Dream House (20 page)

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-SIX

“I
CAN'T STAY LONG,” TIM BOLT SAID, HIS TONE JUST
short of a whine. “Anyway, I told you pretty much everything I know.”

He'd arrived twenty minutes late, just as I'd decided he wasn't going to show and had been about to give up the small table I'd been guarding toward the back of the packed coffee shop. Waiting in line to order, he'd seemed skittish—putting his hands into his pockets, taking them out, rocking on the heels of his brown suede moccasins, looking over his shoulder several times a minute. I wondered if the scent of caffeine had made him wired.

“I have just a few questions. By the way, I felt so sorry for your client last night,” I said, hoping to relax him. He'd barely touched his coffee and had turned down my offer to buy him a pastry. “This whole thing must be frustrating for you, too.”

“I'd like to make the sale, of course.” He nodded. “But if I don't, there'll be other sales. Mr. Lowenthal may lose his house. I see the board's point, but I wish there were some way that he didn't have to spend a fortune.”

“What do you think Professor Linney would have said about the roof?”

“Restoration.” Bolt actually smiled, just for a second. “He'd never compromise, not in a million years.”

I took a sip of my Frappucino. It would have gone well with a nosh, but unlike the Coffee Beans, Starbucks doesn't have kosher pastries, which is just as well. “Has HARP affected your listings in other areas, Tim?”

He settled against his chair. “A few. People are hesitant to buy before they know exactly what they can or can't do to the property. That's understandable.”

“Definitely. I imagine contractors are being impacted by HARP, too. They're probably doing fewer or more limited remodels. Like Roger Modine, Hank Reston's partner.”

“I know Roger. He did work on the Fuller house when Margaret and Hank were getting it in shape for selling.” He picked up his coffee cup and took a tentative sip.

“I understand they're having problems with some properties they own jointly. Are those HARP related, too?”

Bolt hesitated. “You can look this up in the county records, so it's no secret. They own properties all over the city. They buy teardowns, build inexpensive new homes, and sell them for a large profit. In areas where property values are lower, they rent out the houses, wait for the home prices to rise, then tear down or remodel and sell. Their problem is with their properties in Ladera Heights and Mar Vista. Both are HARP districts now but weren't when they bought the houses cheap a couple of years ago, planning to hold on until the housing market rose. The market rose, but now instead of knocking the houses down, they have to restore them.”

“And that's considerably more expensive,” I said, remembering the lecture that had accompanied my tour of Ned Vaughan's home.

“Three to five times as much. You can't begin to imagine the costs involved.”

“I heard that some homeowners in those areas are trying to rescind the HARP status.”

“Well, even if that happens, it won't be soon enough for Hank and Modine. They have a considerable amount of money tied up in those properties. And the Muirfield house set Hank back a bundle. He paid two million six for the lot and tore down the existing structure. The new house had to cost several million. I think that's why he's so eager to sell the Fuller house.”

Money is round, Bubbie G says. Sometimes it's here, sometimes it's there. Sometimes it rolls away from you. The idea that money was rolling away from Hank was surprising. It also raised troubling questions.

“Speaking of the Fuller house,” I said. “How was Reston able to put it on the market if it doesn't belong to him?”

“He and Margaret had reciprocal powers of attorney. When he listed the property with my company, he signed a contract representing that he had the authority and power to sell it, and that he would get the necessary documents when it came time to close. Actually, Margaret put it on the market in May, with the understanding that the buyer wouldn't take ownership until the new house was ready. We had a buyer, but Margaret decided not to sell. Too much pressure from the Professor, I think. He was furious when she put it up for sale. He told me Hank had put her up to it, that he should never have deeded it to her.”

I thought about my conversation with Cyndi. Was selling the Fuller house “the big mistake” Margaret had referred to? “When did Margaret change her mind?”

“It was just before she disappeared. So now the house is back on the market. But as I told you, people are leery of buying homes where a crime took place. And now with the Professor dying there, and they're saying it's arson . . .” Bolt shook his head. “Hank is having Modine assess the damage, and he's talking about tearing the house down and building a new one. It'll depend on what the insurance pays. If they
do
tear it down, I'm glad the Professor won't be around to see it. It would break his heart.”

“You liked him very much,” I said.

Bolt nodded. “He wasn't an easy person. We didn't always agree, and he wasn't diplomatic, but I respected him for being direct. If he didn't like something or someone, he let you know it.”

“Like his son-in-law.”

“I didn't say that.” Bolt had stiffened.

“That's what everybody's been telling me.”

“Well, I guess you don't have to hear it from me, then,” he said quietly. “I don't believe in gossip. It's hurtful, and dangerous.”

There was pain in his voice, and a touch of anger. I wondered if he was speaking from experience. In general, there was a solemnity about him that made him seem older than his years and a little . . . different.

“I'm not asking out of curiosity, Tim. I feel responsible in a way for Professor Linney's death, because of my article.” It had run just last week, I'd realized this morning as I e-mailed my
Crime Sheet
column to my editor. It seemed like ages ago. “It's obvious that someone killed him. I think it was the same person who killed Margaret.”

