Evidence

CHAPTER 13

Rutger’s Town Car rumbled off, squeaking on bad bearings and belching exhaust.

Milo exhaled. “Well, that was different.”

He phoned in Rutger’s name. Several moving violations, nothing criminal. “Crazy old coot but for all his attachment to this heap, I don’t see him having the stamina to climb those stairs with a weapon, dominate, and double-murder.”

“Agreed,” I said. “And despite his age, he doesn’t sound like our tipster.”

We drove back to the station where he let Doyle Bryczinski simmer in an empty interview room and searched the county assessor for the Borodi property’s previous owners.

Only one: the Lanyard A. Rutger Family Trust, established twenty years previously. The trust had sold the place fourteen years later, the transaction handled by Laurence Rifkin, Esq., of Rifkin, Forward, and Levitsky, Beverly Hills. Their website pegged them as tax and estate lawyers.

Milo said, “Start at the top,” phoned and asked for Rifkin. A mellow baritone came on the line surprisingly quickly. “Larry Rifkin here. Police? What’s going on?”

Milo summed up.

Rifkin chuckled. “I’m not laughing about murder. I’m laughing at theater of the absurd. Good old Charlie.”

“You’ve got a history with him?”

“I can’t believe he’s still claiming he was defrauded. He was the one who pushed the sale in the first place, Lieutenant. On top of being crazy, he must be going senile.”

“So any claim of fraud is groundless.”

“Groundless? It’s insane. Here’s what it boils down to: Lanyard, their father-Charlie’s and Leona’s, that’s Charlie’s sister-made some money in manufacturing and investments but by the time he’d died, he’d lost quite a bit in the market and once debts were settled there wasn’t much estate left. You know the rich, my treasures, your junk? Paintings Charlie thought were priceless turned out to be piddling, same for a bunch of supposedly rare books that weren’t first editions. The only sizable asset was residential real estate: three houses, worth maybe five mil at the time. The place on Borodi was the biggest-ticket item. Lan built it back in the forties, got Paul Williams to design, the place was gorgeous. There’s also a chalet-type weekend place with a dock on Lake Arrowhead, and a three-acre spread in Palm Springs. Lan died ten years ago, made it to ninety-one, but Barbara-his wife-died when she was much younger, so everything went to the kids. Leona’s a doctor, oncologist, lovely lady. Lan was a perceptive man and named her the executor. Technically, that was logical but it accomplished the obvious.”

“Family strife.”

“Charlie strife. We-my dad was still alive, headed the firm-tried to talk Lan out of designating Leona, suggested we should execute. Or Lan could find someone at one of his banks. He wouldn’t hear of it.”

“And Charlie went ballistic.”

“Nuclear. Pitting one sib against the other is always a disaster and these sibs never had much in common to begin with. Not that Leona didn’t try to make nice with Charlie. You won’t meet a more reasonable human being. But Charlie’s another matter, you don’t need to be a psychologist to see why he resents Leona. She’s everything he isn’t: smart, accomplished, happily married, a gem.”

“Charlie never got it together.”

“Charlie has spent nearly seventy years in a dream-state.”

“Delusional?”

“That’s another name for it,” said Rifkin. “I can tell you all this because we don’t represent him and nothing’s confidential. In fact, he became our adversary, has threatened to sue us numerous times.”

“Over what?”

“Over he needs money and thinks Leona will give it to him if he makes enough noise.”

“Who represents him?”

“No one. He files his own paper, thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. Needless to say, he gets wiped out every time.”

“Likes to think he’s a lawyer.”

“And a stockbroker and a financial advisor and a freelance investor, you name it. Prior to the house being sold, he was trying to syndicate the sale of an island off Belize, lost everything he put into it. He’s been married four times, no kids, is basically broke and stuck in a one-bedroom in South Pas. Sad, but it’s his own doing. Leona has tried to be fair, offered to set up a trust for him managed by professionals, so he can build up a little net worth. He accuses her of trying to control him. She’s never taken a cent as executor, has been scrupulous about everything being divvied up fifty-fifty. Which brings me back to my original point: It was Charlie who spearheaded selling the properties. That’s why his bitching about it is so crazy.”

“Leona didn’t want to sell?”

“Absolutely not. Her idea was to keep everything in trust for future generations. Set up a separate management account to take care of expenses.”

“But Charlie has no kids, so he figured she was bypassing him for her heirs.”

“I understand that objection,” said Rifkin. “But it’s not as if Charlie wasn’t making money from Borodi. The house was renting out at twenty grand a month, and after tax and management fees, he was still netting six figures.”

“Who were the tenants?”

