Private Eyes

18

She came back with a scrap of paper and handed it to Milo. “He’ll meet you there- here’s the address. I had to tell him what it was about, let him know I expected him to keep it to himself. What should I do while you’re gone?”

“Call airlines,” said Milo. “See if anyone bought a ticket to anywhere using your mom’s name. Say you’re her daughter and it’s an emergency. If that doesn’t work, embellish it- someone’s sick, you really need to know for medical reasons. Check departures from LAX, Burbank, Ontario, John Wayne, and Lindbergh. If you want to be really thorough, check under your mom’s maiden name, too. I’ll only come back here if something profound happens at the bank. Here’s my number at home.”

Scrawling on the back of the paper she’d just handed him, he tore off half and gave it to her.

“Call me if you learn anything,” she said. “Even if it seems unimportant.”

“Will do,” said Milo. Turning to Ramp, he said, “Hang in there.”

Ramp remained in his chair and gave a dull nod.

I said to Melissa, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No,” she said. “No, thanks. I don’t really feel like talking. I want to do something- no offense, okay?”

“No offense.”

“I’ll call you if I need you,” she said.

“No problem.”

“Sayonara,” said Milo, heading for the door.

I said, “I’ll walk out with you.”

“If you insist,” he said, coasting down the driveway. “But if I had a chance at some shuteye, I’d grab it.”

He’d brought Rick’s white Porsche 928. A portable scanner had been mounted on the dash since the last time I’d seen the car. He had the volume on low and the machine emitted a steady stream of mumbles.

“Hoo hah,” I said, tapping the box.

“Christmas gift.”

“From whom?”

“From me to me,” he said, accelerating. The Porsche hummed in agreement. “I still think you should go to sleep. Ramp’s already looking wilted and the kid’s running on adrenaline. Sooner or later you’re gonna be back here doing your thing.”

“Not tired,” I said.

“Too keyed up?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’ll hit you tomorrow. Just in time for a panic call.”

“No doubt.”

He chuckled and gunned the engine.

The gates to the property were open. He turned left on Sussex Knoll, then left again. Giving the Porsche’s wheel a rightward turn, he oversteered a bit and had to straighten before turning onto Cathcart Boulevard. The businesses along the commercial strip were all dark. The streetlights cast an opaline light that expired before it reached the grassy median.

“Yeah, there it is, all lit up,” he said, pointing across the street to a floodlit one-story Greek Revival building. White limestone. Boxwood hedges, small lawn with a flagpole. FIRST FIDUCIARY TRUST BANK, FDIC in gold letters over the door.

I said, “Doesn’t look big enough to store cookie-sale proceeds.”

“Quality, not quantity, remember?”

He pulled up in front of the bank. To the right was a twenty space parking lot fronted by twin iron posts and a chain that had been lowered to the ground. A black Mercedes sedan sat alone in the first spot on the left side. As we got out of the Porsche, the black car’s door opened.

A man exited, closed the door, and stood there, one hand on the roof of the car.

Milo said, “I’m Sturgis.”

The man came forward into the streetlight. He had on a gray gabardine sack suit, white shirt, yellow tie with blue dots. Matching handkerchief in his breast pocket, black wingtips on his feet. Quick midnight dresser.

He said, “Glenn Anger, Mr. Sturgis. I hope Mrs. Ramp’s in no danger.”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“Come this way.” Pointing toward the bank’s front door. “The security system’s been disarmed but there are still these to contend with.”

Pointing to a quartet of deadbolt locks arranged in a square around the doorknob. He pulled out a ring crammed with keys, fingered one, inserted it in the upper right-hand lock, turned, and waited until a click had sounded before pulling it out. Working quickly and efficiently. I thought of a professional safecracker.

I took a good look at him. Six feet, 160, gray crewcut, long face that would probably show tan in the daylight. Nub of nose, skimpy mouth, diminutive close-set ears. As if he’d purchased his features on sale and had settled for one size too small. Thick, dark eyebrows made his pale eyes look even tinier than they were. His age was somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five. If he’d been roused from sleep, he’d made a good recovery.

Before inserting the fourth key, he stopped and looked up and down the deserted street. Then at us.

Milo’s return look communicated nothing.

Anger turned the key, pushed the door open an inch. “I’m very concerned about Mrs. Ramp. Melissa made it sound quite serious.”

Milo gave a noncommittal nod.

Anger said, “What exactly is it you think I can do for you?” Then he looked at me.

