Breakdown, p.22
Breakdown, page 22
“Anything else we should know?”
“I wish there was. If my remark about work was taken out of context, I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” said Milo. “I can’t promise you we’ll solve it but we’ll treat you differently than Enow.”
“I know you will—have some cookies. If you don’t take them, I’ll eat them and that’s the last thing I need.”
She filled a bag and gave it to us. We thanked her and headed for the door.
“You think of anything that might’ve bothered your husband,” said Milo, “you call. Anything at all, for that matter.”
Andrea Salton stood there.
“Ma’am?”
“There is one thing that happened but I can’t see any possible way it’s related.”
“Try us, anyway,” said Milo.
“A few days before he…before it happened, he came home looking even grimmer than usual and I asked him why, expecting him to tell me everything was okay, as he usually did. But instead he said it had been an interesting day but not in a good way. A homeless woman had wandered into the outer office where Rod sat and demanded to see Loach. When Rod told her Loach wasn’t in, she started screaming, making a scene. Rod had to call security and they escorted her out. At the end of the day, when he was leaving the building and walking to his car, the same woman appeared out of nowhere and began haranguing him, right there on the street. As if she’d been waiting for Rod. He tried to calm her down but she got aggressive, grabbed his arm and insisted he needed to bring her to Loach, her mother was a movie star and Loach had killed her, she demanded justice, if Rod didn’t give it to her, he was just as guilty. The area’s full of mentally disturbed people, Rod had been panhandled aggressively several times, but never anything like that.”
She smiled. “Of course, he gave money to anyone who asked. Sometimes he’d take the time to talk to them. Which is what he tried to do with this one. He asked her if she wanted to sit down and tell him her story. She said he was wasting her time, she’d told him everything he needed to know. Then she turned her back on him and left. It bothered him. How deteriorated she was. His inability to help her. Rod cared when other people didn’t and that night I found him on the computer reading up on mental illness. I tried to get him to come to bed and he said he needed to understand what led people to be like that. That’s the way he was. Engaged. And God-fearing and principled.”
She trembled. Hugged herself. “Like I said, it’s not relevant. I guess I’m just telling you to show you what Rod was like. When that nincompoop suggested he’d ended his own life, it was beyond ridiculous. He even had the gall to ask if it was a sin in our religion. Implying I was in denial because I didn’t want to see Rod as a sinner. Yes, LDS believe suicide falls under ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ But it’s also something to be treated with sensitivity. We don’t judge the person who self-destructs nor do we assume intention and rationality on their part. That said, Rod was rational and God-fearing and most important, he believed in the sanctity of life. We were talking about starting a family. We got a late start because I did the career thing rather than settle down. Maybe we wouldn’t produce a huge clan but we’d do our best to make up for lost time. Does that sound depressed to you? No way would he destroy himself.”
CHAPTER
31
Milo drove west on Riverside Drive, both hands clenching the wheel. “Poor woman, she has no idea what she just accomplished and we couldn’t tell her.”
I said, “We go fishing and snag a link between Zelda, Salton, and Loach.”
“A movie-star mother. Who the hell expected that? Not that Rutherford was a movie star. A delusion, like you said. Or could there be truth to Zelda’s story?”
“I’m not sure it matters. Zelda believed it and it drove her actions. Five years ago, when she was working and managing to be functional, she told her cast-mates about it. When she dug up the yard at Bel Azura she was screaming about it. And during her final days, when she was just about mute, one of the few words she uttered to me was ‘Mother.’ Now we know she believed Loach was behind it.”
“So she gets into Loach’s girlfriend’s place and ends up dead. How would she connect the two of them?”
“Enid is Loach’s only client, she visits him in the office. Zelda was stalking the building. She could’ve seen them together.”
“And found out where Enid lived? How?”
“No idea, but she did and switched her surveillance to the estate. Meanwhile, she’s breaking down mentally. But still clinging to her goal.”
“Justice,” he said. “Aka revenge.”
“As her Ativan wore off, she got crazier but less lethargic. Had enough energy to leave BrightMornings and walk ten miles to Bel Air. What if she spotted Loach driving in and went after him—she wouldn’t even have had to scale the wall, just squeeze in before the gates closed. As you guys say, a confrontation ensued and Zelda ended up the loser.”
“Lunatic home invader attacks society lawyer and he defends himself. We’re talking no charges filed, Alex. Why the need for them to cover up with two calculated murders?”
“Because we’re not talking about an errant backhand or gunfire. Zelda was poisoned, as premeditated as it gets.”
“Two old sadists deciding to have some fun along the way? Toss in a couple of housekeepers as collateral damage? It’s way beyond sickening. Add Rod Salton and it’s something I don’t have a word for. Speaking of Salton, why’d he have to go? Weeks before the others.”
“We just heard him described as someone who’d feed his own overdue parking meter. That’s admirable but it can also lead to zealotry. Salton was bothered by his encounter with Zelda. What if he mentioned it to Loach expecting Loach to laugh it off. But Loach didn’t, he reacted. Maybe subtly but enough to make Salton wonder. He had access to Loach’s papers, poked around, and found something. Loach found out and took care of him.”
