Motive (5 page)

I pointed that out to Milo.

He said, “Ursula’s killer staked the place out beforehand?”

“I would.”

He laughed.

I started the engine. “Where now?”

“The station to drop off the surveillance disks, then Richard Corey’s condo …” He consulted his notes. “Jamestown Way, Mandalay Bay. Unless I arrest Daddy first, it’ll be his job to tell the daughters.”

He alerted Moe Reed, and the young detective, blond and pink as ever, big arms threatening to burst through his sleeves, was waiting outside the station to take the CDs.

“Have fun, Moses.”

“Movie night?” said Reed. “Maybe I’ll call out for pizza.”

“Beer, too,” said Milo. “In case you find nothing and your mood drops.”

“I’m used to that, L.T.,” said Reed. “Beer doesn’t sound bad, though.”

West L.A. to the beach towns above Malibu is an hour minimum. I hit some clog on the 405 prior to the 101 transfer, compensated with fast-lane lead-footing, made it in sixty-five minutes. Milo had slept through most of the ride. As I rolled into Oxnard, he sat up, knuckled his eyes, and groaned and muttered something about surfing.

I said, “Ever try it?”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “Sharks eat walruses.”

Oxnard is one of Ventura County’s toughest towns, an often hardscrabble place rimmed at the outer borders by agribusiness and truck yards. Next come layers of trailer parks catering to seasonal farmworkers and modest tracts occupied by multiple generations of blue-collar families. A notable Latino gang presence proclaims itself with angular graffiti. Crime rates are among the highest in the region.

A whole different Oxnard appears when you cruise past miles of high-end industrial park and head west toward the ocean. A whole different planet appears when you reach the harbor: luxury hotels, tourist piers offering seafood and whale-watching tours, recreational marinas crowded with sleek white yachts that occasionally leave their berths.

High-end developments cluster along the inlets carved into the city’s western rim. Mandalay Bay was one of those, a finger of serene blue water lined with fresh-looking single dwellings and condominiums, many equipped with docks and boat slips.

As we approached the apricot-colored, side-by-side duplex Richard Corey called home, a vee of pelicans soared overhead and brine itched my nose. Corey, R./Urrick Ltd. was the northern unit.

The man who came to the door was bald and rangy, with a pointy white goatee roughened by random errant hairs. He wore a faded navy
polo T-shirt and yellow paisley shorts. His feet were bare, his arms and face tanner than his legs. Half-glasses perched low on a long, fleshy nose. His eyes were small, brown, watery. The portion of face not taken up by the chin beard was coated with two or three days of stubble.

“Yes?”

“Richard Corey? Lieutenant Sturgis, Los Angeles police.”

“Los Angeles?” Corey adjusted his spectacles and read Milo’s card. “Homicide? I don’t understand.”

“May we come in, please?”

Corey blanched. “One of the girls? Oh God—don’t
tell
me that!”

“Your ex-wife, I’m afraid.”

Corey staggered. The card fell from his fingers. He made no effort to retrieve it. “Ursula? No way. I just spoke to her this morning.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss—”

“My loss?” said Corey. “What about the girls—we have daughters.” He gaped. “Do they know?”

“Not yet, Mr. Corey. May we come in?”

“Oh, God, how am I going to tell them? Ursula? What happened?” Corey’s breath caught. His mouth remained open, streaming sour breath. “How could this happen? Where did it happen?”

“Could we come in to talk about it, sir?”

“Come in? Of course, you need to come in, sure, yeah. My God!” Corey stepped aside. Both of his cheeks were tear-streaked.

A lot of detective work is accomplished over the phone. Some D’s even notify telephonically. Milo had come in person because, among other things, he wanted to study Richard Corey’s initial reaction. Psychopaths, skillful as they are at manipulating others, have trouble with emotional regulation and generally screw up at either extreme: theatrical histrionics or cold stoicism.

To my eye, Richard Corey’s behavior revealed nothing. I glanced at Milo as we entered the condo. Detective stoicism.

Corey trailed us then sped up and walked ahead, collapsing on a sagging brown fake-suede sofa and burying his face in his hands. The
space was expansive and well laid out: open floor setup with a slick chrome-and-teak kitchen, high beamed ceilings, glass instead of plaster wherever feasible, exposing gorgeous views of the inlet and the ocean beyond.

