Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (25 page)

We are guessing there is a good chance that the animal DNA may match Dingus, Emma’s dog. If so, it would unquestionably place Sofia at Emma’s house prior to her murder. We are holding off on discussing this with the sheriff’s department until we know more. The problem is that Sofia’s murder is now inextricably tied up in Emma’s case. Anything we discuss with the sheriff’s department is sure to be shared with the police and prosecutors in Robert Brauer’s homicide. The evidence speaks for itself, but our theory of defense does not. It’s best kept to ourselves, at least for the moment, and probably through trial.

The fact that unknown human DNA was also found under Sofia’s nails provides probative evidence as to the identity of her killer. It’s probable that these microscopic tissue samples were the result of defensive efforts by Sofia when she scratched her assailant, who was in the act of strangling her from behind. She might not have seen her killer, but science can identify him, if he can be found.

To that end, Herman and a few of his minions have been combing the records gathering background information on Ricardo Menard, the man Theo Lang told us was having an affair with Sofia.

This morning Herman and I are strapped into our seats on the Boeing 737-300, listening to the whine of the jet engines as I pore through Herman’s investigative report.

Menard is married to Paige Proctor Menard, twelve years his senior. She is the daughter of Henry Jason Proctor, a wealthy industrialist who controlled several corporations and amassed a fortune producing high-end medical equipment. He was widowed and then died three years ago, leaving his entire fortune, now estimated at more than $4 billion, to his only daughter, Paige.

Seven years ago Paige Proctor married Ricardo Menard, a twenty-seven-year-old Costa Rican whose family was well known in Central America. For several generations the Menard clan had been wealthy planters and plantation owners who were considered to be possessed of old money, most of it now gone.

According to Herman’s reports, Menard played the part of Latin royalty, the eligible bachelor looking for a worthy princess, until he netted the gringo heiress. It was love at first sight. Paige Proctor was enamored with Menard’s rugged good looks and trim body, which had been hardened by long seasons on the backs of polo ponies. Menard, his parents, and from all accounts the entire extended family were in love with Proctor’s money.

The only one not keen on the match was Henry Proctor. He tried to bring his daughter home and put an end to it. When that failed, he insisted on a prenuptial agreement to be crafted by his own lawyers. Otherwise, he threatened to cut his daughter off financially.

According to reports, the agreement was signed by the couple, the terms of which remain private and presumably locked away somewhere by the lawyer who drafted it. It is safe to assume, however, that a divorce might very well leave Ricardo Menard high and dry in terms of any marital settlement. Henry Proctor was no fool.

The Menards are prominent members of the social set in Southern California. They have given generously to the local university medical center, as well as a long list of other charities. On society pages, pictures included, they appear to be the ideal couple.

Paige Menard serves on six separate boards of major public corporations. Ricardo serves on three, all of them smaller corporate entities, what appear to be the crumbs pushed off the table by his wife’s family. I recognize one of these, Genantro Ltd., a plastic fabricating company. It was one of the lesser holdings of Henry Proctor’s old empire. Sofia listed it as one of her prior employers on her resume when she applied to become my assistant. I assume it is where she met Ricardo Menard.

I am also guessing that it was Menard who told Sofia to come to the firm and look for a job. He would have known there was a good chance we’d be hiring. Harry and I were sitting on a pile of money from the IRS whistle-blower’s fund. We had performed legal work for a client who outed US taxpayers with hidden offshore bank accounts in Switzerland. Paige Menard was one of them. She was sitting on a numbered account in her maiden name that had been opened before they were married. It totaled nearly $10 million, pocket change that I’m sure Ricardo didn’t know about it until it was brought to his attention. It’s the little things that pop up when you’re working on a computer. In this case it was a global search under the name “Proctor” that kicked out a spreadsheet from the Swiss banking case.

The Menards maintain two homes: a large private estate overlooking the ocean in the hills above Del Mar, and another sizable palace on a golf course in Las Vegas. There is also a ranch in Santa Ynez where Ricardo runs a string of polo ponies.