Tim pushed his glasses against the bridge of his nose. “Do the police know for a fact that she's dead?”

“I don't know.” It wasn't my place to tell him about the tape. “Professor Linney had X rays taken four times in three months. Do you know anything about that?”

“I saw the ambulance at the house. Margaret told me her dad fell. He was lucky he didn't break anything. One time he stayed in the hospital for a few days.”

“Professor Linney told people that Hank was abusing him. Did he tell you that, too?”

Bolt didn't reply, which was an answer in itself. He ran his thumbs over the rim of the coffee carton so hard that I thought the carton would ignite.

“I don't want this coming from me,” he finally said. His voice shook with nervousness.

I nodded.

“Hank hit him,” he said in a low, pained voice, as if the words themselves hurt. “He was angry because the Professor wouldn't give him a loan. He was angry in general, the Professor said. He showed me the bruises. On his arms, on his legs. Once, when Margaret wasn't home, Hank pushed him because he wasn't walking fast enough. He fell and sprained his ankle. He wanted to report him but Margaret begged him not to. Another time Hank pulled him so hard he dislocated the Professor's elbow.” A vein twitched in Bolt's jaw. “I tried talking to Margaret. She told me the situation was complicated and she was taking care of it. I told her I hadn't meant to meddle. I didn't bring it up again.” The heightened color in his face suggested that her dismissal had hurt.

I can't say I was shocked by what Tim Bolt had told me, but I felt let down. As I'd told Zack, I liked Hank and was reluctant to accept that I'd misread him. Ego, I suppose. As for Maggie . . . Love may be blind, but I couldn't understand how she'd allowed the abuse to continue, even for a day. I said that to Tim.

“I don't think she believed him at first,” he told me. “Hank was careful never to do anything when she was home. But the day before she disappeared, the Professor told me she was going to see a divorce lawyer. So I guess she finally realized he was telling her the truth.”

Tiler. I'd asked Hank, but he hadn't recognized the name. Maybe she'd gone to Elbogen to ask him about the abuse, abuse he'd overlooked, or ignored. No wonder he'd been anxious when I mentioned Maggie's coming to see him.

“You live next door, Tim. Did you hear something, see something or someone? . . .”

He caught his lower lip with his teeth. I had a fluttery feeling in my stomach.

“I should have told the police right away, but I was afraid of what Hank would do,” he said. “And if I tell them now, I'll be in trouble for withholding information.”

“What information?” My hands tingled.

He looked behind him for a second, so I did, too. Reflex. His anxiety was contagious. Then he leaned toward me. “The night she disappeared? I told you I didn't hear anything. But I did. I heard her scream.”

“Did she say anything?” I held my breath.

“She screamed ‘Stop! You're hurting me!' And then she yelled for her father. It was Hank. I know it.”

“Did she say his name?”

Tim shook his head. “Who else could it be? He didn't deserve her. She was so beautiful, so kind. She was an angel. He didn't deserve her.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-SEVEN

A
N HOUR LATER I WAS IN MY APARTMENT, CLEANING
UP
after preparing the marble cake I'd just put in the oven (my sister Edie's recipe) and talking on the phone with Rico Hernandez. His nickel.

“You have a good friend in Detective Connors,” he said. “He tells me you're discreet.”

“Like a PriceWaterhouseCoopers accountant,” I assured him. “I have a few questions I hope you'll answer.”

“I hear you've interviewed several people about Professor Linney and his daughter.”

So we were bartering again, but it was a friendlier marketplace. I told him much of what I'd learned, in no particular order: Reston and Modine were losing money on properties in HARP areas. Modine had impersonated a cop and tried pumping the hairdresser about Margaret's last day. He'd made a pass at Margaret. Margaret had been anxious to place her father in a facility. She'd made a manicure appointment for the Saturday after she disappeared. Two people had phoned to cancel the First Aid caregiver.

Hernandez had known about Reston and Modine's financial problems and the two First Aid calls. One call was from Linney, he confirmed; the voice of the other caller had been muffled and distorted. The rest of my information he'd found interesting (“Is that so?”) and helpful. I didn't tell him that Dr. Elbogen had seemed nervous or that Hank had been a possessive, jealous husband and abusive toward Linney and anxious to sell the house. Those were impressions—mine or someone else's—not facts. I didn't repeat what Tim had heard the night Maggie disappeared. Tim was certain the person who made her scream was Hank. I wasn't. And I didn't tell the detective what I suspected: that Oscar Linney had hidden his daughter's cell phone and lied to make his son-in-law suspicious. And if that was true, had he lied about everything else, including the abuse? But if that was so, why had Elbogen been so nervous?

Hernandez seemed particularly interested in the fact that Modine had come on to Margaret.

“Vaughan doesn't want Modine to find out he told me,” I said. “I think he's afraid of the man.”