But years after his divorce, Corey hadn’t done his bachelor pad justice. The place he’d chosen to sink a million and a half dollars into remained as sparse and sad as a newly single man’s temporary crib: blank walls, unadorned wood floors, just the one sofa and two metal-and-black-vinyl folding chairs for seating, a forty-inch plasma screen set up on cinderblocks and bottomed by a pasta of wires, a flimsy-looking treadmill to the right of the hallway leading to the sleeping area.

Blocking the bottom half of the best view—French doors leading to an empty deck—was an off-kilter plywood desk topped by a laptop, a cell phone dock, and a laser printer. More wire-snarl coiled to the floor. Stacks of paper covered a good third of the floor.

The place smelled of ocean and stale food and inertia.

We stood by as Richard Corey sat on his sole piece of upholstery and cried silently.

Finally, he muttered, “Sorry,” and looked up. Sniffing, he crossed to the kitchen, fumbled in several drawers, and returned with a dinner napkin that he used to dry his face. His knees knocked against each other. He tugged at his beard. “What the hell
happened
?”

Milo said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you, sir, but Mrs. Corey was shot in the parking lot of her lawyer’s office building.”

“Fellinger’s building? That’s Century City. What, a mugging? Someone jacked the Jag?”

“Doesn’t appear that way.”

“Then what?” said Corey. “This makes no sense!”

“That’s why we’re here, sir. To try to make sense.”

Corey didn’t move or speak. We sat down on the folding chairs.

“Fellinger,” Corey repeated. “She told me she’d made an appointment. That’s what I meant by we just spoke.”

“When was that, sir?”

“This morning, maybe eight. We had some business issues—we run a business, a shipment was held up in Thailand. While she was on the phone she said she was going over to Fellinger’s. But nothing about the divorce, she wanted to make sure I knew that.”

“Did she tell you the reason for her meeting with Mr. Fellinger?”

“She wanted to divvy up her jewelry for the girls. I told her that was morbid, she was young, healthy.”

Richard Corey sucked in air. “What the fuck did I know? Oh, God.” He began to sob, caught himself. “So what exactly the hell
happened
—” Panic tightened his face. “Oh, no, I need to tell the girls soon.”

“Sir, if we could—”

“How do I do it? You’re the expert. How do you tell your kids something like that?”

“After we talk a bit, we can help you with that.” Milo’s eyes drifted to me.
Your mission, should you choose to accept it
.

Richard Corey rocked horizontally. “This is
vile
.”

I said, “So Mrs. Corey told you this morning she was going to be meeting with Mr. Fellinger.”

Nod.

“She didn’t want you to worry—”

“We were divorced three years ago but went back for a few negotiations. She didn’t want me to think it was more of the same.”

“Sounds like you two remained friendly.”

“Friendly?” said Corey. “Far as I’m concerned we broke up legally but not spiritually—oh, man, I need a drink.”

Hurrying back to the kitchen he removed a half-f bottle of Bombay Sapphire from a cupboard, poured a couple of fingers into a juice glass, swigged half at the counter. Pouring enough gin to refill and then some, he plopped back down on the couch. Liquid splashed on one knee. He wet a finger with the gin and licked.

Milo said, “You and Mrs. Corey—”

“Never Mrs.,
Ms
., Ursula was all about independence. She’s bright, capable, a great mom—what the hell am I going to tell the girls?”

“It’s never easy but we can guide you, if you’d like.”

“I would,” said Corey, slumping and covering his face with his hands. “I am
lost
.”

“Soon enough, sir, but I do need to ask questions.”

Corey looked up. “Sure, yeah, I get it, this is business for you. Fine. What can I tell you?”

“You and Ms. Corey have been divorced for three years but you don’t feel you broke up spiritually.”

“I’m speaking metaphorically. From here.” Corey patted the polo player logo on his shirt. “There was a special bond between us. I never stopped loving Ursula and I believe she never stopped loving me. It’s been that way since we met.”

“Where’d you meet?”

“Twenty-four years ago, business seminar in Scottsdale, bunch of Wall Street types offering the pathway to riches. Total bull, Ursula and I both realized it soon and bonded over skepticism. Once we learned about each other’s backgrounds and talents, we decided to explore starting a business. The other stuff came later.”

I said, “The personal stuff.”