Herman has provided overhead shots of everything so that I can properly assess their wealth. It’s the funny thing about money. No matter how much you have, someone else always has more. I’m not complaining, mind you. Not with my own private army of investigators complete with an air force of aerial drones and cameras to get what I need.

THIRTY-TWO

I
n less than an hour the wheels of the 737 touch down on the runway at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas.

It wasn’t hard to find Ricardo Menard. In a little more than a week Herman not only located him but discovered that the bloom was off the rose on the Menard marriage. It seems that Mrs. Menard occupies the house in Del Mar while Ricardo holds forth in Vegas. They get together for social and commercial obligations and that’s about it. The marriage is one of convenience, each living a separate life. Ricardo flies his fast and loose, though well under the public radar. Not that his wife couldn’t find out if she made the effort. I have to assume she doesn’t care, as long as he doesn’t land in the public square and become an embarrassment.

Herman and I step off the plane and down the jetway. Inside the terminal, past the security checkpoint, we see the driver with Herman’s name on a white placard. Herman buttonholes the man and we head for the car. Neither of us is carrying luggage, except for my leather folio, which contains Herman’s report. Traveling light. We hope to be back in San Diego by tonight.

Outside we climb into the back of the black town car. The driver in the front seat starts the engine and turns on the air. He already has the address.

“I was gonna do a stretch limo,” says Herman, “but I thought it might be a tad splashy. Don’t want to overdo it. Just blend in.”

“What kind of security do they have?”

“My man saw some muscle,” he says. “They’re probably armed, but if so, they keep it behind closed doors.”

One of Herman’s investigators got into the place yesterday afternoon posing as a guest. He cased the place and reported back as to what he found. Herman wanted to know why I insisted on doing this myself. He and his investigators could have done it. I told him it was personal. Joselyn has no idea where I am. If she did, she would have insisted on coming. It would have been more than a little awkward.

“How far is it?”

“Half hour, maybe forty minutes, depending on traffic,” he says.

We catch the highway and head east toward the hills above the city.

According to the investigators, Ricardo’s Las Vegas home, the mansion overlooking the golf course, has eight bedrooms. He slept in none of them on seven of the nine nights that the investigators followed him.

Instead he stayed at a very large private estate in the hills above the city. From the air the place looks like a Bavarian castle. Something you might see overlooking the Danube. It has a spectacular view of the lights along the Vegas Strip at night. There is a long road leading up to the mansion through dense woodlands. The lush forest of large trees on the otherwise barren hillside makes clear that the property has been well watered and tended for years.

It was purchased from the estate of one of the major Hollywood stars who died a few years ago. According to our research, the buyers were a limited liability partnership, a joint venture on which Menard’s name doesn’t appear at all. On paper the sole asset is the mammoth house and the property surrounding it. The stated purpose of the business is real estate investment.

In point of fact, the only thing the partners seem to be invested in is flesh: hot and cold running women at all hours of the day and night. They show up in private vehicles, pass through the security gates, and disappear onto the twenty acres that make up the fenced compound.

We wouldn’t have a clue as to what was going on inside except for the overhead drones. The area around the pool is an eye-popper. It was the video from there that gave me my first view of Menard in action.

Herman tells me to put my wallet and the leather folio under the seat in the car, and hands me another wallet. This one contains a New York driver’s license in the name of “Gerald Aims.” It contains several credit cards and business cards, various other items, all in the same name. “Don’t use any of the credit cards to pay for anything,” he tells me. “If they require payment, I’ll use mine.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask,” he says. “If they ask you who I am, I’m just doing my usual job. I’m your security. High-toned gentlemen who come here don’t talk much,” says Herman, “especially about their lives on the outside, business or personal. They won’t expect you to, so don’t. The wallet is just for cover in the event you get pressed,” he says.

“Where did you get it?”

