Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

Anger rubbed his jaw and typed a line. The computer made digestive noises. He rubbed his jaw again and I noticed that the skin along his mandible was slightly irritated. He’d shaved before coming over.

“Here,” he said as the screen flashed amber. “Last year’s federal and state taxes amounted to just under a million dollars.”

“That leaves about two-and-a-half to four million to play with.”

“Approximately.”

“Where does it go?”

“We reinvest it.”

“Stocks and bonds?”

Anger nodded.

“Does Mrs. Ramp take any cash out for herself?”

“Her personal allowance is ten thousand dollars per month.”

“Allowance?”

“Arthur set it up that way.”

“Is she allowed to take more?”

“The money’s hers, Mr. Sturgis. She can take whatever she wants.”

“Does she?”

“Does she what?”

“Take more than ten.”

“No.”

“What about Melissa’s expenses?”

“Those are covered by a separate trust fund.”

“So we’re talking a hundred twenty thousand a year for how many years?”

“Since Arthur died.”

I said, “He died just before Melissa was born. That makes it a little over eighteen years.”

“Eighteen times twelve is what,” said Milo. “Around two hundred months…”

“Two sixteen,” said Anger reflexively.

“Times ten thou is over two million dollars. If Mrs. Ramp put it in another bank and earned interest, it could have doubled, right?”

“There’d be no reason for her to do that,” said Anger.

“Where is it, then?”

“What makes you think it’s anywhere, Mr. Sturgis? She probably spent it- on personal items.”

“Two million plus worth of personal items?”

“I assure you, Mr. Sturgis, that ten thousand dollars a month for a woman of her standing is hardly worth considering.”

Milo said, “Guess you’re right.”

Anger smiled. “It’s easy to be staggered by the idea of all those zeroes. But believe me, that kind of money is inconsequential and it goes fast. I have clients who spend more on a single fur coat. Now is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Ramp share any accounts?”

“No.”

“Mr. Ramp do his banking here, too?”

“Yes, but I’d prefer you talk to him directly about his finances.”

“Sure,” said Milo. “Now how about those credit-card numbers?”

Anger’s fingers danced across the keyboard. Machine-burp. Flash. “There are three cards. American Express, Visa, and MasterCard.” He pointed. “These are the numbers. Below each are the credit allowances and purchase totals for the current fiscal year.”

“This all of it?” said Milo, writing.

“Yes, it is, Mr. Sturgis.”

Milo copied. “Between all three, she’s got around a fifty-thousand monthly credit line.”

“Forty-eight thousand five hundred and fifty-five.”

“No purchases on the American Express- not much on any of them. Looks like she doesn’t buy much.”

“No need to,” said Anger. “We take care of everything.”

“Kind of like being a kid,” said Milo.

“Beg pardon?”

“The way she lives. Like being a little kid. Getting an allowance, having all her needs taken care of, no fuss, no muss.”

Anger’s hand clawed above the keyboard. “I’m sure it’s amusing to ridicule the rich, Mr. Sturgis, but I’ve noticed you’re not immune to material amusements.”

“That so?”

“Your Porsche. You chose it because of what it means to you.”

“Oh, that,” said Milo, rising. “That’s borrowed. My regular transportation’s much less meaningful.”

“Really,” said Anger.

Milo looked at me. “Tell him.”

“He drives a moped,” I said. “Better for stakeouts.”

“Except when it rains,” said Milo. “Then I take an umbrella.”

Back in the Porsche, he said, “Looks like little Melissa may have been wrong about Stepdaddy’s intentions.”

“True love?” I said. “Yet they don’t sleep together.”

Shrug. “Maybe Ramp loves her for the purity of her soul.”

“Or maybe he intends one day to contest the prenuptial.”

“What a suspicious guy,” he said. “In the meantime, there’s all that allowance money to wonder about.”

“Two million?” I said. “Chump change. Don’t get staggered by a few zeroes, Mr. Sturgis.”

“Heaven forfend.”

He got back on Cathcart, drove slowly. “Thing is, he’s got a point. Her kind of income, a hundred twenty a year, could seem like petty cash. If she spent it. But after being up in her room, I don’t see where it went. Books and magazines and a home gym don’t add up to a hundred twenty gees a year- hell, she didn’t even have a VCR. There’s the therapy, but that’s only for the last year. Unless she’s got some secret charity, eighteen years’ worth of unspent allowance would have accumulated to something pretty tidy. By anyone’s standards. Maybe I should have checked her mattress.”

“Could be that’s where the money for the Cassatt came from- both Cassatts.”

“Possible,” he said. “But that still leaves plenty. If she did deposit it in another bank, we’d be hard-pressed to find it any time soon.”

“How could she deal with another bank without leaving the house?”

“That kind of money at stake, plenty of banks would come to her.”

“Neither Ramp nor Melissa mentioned any visits from bankers.”

“True,” he said. “So maybe she just stashed it. For a rainy day. And maybe the rainy day came and she’s got it clutched in her hot little hand right now.”

I thought about that.

He said, “What?”

“Rich lady hauling megabucks in a Rolls. It spells victim.”

He nodded. “In a hundred goddam languages.”

We drove back to Sussex Knoll to get my car. The gates were closed but two floodlights above them had been switched on. Welcome Home lights. A stretch at optimism that seemed pitiful in the stillness of the early morning hours.

I said, “Forget the car. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

Without a word, Milo turned around and headed back toward Cathcart, putting on speed and handling the Porsche better than I’d ever seen. We sped west onto California, made the transition to Arroyo Seco in what seemed like seconds. Then the freeway, barren and dark and wind-lashed.

But Milo kept searching anyway, turning his head from side to side, checking the rearview. Waiting until we’d hit the downtown interchange before cranking the volume up on the scanner and listening to the hurts people were choosing to inflict on one another as a new day began.

When I got home I was still wound up. I went down to the pond and found clusters of spawn clinging bravely to some of the plants at the edge of the water. Heartened, I climbed back up to the house and wrote. Made myself drowsy in fifteen minutes and barely got my clothes off before tumbling into bed.

I awoke at six-forty A.M. Friday and called Melissa an hour later.

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed it was me. “I already talked to Mr. Sturgis. Nothing new.”

“Sorry.”

“I did exactly as he said, Dr. Delaware. Called every airline at every airport- even San Francisco and San Jose, which he didn’t mention. Because she could have headed north, right? Then I phoned every hotel and motel I could find in the Yellow Pages, but no one had any record of her checking in. I think he’s starting to realize it might be serious.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because he agreed to talk to McCloskey.”

“I see.”