Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

He got up, rubbed his hand over his face, and paced the kitchen.

“I drove up to her house this morning, wanted to talk to her neighbors, see if any of them had made the call. I even figured out who lived across the canyon and visited them to see if they’d seen anything, heard anything, maybe a peeper with a telescope. Zilch. Two of the four houses in hercul-de-sac were unoccupied- owners out of town. The third’s owned by this free-lance artist, old gal who does children’s books, shut-in, bad arthritis. She wanted to help. Problem is, from her place you can’t see what’s going on in Ransom’s- just the driveway. No good view from any of them, matter of fact.”

“Party pad architecture,” I said.

“Hmm,” he said. “Anyway, from her garden, the artist could see some comings and goings. Occasional visitors- women and men, including Rasmussen- in and out after about an hour’s time.”

“Patients.”

“That’s what she assumed. But all that stopped about half a year ago.”

“The same time she was caught sleeping with her patients.”

“Maybe she decided to retire. Except for Rasmussen- she held on to him. He kept coming, not often, but up until a month ago, the artist remembered seeing the green truck. She also described a guy who sounded like Kruse- he stayed longer, several hours at a time, but she only saw him once or twice. Which doesn’t mean much. She can’t get around too well- it might have been more often. Other interesting thing is that a photo of Trapp didn’t register. Which means he probably wasn’t one of Ransom’s boyfriends. And if the bastard was investigating the case, he never bothered to talk to the next-door neighbor- didn’t even do the basics. Sum total: Slimeball’s involved in the cover-up. And I’m off the case. Goddammit, Alex, it makes my adrenals hurt.”

“There are other question marks,” I said. “Your scenario’s based on some kind of hostility between Sharon and Kruse. She was having problems- she told me so at the party. But nothing indicates they were with Kruse. At the time of her death she was still registered as his assistant. She showed up at a party to honor him, Milo. I did see her arguing with that older guy I told you about. But I have no idea who he is.”

“What else?” he said.

“There’s lots of other factors to consider: Belding, Linda Lanier, the blackmailed doctor, whoever he is. And Shirlee, the missing twin- I called Olivia Brickerman, tried to get into the Medi-Cal files. The computer was down. I’m hoping for something soon.”

“Why’re you still pushing that? Even if you find her, you won’t be able to talk to her.”

“Maybe I can find someone who knows her- knew both of them. I don’t believe we’ll ever understand Sharon without knowing more about Shirlee, about the relationship between the two of them. Sharon perceived Shirlee as more than a sister- they were psychological partners, halves of a whole. Twins can develop identity problems. Sharon chose that topic- or something like it- for her doctoral dissertation. Ten to one she was writing about herself.”

That gave him pause.

“Air your dirty laundry and get a Ph.D.? That’s considered kosher?”

“Not at all. But she managed to get around lots of things.”

“Well,” he said, “you go ahead, look for your twin. Just don’t expect too much.”

“What about you?” I said.

“I’ve got another day and a half left before Trapp locks me into some new plum assignment. Seeing as we’re dealing with thirty-five-year-old stuff, there comes to mind someone who might be able to educate us. Someone who was around in those days. Problem is he’s unpredictable, and we’re not exactly good buddies.”

He got up, slapped his thigh. “What the hell, I’ll give it a try, call you tomorrow morning. Meantime, keep reading those books and magazines. Uncle Milo will be giving you a pop quiz when you least expect it.”

I spent the rest of the day getting a master’s degree in Leland Belding, starting where I’d left off- the demise of the Senate hearings.

Immediately following his reprimand, the billionaire threw himself into the movie business, renaming his studio Magnafilm, scripting, directing, and producing a string of combat sagas featuring rugged individualist heroes who bucked the establishment and emerged victorious. All were panned by the critics as mechanical and bland. Audiences stayed away.

In 1949 he purchased a Hollywood trade paper, fired the film critic, and installed his own yes man. Bought a string of movie houses and filled them with his product. More losses. In 1950 he went into deeper seclusion than ever and I found only one reference covering the next two years: Magna’s patent application for an aluminum-reinforced girdle that suppressed bulges but heightened jiggle. The device, developed for an actress with a tendency to corpulence, was marketed as the Magna-Corsair. American women didn’t go for it.

In late 1952 he emerged, suddenly a new man- a public Leland Belding, attending premieres and parties, squiring starlets to Ciro’s, Trocadero, the Mocambo. Producing a new string of films- vapid comedies heavy with double entendre.

He moved from his “monastic” apartment at Magna headquarters to an estate in Bel Air. Built himself the world’s most powerful private jet, upholstered in leopard skin and paneled with antique walnut stripped from a centuries-old French chateau that he reduced to rubble.

He bought Old Masters by the truckload, outbid the Vatican for religious treasures plundered from Palestine. Snapped up race horses, jockeys, trainers, an entire racecourse. A baseball team. An entire passenger train which he converted to a moving party pad. He acquired a fleet of custom-made cars: Duesies, Cords, Packards, and Rolls-Royces. The world’s three largest diamonds, auction houses full of antique furniture, more casinos in Vegas and Reno, an assortment of domiciles stretching from California to New York.

For the first time in his life he began contributing to charity- hugely, ostentatiously. Endowing hospitals and scientific research institutions, on condition that they be named after him and staffed by him. He threw lavish balls supporting the opera, the ballet, the symphony.

All the while, he was assembling a harem: actresses, heiresses, ballerinas, beauty queens. The most eligible bachelor had finally come into his own.

On the surface, a radical personality shift. But a Vogue writer, reporting on a bash Belding threw for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, described the billionaire as “standing on the sidelines, unsmiling and fidgety, observing the festivities rather than participating in them. He looked, to these admittedly cynical eyes, like a little lost boy locked in a room full of candy- so much candy that he’s lost his appetite for sweets.”

Given all the partying, I expected to find something about William Houck Vidal. But there was nothing, not even a snapshot, to suggest that the former “management consultant” had participated in the metamorphosis of his boss. The sole mention of Vidal during the early fifties was a quote in a business journal regarding early development of a new fighter bomber. A quote attributed to “W. Houck Vidal, Senior Vice-President and Head of Operations for Magna.”

One man going from businessman to playboy. The other reversing the process. It was as if Belding and Vidal were perched on a psychic teeter-totter.

Switching identities.

Then, in early ’55, all of it stopped.

Belding canceled a gala for the Cancer Society, dropped completely from sight. Then commenced what one magazine called “the greatest rummage sale in history.” The mansions, cars, jewels, and other trappings of princely consumption were sold- at great profit. Even the movie studio- nicknamed Magnaflop- earned millions in real estate appreciation.