“That’s the other question you shouldn’t ask,” says Herman. “The only thing you need to know, if they squeeze you, is that your name is Gerald Aims. You’re the manager of a New York hedge fund. Take a look at the business card and try to remember the address. Don’t worry about the office phone number. If they ask, tell them you never call it cuz it’s programmed into your cell phone. If they ask you where your phone is, tell them you never bring it to places like this. They will expect you to protect your privacy. And they will probably expect you to be nervous, so don’t worry about it. Half the guys who go to a place like this do it for the rush, then they don’t enjoy it because they’re sweatin’ and shaking too much, worried that Vice is gonna drop in on ’em any second and put an end to their nice whitewashed lives.”

I tell him, “No, we’re not going to do it that way.” Herman thinks we’re going in undercover. “I intend to deal with him face-to-face. Tell him who I am, why I’m here, and see what he says.” One of the many things I need to know is whether Menard knew Sofia was pregnant when she died. If so, it would elevate motive for murder considerably and perhaps bump him to the head of the list of suspects.

Herman and I tried to find other areas where we could approach and make contact with Menard, but it wasn’t possible. Whenever Menard travels he’s with security. They drive him everywhere. He never goes to town, visits the Strip and the casinos, or makes any other stops. His household staff, including two maids, a footman, and his driver, run all his errands and do his shopping.

“The man is more cautious than a mainline mobster,” says Herman. “Why do you think?”

“I don’t know. Maybe protecting his good name,” I tell him. “The last thing Menard needs is the paparazzi shooting pictures of him with another woman.”

“Oh yeah, that’s the other thing,” he says. “They’re gonna pat you down, so be ready for it. And no cameras. They will tell you that. So if they ask, tell them you don’t have one. Also they will run you through the magnetometer.”

If even a whiff got into one of the Hollywood tabloids or some blog, and if Paige Menard got her nose rubbed in it by her society friends, I’m guessing that it would be back to Costa Rica for Ricky and an end to the Proctor money machine.

Last year he filed a financial statement for a loan on a $2 million Sun Ray Sundancer speedboat. Ricardo showed an annual salary of four and a half million dollars for attending twelve corporate board meetings. Harry and I figured it out. The pro forma meetings that required him to sign a few papers would have taken less than ten hours of his time in total. That’s $460,000 an hour. I doubt if Ricardo could make that picking fruit back home. It begs the question why he couldn’t pay cash for the boat. My guess is a good part of his cash flies south to take care of his family.

How Sofia penetrated his bubble of security is obvious. He saw something he liked and let her in—like a Venus flytrap.

We arrive at the front gate. Herman hands a slip of paper to the driver with the key code written on it. The driver punches it in and the gate opens.

“They change out the code every other day,” Herman tells me.

One of his people picked the current code with a spotting scope yesterday morning when another guest arrived. We’re guessing that the code is listed on an encrypted site on the Internet. You can’t get onto the site unless you’re registered and have a password. How they keep registered members from giving the gate code to others we don’t know. But Herman’s investigator had no difficulty getting into the main house last night once he punched through the gate. We’re praying that the same thing happens today.

THIRTY-THREE

T
he driver has instructions to take the town car and wait for us in the parking area. Herman tells him we will try to be out in less than an hour. If we are not out in ninety minutes he is to call a number given to him by Herman. It is a call for backup, licensed investigators in Nevada who are armed and stationed just a few miles away, to come and get us out.

The driver pulls up in front of the main house and gets out. He opens the door for Herman and me and we climb out of the car. The building is Romanesque, with two cylindrical towers capped by ornate finials. Two security men in black suits are waiting for us on the stairs.

“Good day, gentlemen, how are you?” We exchange a few pleasantries and then they get down to business. “I take it neither of you is carrying any firearms or cameras?”

We both shake our heads, say no, and raise our arms; then they pat us down. As soon as they are finished, they step aside and wave us on up the stairs toward the main entrance.

Inside, the dark Jacobean wood paneling of the large entry hall seems to swallow up the light from the outside before the door even closes behind us. We are confronted by two other security guards, both in tight-fitting black suits, with bulging biceps and quads. “Is either of you a member?”