T. Parker - Cold Pursuit

They were still in Imperial Beach when McMichael's cell phone rang.

"Mark and I walked the beach outside Pete's house about an hour ago," said Barbara Givens. "The rain let up for just a minute and we got some decent light. I found a pair of latex gloves and a bloody warm-up jacket stuffed down in a city trash can. About thirty yards from Pete's wall, maybe ten yards shy of the high-water line. They were both jammed down so far the rain didn't really get to them. They've got blood and God knows what else on them. This might be our break, Tom."

"What color on the jacket?"

"Black."

"Nice work, Barbara."

McMichael gave her the Notary information and rang off.

"Bloody latex gloves in the sand by Pete's wall," he said. "Wrapped in a black warm-up jacket."

Hector shook his head. "I still think the nurse had something to do with it. A partner, a boyfriend, something. Maybe that dirtbag with the chick lips and the dreamy eyes."

"Why kill the old man if he's giving her all that cool stuff?"

"Maybe she got herself into his will. Maybe she wants the really cool stuff. Like a house at the beach."

The law firm of Grothke, Steiner & Grothke had floors nine and ten of the Bay Tower downtown. The detectives rode up in a glass elevator and McMichael watched the rain pour onto the massive aircraft carriers in the harbor. The waterfront was almost deserted now- the tour boats battened down and the tourists driven to shelter by the rain. Scattered car lights eased along the graceful bend of the Coronado Bridge.

Paz talked to the receptionist while McMichael looked past her desk to the suites beyond. Old Grothke, dapper in a vested brown suit, waved at him with a pale hand. McMichael nodded and smiled, surprised that Henry Grothke remembered him. They'd met at a San Diego Symphony fund-raiser five years ago, music being one of Stephanie's interests until the life of a cop's wife wore the melodies right out of her.

Old Grothke motioned McMichael toward him and the receptionist buzzed him through with an air of annoyance. Hector tried to smooth her over, mentioning her earrings and something about his birthstone. Her desk plate said Sharona Saddler.

"My fiancé likes them, too. Mr. Grothke Junior's suite is down the hall and to your right, please."

The old man had rolled his wheelchair to the doorway. His hair was downy and white as pillow stuffing. His eyes were blue. A red blanket lay folded over his legs.

"Welcome, welcome," he said.

McMichael bent to shake his hand, which was featherlight and warm. "I'm Detective McMichael. How do you do, sir?"

"Very well. I remember you from somewhere."

"The symphony, at Copley Hall. Are you still going?"

Old Grothke pursed his mouth and frowned. "We saw some wonderful chamber music not long ago. It was… oh, well, I'm not exactly sure when."

"That doesn't really matter," said McMichael, looking into Henry Grothke's clear blue eyes.

"There are always vultures in the ice cream," said the lawyer. "You think you know someone and look what happens."

McMichael was formulating a reply.

"Down the hall and to your right," said the receptionist, looking sharply at Old Grothke.

"I'm sure they heard you, Sharona," he said.

"This way, gentlemen," called a sleek man from down the hall. "Dad'll get you talking and send you a bill."

"I'm in the wrong business," said Hector.

"Down the hall, please," said Sharona.

Henry Grothke Jr., arms welcoming and feet together, ushered them into his suite. He was trim, dark-haired and neatly presented, from the cut of his sideburns to the crisp lines of his white shirt. A bashful chin. No ring. McMichael made him for fifty, prosperous and pampered.

The receptionist closed the door behind them and Henry apologized for his father. "Sorry. Dad gets pretty talkative sometimes. He doesn't really need to come in every day, but he likes the human contact."

"Or the receptionist," said Hector.

"We've gone through several." Grothke smiled quickly, then looked down. "I was saddened by what happened to Pete. Just awful in every way. Are you making progress toward an arrest?"

"In fact, we are," said McMichael.

The attorney waited, then sighed. "I know you're interested in Pete Braga's will, so I pulled a copy and read through it. It's a straightforward document, really, and I'm happy to answer any questions about it."

Henry said that Pete Braga's estate was worth a little over twelve million dollars, mostly in real estate and blue-chip stocks. Approximately three million in real estate- homes in Rancho Santa Fe and Mammoth- was in charitable remaindered trusts and would now, with Pete's death, come under control of San Diego 's Catholic diocese. Two more homes- in Palm Springs and Mendocino- were also part of charitable trusts, and would now revert to control of the American Tunaboat Foundation, on whose board of directors Pete sat for about four decades. These homes were worth about one million dollars each.

"Typically the trustees will sell the properties to realize cash values more applicable to their needs," said Grothke. "Although, should the San Diego diocese wish to use the home in Mammoth, say, they might choose to hold on to it."

"But up until he died," said McMichael, "Pete was free to use those properties whenever he wanted?"

"And however he wanted. Essentially, he gave the homes to the church and the association, but retained title until his death. And of course he realized some handsome monthly lease revenue from those institutions, and enjoyed a huge reduction in his tax liabilities. It's a very standard arrangement."

"For really rich guys," said Hector.

"Even moderately wealthy individuals can-"

"What about his family," said Hector. "Who gets what?"

Grothke cleared his throat and spread his hands equidistantly upon the desktop. "Mr. Braga has three living children, six grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren. One-half of the remainder of his estate- exclusive of the trusts already mentioned- will be divided evenly between two of his children. That comes to roughly one point seven five million per. The other half will be evenly divided by three of the grandchildren, or approximately one point one million for each. The eight great-grandchildren will receive fifty thousand each. None of Mr. Braga's descendants has shown a desire to take over Pete Braga Ford, except for Patricia, who is only… minimally interested in running a car dealership. Her brother, James Braga, lives in Texas and is not interested in the car business. The franchise of course can be sold. And divided as I just explained."

"What are the terms and conditions?" asked Hector.

"None to speak of. Very straightforward, as I said."

"I'd like the names and telephone numbers of the heirs," said McMichael. "And of the ones he cut out."

Grothke looked at McMichael with a repelled expression. "Normally I wouldn't do that, but I talked to Patricia, who is, practically speaking, the executor here. Patricia told me to cooperate with you in every legal way I can. Mr. Braga's daughter, Elizabeth DeCerra, lives out of state. Son Carl has been disinherited. Son Rex- Patricia's father- died along with his wife, Corrinna, in an automobile accident in nineteen ninety-three. And as you know, Mr. Braga's eldest son, Victor, is not mentally competent to execute a will or much of anything else. Because of his boyhood tragedy."

McMichael bore the accusatory tone with an even stare. He'd been hearing similar versions of it all his life. Victor Braga's beating behind the Waterfront bar fifty years ago was commonly held to be the doing of Gabriel McMichael. Done as payback for his father, Franklin, shot in alleged self-defense by Pete aboard the Cabrillo Star a year earlier. Both Victor and Gabriel were just boys then- thirteen. The beating had permanently left Victor with the mental capacity of a ten-year-old. And left Gabriel to maintain his innocence in a world of open hate and secret reverence.