Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

“The car started out on the West Coast.”

“Yup. Walter Asherwood held on to it until ’43, when he transferred ownership to James Asherwood, M.D. Nothing else in the log fits, so it’s either this one or your person didn’t see a real SJ.”

“Where did the Asherwoods live?”

“Can’t give you the address because for all I know family members are still living there and we respect privacy.”

“Can you give me a general vicinity?”

“L.A.”

“Pasadena?”

“You can fish but I won’t bite,” said Zeiman. “You’ve got a name, that should be sufficient.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Can you tell me who owns the car, now?”

“One of our members.”

“Did he or she buy it from Dr. Asherwood?”

“There’s a complete chain of ownership but that’s all I can say. Why do you need the current owner, anyway?”

“We’re trying to trace a dead baby’s mother.”

“What?”

“The car was seen parked in the driveway of a house where an infant was buried decades ago. The bones were just dug up.”

“Dead baby?” said Zeiman. “So we’re talking murder.”

“That’s not clear.”

“I don’t get it, either it’s murder or it’s not.”

I said, “Depends on cause of death.”

“Hold on,” he said. “My wife mentioned something about that, she’d heard it on the news. Made her cry. Okay, I’ll make some calls.”

“Thanks for all the help.”

“Most interesting request I’ve had since two months ago.”

“What happened two months ago?”

“Shifty Mideastern type walks into my shop, flashing cash, wants me to build a Frankencar out of retools that he can sell as genuine to a sucker in Dubai. I said no thanks, phoned the Huntington Beach cops, they told me intent’s no felony, until a crime was committed there’s nothing they can do. That felt wrong to me so I tried the FBI, they didn’t even return my call. At least you do your job. So I’ll help you.”

It took just over an hour to hear back from Zeiman. By then I’d made progress on my own.

A search of 38 duesenberg dual cowl phaeton murphy body had produced three possibilities. The first was a “barn find” up for auction in Monterey. The once-sleek masterpiece had been the victim of a 1972 engine fire during careless storage in Greenwich, Connecticut. Hobbled by engine rot, char scars, metastatic rust, and a broken axle, it was deemed “ripe for restoration to show condition” and estimated to fetch between six and eight hundred thousand dollars. The auction company’s catalog presented a history that included a California stint, up north, under the stewardship of a Mrs. Helen Bracken of Hillsborough. But subsequent owners included neither Walter nor James Asherwood and the original color, still in evidence through the blemishes, was claret over scarlet.

Candidate number two, a black beauty, due to go on the block in Amelia Island, Florida, had accumulated a slew of awards during a pampered life. Five owners: New York, Toronto, Savannah, Miami, Fishers Island.

Bingo came in the form of a car that had taken first place at the Pebble Beach Concourse d’Elegance ten years ago, a gleaming behemoth benefiting from a six-year frame-off restoration by Andrew O. Zeiman.

Program notes from the award ceremony noted that care had been taken to replicate the car’s original cerulean/azure paint job as well as the “precise hue of its robin’s egg blue convertible roof, now replaced with modern but period-reminiscent materials.”

The proud owners were Mr. and Mrs. F. Walker Monahan, Beverly Hills, California. A winners’ circle photo showed them to be mid-sixtyish, immaculately turned out, flanked by a burly, white-bearded man. Andrew Zeiman was clad, as was Mr. Monahan, in a straw Borsalino, a navy blazer, pressed khakis, conservative school tie.

I had my eyes on Zeiman’s photograph when the phone rang. “It’s Andy again.” Low-tech Skype. “You must be one of those fortunate sons, maybe we should hit the blackjack tables.”

“The case resolves, I might just take you up on that.”

“The current owners agreed to talk to you. They’re good people.”

“Do they remember the Asherwoods?”

“Talk to them,” said Zeiman.

Researching the person you’re trying to influence is a handy tool when peddling gewgaws, pushing con games, and practicing psychotherapy.

The same goes for witness interviews; before reaching out to the F. Walker Monahans of Beverly Hills, I searched their names on the Web.

Mister sat on the board of two banks and Missus, a woman named Grace, occupied similar positions at the Getty, the Huntington, and the volunteer committee of Western Pediatric Medical Center.

The hospital affiliation made me wonder if she’d be the link to Dr. James Asherwood.

A search of his name pulled up nothing but a twelve-year-old Times obituary.

Dr. James Walter Asherwood had passed away of natural causes at his home in La Canada-Flintridge, age eighty-nine. That placed him at forty or so during the period Ellie Green had lived at the house in Cheviot Hills. Easily feasible age for a relationship. For unwanted fatherhood.

Asherwood’s bio was brief. Trained at Stanford as an obstetrician-gynecologist, he’d “retired from medicine to pursue the life of a sportsman and financier.”

The Times hasn’t run social pages in a while and being rich and wellborn no longer entitles you to an obit. At first glance, nothing in Asherwood’s life seemed to justify the paper’s attention, but his death was the hook: “A lifelong bachelor, Asherwood had long voiced intentions to bequeath his entire estate to charity. That promise has been kept.”

The final paragraph listed beneficiaries of Asherwood’s generosity, including several inner-city public schools to which Asherwood had bequeathed a hangarful of vintage automobiles. Western Peds was listed midway through the roster, but unlike the cancer society, Save the Bay, and the graduate nursing program at the old school across town, the hospital wasn’t singled out for special largesse.

Fondness for the nursing school because he remembered one particular RN?

Had ob-gyn skills meant detour to a career as an illegal abortionist? Did dropping out of medicine imply guilt? A legal concession as part of a plea deal?

Lifelong bachelor didn’t mean loveless. Or childless.

Doctor to financier. Moving big money around could mean the ability to purchase just about anything, including that most precious of commodities, silence.

No sense wondering. I called the F. Walker Monahans.

A beautifully inflected female voice said, “Good evening, Doctor, this is Grace. Andy told us you’d be phoning.”

No curiosity about a psychologist asking questions on behalf of the police. “Thanks for speaking with me, Mrs. Monahan.”

“Of course we’ll speak with you.” As if a failure to cooperate would’ve been unpatriotic. “When would you care to drop by?”

“We can chat over the phone.”

“About cars?” Her laugh was soft, feline, oddly soothing.

“About a car once owned by Dr. James Asherwood.”

“Ah, Blue Belle,” she said. “You do know that we’ve sold her.”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, yes, a month ago, she’ll be shipped in a few weeks. Immediately after Pebble Beach we were besieged with offers but refused. Years later, we’re finally ready. Not without ambivalence, but it’s time to let someone else enjoy her.”

“Where’s she going?”

“To Texas, a natural gas man, a very fine person we know from the show circuit. He’ll pamper her and drive her with respect, win-win situation for everyone.”