Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

“Nothing gruesome, Ms. Sylvester. With certain cases, we try to be extra thorough.”

“What constitutes ‘certain’?”

“No obvious motive. Can you think of one?”

“I wish I could.” She motioned us inside. “I’m glad you’re being thorough, Thalia deserves your best effort. Not that everyone doesn’t. But she was...” Her voice caught. “No, I can’t think of a motive. What kind of monster would destroy such an amazing person?”

The dimensions of her office made up for the skimpy prelude, an easy six hundred square feet with a wall-of-glass view of a city squirming with activity. A massive carved rosewood desk old enough to be worn at its gilded base spanned a healthy section of the space. A vintage red leather tufted couch looked as if it had come with the desk. A cheap-looking black tweed sofa with three matching chairs didn’t. Same for the round, fake-wood conference table in a corner.

As if the room had been slapped together using valuable hand-me-downs and cheap closeouts.

Two other walls were blank. The one behind the desk sported the expected paper: bachelor’s from Penn, law degree from the U., specialty certificate in trusts and estates. No photos of loved ones, nothing personal on the desk but a file folder thick as a dictionary, an empty drinking glass, and an identical pitcher of jasmine tea that hadn’t been touched.

Ricki Sylvester said, “Either of you want some of this? Jared used to be a barista, I humor him.”

She sat down behind the desk. “I still can’t get over this. Do you have any idea who?”

Milo said, “Not yet, that’s why we’re here.”

“I’ll do anything to help.” She patted the file. “This is a copy of everything I have on Thalia, it’s yours to take.”

“Appreciate it, Ms. Sylvester. How long did you handle Miss Mars’s affairs?”

“For my entire professional life. My grandfather ran an estate and trusts practice and I began working for him right after I passed the bar. My initial contact with Thalia was small assignments — notarizing, drafting forms. When Grandpa died three years later, I inherited the practice. So thirty years ago, if you’re asking when I actually began operating as her attorney. Most of the clients from back then are deceased but Thalia hung on. You do know how old she was.”

“Nearly a hundred.”

Ricki Sylvester shook her head. “The woman seemed immortal. She was never sick, I can’t recall the last time she ran up a medical bill. I remember asking what her secret was. She laughed and said, ‘Stay healthy.’ One time I told her, ‘Thalia, disease lost and you won.’ She said, ‘Lucky roll of the genetic dice.’ ”

“Speaking of which,” said Milo, “what can you tell us about her family?”

“When I took over she hadn’t gotten around to writing a will — Grandfather said he’d suggested it several times but she’d put it off. When I suggested it, she agreed. Maybe because she was already seventy. I inquired about heirs and she said there were none, she had no family at all. When I expressed surprise, she laughed and said, ‘How do you know I was born? Maybe I sprouted like a mushroom.’ ”

Milo said, “What kinds of legal issues have you handled for her?”

“Not much, really. The will, making periodic changes to keep up with the law. She was a CPA so she handled her own taxes back when she was working. By the time I took over, she was retired and her taxes were minimal.”

“Was she involved in any lawsuits?”

“You’re wondering if someone bore a grudge against her? Absolutely not. She’s never sued anyone or been subject to litigation.”

“Going back to your grandfather,” I said, “is there any particular reason a civil servant would need an estate lawyer?”

Ricki Sylvester’s eyes rose and fell. She fooled with her eyeglass chain. “It’s a common misconception, Doctor, that only the extremely wealthy need estate counseling. Anyone with assets to speak of benefits from counsel.”

“They must’ve turned into pretty big assets by now,” said Milo. “How did a retired civil servant come up with eighty-plus thousand a year to live in the Aventura?”

The chain jangled as Ricki Sylvester gave a small start. Her eyes yo-yoed again. “I can understand your confusion but it all boils down to simple math. Read the file.”

She nudged it closer. Milo took it.

“I’ll definitely be reading it, Ricki, but if you don’t mind summarizing?”

“All right, I’ll keep it simple. When I took over from Grandpa, Thalia was already a woman of means, with a net worth just shy of four million dollars. By then, most of her money was in municipal bonds and she was earning over two hundred thousand per year, tax-free. She plowed the bulk of the interest back into munis, making her money work for her. As of this morning, per Joe Manucci, her broker at Morgan-Smith, she was worth a little over eleven million and earning close to half a million a year.”

She smiled. “How did she accomplish that working in the public sector? If you’re thinking dishonestly, guys, think again. Thalia Mars did it the old-fashioned way: rising through the ranks quickly so she earned a respectable salary, living responsibly, and making sound investments over a really long time. It’s like building a quality art collection, people who bought Picassos when he was cheap. Start with good taste and get old.”

Milo said, “What kind of investments?”

“Every penny she didn’t need to live on went into quality stocks and real estate. As an example, she was able to cash in a whole bunch of IBM that had split a gajillion times. Joe Manucci can give you more details but from what I understand most of her equities were the bluest of the blue chips. The shift to munis began around fifty years ago. She sold all her properties, paid her capital gains taxes dutifully, and began a new phase of her life clipping coupons.”

“What kind of properties did she own?”

“Mostly vacant lots and foreclosures. Her position at the assessor and other agencies gave her access to information. Back then, acreage in the Valley and Santa Monica could be had for a song. She held on until she got an offer she liked, then traded up — what we call 10–31’ing, so there was no tax burden or depreciation payment until she cashed out completely. She was no trust-fund tycoon, we’re talking small steps. But it adds up if you live within your means and last nearly a century.”

She put a fingertip to the pitcher, drew a ragged circle in the frost. “If I were still teaching trust law, I’d use her as an object lesson. It’s not what you make, it’s what you keep. That was Grandfather’s philosophy and he passed it along to me.”

She waved a hand. “I practice what I preach. Like this place. I could pay three times as much to be a couple of miles east in Beverly Hills, not to mention an exorbitant monthly for parking. I could lease an ostentatious suite in order to feed my ego, hire staff I don’t need. Who needs the complication? That was Thalia’s forte. She knew how to focus on what was important and she kept things simple.”

Including writing a far-too-generous retainer check.

Milo said, “She seemed to be living pretty stylishly.”

“I’m not saying she was a skinflint. When she wanted something, she bought it. And she appreciated quality. But she never shopped for shopping’s sake. She told me a few years ago, ‘Live long enough and everything becomes vintage.’ She also said, ‘Live long enough and your interests narrow.’ ”

“What interested Thalia?”

She frowned. “I suppose doing what she felt like.”

Milo said, “She had half a million a year coming in, spent a sixth on room and board. Where did the rest go?”