Milo said, “This is Alex Delaware.” As if that settled it. “The first thing you can do is get me the numbers on her credit cards and her checking accounts. The second is you can educate me about her general financial situation.”

“Educate you,” said Anger, his hand still on the knob.

“Answer a few questions.”

Anger moved his lower jaw back and forth. Curving his arm around the jamb, he reached in and turned on some lights.

Inside the bank was polished cherry wood, royal-blue carpeting, brass fixtures, and a ceiling with a relief of a bald eagle at the apex. Three teller’s stations and a door marked SAFE DEPOSIT took up one side; three desk-and-chair sets filled the other. In the center of the room was a service kiosk.

The place smelled of lemon wax and ammonia and money so old it had begun to grow mold. Seeing it empty made me feel like a burglar.

Anger pointed forward and took us to a door at the rear that said W. GLENN ANGER, CHAIRMAN AND PRESIDENT over a seal that looked awfully similar to the one Ronald Reagan had just stopped using.

Two locks on this one.

Anger opened them and said, “Come on in.”

His office was small and cool and smelled like a new car. It was furnished with a squat desk- bare except for a gold Cross pen and a black-shaded lamp- and two brown tweed chairs with a low square table between them. Several leather-bound books sat on the table. To the right of the desk was a personal computer on a wheeled stand. Family photos filled the rear wall, each featuring the same brood: blond wife resembling Doris Day after six months of overeating, four blond boys, two beautifully groomed golden retrievers, and a grumpy-looking Siamese cat.

The other walls were taken up by a pair of Stanford diplomas, a collection of Norman Rockwell plates, a framed replica of the Declaration of Independence, and a ceiling-high rack of athletic trophies. Golf, squash, swimming, baseball, track. Awards dating back twenty years and inscribed to Warren Glenn Anger. More recent ones made out to Warren Glenn Anger, Jr., and Eric James Anger. I wondered about the two boys who hadn’t brought home any gold-plate and tried to pick them in the photos but couldn’t. All four were smiling.

Anger took a seat behind the desk, shot his cuffs, and looked at his watch. Dark curly hair with red tips sprouted along the tops of his hands.

Milo and I sat in the tweed chairs. I looked down at the table. The leather-bound books were membership directories- rosters of three private clubs still battling the city over admission of women and minorities.

“You’re a private detective?” said Anger.

“That’s right.”

“What kind of education are you after?”

Milo took out his pad. “Mrs. Ramp’s net worth for starts. How her assets are divided. Any significant withdrawals recently.”

Anger’s eyebrow dipped at the center. “Why exactly do you need all this, Mr. Sturgis?”

“I’ve been hired to hunt for Mrs. Ramp. A good hunter gets to know his quarry.”

Anger frowned.

Milo said, “Her banking patterns might tell me something about her intentions.”

“Intentions in terms of what?”

“A pattern of unusually large withdrawals might suggest she was planning to take a trip.”

Anger gave several very small nods. “I see. Well, that hasn’t been the case. And her net worth? What would that tell you?”

“I need to know what’s at stake.”

“At stake in terms of what?”

“In terms of how long she can stay out of sight- if her disappearance is voluntary.”

“Are you suggesting-”

“In terms of who stands to inherit, if it isn’t.”

Anger’s jaw moved back and forth. “That sounds ominous.”

“Not really. I just need to define my parameters.”

“I see. And what do you think’s happened to her, Mr. Sturgis?”

“I don’t have enough information to think anything. That’s why I’m here.”

Anger tilted back in his chair, rolled the bottom of his tie upward, then let it unfurl.

“I’m really concerned for her welfare, Mr. Sturgis. I’m sure you’re aware of her problem- the fears. The thought of her out there by herself…” Anger shook his head.

“We’re all concerned,” said Milo. “So why don’t we get to work?”

Anger swiveled his chair to one side, lowered it, and faced center again. “The problem is that a bank needs to maintain certain levels of-”

“I know what a bank needs to do, and I’m sure you do it really well. But there’s a lady out there whose family wants her found a.s.a.p. So why don’t we cut to the chase?”

Anger didn’t move. But he looked as if he’d slammed his finger in a car door and was trying to tough it out.

“Who, exactly, is your client of record, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Both Mr. Ramp and Ms. Dickinson.”

“I haven’t heard from Don on this.”

“He’s a bit stressed right now, trying to get some rest, but feel free to call him.”

“Stressed?” said Anger.

