Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

“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.”