Heartbreak Hotel

Chapter 21

Joseph A. Manucci, CPA, CFP, was one of twenty-three brokers operating out of the Morgan-Smith Financial Services office in Encino. Senior position, his name near the top of the list in the lobby.

The building was two stories of white marble Greek Revival sandwiched between a Jaguar dealership and a private hospital.

Milo said, “Stocks do well, buy yourself hot wheels. They tank, check into the cardiac ward.”

The security guard in front of the door raised an eyebrow but kept staring straight ahead. Milo flashed the badge and asked for Manucci.

The guard made a call. Said, “Okay,” to the apparatus, and “First floor, that way,” to us.

A man was waiting in a warmly lit, marble-floored hallway. Late forties to early fifties, short and slight, tightly curled hair an improbable ecru. A white-on-white shirt rolled to the elbows was tucked into navy trousers. Brown loafers, pale-yellow suspenders, bright-yellow tie patterned with fat little ducks.

“Joe Manucci, sorry for not getting back to you, on the road, got a desk full of messages. Please. C’mon in.”

Hard shake, soft skin, downcast expression.

He said, “Ricki Sylvester just called and told me. Unbelievable. Please come in.”

He backed into a corner suite. Three windows looked out to a clutch of rubber trees, shiny green leaves nearly masking the parking lot. On the wall were a bachelor’s from Cal State Northridge, Manucci’s certification as a financial planner, his public accountant credentials.

A bookcase was stocked with volumes by financial savants. A sofa was heaped high with paper. No wood visible on the desktop; the space was taken up by quarterly reports, a collection of paperweights, two pairs of eyeglasses, and an alp of loose papers.

Among all that, pink message slips flashed like discarded rose petals. That made me willing to consider Manucci’s sincerity.

“Sorry for the mess, guys. I like to think of it as controlled chaos.”

He put on a pair of eyeglasses, blinked, switched to another pair, blinked some more. “Just got into bifocals, the optometrist gave me two options, can’t stand either. I’ll eventually adjust, what’s the choice, no one’s getting younger.”

Milo said, “Thalia Mars knew about that.”

“Poor Thalia.” Manucci chewed his lower lip. Same expression inept dancers wear when they’re trying to fake cool. “What exactly happened to her, guys?”

“Someone killed her, sir.”

“I know that. Was it robbery?”

“Is there a reason it might have been?”

“I just can’t see anyone wanting to hurt Thalia for hurt’s sake. Do you have any suspects?”

“We were going to ask you the same thing, sir.”

Manucci poked his own chest. “Like I’d know? I did investments and filed her taxes and that makes it sound more complicated than it was.”

I said, “Simple account.”

“Large account but by the time I began with Thalia, she’d put most of her portfolio into munis — tax-free bonds, it’s a typical investment for those wishing to conserve wealth. The only other products she owned were a few blue-chip stocks, mostly preferred, which is actually closer to a bond than a stock, we’re not talking lots of trades. Occasionally she’d sell something for a profit and either balance the gain against a loss or donate it to charity. What I’m getting at is there wasn’t much work to speak of.”

He removed the second pair of glasses. “I filed her taxes for her, as well. Gratis, no reason not to, it was basic.”

Milo said, “Not much movement in her account.”

“Her account was close to inert,” said Manucci. “Sometimes a bond gets called and needs to be replaced but even that was simple. Thalia authorized me to buy lots up to a certain amount without consulting her.”

“What amount was that?”

“Fifty thousand. That basically covered everything because she avoided owning larger issues of any single product. Eggs in one basket and all that.”

“So you had carte blanche.”

“I didn’t view it that way,” said Manucci. “I always think of the client as the boss. I got her the best product available, she never complained. Recently, she’d begun donating mature bonds to charity rather than replenishing.”

“How recently?”

“Three or four years. She had no heirs, why wait until she was gone and give a massive chunk of inheritance tax to Uncle Sam?”

I said, “So she was a low-maintenance client.”

“Dream client,” said Manucci. “When I first began working with her, I’d visit her at home at the end of every year and give her a progress report. After a few years of that, I showed up and she said, ‘Today will be the last time, Joe.’ That threw me, I thought I was being fired. She patted me on the hand and said, ‘I don’t need a dog-and-pony show, just keep me solvent.’ Then she winked and said, ‘I’ll know if you don’t.’ That sounds like a threat but it wasn’t, she was referring to a previous conversation we’d had. When I started out managing her, she told me she was a CPA herself, used to do her own taxes, found it tedious.”

“An informed client.”

“She read prospectuses, sometimes had ideas. ‘Look for airport issues, Joe, airports never go out of business.’ It was a pleasure dealing with her. She had... an aura, I guess you’d call it. Of elegance, like from another era.”

He frowned. “I guess she was from another era. In amazing shape for someone that old, I never imagined she’d be... what a terrible thing. Are you asking about her finances because money was involved?”

Milo said, “Being thorough. Any idea who’d want to kill her?”

“Of course not.”

“How long was she your client?”

“Eighteen years. I’d just started here, was happy to get her.”

“Because of the size of her account.”

“Of course that,” said Manucci. “But also because she came recommended. Intelligent, easy to work with.”

“Recommended by who?”

“My boss at the time. I inherited Thalia from him after he got sick. Heart attack, right here in the office. Everyone was stunned. Fifty-seven, great shape.”

“What was his name?”

“Frank Guidon.”

Out came Milo’s pad. “Please spell that.”

“G-U-I-D-on.”

“How long did Mr. Guidon work with Miss Mars?”

“All I can tell you is she was his client when I was hired.”

“Your name’s on all her documents.”

“It would be,” said Manucci. “After the companies merged — New Bank with Allegiant then Allegiant with Morgan-Smith, all the paperwork was adapted.”

“Fifty-seven,” said Milo. “So he probably inherited from someone else. Would anyone here know who?”

“I doubt it. At this point, I’m one of the old-timers.”

Milo said, “Those house calls you used to do. After you stopped, how often did you see her?”

“If a lot of paper built up, I’d sometimes hand-deliver documents to her rather than use the mail. I live in West L.A., she’s right on the way.”

“What did you think about Miss Mars’s living circumstances?”

“Meaning?”

“Living in a hotel.”

“The place seemed a little tired but Thalia seemed happy.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

Manucci pulled an iPad out of a desk drawer, scrolled, knitted his forehead. “Bear with me... nope... nope... okay, here we go.”

He showed us the screen. Calendar page from nine months ago. TM in a Monday box. Three P.M. A BQR notation.

“A reminder to myself,” said Manucci. “Bring quarterly reports. The home office likes documentation.”

Milo said, “Maybe the home office can tell us the name of Mr. Guidon’s predecessor, how about trying to find out.”

Manucci put on glasses, dialed a number, got someone named Rod, stated his request and waited.

Moments later: “Really? Wow.”

Jotting on a pad, he said, “Go know.”