“Concerned for his wife’s welfare. The longer she’s gone, the greater the stress. With luck the whole thing will resolve itself, and the family will be extremely grateful to those who helped them in their time of need. People tend to remember that kind of thing.”

“Yes, of course. But that’s part of my dilemma. Having the matter resolve itself only to have made Mrs. Ramp’s finances needlessly public without proper legal justification. Because only Mrs. Ramp has the legal justification to request release of that information.”

“You’ve got a point,” said Milo. “If you want we’ll walk out of here and record the fact that you opted not to cooperate.”

“No,” said Anger. “That won’t be necessary. Melissa has reached her majority- if barely. In light of the… situation, I suppose it’s appropriate for her to make these types of family decisions in her mother’s absence.”

“What situation’s that?”

“She’s her mother’s sole heir.”

“Ramp gets nothing?”

“Just a small sum.”

“How small?”

“Fifty thousand dollars. Let me qualify that by saying those are the facts as I know them today. The family attorneys are Wresting, Douse, and Cosner downtown. They may have drafted new papers, though I doubt it. Generally I’m kept well informed of any changes- we do the family’s accounting, receive copies of all documents.”

“Give me those lawyers’ names again,” said Milo, pen poised.

“Wresting. Douse. And Cosner. They’re a fine old firm- Jim Douse’s great-uncle was J. Harmon Douse, the California Supreme Court justice.”

“Who’s Mrs. Ramp’s personal lawyer?”

“Jim Junior- Jim Douse’s son. James Madison Douse, Junior.”

Milo copied it down. “Got his number handy?”

Anger recited seven numbers.

“Okay,” said Milo. “The fifty thousand that goes to Ramp- that the result of a prenuptial agreement?”

Anger nodded. “The agreement states- to the best of my recollection- that Don forfeits claim to any part of Gina’s estate beyond a single cash payment of fifty thousand dollars. Very simple- shortest one I’ve ever seen.”

“Whose idea was it?”

“Arthur Dickinson’s essentially- Gina’s first husband.”

“Voice from the grave?”

Anger shifted in his chair and gave a look of distaste. “Arthur wanted Gina well taken care of. He was acutely aware of the difference in their ages. And her fragility. He specified in his will that no subsequent husband be eligible to inherit.”

“Is that legal?”

“You’d have to consult an attorney on that, Mr. Sturgis. Don certainly showed no desire to challenge it. Then, or since. I was present when the agreement was signed. Notarized it personally. Don was totally amenable. More than that- enthusiastic. Stated his willingness to forgo even the fifty thousand. It was Gina who insisted on sticking to the letter of Arthur’s will.”

“Why’s that?”

“The man is her husband.”

“Then why didn’t she try to give him more?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Sturgis. You’d have to ask-” Self-conscious smile. “Yes, well, I can only guess, but I suppose she was a bit embarrassed- this was a week before the wedding. Most people don’t like dealing with financial matters at a time like that. Don reassured her it was irrelevant to him.”

“Sounds like he didn’t marry her for her money.”

Anger gave a cold look. “Apparently not, Mr. Sturgis.”

“Any idea why he did marry her?”

“I assume he loved her, Mr. Sturgis.”

“They pretty happy together, far as you know?”

Anger sat back and folded his hands across his chest. “Investigating your own client, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Trying to fill in the picture.”

“Art was never my strong suit, Mr. Sturgis.”

Milo looked at the trophies and said, “Would it help if I phrased it in sports terms?”

“Not one bit, I’m afraid.”

Milo smiled and scribbled. “Okay, back to basics. Melissa’s the sole heir.”

“That’s correct.”

“Who inherits the estate if Melissa dies?”

“I believe her mother does, but we’re really getting out of my field of expertise.”

“Okay, let’s move back into it. What’s inherited? How big of an estate are we talking about?”

Anger hesitated. A banker’s prudishness. Then: “About forty million. Give or take. All of it in highly conservative investments.”

“Such as?”

“State of California tax-free municipal bonds rated double-A or above, blue-chip stocks and corporate bonds, treasury bills, some holdings in the secondary and tertiary mortgage markets. Nothing speculative.”

“How much yearly income does she get from all that?”

“Three and a half to five million, depending on yields.”

“All interest?”

Anger nodded. Talking figures had drawn him forward and relaxed his posture. “There’s nothing else coming in. Arthur did some architecture and development early on, but most of what he accumulated was the result of royalties on the Dickinson strut- it’s a process he invented, something to do with strengthening metal. He sold all rights to it just before he died, which is just as well- there’ve been newer techniques that have superseded it.”

