Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

Douse looked at him as if introspection were a felony, then shook his head in a delayed show of sympathy.

I said, “Has the search been called off?”

Anger nodded. “Cliff said they stopped looking a few hours ago. He’s convinced she’s at the bottom of that dam.”

“He’s also convinced she put herself there,” I said.

Anger looked uncomfortable.

Douse said, “I’ve suggested to Mr. Chickering that any further theorizing should be backed up with fact.” Lifting his chin, he ran a finger around the interior of his shirt collar.

Anger said, “Damned accident is what it was, that’s obvious. She shouldn’t have been out there driving in the first place.”

I said, “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’m going to see Melissa.”

“Give her our condolences, Doctor,” said Anger. “If she’d like us to come up, we will. If not, we’ll be available whenever she’s ready to tackle the transition- just let us know.”

“What transition is that?”

“Transfer of status,” said Douse. “There’s never a good time for it, but it needs to be done as quickly as possible. Routine procedures, paperwork. The government giving itself something to do. Everything’s got to be followed to the letter or Uncle Sam gets his dander up.”

Anger said, “She’s too young to deal with it. The sooner we get everything squared away, the better.”

“Too young to deal with paperwork?” I said.

“Too young to deal with the mechanics, ” said Anger. “The burden of management.”

“She should be doing other things with her life,” said Douse. “Wouldn’t you say that- psychologically speaking?”

Feeling as if I’d been beamed down to a Senate subcommittee meeting, I said, “You’re saying she shouldn’t manage her own money.”

Silence dropped like a theater curtain.

“It’s complicated,” said Douse. “Lots of inane regulations.”

“Because of the size of the estate?”

Anger pursed his lips and busied himself with a jumpy-eyed appraisal of the Old Masters on the walls.

Douse said, “Unless it can be shown to me that you’ll have an extended role in the matter, I’m not able to go into details with you, Doctor. But speaking generally, let me say this: Without concrete proof of an actual act of decession, it will take substantial time to establish the validity of the heir’s tenancy and rights and subsequent transfer of ownership of those rights and the concomitant property.”

He stopped and watched me. When I didn’t move, he went on: “When I say substantial time, I mean just that. What we’re dealing with, here, is multiple jurisdictions. Everything from local up to federal- because of the dynamics of the tax code. And that’s just in terms of basic transfer. It doesn’t even start to consider the whole issue of guardianship- guarding her rights. There are matters of proxy ownership, various fine points of estate law. And, of course, the IRS always steps in and tries to plunder whatever it can, though with the trusts that have been established, we’re on solid ground regarding that can of worms.”

“Guardianship?” I said. “Melissa’s reached her majority- why would she need a guardian?”

Anger looked at Douse. Douse looked back at him.

Ocular tennis match. The ball finally landed in the banker’s court.

“Majority,” he said, “is one thing. Competence is another.”

“You’re suggesting Melissa’s incompetent to run her own affairs?”

Anger returned his attention to the paintings.

“ “Affairs,’ ” said Douse, “doesn’t even begin to describe it.” He swept an arm around the room. “How many eighteen-year-olds would be competent to manage something of this magnitude? I know mine sure wouldn’t.”

“Mine neither,” said Anger. “Add to that the emotional stress. The family history.” He turned to me. “You’d have a good handle on that.”

It sounded like an invitation. I didn’t RSVP.

Douse touched his bald head. “From where I’m sitting,” he said, “both as her attorney and as a parent, my educated judgment is that her resources would be put to optimal use just trying to grow up. God knows it’s going to be hard enough, considering.”

“That’s for sure,” said Anger. “I’ve got four at home, Doctor. All teens or tweens- we’re going through the wringer. Major-league hormone alert. Give an adolescent lots of money, might as well hand them a loaded gun.”

“Do you have kids of your own, Doctor?” said Douse.

“No,” I said.

Both of them gave knowing smiles.

“Well,” said Douse, playing with a jacket button, “as I said, that’s about all I’m free to divulge, barring an extended role for you.”

“What kind of role?”

“Should you choose to commit yourself to an extended course of psychological consultation- coordinating the management of Melissa’s emotional affairs in sync with Glenn’s and my stewardship of the financial aspects of her life, I’d be sure to see that your views were considered at all critical junctures. And well compensated.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’d like me to help you certify Melissa psychologically incapable of handling her own affairs so that a guardian can be appointed to manage her money.”

Anger winced.

“Wrong,” said Douse. “We don’t want anything. Our welfare isn’t what’s at stake here- we’re only thinking of hers. As longtime friends of the family, and as parents and professional managers. And we’re in no way attempting to influence your judgment or opinion. This conversation- which I might remind you originated spontaneously- simply reflects a discussion of issues that have acquired a certain sense of urgency due to unforeseen events. Plainly put, Doctor, we need to square things away damned quickly.”

“One thing you should be clear on, Doctor,” said Anger, “is that the money’s not Melissa’s yet. Not in a legal sense. She’d have a heck of a time getting hold of it before the process completes itself. And as Jim said, the wheels of bureaucracy grind slowly. The process will take a long time- months. Or even longer. In the meantime, her needs have to be met- the running of this household, salaries, repairs. Not to mention marshaling investments through a web of regulations. Things need to progress smoothly. As far as I can see, a guardian’s clearly the best way to go.”

“Who’d be the guardian? Don Ramp?”

Douse cleared his throat and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “That would contravene the spirit, if not the letter, of Arthur Dickinson’s will.”

“Who, then?”

More dead air. Footsteps thumped somewhere in the big house. A vacuum whined. The phone rang once.

“My firm,” said Douse, “has been of long service to this family. There’s a certain logic to seeing that continue.”

I said nothing. He unbuttoned his jacket, pulled out a small crocodile case, removed a white business card, and gave it to me gravely, as if it were something of value.

J. MADISON DOUSE, JR.

ATTORNEY AT LAW

WRESTING, DOUSE, AND COSNER

820 S. FLOWER STREET

LOS ANGELES, CA 90017

Douse said, “The founding partner was Chief Justice Douse.”

Leaving out the “my uncle” part. Confusing conspicuous discretion with class.

Anger blew it by saying, “Jim’s uncle.”

Douse cleared his throat without opening his mouth. The end result was a deep, bullish snort.

Anger hastened to repair: “The Douse and Dickinson families have been bonded by many years of implicit trust and goodwill. Arthur entrusted his affairs to Jim’s dad, back in the days when those affairs were even more complex than they are now. It’s in your patient’s best interests that she be taken care of by the best, Doctor.”