“Poison,” he said. “Strange choice and when you do see it, it’s often women. And we know a woman with a world-class garden.”
“They’re in it together,” I said.
“Zelda died in Enid’s place, Alicia was Enid’s maid.”
We drove awhile.
I said, “That makes me wonder about a primary link between Zina and Enid, with Loach just the trusty assistant. Averell DePauw managed serious money and had industry connections. Hollywood folk like to be entertained and what better venue for a high-end party than a gated estate in Bel Air where Jean Harlow used to crash? Parties require entertainment. And certain types of parties employ sketchy entertainment.”
“Failed actresses doing one-nighters,” he said. “How your mind tracks.”
“Dub Ott told me Zina had an income stream but no job, her landlady was convinced she was hooking. He never found a john-book or evidence that she’d worked nearby bars. But no need for any of that if you’re a freelance party favor. What if she got an outcall at Enid and Averell’s love nest and something went really bad? If Loach goes that far back as a minion, he’d have been a young lawyer on the make.”
“So they disappeared her,” he said. “But would Zelda ever find out? Whether or not she really was Zina’s daughter? She’s wrestling with serious demons and managing to be an ace detective?” He laughed and pointed a finger at me. “Don’t say it’s been known to happen.”
“Never crossed my mind.”
“And here I thought you were open and honest.”
We caught the red light at Mulholland and stopped. Milo said, “How old was Zelda when Zina disappeared?”
“Five,” I said. “But Ott found no evidence of a child living with her during the two years she was in that apartment so if Zelda was given up, she was no older than three.”
“What I’m getting at is kids that young don’t have clear memories, right?”
“Not generally. You’re thinking someone had to point her in that direction.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” he said. “However she found out, she decided she needed to take care of business and began living rough in Bel Air…nah, it doesn’t explain Bel Azura. If she’d fixated on St. Denis, even someone in her state wouldn’t have confused it with a totally different house. I know you said the houses are close but we’re still talking miles, not yards, and they’re not remotely similar. I’m getting a headache, amigo.”
The light turned green. We began descending the Glen.
I said, “Make a stop at my place.”
“Your car’s at the station.”
“I know. I want to check something. Actually, I want you to.”
“It can’t wait an extra ten minutes?”
“This time of day, could be fifteen, twenty minutes,” I said. “We’re right here, humor me.”
I explained.
He said, “That’s theoretically interesting.”
—
I fidgeted on the battered leather patients’ couch in my office as Milo worked my desktop.
Soon we had it: complete ownership records for the house on Bel Azura Drive.
Original date of construction: forty-three years ago. Original purchasers, a couple named MacAndrews.
Eight years after that—just after Zelda’s birth—ownership had passed to Zina Jane Smith, the down payment proffered by the G. S. Smith Family Trust of Shaker Heights, Ohio, mortgage payments to be handled by Miss Smith.
Eighteen months later: foreclosure on the grounds of non-payment, reversion to Ahmanson Savings and Loan.
In the ensuing years, the house had been bought and sold several times. Nothing that seemed tied to J. Yarmuth Loach, Esq., his firm, or Enid DePauw.
Milo’s eyes were wide. “She was making a pilgrimage to her childhood home—or what she imagined was her childhood home.” He grimaced. “Digging up the dirt.”
I said, “Digging and crying out for her mother.”
He wheeled my chair back a couple of feet and whirled so he faced me. “You think she believed Zina’s buried there? Then why didn’t she return to find out?”
“The arrest and commitment could’ve scared her off. Or her mental deterioration made it impossible to follow a sequential plan. I really don’t know and I probably never will.”
“I’m trying to imagine what it was like to be her,” he said. “Groping her way around the city, hearing things, head buzzing like a nonstop acid trip. Nothing can be done for people like that?”
“Some people respond to treatment, some don’t, some get worse. No one really understands the successes or the failures.”
Milo re-read the foreclosure documents. “A family rich enough to have a trust and they let Zina lose the place.”
I said, “Ott said it was the most disinterested family he’d ever come across. No one called or followed up except one brother who phoned once, a month after he couldn’t reach her on Thanksgiving. He made it clear that Zina had always been a problem child.”
“They got fed up carrying her financially.”
“And/or her lifestyle issues repelled them. As in a child out of wedlock, if Zelda really was her daughter. She’s never talked about a father.”
“All that plus living the La La party life, yeah, I can see noses getting bent,” he said. “We’re both from the Midwest, it’s a zillion parsecs from upper-crust Ohio to here.”
He put the papers aside. “Would the family kiss her off if they knew she had a child?”
“If it was a child they didn’t approve of? Who knows? The brother didn’t express any concern to Ott.”
“So maybe Zelda was delusional. Or she wasn’t and Zina had problems that led her to lose the kid along with her house. Psychosis can run in families, right?”
“Genetics isn’t destiny,” I said, “but it can be a factor.”