“You had a run-in with him, too, I understand,” Hernandez said without a trace of humor. “Mr. Vaughan needn't worry. Any of the guests at the party could have overheard Modine.” He paused. “Well, all of this has been helpful. Thank you. Last time, you asked about the tape. I can tell you it was spliced together. Your instincts were right.”

“I know. Hank Reston phoned me last night. I wish I were wrong.” If this little gem was Hernandez's idea of bartering, I'd been suckered. “Did you happen to check Modine's alibi for the night of Margaret's death?”

Hernandez hesitated. “He was home alone, watching TV, as he was on the night Professor Linney died.”

So Modine had no alibi. “Hank Reston told me he was in Vegas when his wife disappeared. Is that true?” I scraped the spatula against the mixing bowl.

“He checked into the hotel around seven. He phoned his wife from his room at a few minutes past ten
P.M
. She phoned his room at ten-thirty. Based on certain evidence, we assume that Mrs. Reston was assaulted just after one.”

“The broken clock.” I licked the chocolate off the spatula.

“Correct. That's a span of three hours. It's a five-hour drive from Vegas to Los Angeles, four and a half if you're in a hurry.”

“Reston could have broken the clock to give himself an alibi.” I did another swipe of the bowl. “He said he went to the casino after he called his wife. Are there records from the hotel garage that prove he did or didn't leave the premises?”

“He self-parked. A frugal man, Mr. Reston.”

“Apparently.” I licked the spatula and thought about that.

“Detective Connors told me you were sharp,” Hernandez said. “I see he was right.”

I have to admit I preened just a bit. “What about last Friday evening?”

“Mr. Reston drove to Irvine and stayed overnight. He had clients to see in the morning.”

Irvine is in Orange County, a little over an hour away. I did a final scrape of the bowl, placed it in the sink, and filled it with hot, sudsy water. “Is he your prime suspect?”

“Everyone the victim knew or came in contact with is a suspect, Molly, until we can rule him or her out.”

The only “her” I could think of was the housekeeper, and I couldn't see her killing Margaret and Linney. “Who else do you suspect?”

“Sorry.”

I could tell that this particular shop was closed. “I understand that the accelerant used in the fire was paint thinner. Did you find out where it came from?”

“We found an empty can in a Dumpster in front of a nearby house that's being remodeled. The house isn't ready to be painted, and the workers claim none of them put the can there. So it may very well be the one we're looking for. Unfortunately, it's standard paint thinner that you can purchase in any home improvement store. We're having the container checked for fingerprints.”

“The living room window was shattered—I assume by an object. Was that how the fire started? Do you think the HARP vandal was responsible and didn't know Linney was inside?” Everything I'd learned said no, but I needed to rule out the possibility.

“It's unlikely.”

“Why not?”

Again, he hesitated. “This is not for public dissemination, Molly. Understood?”

“Understood.” I leaned against the kitchen counter, tense with anticipation.

“Someone lit a rag-covered brick and threw it at the living room window. But that wasn't the cause and origin of the fire.”

“How do you know?”

“The point of origin of a fire is the most heavily damaged area, the most burned. That was a wastebasket in the kitchen. We know that because fires burn upward and outward, and there was no damage under the wastebasket. There was extensive damage in the other downstairs rooms, including the living room, and less damage upstairs.”

“So the arsonist started the fire inside the house. Were there any signs of forced entry?”

“None.”

“Interesting.”

“Very. The funeral is Sunday morning, by the way. I thought you'd want to know.” He gave me the address of a chapel in Universal City.

I wrote down the information. “Getting back to Margaret Linney's disappearance. Did you find any fingerprints other than those belonging to family members?”

“Not in her bedroom, aside from the housekeeper's. We found nonfamily prints in the downstairs rooms and on the front and side doorknobs.”

“Can you tell me whose?” I prompted when he didn't continue.

“Prints from people who often came to the house. Ned Vaughan, Roger Modine, Tim Bolt, Walter and Winnie Fennel. We have a number of as yet unidentified prints that may belong to guests at Linney's party.”

“What about the prints on Margaret's planner?”

“Margaret Linney's, her husband's, her father's, Roger Modine's.” Hernandez paused. “Yours.”

I ignored the disapproval in his voice. “One more question? Did you use bloodhounds to try to find Margaret Linney?”

“We did. They picked up her scent and lost it within a few hundred yards of her house. And they found it at the neighbor's.”

I frowned. “The neighbor's?”

“Mr. Bolt. Apparently, Margaret Reston was in his house several times, including the morning before she disappeared. They've known each other for many years.”

“Right.” I remembered Bolt saying something about Margaret borrowing a book and looking at a painting.

“You've talked to quite a few people,” Hernandez said. “Have you formulated any ideas?”

I couldn't tell whether Hernandez was making fun of me or really interested. “Not yet. ‘Truth is a slowpoke.' That's a Yiddish proverb my grandmother told me.”

“‘
La verdad ama la claridad.
Truth loves clarity.' That's what
my
grandmother always told me.”

“Also nice.”

“I prefer John Wycliffe. ‘I believe that in the end the truth will conquer.' Let's hope he's right.”