Evidence (14 page)

“And
Charlie went ballistic.”

“Nuclear.
Pitting one sib against the other is always a disaster and
these sibs never had much in common to begin with. Not
that Leona didn’t try to make nice with Charlie. You won’t meet a more
reasonable human being. But Charlie’s another matter, you don’t need to be a
psychologist to see why he resents Leona. She’s everything he isn’t: smart,
accomplished, happily married, a gem.”

“Charlie
never got it together.”

“Charlie
has spent nearly seventy years in a dream-state.”

“Delusional?”

“That’s
another name for it,” said Rifkin. “I can tell you all this because we don’t
represent him and nothing’s confidential. In fact, he became our adversary, has
threatened to sue us numerous times.”

“Over
what?”

“Over
he needs money and thinks Leona will give it to him if he makes enough noise.”

“Who
represents him?”

“No
one. He files his own paper, thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. Needless
to say, he gets wiped out every time.”

“Likes
to think he’s a lawyer.”

“And
a stockbroker and a financial advisor and a freelance investor, you name it.
Prior to the house being sold, he was trying to syndicate the sale of an island
off Belize, lost everything he put into it. He’s been married four times, no
kids, is basically broke and stuck in a one-bedroom in South Pas. Sad, but it’s
his own doing. Leona has tried to be fair, offered to set up a trust for him
managed by professionals, so he can build up a little net worth. He accuses her
of trying to control him. She’s never taken a cent as executor, has been
scrupulous about everything being divvied up fifty-fifty. Which brings me back
to my original point: It was Charlie who spearheaded selling the properties.
That’s why his bitching about it is so crazy.”

“Leona
didn’t want to sell?”

“Absolutely
not. Her idea was to keep everything in trust for future generations. Set up a
separate management account to take care of expenses.”

“But Charlie has no kids, so he figured she was
bypassing him for her heirs.”

“I
understand that objection,” said Rifkin. “But it’s not as if Charlie wasn’t
making money from Borodi. The house was renting out at twenty grand a month,
and after tax and management fees, he was still netting six figures.”

“Who
were the tenants?”

“Various
industry people needing temporary quarters during shoots. Not stars—producers,
directors. Payments came directly out of the film budgets, everything was
smooth until Charlie started dropping in at the house and demanding to see if
they were keeping it up to his specifications. Needless to say, no one wanted
to put up with that, so bye-bye studio rental deals. Which Charlie needed a lot
more than Leona. Whatever he gets hold of slips right through his fingers.”

“So
he agitated to sell.”

“Not
just Borodi, all three properties. One of those out-of-the-blue demands. He’s
impulsive, that’s his basic problem. Selling directly contravened the substance
and spirit of Lan’s trust, Leona would’ve been in her rights to tell Charlie to
screw off. But she didn’t want to fight, so she compromised. She
was
steadfast about Palm Springs and Arrowhead—likes to use both places on weekends
and so do her kids. And she felt the value of a two-plus-acre lot in Holmby
would keep climbing, it paid to wait. But Charlie kept nagging, so she caved.”

“The
records I’ve got said it sold for eight million dollars,” said Milo.

“I
know what you’re thinking,” said Lawrence Rifkin. “Four mil each is nothing to
sneeze at, maybe Charlie was the smart one, especially given his age. The
problem is, Lieutenant, once the trust was broken, the inheritance tax kicked
in. Toss in commission and other fees and Charlie and Leona ended up with
closer to one and a half million each.”

Milo
said, “I’m still not sneezing.”

“No, of course not,” said Rifkin, not quite
convincingly. “But that’s nothing long-term for someone like Charlie, who still
thinks he’s a financial genius. It didn’t take long for him to plow through
most of it and start howling that we sold too cheap. Unfortunately for him,
he’d been involved every step of the way and we had documentation.”

“How
much is most of it?”

“All
but half a mil.
Then
he had the gall to ask us to represent him so we
could cook his books and beef up the deduction. Meanwhile, he’s still
threatening to sue us. Refusing him politely took some self-control.”

“So
he had a half million left.”

“He
goes to Europe several times a year, flies first-class, stays at the Crillon,
eats at Michelin star restaurants. If he’s got a hundred K left, I’d be
shocked. I can’t believe he’s still screaming about the sale. It’s been a while
since I last heard from him and I figured he’d finally moved on.”

“How
long?”

“I’d
say … two years … hold on and I’ll tell you precisely … here it is,
twenty-eight months ago. Charlie bitching that he needed a new car and Leona
was refusing to pay for one. Why should she? He’s a lousy driver, no sense
cracking up another one. But it wouldn’t have mattered if Leona had bought him
a brand-new Rolls. Every time he gets what he wants, he comes back for more. As
I said, he lives in a dream-state. Hearing about that murder probably got him
fantasizing about being lord of the manor. Or he just wanted to prevent himself
from feeling like an ass, so he twisted reality. Because Leona
was
right. Eight mil was a fair prize then, but the value of the lot has
skyrocketed. If they sold today, they’d probably get twenty-five mil.”

“With
a nice house on it.”

“Even
without a house, Lieutenant, a parcel that size is highly desirable.”

“The
folks they sold it to, DSD,” said Milo. “Tell me more about them.”

Silence.

“Mr.Rifkin?”

“I’m
been forthright, Lieutenant, within the limitations of my professional
standards.”

“Charlie’s
fair game for discussion but DSD isn’t?”

“There’s
an agreement.”

“Confidentiality.”

“Binding
confidentiality.”

“Can
you tell me why, Mr. Rifkin?”

“Certainly
not, Lieutenant. That’s the point.”

“Everyone
DSD has done business with seems to be held to secrecy.”