“Various industry people needing temporary quarters during shoots. Not stars-producers, directors. Payments came directly out of the film budgets, everything was smooth until Charlie started dropping in at the house and demanding to see if they were keeping it up to his specifications. Needless to say, no one wanted to put up with that, so bye-bye studio rental deals. Which Charlie needed a lot more than Leona. Whatever he gets hold of slips right through his fingers.”

“So he agitated to sell.”

“Not just Borodi, all three properties. One of those out-of-the-blue demands. He’s impulsive, that’s his basic problem. Selling directly contravened the substance and spirit of Lan’s trust, Leona would’ve been in her rights to tell Charlie to screw off. But she didn’t want to fight, so she compromised. She was steadfast about Palm Springs and Arrowhead-likes to use both places on weekends and so do her kids. And she felt the value of a two-plus-acre lot in Holmby would keep climbing, it paid to wait. But Charlie kept nagging, so she caved.”

“The records I’ve got said it sold for eight million dollars,” said Milo.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Lawrence Rifkin. “Four mil each is nothing to sneeze at, maybe Charlie was the smart one, especially given his age. The problem is, Lieutenant, once the trust was broken, the inheritance tax kicked in. Toss in commission and other fees and Charlie and Leona ended up with closer to one and a half million each.”

Milo said, “I’m still not sneezing.”

“No, of course not,” said Rifkin, not quite convincingly. “But that’s nothing long-term for someone like Charlie, who still thinks he’s a financial genius. It didn’t take long for him to plow through most of it and start howling that we sold too cheap. Unfortunately for him, he’d been involved every step of the way and we had documentation.”

“How much is most of it?”

“All but half a mil. Then he had the gall to ask us to represent him so we could cook his books and beef up the deduction. Meanwhile, he’s still threatening to sue us. Refusing him politely took some self-control.”

“So he had a half million left.”

“He goes to Europe several times a year, flies first-class, stays at the Crillon, eats at Michelin star restaurants. If he’s got a hundred K left, I’d be shocked. I can’t believe he’s still screaming about the sale. It’s been a while since I last heard from him and I figured he’d finally moved on.”

“How long?”

“I’d say… two years… hold on and I’ll tell you precisely… here it is, twenty-eight months ago. Charlie bitching that he needed a new car and Leona was refusing to pay for one. Why should she? He’s a lousy driver, no sense cracking up another one. But it wouldn’t have mattered if Leona had bought him a brand-new Rolls. Every time he gets what he wants, he comes back for more. As I said, he lives in a dream-state. Hearing about that murder probably got him fantasizing about being lord of the manor. Or he just wanted to prevent himself from feeling like an ass, so he twisted reality. Because Leona was right. Eight mil was a fair prize then, but the value of the lot has skyrocketed. If they sold today, they’d probably get twenty-five mil.”

“With a nice house on it.”

“Even without a house, Lieutenant, a parcel that size is highly desirable.”

“The folks they sold it to, DSD,” said Milo. “Tell me more about them.”

Silence.

“Mr.Rifkin?”

“I’m been forthright, Lieutenant, within the limitations of my professional standards.”

“Charlie’s fair game for discussion but DSD isn’t?”

“There’s an agreement.”

“Confidentiality.”

“Binding confidentiality.”

“Can you tell me why, Mr. Rifkin?”

“Certainly not, Lieutenant. That’s the point.”

“Everyone DSD has done business with seems to be held to secrecy.”

No reply.

“Mr. Rifkin, are we talking some big-time political types?”

Silence.

“Foreign intrigue, Mr. Rifkin?”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

“A criminal investigation trumps a civil agreement, sir.”

“You’ve gone to law school, Lieutenant?”

Milo wiped his face. “Let’s shift gears for a moment, sir. Is there anything you think I should know about Charlie or anyone else as it relates to murder?”

“You think Charlie could’ve killed someone?”

“Two people were murdered.”

“May I ask how they were killed?”

“Gunshot and strangulation.”

“Well,” said Rifkin, “Charlie does own firearms but the ones I know about are antiques, inherited from Lan. Would he use them if he got angry enough? I suppose. His temper is nasty and he is unstable.”

“What about strangulation?”

“Doesn’t that take strength, Lieutenant?”

“Strength and persistence.”

“Then I doubt it. Charlie’s health is subpar. Liver, heart, prostate, diabetes, arthritis. Leona pays his medical bills and they’re extensive. And I have to be honest, he’s a blowhard but I’ve never actually known him to follow through on anything.”

“Is there anything about the sale to DSD that could conceivably link to murder?”

Rifkin said, “Good try, Lieutenant.”

Milo said, “All this hush-hush is making DSD look more and more suspicious.”

“Be that as it may, Lieutenant. Good luck with your murders.”

Doyle Bryczinski was on his third can of 7UP.