“Why’d he sell?”

“He’d just retired, wanted to devote all his time to Gina- to her medical problems. You’re aware of her history- the attack?”

Milo nodded. “Any idea why she was attacked?”

That startled Anger. “I was at college when it happened- read about it in the papers.”

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

Anger said, “What exactly was your question?”

“The motive behind the attack.”

“I have no idea.”

“Any local theories you’re aware of?”

“I don’t engage in gossip.”

“I’m sure you don’t, Mr. Anger, but if you did, is there something you would have heard?”

“Mr. Sturgis,” said Anger, “you need to understand that Gina’s been out of circulation for a long time. She’s not a topic of local gossip.”

“What about at the time of the attack? Or shortly after, when she moved to San Labrador. Any gossip then?”

“From what I recall,” said Anger, “the consensus was that he was out of his mind- the maniac who did it. Does a madman need a motive?”

“Guess not.” Milo scanned his notes. “Those highly conservative investments you mentioned. They also Dickinson’s idea?”

“Absolutely. The rules of investment are spelled out in the will. Arthur was a very cautious man- collecting art was his only extravagance. He would have bought his clothes off the rack if he could.”

Milo said, “Think he was too conservative?”

“One doesn’t judge,” said Anger. “With what he’d put together from the strut royalties, he could have invested in real estate and parlayed it into a really sizable estate- two or three hundred million. But he insisted on security, no risks, and we did as told. Continue to do so.”

“You’ve been his banker since the beginning?”

“Fiduciary has. My father founded the bank. He worked directly with Arthur.”

Anger’s face creased. Sharing credit with reluctance. No portraits of The Founder in here. None out in the main room of the bank, either.

None of Arthur Dickinson in the house he’d built. I wondered why.

Milo said, “You pay all her bills?”

“Everything except small cash purchases- minor household expenditures.”

“How much do you pay out each month?”

“One moment,” said Anger, swiveling to face the computer. He turned on the machine, waited until it had booted up and beeped a welcome, then hunted and pecked, waited, typed some more, and sat forward as the screen was filled with letters.

“Here we go- last month’s bills totaled thirty-two thousand two hundred fifty-eight and thirty-nine cents. The month before that, a little over thirty- that’s about typical.”

Milo got up, walked behind the desk, and looked at the screen. Anger began to shield it with his hand, protecting his data like a Goody Two-Shoes kid guarding an exam. But Milo was looming over him, already copying, and the banker let his hand drop.

“As you can see,” he said, “the family lives comparatively simply. Most of the budget goes to cover staff salaries, basic maintenance on the house, insurance premiums.”

“No mortgages?”

“None. Arthur bought the beach house for cash and lived there while he built the main house.”

“What about taxes?”

“They’re paid out of a separate account. If you insist I’ll call up the file, but you’ll learn nothing from it.”

“Humor me,” said Milo.

Anger rubbed his jaw and typed a line. The computer made digestive noises. He rubbed his jaw again and I noticed that the skin along his mandible was slightly irritated. He’d shaved before coming over.

“Here,” he said as the screen flashed amber. “Last year’s federal and state taxes amounted to just under a million dollars.”

“That leaves about two-and-a-half to four million to play with.”

“Approximately.”

“Where does it go?”

“We reinvest it.”

“Stocks and bonds?”

Anger nodded.

“Does Mrs. Ramp take any cash out for herself?”

“Her personal allowance is ten thousand dollars per month.”

“Allowance?”

“Arthur set it up that way.”

“Is she allowed to take more?”

“The money’s hers, Mr. Sturgis. She can take whatever she wants.”

“Does she?”

“Does she what?”

“Take more than ten.”

“No.”

“What about Melissa’s expenses?”

“Those are covered by a separate trust fund.”

“So we’re talking a hundred twenty thousand a year for how many years?”

“Since Arthur died.”

I said, “He died just before Melissa was born. That makes it a little over eighteen years.”

“Eighteen times twelve is what,” said Milo. “Around two hundred months…”

“Two sixteen,” said Anger reflexively.

“Times ten thou is over two million dollars. If Mrs. Ramp put it in another bank and earned interest, it could have doubled, right?”

“There’d be no reason for her to do that,” said Anger.

“Where is it, then?”