“So it’s possible Zina had serious mental issues of her own. Unstable party girl is hired for a party, freaks out, poses a threat to someone who can’t afford scandal, gets disappeared. I like it, we could sell it as a script. But I can’t see any way to prove it.”
I said, “Let’s learn about the Smiths of Shaker Heights.”
CHAPTER
32
The City of Shaker Heights website offered a laid-back summary of public records policy. Personal inspection available during business hours, written requests not required for copies though a detailed description would “facilitate” the process, information provided “within a reasonable period of time.”
Those seeking data were instructed to contact the public records manager for the city department most likely to retain their particular record.
No phone numbers or email addresses listed.
Milo switched to the homepage of the Shaker Heights Police, called the Investigative Bureau, and talked to a sergeant named Anton Bach who said, “So we’re not talking suspects.”
“Just doing some background.”
“If it’s the Smiths I’m thinking about, never heard of any problems from them.”
“The trust is under G. S. Smith.”
“Hold on.”
Moments later: “Yeah, a guy here says those are the Smiths I was thinking about. G. S. stands for George Seward, he started the company back around the Civil War. My grandfather worked for them during World War Two. Smith Machine Works, parts for cranes, suspension bridges, the big stuff. They closed down when the steel industry tanked. I’m not sure any of the family is still around.”
“Would you have any specific names?”
“Hold on.”
Moments later: “My guy says no, can’t help you there. What kind of background are we talking about, Lieutenant?”
“One of their possible descendants is a homicide victim.”
“Possible?”
“That’s what I’m trying to clear up.”
“Ah, got it,” said Bach. “In terms of names, I could see if we can locate that trust.”
“That would be highly appreciated, Sergeant.”
“Andy’s fine. To be honest, I’m not sure where to go with it, never looked for a trust. Give me your number in case it takes time.”
I motioned to Milo.
“Sure, one more question from my partner, Andy. Gimme a sec.”
I said, “If the trust owned real estate, there’d be a record of that in the property tax rolls.”
Milo relayed the message. Bach said, “Hmm, good idea. I’ll put you on hold, if it goes fast, right back at you.”
Dead air.
Milo drummed my desk, pulled a pencil out of a drawer and rolled it between his fingers.
I said, “That went smoothly. Talk about connections.”
“Get me a private deal for an enormous party pad and I’ll start to feel important.”
Andy Bach clicked in. “You were right, real estate was the way to go. Trust owned a bunch of properties, sold ’em all a while back. But I found the same face page attached to some of the transactions and it’s got names on it. City’s been converting to PDF, give me your email.”
“Thanks a heap. You come to L.A., I’ll take you out for a big steak.”
“Last I was in L.A. it was years ago, with the wife and kids. Disneyland, Space Mountain, junk food, those pickles at Disneyland look like they’re made in outer space. God forbid I should have time for a quiet meal. But who knows?”
—
The information had arrived by the time Milo switched to his departmental email.
The sixteenth iteration of the G. S. Smith Family Trust had been set up sixty-four years ago for the benefit of the children of Oletta Elizabeth Smith and Weston Osmond Smith.
The minor children Weston Abel Smith, fourteen; James Finbar Smith, eleven; Sarah Oletta Smith, eight; Enid Lauretta Smith, six.
A separate page on the seventeenth iteration, four years after that, added another beneficiary: the newborn child of Oletta and Martin Rutherford, Agatha Zina Rutherford.
Milo said, “Enid and Zina. Finally, the gods have had enough random.”
He printed and we went into the kitchen where I made coffee and he scrounged himself a piece of cold roast beef and couple of less-than-optimal bagels that aerobicized his jaws. We’d just sat down when Robin came in with Blanche.
Hugs, kisses, Milo’s fake-grudging stoop to pet Blanche and feed her shreds of beef. She lingered near his trouser cuffs, panted a couple of times, and burped lustily before settling her head atop his shoe.
Robin said, “Someone’s in love.”
“Can’t help myself, kid. Animal magnetism strikes again.”
“I can feel the earth tilting on its axis. What are you guys up to?”
I poured coffee for her, pulled out a chair.
“Thanks but I think I’ll stand, hon. Been at the bench all day.”
I gave her a recap as she stood next to me sipping, her free hand running through my hair.
She said, “Blended family. That can get complicated.”
I said, “A half sister tossed into the mix, ten years younger than the youngest of the full sibs.”
“Baby of the family got displaced?”
“If Mr. Rutherford stole Mommy away from Mr. Smith, there’d be way more reason for hostility than that. It would also give Enid good reason for not wanting to deal with a usurper’s offspring. If Zelda really was Zina’s daughter. Or even claimed to be.”
“Someone shows up out of the blue, declaring herself family,” said Robin. “Not a pleasant surprise.”
Milo said, “Psychology’s fine but money talks. Membership in this family would mean being an heir. What sounds like serious dough, even divided four ways.”
I said, “Even more so if some of the others have died.”
Robin said, “Bigger slice of the pie, more motivation not to share.”
“Easy enough to find out who the current beneficiaries are, now that we’ve got full names.”
