Lori, p.14
Lori, page 14
"In other words, you want to find out if I'm telling the truth."
His smile faded. "I know you are. What's important now is to convince yourself. Let's see if there's some tangible evidence."
"How can I help?"
"You've already given me enough information to start with. Why don't you call me tomorrow afternoon, let's say around five, and see what I've come up with by then?"
"But I want to do something-"
"And you should." Dr. Leverett rose. "Considering your situation, I suggest you spend tomorrow finding yourself an attorney. Preferably not through the yellow pages."
TWENTY-ONE
Wait.
Wait and be patient, wait and watch. Weight-watching. The walrus said so but that was in another time, another place, and the wench is dead. Or will be soon. The walrus said to wait and to watch.
The walrus and the carpenter. Wait for the walrus, watch the carpenter make the coffin, and then the hatter will go mad. Mad as a March hare, only it isn't March and you must wait for your marching orders.
"Trust me, the walrus said. Trust fate. A fate worse than death. That's how they used to talk about rape in the olden days, but they were wrong.
Death is worse. Death is worse because there is no feeling, no having or holding. Turn on the light, darling, I want to see you. But there is no light, no sight, just night. A long, long night of waiting until my dreams all come true.
They will come true, the walrus said, if you trust fate. Death is not for you, and there is a destiny that ends our shapes.
Wait and watch. There are ways to watch without eyes, ways to speak without a voice. But they must not know you are watching and you must be careful what you say or they will think you are as mad as the hatter and the hare.
Hard, so hard. You can't see everything, not everyone can hear you. There are only glimpses, glimpses and echoes mixed with memories. Bits and pieces.
But it's happening at last, the strength is coming back. The strength to pay them back for all they've done, tear them to bits and pieces.
That's what they deserve for not listening when you warn them. Even if they hear they won't stop and what they do can stop you, if they understand.
Don't let them understand. Better not to speak anymore, better to just watch and wait. The walrus said it would happen soon.
And it must be soon, before you go completely mad.
TWENTY-TWO
Lori arrived at the local telephone company office at noon but she didn't find an attorney through the yellow pages.
What she asked for were white pages for other sections of Greater Los Angeles.
The cheerful young man behind the counter obliged, piling up directories before her. It was a good thing Lori came prepared with a notepad because by the time she finished she had jotted down three pages of Fairmount listings and their numbers. The bad part was that none of the Fairmounts were named Priscilla.
But there were other areas to consider; might as well, as long as she was here. Lori considered the options, then voiced her requests.
The polite young man behind the counter took back the Los Angeles books and returned with the white pages for Orange County and Riverside. Once again she riffled pages, copied names and numbers. More Fairmounts, but still no Priscilla.
By this time the impatient young man behind the counter was waiting to gather up the directories. As he did so she thought of another possibility.
"What about Santa Monica and the beach cities?"
The irritated young man behind the counter lugged his load away and reappeared with the white pages from General Telephone. Pen poised, Lori went to work. Still more Fairmounts, still no Priscilla.
Looking at her list, she counted a total of thirty-seven names. And she still hadn't covered the northern communities-Sylmar, Oxnard, Ventura, Palmdale, a dozen other places.
The surly young man behind the counter watched her warily. "Anything else, lady?"
"No, thank you. Perhaps another time."
Lori dropped the pen and pad into her purse, zipping it shut. As she turned away she was conscious of hostile eyes boring into her back.
Too bad he felt that way, but at least it had prevented him from saying "Have a good one." She was probably oversensitive to such things, the empty words, the meaningless phrases. Like "How are you?" and the obligatory response, "Fine." Future sociologists would have a field day studying such inanities, just as they now explored the ceremonial courtesies once characteristic of the Chinese.
Never mind, Lori told herself. Actions speak louder than words and at least she'd accomplished something. The next step would be to sit down and start going through the names, calling the numbers. But right now there was no time to start playing Bingo.
The afternoon sun shimmered against her car windows and when she opened the door and slid behind the wheel it was like sitting inside a microwave. An impossible notion, of course; she couldn't fit into one unless her size was drastically reduced.
Drink me. That's what the label on the bottle said, and it worked for Alice. But Alice didn't climb into a microwave; in those times such things didn't exist. If they'd been in general use everything might have been different. If Hansel and Gretel had pushed the witch into a microwave oven,
Engelbert Humperdinck wouldn't have written his opera and become famous; famous enough for a latter-day pop singer to borrow his name.
Lori turned off the idle thought and put the air-conditioning to work. Keeping it going helped keep her going. Maybe she'd have a good one after all, even without the young man's injunction. As if in confirmation, she lucked out on curbside parking right in front of the realty office.
It. seemed strange to find unfamiliar lettering on the window-Zan Realty Co. She'd come here a few times with Dad, when she was a kid, and then only for a brief visit; possibly he just stopped by on his way when taking her to the beach. Lori had only partial recollection of those occasions, but she did recall seeing the sign on the window-pane. Then it had read Ed Holmes Realtors, spelled out in golden letters, and she remembered how much this impressed her.
