Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“Just a small sum.”

“How small?”

“Fifty thousand dollars. Let me qualify that by saying those are the facts as I know them today. The family attorneys are Wresting, Douse, and Cosner downtown. They may have drafted new papers, though I doubt it. Generally I’m kept well informed of any changes- we do the family’s accounting, receive copies of all documents.”

“Give me those lawyers’ names again,” said Milo, pen poised.

“Wresting. Douse. And Cosner. They’re a fine old firm- Jim Douse’s great-uncle was J. Harmon Douse, the California Supreme Court justice.”

“Who’s Mrs. Ramp’s personal lawyer?”

“Jim Junior- Jim Douse’s son. James Madison Douse, Junior.”

Milo copied it down. “Got his number handy?”

Anger recited seven numbers.

“Okay,” said Milo. “The fifty thousand that goes to Ramp- that the result of a prenuptial agreement?”

Anger nodded. “The agreement states- to the best of my recollection- that Don forfeits claim to any part of Gina’s estate beyond a single cash payment of fifty thousand dollars. Very simple- shortest one I’ve ever seen.”

“Whose idea was it?”

“Arthur Dickinson’s essentially- Gina’s first husband.”

“Voice from the grave?”

Anger shifted in his chair and gave a look of distaste. “Arthur wanted Gina well taken care of. He was acutely aware of the difference in their ages. And her fragility. He specified in his will that no subsequent husband be eligible to inherit.”

“Is that legal?”

“You’d have to consult an attorney on that, Mr. Sturgis. Don certainly showed no desire to challenge it. Then, or since. I was present when the agreement was signed. Notarized it personally. Don was totally amenable. More than that- enthusiastic. Stated his willingness to forgo even the fifty thousand. It was Gina who insisted on sticking to the letter of Arthur’s will.”

“Why’s that?”

“The man is her husband.”

“Then why didn’t she try to give him more?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Sturgis. You’d have to ask-” Self-conscious smile. “Yes, well, I can only guess, but I suppose she was a bit embarrassed- this was a week before the wedding. Most people don’t like dealing with financial matters at a time like that. Don reassured her it was irrelevant to him.”

“Sounds like he didn’t marry her for her money.”

Anger gave a cold look. “Apparently not, Mr. Sturgis.”

“Any idea why he did marry her?”

“I assume he loved her, Mr. Sturgis.”

“They pretty happy together, far as you know?”

Anger sat back and folded his hands across his chest. “Investigating your own client, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Trying to fill in the picture.”

“Art was never my strong suit, Mr. Sturgis.”

Milo looked at the trophies and said, “Would it help if I phrased it in sports terms?”

“Not one bit, I’m afraid.”

Milo smiled and scribbled. “Okay, back to basics. Melissa’s the sole heir.”

“That’s correct.”

“Who inherits the estate if Melissa dies?”

“I believe her mother does, but we’re really getting out of my field of expertise.”

“Okay, let’s move back into it. What’s inherited? How big of an estate are we talking about?”

Anger hesitated. A banker’s prudishness. Then: “About forty million. Give or take. All of it in highly conservative investments.”

“Such as?”

“State of California tax-free municipal bonds rated double-A or above, blue-chip stocks and corporate bonds, treasury bills, some holdings in the secondary and tertiary mortgage markets. Nothing speculative.”

“How much yearly income does she get from all that?”

“Three and a half to five million, depending on yields.”

“All interest?”

Anger nodded. Talking figures had drawn him forward and relaxed his posture. “There’s nothing else coming in. Arthur did some architecture and development early on, but most of what he accumulated was the result of royalties on the Dickinson strut- it’s a process he invented, something to do with strengthening metal. He sold all rights to it just before he died, which is just as well- there’ve been newer techniques that have superseded it.”

“Why’d he sell?”

“He’d just retired, wanted to devote all his time to Gina- to her medical problems. You’re aware of her history- the attack?”

Milo nodded. “Any idea why she was attacked?”

That startled Anger. “I was at college when it happened- read about it in the papers.”

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

Anger said, “What exactly was your question?”

“The motive behind the attack.”

“I have no idea.”

“Any local theories you’re aware of?”

“I don’t engage in gossip.”

“I’m sure you don’t, Mr. Anger, but if you did, is there something you would have heard?”

“Mr. Sturgis,” said Anger, “you need to understand that Gina’s been out of circulation for a long time. She’s not a topic of local gossip.”

“What about at the time of the attack? Or shortly after, when she moved to San Labrador. Any gossip then?”

“From what I recall,” said Anger, “the consensus was that he was out of his mind- the maniac who did it. Does a madman need a motive?”

“Guess not.” Milo scanned his notes. “Those highly conservative investments you mentioned. They also Dickinson’s idea?”

“Absolutely. The rules of investment are spelled out in the will. Arthur was a very cautious man- collecting art was his only extravagance. He would have bought his clothes off the rack if he could.”

Milo said, “Think he was too conservative?”

“One doesn’t judge,” said Anger. “With what he’d put together from the strut royalties, he could have invested in real estate and parlayed it into a really sizable estate- two or three hundred million. But he insisted on security, no risks, and we did as told. Continue to do so.”

“You’ve been his banker since the beginning?”

“Fiduciary has. My father founded the bank. He worked directly with Arthur.”

Anger’s face creased. Sharing credit with reluctance. No portraits of The Founder in here. None out in the main room of the bank, either.

None of Arthur Dickinson in the house he’d built. I wondered why.

Milo said, “You pay all her bills?”

“Everything except small cash purchases- minor household expenditures.”

“How much do you pay out each month?”

“One moment,” said Anger, swiveling to face the computer. He turned on the machine, waited until it had booted up and beeped a welcome, then hunted and pecked, waited, typed some more, and sat forward as the screen was filled with letters.

“Here we go- last month’s bills totaled thirty-two thousand two hundred fifty-eight and thirty-nine cents. The month before that, a little over thirty- that’s about typical.”

Milo got up, walked behind the desk, and looked at the screen. Anger began to shield it with his hand, protecting his data like a Goody Two-Shoes kid guarding an exam. But Milo was looming over him, already copying, and the banker let his hand drop.

“As you can see,” he said, “the family lives comparatively simply. Most of the budget goes to cover staff salaries, basic maintenance on the house, insurance premiums.”

“No mortgages?”

“None. Arthur bought the beach house for cash and lived there while he built the main house.”

“What about taxes?”

“They’re paid out of a separate account. If you insist I’ll call up the file, but you’ll learn nothing from it.”

“Humor me,” said Milo.