“What makes you think it’s anywhere, Mr. Sturgis? She probably spent it- on personal items.”

“Two million plus worth of personal items?”

“I assure you, Mr. Sturgis, that ten thousand dollars a month for a woman of her standing is hardly worth considering.”

Milo said, “Guess you’re right.”

Anger smiled. “It’s easy to be staggered by the idea of all those zeroes. But believe me, that kind of money is inconsequential and it goes fast. I have clients who spend more on a single fur coat. Now is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Ramp share any accounts?”

“No.”

“Mr. Ramp do his banking here, too?”

“Yes, but I’d prefer you talk to him directly about his finances.”

“Sure,” said Milo. “Now how about those credit-card numbers?”

Anger’s fingers danced across the keyboard. Machine-burp. Flash. “There are three cards. American Express, Visa, and MasterCard.” He pointed. “These are the numbers. Below each are the credit allowances and purchase totals for the current fiscal year.”

“This all of it?” said Milo, writing.

“Yes, it is, Mr. Sturgis.”

Milo copied. “Between all three, she’s got around a fifty-thousand monthly credit line.”

“Forty-eight thousand five hundred and fifty-five.”

“No purchases on the American Express- not much on any of them. Looks like she doesn’t buy much.”

“No need to,” said Anger. “We take care of everything.”

“Kind of like being a kid,” said Milo.

“Beg pardon?”

“The way she lives. Like being a little kid. Getting an allowance, having all her needs taken care of, no fuss, no muss.”

Anger’s hand clawed above the keyboard. “I’m sure it’s amusing to ridicule the rich, Mr. Sturgis, but I’ve noticed you’re not immune to material amusements.”

“That so?”

“Your Porsche. You chose it because of what it means to you.”

“Oh, that,” said Milo, rising. “That’s borrowed. My regular transportation’s much less meaningful.”

“Really,” said Anger.

Milo looked at me. “Tell him.”

“He drives a moped,” I said. “Better for stakeouts.”

“Except when it rains,” said Milo. “Then I take an umbrella.”

Back in the Porsche, he said, “Looks like little Melissa may have been wrong about Stepdaddy’s intentions.”

“True love?” I said. “Yet they don’t sleep together.”

Shrug. “Maybe Ramp loves her for the purity of her soul.”

“Or maybe he intends one day to contest the prenuptial.”

“What a suspicious guy,” he said. “In the meantime, there’s all that allowance money to wonder about.”

“Two million?” I said. “Chump change. Don’t get staggered by a few zeroes, Mr. Sturgis.”

“Heaven forfend.”

He got back on Cathcart, drove slowly. “Thing is, he’s got a point. Her kind of income, a hundred twenty a year, could seem like petty cash. If she spent it. But after being up in her room, I don’t see where it went. Books and magazines and a home gym don’t add up to a hundred twenty gees a year- hell, she didn’t even have a VCR. There’s the therapy, but that’s only for the last year. Unless she’s got some secret charity, eighteen years’ worth of unspent allowance would have accumulated to something pretty tidy. By anyone’s standards. Maybe I should have checked her mattress.”

“Could be that’s where the money for the Cassatt came from- both Cassatts.”

“Possible,” he said. “But that still leaves plenty. If she did deposit it in another bank, we’d be hard-pressed to find it any time soon.”

“How could she deal with another bank without leaving the house?”

“That kind of money at stake, plenty of banks would come to her.”

“Neither Ramp nor Melissa mentioned any visits from bankers.”

“True,” he said. “So maybe she just stashed it. For a rainy day. And maybe the rainy day came and she’s got it clutched in her hot little hand right now.”

I thought about that.

He said, “What?”

“Rich lady hauling megabucks in a Rolls. It spells victim.”

He nodded. “In a hundred goddam languages.”

We drove back to Sussex Knoll to get my car. The gates were closed but two floodlights above them had been switched on. Welcome Home lights. A stretch at optimism that seemed pitiful in the stillness of the early morning hours.

I said, “Forget the car. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

Without a word, Milo turned around and headed back toward Cathcart, putting on speed and handling the Porsche better than I’d ever seen. We sped west onto California, made the transition to Arroyo Seco in what seemed like seconds. Then the freeway, barren and dark and wind-lashed.

But Milo kept searching anyway, turning his head from side to side, checking the rearview. Waiting until we’d hit the downtown interchange before cranking the volume up on the scanner and listening to the hurts people were choosing to inflict on one another as a new day began.