Motive (12 page)

Decked out in bling, she’d marched happily to her Jaguar, secure in the knowledge that she was rich and charismatic and sexy and therefore owned the world. Gladdened further by what she’d just accomplished: willing a whole bunch of shiny stuff to her daughters, how delighted they were when she told them, maybe the three of them would go out to dinner tonight to celebrate, something spontaneous, she’d pop it on them when she got back to Calabasas.

The last thing on her mind …

Easy pickings.

Satisfied there was nothing more to be learned here, I’d turned to leave when a fingertip poked my shoulder hard enough to hurt.

“Can I help you, pal?”

Rotating, I faced Alfred Bayless, wearing the same black blazer, gray pants, and white turtleneck and taking up a whole bunch of my personal space. Up close, the building’s security chief smelled of Aqua Velva and ire. His nostrils flared. His pupils were dilated. Then he recognized me.

“Oh. Sorry, Doc. Noticed you hanging around but couldn’t see who you were from a distance. What’s going on?”

“I was doing some observation.”

“Of what?”

“How people react to an outlier. You’re the first person to pay me serious notice.”

He frowned. “What, you’re testing the system? Well, guess what, I saw you right away on the monitor, figured I’d watch you a bit, make sure you were actually a loony or a bum and not some rich dude in
cheap clothes waiting for a big-shot lawyer, this is L.A., right? I mean no offense about the clothes.”

“It had nothing to do with your system,” I said. “I wanted to see—”

“Because maybe the fool who shot that lady hung out here? I could’ve saved you some time, Doctor. People don’t see a damn thing. They’re sheep.” He smiled coldly. “So nothing’s come up, huh?”

“Not yet.”

“Sturgis must be growing an ulcer.”

A trio of well-fed men in hand-stitched suits left the building. One of them, a silver-haired man in all black, eyed Bayless. Bayless had already spotted him.

Hard looks and curt salutes all around.

Bayless’s mouth turned down as he watched them pass from view.

I said, “Looks like you’re the exception.”

“What do you mean?”

“You just got noticed.”

“That’s ’cause I’m so handsome,” said Bayless. “No—off the record? Those guys are top brass. The one in the black silk Brioni manages big projects for the folks who own the building. The others work for him, they all flew in this morning for a security meeting.”

“Big-time fun.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Any progress?”

“In terms of getting some actual security?” Bayless laughed. “The plan is they go back to the über-boss and he consults personally with God and then there’s a meeting about having a meeting and then it’s shelved and reopened and maybe another set of meetings and who knows, Doctor, anything’s possible … so nothing at all on Ms. Corey?”

“Wish there was.”

“Well,” he said, “tell Sturgis I haven’t forgotten him. They may not be giving me cameras but I did manage to squeeze a couple of new hires out of them. Minimum-wage kids, no experience, but I have them patrolling the parking tiers.”

“I’ll relay the message.”

Bayless ran a finger under the hem of his turtleneck. “I keep thinking about that poor woman. Ran the tapes a bunch of times myself. Level with me, Doc: Did you come here because you think we’re high risk for a repeat?”

“No, just trying to figure out the bad guy’s approach.” I pulled out Katherine Hennepin’s photo. “Ever see her here?”

He studied the image. “Nope. Who is she?”

“Another victim. She got killed somewhere else.”

Bayless’s eyes widened. “Same offender?”

“Could be.”

“You think she was here?”

“Nothing links her to here,” I said. “I’m trying to eliminate the possibility.”

“No links at all?”

“Zero.”

“You’re a careful guy, Doctor, I heard that about Sturgis, too. Mr. Compulsive, figures he’d have someone like you doing psych work.”

I smiled.

He gave the photo another look. Longer. No stranger to meticulousness, himself.

“Nope, never saw her. That’s all I need, huh? Maniac lurking in the ductwork. Like a case back in New York, ’round forty years ago, when I was a kid. Lady violinist got raped and murdered in the Metropolitan Opera. Right in the building, place was a maze. My dad worked a shoe-shine stand in Lincoln Center, he was always talking about it until they solved it. Perp was a stagehand, met her in the elevator.”