No
reply.

“Mr.
Rifkin, are we talking some big-time political types?”

Silence.

“Foreign
intrigue, Mr. Rifkin?”

“I’m
sorry, Lieutenant.”

“A
criminal investigation trumps a civil agreement, sir.”

“You’ve
gone to law school, Lieutenant?”

Milo wiped
his face. “Let’s shift gears for a moment, sir. Is there anything you think I
should know about Charlie or anyone else as it relates to murder?”

“You
think Charlie could’ve killed someone?”

“Two
people
were
murdered.”

“May
I ask how they were killed?”

“Gunshot
and strangulation.”

“Well,”
said Rifkin, “Charlie does own firearms but the ones I know about are antiques,
inherited from Lan. Would he use them if he got angry enough? I suppose. His
temper is nasty and he is unstable.”

“What
about strangulation?”

“Doesn’t
that take strength, Lieutenant?”

“Strength
and persistence.”

“Then
I doubt it. Charlie’s health is subpar. Liver, heart, prostate, diabetes,
arthritis. Leona pays his medical bills and they’re extensive.
And I have to be honest, he’s a blowhard but I’ve never
actually known him to follow through on anything.”

“Is
there anything about the sale to DSD that could conceivably link to murder?”

Rifkin
said, “Good try, Lieutenant.”

Milo
said, “All this hush-hush is making DSD look more and more suspicious.”

“Be
that as it may, Lieutenant. Good luck with your murders.”

Doyle
Bryczinski was on his third can of 7UP.

Milo
sat down close, scooted closer. “Okay, Doyle, what’s the story?”

“About
what?”

“Going
back there with those bolt cutters.”

“Nothing,
sir.”

“Bolt
cutters and talk about crime and fire isn’t nothing.”

“I’m
sorry, sir.”

Milo’s
big hand landed on Bryczinski’s scrawny shoulder. “Doyle, if there’s something
you want to tell me, now’s the time to help yourself.”

“What
do I need help with?”

“Think
about it, Doyle.”

“I’m
thinking I don’t need help.”

“Why’d
you go back?”

“It’s
my place, that’s all.”

“Your
place?”

“My
job. I know it better than anyone.”

“Exactly,”
said Milo.

“Huh?”

“What
strikes me, Doyle, is that doing a murder there would be tough for someone who
wasn’t familiar with the place. It gets real dark at night, that rear staircase
is hidden away. You’d have to know where to find it, be super-careful walking
up those wooden stairs without being heard. Though your shoes do look pretty
quiet.”

“They’re okay. Only I never did nothing. And no matter
any shoes, I’da been heard.”

“Why?”

“My
leg’s fucked up, it drags.”

“Even
with those quiet shoes?”

“They
got soft soles,” said Bryczinski, “but also steel arches, real heavy to lift.”

Milo
eyed the soda can. “If you’re thirsty, feel free.”

“I’m
okay.”

“Let’s
go back to the night of the murders and where you were.”

“Zactly
what I told you.”

“Sleeping
and taking care of your mother.”

“Buying
the diapers for my mom. This time I got the receipt.” Pulling a scrap from his
shirt pocket. “Nine forty-eight, like I told you, I’m at the CVS.”

Milo
examined the date. “You found the receipt because you’ve been working on an
alibi, Doyle?”

“You
asked me all those questions the first time,” said Bryczinski. “So I looked for
the receipt. Now you got it.”

Milo
waved the paper. “This is okay, as far as it goes, Doyle, but it really doesn’t
mean much. You coulda gone home, driven back.”

“Maybe
coulda, but didn’t.” Bryczinski’s eyes remained calm.

“Monte,”
said Milo.

“What?”

“Who’s
Monte, Doyle?”

“Ain’t
that a card game?”

“It’s
also a man’s name.”

“Not
any man I know.”

“Why
the cutters, Doyle?”

“What
I said, an emergency.”

“It’s
a crime scene, Doyle.”

“It’s
a crime scene now, but it’s not gonna be a crime scene forever. You don’t give
me the key to that chain, I got to get in.”

“Emergency,”
said Milo. “Like the place burns down.”

“What I said was just in
case
the place burns
down. I need the job, want to do it right.”

“You
think of it as your place.”

“I
know it better than anyone.
They
didn’t.”

“Who?”

“Those
two. Look what happened to them,” said Bryczinski. Reaching for the soda can,
he took a long, slow sip.

“Their
fault?”

“I’m
not saying that, I’m saying it was stupid to go in there at night.”

“What’s
your theory about the murders, Doyle?”

“They
went up there to fool around, I dunno, maybe some psycho crashed the party.
That’s my point: Way the chain was before, anyone could get in.”

“So
you should be happy I put on a new one.”

“Leave
the key, I’ll say thank you. Now I need to get back there. Can I have that
ride?”

“Happy
to arrange it, Doyle. If you take a polygraph before you leave.”

Bryczinski’s
eyes widened. “Company gave me a poly when they hired me. I passed with honors,
ask ’em for a copy.”

“So
you wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

Bryczinski
thought. “Hell, why not? If it don’t take too long.”

Detective
Three Delano Hardy was the closet to a polygraph specialist the day shift had
going. He hadn’t administered the test in over a year, wasn’t even sure where
the gear was, but he agreed to look for it.

Ninety
minutes later, the procedure was over and Hardy stepped out of the room,
shaking his head. “A little jumpy on baseline, but I’m not seeing deception,
not even close, sorry.”

Milo
took the printout. “Thanks for trying, amigo.”

Milo
and Del had partnered a long time ago, until Del’s devout wife had objected to
her husband working with a homosexual.