Corey nodded. “We’re not Buffett but we built a great business. And yes, it got personal pretty soon. Like half a year in.”

He gazed out at the water.

Milo said, “What were your backgrounds?”

“I’d worked in garment wholesaling. My training’s in accounting.” His shoulders dropped. “Basically high-level bean-counting but no company I ever worked with wasn’t profitable. Ursula had a degree from the London School of Economics—she’s English, lived all around the world but mostly in Asia, her father was a military attaché in a bunch of different places. When I met her, she’d never run a business but she was creative and understood about the Asian submarket here in the U.S. We made a fantastic team.”

“What do you do?”

Corey’s face crumpled. “Without Ursula, I don’t know what’s going to happen … can we do anything?”

Milo waited.

Corey said, “What was the question?”

“Your business—”

“We import consumer goods, mostly from Vietnam and Thailand. Ursula handpicks everything, I’ve never been to Asia, Ursula’s been there probably fifty, sixty times, she’s the inside person, spots bargains that we then sell to retailers—who the fuck would
do
this to my
girl
!”

Emptying his glass of gin, he began to rise.

Milo stepped forward and blocked his way. “If you don’t mind, sir, we’d prefer to talk to you without any more alcohol in your system.”

Corey looked at him, chastened. “I’m able to maintain.”

“I’m sure you are, sir—”

“Fine. You’re doing your job, I don’t envy you.” Corey sank back. “What else do you want to know?”

“Please don’t be offended, sir, but I need to ask. Where were you between nine a.m. and noon today?”

“I was here doing paperwork.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“Did anyone—you’re kidding. No, I guess you’re not. Okay, I get it, I’ve seen those crime shows, the husband is always the first suspect, I get it, no offense. Unfortunately I don’t have any sort of alibi. Which I would have if I’d planned to do something criminal, right? I mean, the last thing I thought I’d need when I woke up this morning was an alibi. Like I said, Ursula called me around eight, I was already online, trying to work out snags with the shipping agent in Bangkok, and I stayed right here doing just that. Haven’t left the place in days, if you want to know. Okay?”

“Okay, sir. Thank you.”

“So what now?” said Corey. “I’m a serious suspect? No problem, do your thing, I have nothing to hide. But it’ll only take time out from your investigation.”

“I’m sure, sir—”

“Hey,” said Corey, holding up a finger. “I just
thought
of something.” Angry laugh. “Maybe I
do
have an alibi. Those shows, they say cell phones can be traced. From the towers. Is that true?”

“We are able to pinpoint—”

“Then pinpoint away. When I wasn’t on the computer—which you can also check—I was on the phone. The towers will tell you I was right here. Never moved my ass.”

Reaching around, he scratched said body part. Did the same for his beard. Dandruff floated onto his chest.

“That would be helpful,” said Milo. “If you give us permission to—”

Corey jumped up, strode to the cheap desk, touched the screen of his laptop. “C’mere.”

He logged onto his email, scrolled slowly, giving us a clear view of sixty or seventy messages over the three-hour time frame. Nearly every correspondence sounded like business: All Star Fashion Imports, Yamata Home Decorating, Paradise Gifts of Chinatown, two pages of correspondence from Bang-Buck Superior Goods and Lading of Bangkok, Ltd.

Only one exception that I could see: [email protected] had written twice.

“My younger daughter,” said Corey, opening the first message.

“Sydney’s her horse.” Corey moaned and logged off.

Milo said, “Busy morning.”

“No different from any other, welcome to my life,” said Corey. “Ursula’s the artistic one, I do the boring stuff and there’s plenty of it. So can we put it to rest—my need for an alibi?”

Men in his tax bracket often delegated. Being home and occupied didn’t rule out a hired killer.

Milo said, “Sorry to offend you, sir, but like I said, we need to ask difficult questions.” He motioned toward the sofa. Corey seemed to balk at complying but ended up shrugging and sinking back into the depression he’d created in the cushions. Placing his hands on his bare knees, he sat rigidly, staring straight ahead.

Milo said, “I know this is a tough time, Mr. Corey—”

“No need to preface, ask what you want.”

“We’ve already spoken to Mr. Fellinger and Mr. Cohen and they’ve given us a basic history but couldn’t get into details. Apparently you and Ms. Corey returned to your lawyers to dispute financial issues—”