He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Scared the hell out of me, Doc. I grew up in Harlem, dope shootings was one thing but sick stuff where the rich folk went? There was nothing to
aspire
to? That’s when I decided to be law enforcement. Take some control of the situation.”

He smiled. “I’m gabbing, need to get back to work.”

I said, “Okay with you if I go inside for a sec?”

The smile disintegrated. “Free country, can’t stop you, but what for?”

“Just to get a feel.”

“I’m getting an
off
feeling, Doc. One moment you’re telling me it’s unlikely to have anything to do with the building. Now you’re saying you need a feel.”

“Frustration does that,” I said.

“Does what?”

“Leads me to take the extra step.”

Bayless rocked on his feet. His hands were huge, gnarled, curled into fists. “I guess I can relate to that, but do me a favor and don’t make a big deal out of it, okay? They might be sheep but eventually someone’s going to report a problem and problems have a way of finding their way to me.”

I entered the lobby right after Bayless, hung back as he stepped into the lunchtime throng. Making sure he was nowhere in sight, I headed for the directory, used my phone to photograph the names of tenants sharing the seventh floor with Grant Fellinger’s law firm.

Not much to shoot; another group of lawyers and a financial management company.

For all the people leaving for a midday meal, the line at the ground-floor snack bar was thin. I waited until no one was in line, went over and bought coffee, only yards from Bayless’s office. Overpaying by two bucks, I said, “Keep the change,” and showed Katherine Hennepin’s picture to the pimply kid working the counter.

A guy in a T-shirt and jeans flashing a photo deserved an explanation but the kid just looked and said, “Nope. She a shoplifter?”

“Get a lot of them?”

The kid smiled slyly. “Like you don’t know. Being a narc?”

“Me?” I said, grinning.

He grinned back. “Gonna bust someone?”

“Given the opportunity. So you don’t know her?”

“Nope.”

“Been having shoplifter problems?”

“You kidding? Turn your back and half the sugar packets are gone. Turn again and there’s no ketchup.” He huffed. “Rich people are cheap.” Third look at Hennepin. “Yeah, she’s definitely sketchy.”

I returned to the center of the lobby swarm, mingling aimlessly as people eddied around me.

Something Bayless had said stuck with me. The murder at the opera.

Met her in the elevator
.

No cameras in these elevators. What better place to hunt unobtrusively?

I got closer to the bank of lifts, watched doors open and close, disgorging hungry-looking folk. Some had their cigarette packs out in anticipation. The sound level rose. Or maybe that was just the noise in my head.

Nothing more to do here and no sense annoying Bayless. I made my way toward the exit.

Got that itchy feeling on the back of my neck.

Someone watching me? More likely, too much coffee and failure.

I half turned anyway. Saw nothing. Then I did.

A sudden shift as a man moved into the crowd quickly.

Not quick enough to avoid identification: Grant Fellinger trying to wedge his stocky frame into the throng. Hustling toward the elevators.

Had he been watching me? Even if he had, the explanation could be simple: recognizing me but not in the mood to deal with police business.

I resumed my exit, allowed myself a brief half turn.

Fellinger had turned also. Tight-faced. Fear? Anger? Both?

For a second, we locked eyes. Then he swiveled fast and showed me his back.

Not a phantom? A man who worked here, had good reason to be here?

A professional man who’d had a professional relationship with Ursula Corey? Far beyond professional if Richard Corey could be believed.

Who better to put a woman at ease as she walked to her car than her own lawyer? The man she’d come to see in the first place.

What bigger surprise than to see that man aiming a gun at her face?

No one—not the pretty receptionist in the black dress nor Fellinger’s assistant—had mentioned Fellinger leaving the office with Ursula the morning of her murder. But bosses didn’t check in or out and if the young woman had stepped away from her desk, who’d have known?

Sheep
. Uncharitable appraisal of humanity but as I’d just seen, accurate.

I left the building, was talking on my phone by the time I got across the street.

Earl Cohen, Esq., had agreed to meet me in his office if I got there soon but when I arrived, his secretary said, “Mr. C.’s having lunch. Café Europa, it’s next door.”

“Café” turned out to be hype for a niche with a three-foot take-out counter on the ground floor of an adjoining medical building. Two young women in nurse’s uniforms waited for packaged salads. The single eat-in table in the corner was occupied by Earl Cohen.