Milo sat down close, scooted closer. “Okay, Doyle, what’s the story?”

“About what?”

“Going back there with those bolt cutters.”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Bolt cutters and talk about crime and fire isn’t nothing.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Milo ’s big hand landed on Bryczinski’s scrawny shoulder. “Doyle, if there’s something you want to tell me, now’s the time to help yourself.”

“What do I need help with?”

“Think about it, Doyle.”

“I’m thinking I don’t need help.”

“Why’d you go back?”

“It’s my place, that’s all.”

“Your place?”

“My job. I know it better than anyone.”

“Exactly,” said Milo.

“Huh?”

“What strikes me, Doyle, is that doing a murder there would be tough for someone who wasn’t familiar with the place. It gets real dark at night, that rear staircase is hidden away. You’d have to know where to find it, be super-careful walking up those wooden stairs without being heard. Though your shoes do look pretty quiet.”

“They’re okay. Only I never did nothing. And no matter any shoes, I’da been heard.”

“Why?”

“My leg’s fucked up, it drags.”

“Even with those quiet shoes?”

“They got soft soles,” said Bryczinski, “but also steel arches, real heavy to lift.”

Milo eyed the soda can. “If you’re thirsty, feel free.”

“I’m okay.”

“Let’s go back to the night of the murders and where you were.”

“Zactly what I told you.”

“Sleeping and taking care of your mother.”

“Buying the diapers for my mom. This time I got the receipt.” Pulling a scrap from his shirt pocket. “Nine forty-eight, like I told you, I’m at the CVS.”

Milo examined the date. “You found the receipt because you’ve been working on an alibi, Doyle?”

“You asked me all those questions the first time,” said Bryczinski. “So I looked for the receipt. Now you got it.”

Milo waved the paper. “This is okay, as far as it goes, Doyle, but it really doesn’t mean much. You coulda gone home, driven back.”

“Maybe coulda, but didn’t.” Bryczinski’s eyes remained calm.

“Monte,” said Milo.

“What?”

“Who’s Monte, Doyle?”

“Ain’t that a card game?”

“It’s also a man’s name.”

“Not any man I know.”

“Why the cutters, Doyle?”

“What I said, an emergency.”

“It’s a crime scene, Doyle.”

“It’s a crime scene now, but it’s not gonna be a crime scene forever. You don’t give me the key to that chain, I got to get in.”

“Emergency,” said Milo. “Like the place burns down.”

“What I said was just in case the place burns down. I need the job, want to do it right.”

“You think of it as your place.”

“I know it better than anyone. They didn’t.”

“Who?”

“Those two. Look what happened to them,” said Bryczinski. Reaching for the soda can, he took a long, slow sip.

“Their fault?”

“I’m not saying that, I’m saying it was stupid to go in there at night.”

“What’s your theory about the murders, Doyle?”

“They went up there to fool around, I dunno, maybe some psycho crashed the party. That’s my point: Way the chain was before, anyone could get in.”

“So you should be happy I put on a new one.”

“Leave the key, I’ll say thank you. Now I need to get back there. Can I have that ride?”

“Happy to arrange it, Doyle. If you take a polygraph before you leave.”

Bryczinski’s eyes widened. “Company gave me a poly when they hired me. I passed with honors, ask ’em for a copy.”

“So you wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

Bryczinski thought. “Hell, why not? If it don’t take too long.”

Detective Three Delano Hardy was the closet to a polygraph specialist the day shift had going. He hadn’t administered the test in over a year, wasn’t even sure where the gear was, but he agreed to look for it.

Ninety minutes later, the procedure was over and Hardy stepped out of the room, shaking his head. “A little jumpy on baseline, but I’m not seeing deception, not even close, sorry.”

Milo took the printout. “Thanks for trying, amigo.”

Milo and Del had partnered a long time ago, until Del ’s devout wife had objected to her husband working with a homosexual.

Del said, “No sweat, Big Guy. Good luck.”

A uniform drove Bryczinski back to Borodi. I scanned the poly results.

Milo said, “You see something?”

“Nothing but truth,” I said. “Especially given the anxious baseline. He’s not a cold psychopath able to fake the machine.”

Milo said, “But he is overinvolved with that site. Him and Charlie Rutger.”

“Must be the edifice complex.”

We returned to his office, where he picked up a fresh message slip. “Well, well, well, Professor Ned Holman wants to talk.”

He returned the call. “Professor? Lieutenant Sturgis… yes, sir, of course I remember… that so? No prob, I can be at your house in-all right, yes, I know where it is. An hour would be fine.”

Dropping the receiver in its cradle, he said, “First time we met him, he was all mellow. Now just the opposite, definitely something on his mind. Wonder what his baseline is.”