"Is that real gold, Daddy?"
"Good as gold," he said. And smiled.
Lori carried the memory of that smile into the realty office. It was all she had; nobody was smiling there. Not the sales force huddling over phones in the outer office, not those moving up or down the twin hallways beyond, not the diminutive young lady seated at the desk near the entrance.
Her button eyes peered from behind thick lenses mounted in designer frames. "Can I help you?"
At least that's what Lori assumed she said; it was almost impossible to hear her over the buzzing and babble of phone conversations, the clamor of voices echoing from the corridors.
Her own voice rose. "I'm here to see Mr. Thomas. He's expecting me."
"Your name, please."
"Lori Holmes."
"Homes?"
"Holmes-with an l."
The receptionist nodded but the button eyes held no hint of recognition. "One moment."
As the girl delivered her message through the desk intercom Lori suppressed a frown. Ed Holmes Realty had been in business here all these years, and now nobody even remembered the name.
But that was an exaggeration, of course; most likely the young lady was a newcomer to her job. And when the burly man in the houndstooth jacket bustled forward from the left hall doorway his greeting was cordial.
"Lynn Thomas," he said, his words booming over the background din. "Glad you could make it." Turning, he gestured her forward. "Let's go where we can talk."
Lori followed him into the hall from which he'd emerged. Here the sound of voices came in bursts from open doorways lining both sides of the corridor. Was business really that good? And if so, why weren't these people smiling?
A heavily bearded man with a bulging body crammed into a size 48 three-piece suit came charging toward them, clutching a ledger in one hand and a pocket calculator in the other. Barely avoiding collision, he brushed past so closely that Lori could almost feel the hairs of his beard tickle her neck. With a token grunt of apology he disappeared into a cubicle at the right as Thomas beckoned her into the office beyond.
The realtor closed the door after she entered and shut out sound to a point where his sigh of relief was audible.
"That's better," he said. "Here, let me clear this off so you can sit." Thomas lifted a pile of folders from the chair opposite his desk, dumping them on the floor next to a wastebasket. "Sorry about all this mess. They showed up after I called you this morning, no warning, just like a drug bust."
"Who are 'they'?"
"IRS." His enunciation of the initials conveyed a mingling of bitterness and contempt.
"What's happening?"
"General audit. All very polite, very businesslike, but they're turning the whole place upside down." He sighed again. "That slob you saw in the hall is the worst. It's like Jesus said-never trust a man with a beard."
Thomas moved behind his desk and Lori seated herself as she spoke. "You'd think they'd at least give you some kind of advance notice."
"Apparently they did. The honcho flashed a copy of the letter he sent to your attorney two weeks ago." Thomas paused. "As I told you on the phone, I'm sorry about what happened with him. Between that and your parents-"
"Thank you."
"I was at the funeral but it didn't seem like the right time to approach you. Since then I've checked our files, trying to get out a financial report for Ben Rupert. Now that he's gone I wanted you to see what we managed to draw up and go over it together."
"I appreciate your going to so much trouble."
"Just routine. Our own auditors were scheduled to come in later this month, anyway, and Rupert asked me to prepare a statement for them. But I don't understand why he slipped up telling us about the IRS. Did he ever mention anything about it to you?"
"Not a word. All he told me was that he'd take care of getting the necessary information when the estate went into probate. But if you have that financial statement available-"
"I'm afraid not." The realtor shook his head. "I did have it when I called you, but that's before fatso came busting in with his wrecking crew. First thing he wanted was cash flow records held over from your father's ownership, along with the contract for his buy-out. I suggested he could save himself a lot of time and trouble by just looking at what we'd already drawn up. He grabbed it, but that didn't stop him from going into the whole routine. When I called back to tell you what happened there was no answer."
"I left early," Lori said. "There's so much to be done."
"Too bad you had to waste a trip coming here. Those jokers took the statement before I had a chance to Xerox it, but if they intend to haul it off I'll insist on getting some copies made first. In any case, you ought to be able to take a look at it by the early part of next week. Under the circumstances you might want your attorney to see a copy."
"I don't have an attorney."
"Then maybe you'd better get one before going into this thing any further. You'll probably have to deal with the tax people yourself one of these days, and with the police in on this affair-"
"Police?"
He nodded. "Forgot to mention that. A Lieutenant Metz was here asking questions. Surprised you didn't run into him; he left just before you came in."
Lori felt her mouth go dry. "What did he want to know?"
"The same thing as the revenue people are after. He's been checking out Ben Rupert's office and couldn't locate any files on your father's client relationship. I explained what was happening here, and he said to notify him as soon as the IRS people were finished. That doesn't tell us very much, but there must be some reason. Enough for you to retain an attorney, just in case."
"Any suggestions?"
"The man I'd recommend is Marvin Esterhazy. He's represented me several times over the past few years- once on an insurance claim and then on a property dispute. Both were settled out of court because he came up with the necessary proof. He's honest and efficient, I can vouch for that."
"Would you have his number handy?"