In bright light, the old man was a wax apparition in bespoke tailoring. Lunch was monastic: unflavored yogurt, plastic spoon, glass of water.

I sat down. Cohen waited for the nurses to leave before speaking. “What now, Dr. Delaware?”

“As I said the first time, Grant Fellinger spoke highly of you. First time I’ve heard that from an opposing attorney.”

Cohen grinned. “Maybe I deserved the accolades.”

“No doubt,” I said. “But you weren’t as enthusiastic about him.”

“How uncharitable of me.”

“Anything you can tell me about Fellinger would be helpful.”

“You suspect him of having something to do with Ursula’s death?” No trace of surprise.

“It’s not at the level of suspicion but I find him interesting.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, we’ve been told he was sleeping with his client.”

Cohen smiled. “Which client, in particular?”

I smiled back. “It’s like that, huh?”

“Well,” said Cohen, “I’ve never heard of Grant going for men, but several female clients are reputed to have fallen under his charm. Such as it is.”

“Legal lothario.”

Cohen laughed. “Hard to understand, but so I’ve been told.”

“This is common knowledge among your colleagues.”

“Not common. The topic has come up a few times. Off the record and destined to remain that way. Including this conversation, Doctor. I’m too old for complications.”

“Has anyone ever filed a harassment complaint against him?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” said Cohen. He spooned yogurt. “Maybe he’s a command performer, leaves the gals happy and sassy.”

“What exactly have you heard?”

“Exactly? At my age, precision is out of the question. Approximately? Seeing as poor Ursula’s dead? Anything’s possible,” said Cohen. “As long as it remains off the record.”

He deposited yogurt on the tip of his spoon, treated himself to half a calorie. “Off the record means you keep it to yourself.”

I shook my head. “Off the record means your name doesn’t enter any official files. But anything relevant will be passed along to Lieutenant Sturgis.”

“Well,” said Cohen, “I appreciate your honesty, don’t encounter it often in my line of work.”

He fingered his tie. “You say you don’t suspect Fellinger but you want to pry into his personal life.”

“If it has to do with Ursula Corey.”

He put down his spoon. “I don’t know why I agreed to see you. I’m getting the distinct impression you’re a young man who thrives on complications.”

“Just the opposite, Mr. Cohen. My goal is always to simplify.”

He studied me. “If you were a woman, I’d call you a yenta.”

“Busybody’s fine,” I said. “And it’s gender-neutral.”

Cohen laughed loud enough to draw attention from the counterman. He finished with a wheeze, stroked the section of his neck that had been hollowed out. “For a psychologist, you’re direct. Aren’t you people all about nuance?”

“What I hear you saying is that your feelings could be explained by emotional factors but on the other hand …”

He laughed again. “Wise guy. Listen, I’m a geezer who’s had two types of cancer and what the heck, what can anyone do to me? So here’s the dirt: one day I noticed Grant’s pudgy paw finding its way to Ursula’s shapely buttocks when he thought no one was looking.”

“Where did this happen?”

“In the elevator of his building. We were all riding down—Richard, Ursula, Grant, and myself—having finished a conference.”

“Fellinger groped her with Richard right there.”

“I imagine that was part of the thrill.”

“How’d she react?”

“Tiny little smile.”

“The meeting was in Fellinger’s office, but he left too.”

“He was
accompanying
Ursula,” said Cohen. “Going the extra mile, a gal
lant
.”

“But the real reason was sticking it to the ex. For both of them.”

“That was my interpretation.” He lifted a quivering hand, curled knobby fingers. “Not just a tap, he was squeezing her repetitively.”

“And she was enjoying it.”

“She smiled throughout the process,” said Cohen. “The inescapable conclusion was a long-standing private joke. I realized Richard
hadn’t been blowing smoke when he claimed Fellinger was having his way with her all through the process.”

Richard had claimed the same about Cohen. I said, “Thanks for the information. Anything else?”

“It offended me,” said Cohen. “Not the sex part but the fact that Fellinger would breach professional ethics so baldly. I’m old-school, Dr. Delaware. Work is work, play is play.”

“Did Richard ever tell you Ursula had cheated on him while they were married?”