nowhere, so I figure she must’ve remarried. Your best bet is to go to the Hall of Records and look up the birth certificate for the daughter.”
* * *
His entire life, Scott felt like if he held out long enough, if he talked to enough people, made enough contacts, and managed to be in the right place at the right time, he could be somebody. All he needed was a lucky break.
That lucky break was Laura.
Setting up a joint account at Schwab was easy. He transferred twenty grand of Laura’s stock portfolio (piece of cake), and Peter was looking into getting him a numbered Swiss account. And now he’d found street parking right in front of the California Jewelry Mart. With time on the meter! What were the odds of that?
He entered Dornbirn Jewelry to pick up his ring. Between the setting and the diamond, he was in about five grand—all because he had to get sentimental about Laura. Oh well. He’d show up at his mother’s with Connie wearing the ring, get Sammy off his back, dump Connie, then sell the ring and tell his mother that he’d let Connie keep the ring because she was so broken up about it. No, that wouldn’t fly. He’d have to say it got lost, like he fucking should’ve said in the first place.
He held the ring between his fingers under a small florescent lamp. He thought it looked pretty good, as close to the original as he could remember. The white gold looked like platinum; he doubted if his sister and mother even knew the other ring was platinum. He’d saved a grand there. The jeweler had burnished the inside and the edges so it looked well worn, then dunked it in something to age it. Scott looked at the diamond through the microscope and saw it had the same inclusions as the one he’d brought in. The jeweler hadn’t switched it with a fake. Scott was pleased.
Mrs. Dornbirn started to put it in a blue velvet box, but Scott pulled out the cracked leather one. She insisted on cleaning it, brushing out the dust and rubbing it down with alcohol. Scott placed the ring in the old box and stuck it in his pocket. He paid in cash and drove home.
He was proud of himself, and he wanted to show off the ring. He decided to call Connie and take her out to dinner at Gladstone’s. She knew they were only pretending to be engaged, but he figured she’d get a real kick out of being presented with a ring in a restaurant. He’d let her wear it a few days, then they’d go to his mother’s and get that over with. Connie deserved a couple of good meals for playing along. He rang her number and arranged to pick her up on Thursday night.
Satisfied, he went to the kitchen, pulled a pint carton of Häagen-Dazs from the freezer, grabbed a chocolate-chip cookie and a spoon, then headed into the living room.
As soon as he’d settled down in front of the TV to watch some professional golf, Samantha called. “I want that ring, Scott.”
The problem with family was you couldn’t hang up on them. “You’re a little late, Sammy. I gave it to my fiancée. That’s who engagement rings are for—people who are engaged.”
“Connie is no more your fiancée than I’m your fairy godmother.”
“You’re misinformed. Your brother has found true love at last.”
“Bullshit. I want the ring. If you don’t give it to me, I’m gonna tell Mom about Laura.”
Oddly, for a second he didn’t know who she was talking about. “What about Laura?”
“I know all about it. You know Mom’s not the sort to cover up for you, either.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Pat called me last night. She told me about the blank postcards she’s been sending you. You’d better tell her what Laura’s credit limit is, ’cause she’s off to the Champs-Élysées to do some serious shopping. You know, I was suspicious when you stopped talking about Laura all of a sudden. So what’d you do, kill her?”
“Of course not.” Damn Pat! He’d never trust her again.
“Maybe I should tell Mother about your schemes. I bet you never told her about the restraining order, did you?”
He wondered how Samantha had heard about that. “I’ve got to go, Sammy. I’ll call you later.” He hung up, furious. What in hell was her problem? What was so important about that goddamn ring? She was obsessed with it. He’d give her the one he’d just made, but knew she’d immediately run to a jeweler. He’d have to figure out another way to get her off his back.
Give her a ticket to Paris to visit Pat? No, that wouldn’t be enough for her. She’d been blackmailing him since they were kids, threatening to tell Mom about broken plates, school detentions, fights, pranks. He was always buying her off, and he was sick of it.
The phone rang again. Goddammit! Why wouldn’t they leave him alone! Scott thought of letting the machine get it, then, on a sudden impulse, changed his mind and grabbed the phone.
“It’s your best friend,” the voice sang.
“Vivian, I’m working. Could you call back next year sometime?”
“Working, you? You can’t tell me what you do is called work.”
Realtors got no respect. “What do you want, Vivian?”
“I thought I’d do you the courtesy of telling you that I’ve filed a missing-persons report.”
“For whom?” he said disingenuously.
“Don’t ask stupid questions.”
“For Laura? I thought you’d given up on that one, Viv. You know you’re wasting your time. I just got another postcard from Laura today, as well as her credit-card bill. She seems to be having a great time in Europe without you.”
“Whatever. You better start working on your story for the police.”
“Police?”
“Sure. Everyone knows about you and her. So expect a call.”
“Vivian, if you hate me so much, why are you warning me?”
“Because if you get nervous, you might make a mistake. You might get all sweaty and confess and cry in Mr. Detective’s lap.”
“Good night, Vivian.” He waited a moment, heard nothing, then hung up. He could hardly breathe. Why were all the women turning into such bitches? Always manipulating you, like when they call and say “I love you,” expecting you to say “I love you, too,” when you don’t feel it, not right then anyhow, with them making you say it, and it pisses you off. As soon as you think you get one handled, another one takes a bite out of your butt. Even Laura, sweet, lovely Laura. Maybe they all have penis envy. Damned if he’d let them shackle him.
Good Morning, Darkness Page 17