"Matter of fact, I do. But there's no point calling him now. I tried to reach him this morning when the IRS arrived, but his office told me he's down at the Springs. Be back Monday. If you like, I can ask him to get in touch with you then."
"That's very kind of you."
"No problem." Smiling, Thomas walked her to the door. "Just make sure you stay out of trouble until Monday morning."
TWENTY-THREE
Metz was late getting to work. It was one of those days when all the traffic lights are red. By the time he arrived the shift had changed and Slesovitch was gone, leaving a memo on the desk.
A call to Santa Barbara confirmed the registration of Anthony Leverett, M.D., on the night of Rupert's death. The hotel was forwarding a Xerox of the entry and signature.
Metz shrugged as he read. No surprises. Leverett wouldn't send an imposter to take his place speaking to an audience of colleagues. Time to haul out the suspect list and scratch the good doctor.
Trouble was, Metz didn't want to scratch. Better a suspect than a competitor, that speech he'd made to the shrinks about playing detective was bad news. And when they'd talked yesterday, Leverett asked more questions about the case than he did. All Metz could hope for was that he wouldn't start poking around on his own. Amateurs cause problems.
So do professionals. Sergeant Bronstein's report was also on the desk this morning. He'd seen the arson investigation material, and what it boiled down to-or burned down to-was that the Holmes house had been torched. Traces of flammable liquid found in cloth fibers and wood fragments were still being analyzed. Slow going when all the lights are red.
Metz put down the pages, lifted the phone. Time to stop spinning his wheels, try a detour, find a shortcut.
Which wasn't all that short, not in the long run. And it turned out to be quite a long run once he got started. One thing led to another and he didn't get back to his desk again until long past dinnertime.
Emptying his pockets, he spread an accumulation of notes across the desktop-his own, and those of the two men he'd detailed for the day's assignments. Scanning, he sorted the data into rough sequence preparatory to transcribing for use in a formal report. Just doing that took a full hour on an empty stomach. Let the rest of it wait; he'd want to have another session with Slesovitch and Bronstein, go over this material and see if they had any further suggestions. Come to think of it, Slesovitch would be on duty again tonight in another two hours. Maybe it would be a good idea to stick around.
And maybe not. Metz's stomach growled at the warning. Enough was enough, and after what had been accomplished today he deserved a decent meal.
Driving to the fish place was easy because he made most of the lights on green. Take it as a good omen; his luck had changed now that there was something tangible to go with. Granted, circumstantial evidence isn't in the same class as a criminal's courtroom confession, but if there's enough pointing in the same direction it speaks for itself.
Metz hoped so, because if he was right there'd be no courtroom confession. Not from a dead criminal, as dead as the lobster which presently arrived before him on an oval platter.
The lobster was dead because it had been in hot water. Ben Rupert had been in hot water too. And when it came to a boil-
"No, thanks." Metz waved aside the waiter's offer of a bib, then went to work with knife and fork. He took the lobster apart slowly and carefully, just as slowly and carefully as he'd put together the notes gathered today. His people had done a good job following instructions; there'd be follow-ups later but even without additional input the case was clear.
Cases, rather. That's what made it tricky, the way embezzlement evolved into homicide.
There was no doubt about the embezzlement angle; Rupert had been ripping off Ed Holmes for years. The IRS investigation would furnish exact details, but what interested Metz even more were the facts and figures his team turned up downtown.
Facts. On leaving the bank after his session with the safe-deposit box, Ben Rupert made some stops nearby, just as Metz figured he might. Clerks recognized him from a photograph and came up with the computer data on his transactions that afternoon-one at an American Express branch and at least three savings and loan offices within a two-block stretch. Metz detailed a man to ask around at nearby banks and S&Ls on a hunch, just in case Ben Rupert might have had accounts at other convenient locations and made further withdrawals there. That turned out to be wrong, but what it turned up was right on the money.
At each place Rupert purchased traveler's checks made out to the bearer, checks he could have gotten simply by stepping across the aisle of his own bank. It was a nice try at covering his tracks but anytime someone buys that many checks for that much cash it's bound to be remembered, even if the purchases are spread over four separate institutions.
Figures. The grand total came to $392,000-exactly $98,000 for each buy. Did Rupert deliberately avoid going over the $100,000 mark to avert some kind of special handling for six-figure sales? Or was this the total amount of his cash? Either way, it was a lot to leave lying around in a safe-deposit box instead of drawing interest. But drawing interest would have meant drawing attention, and figures like these supported the facts. So much for embezzlement.
Metz dipped a chunk of lobster meat into the butter sauce; it tasted great but he knew he'd pay a price for his pleasure tomorrow.
Tomorrow. That had to be an important word in Ben Rupert's vocabulary. Sweating over all that creative bookkeeping for so many years must have been a constant cliff-hanger, enough to drive anyone to drink. It was the promise of tomorrow that had kept him going, or kept him staying until he'd cleaned out Ed Holmes's assets.
From what Rupert's secretary said, he was already planning on retirement. Maybe he intended to leave the country when he did so, but under normal circumstances there'd be no point risking suspicion by making such a quick exit.
