David Bishop - Matt Kile 04 - Find My Little Sister (25 page)

Like most attorneys, the litigators anyway, Brad Fisher had his office within an easy walk of the courthouse. Also nearby were several restaurants and a couple of Long Beach’s upscale watering holes where more pleas were bargained and settlements reached than in all their paneled conference rooms.

The lobby in Brad Fisher’s office included a photograph of four men in golf attire. The plaid pants and wide white belts told me this particular golf outing had occurred quite some years before. I recognized one of the four men, Dick Fisher. The receptionist said Dick was Brad’s brother. I had met Dick on the golf course a few years ago when I was still playing golf. I’m going to play again, you understand. I haven’t quit. I’ve just retreated. When I find the right set of clubs for my kind of swing, I’ll be back out there. Someday I plan to shoot my age. It’s one of those goals a man sets for himself to prevent fully abandoning the little boy that secretly lives inside. And, one day, I will shoot my age, if I live long enough.

Dick Fisher is an OB-GYN; which tells me Dick was smarter than his brother, Brad, who, as a criminal lawyer, spends his days dealing with assholes.

Brad Fisher came out to greet me. I liked that. It was less high hat than having me ushered in to first see him sitting behind some whale-sized, hand-rubbed desk. We got coffee, which Brad schlepped himself, another gesture that labeled him a down-to-earth guy. We got right to it.

Garson Talmadge’s children, born Sappho and Charaxus, but known as Susan and Charles, had given statements to the cops that their stepmother, Clarice, must have killed their father. The son, Charles, told Sergeant Fidgery his father had called the night of his death, around two in the morning and that his father had said he was going to change his will to leave nothing to his wife. This meant Clarice would only get the one million she was promised in their prenuptial. The daughter, Susan, said Charles had called her right afterwards to share the news from Daddy, or Papa as they called Garson.

Garson’s corporate attorney, Blackton, had confirmed to Brad Fisher that Garson had called to set an appointment to change his will. At the time, Blackton had been on the way to the courthouse, so they had not talked long.

“Blackton and Garson Talmadge were going to meet next week,” Fisher had said. “Wishful thinking would say that Talmadge had decided to drop his kids from his will. They got wind of it, killed him and framed their stepmother. The prosecution will argue Garson wanted to cut out Clarice, and the D.A. has the son’s testimony supporting that claim. On top of that he has Garson’s attorney lined up to confirm that Garson had planned to change his will. I can get Susan’s testimony stricken. It’s hearsay because she heard it from her brother, not directly from her father. I should have a copy of Garson Talmadge’s will tomorrow. The big problem is the prosecution’s contention is the more credible: that an elderly man would be more likely to drop his nubile wife from his will than to cut off his children. This point will score big for the prosecution. And it keeps getting better for the D.A.’s office,” Fisher added. “Clarice was the only person in the locked condo with her dead husband. The scarf and pillow used in the shooting were hers, the gun her husband’s. A jury would figure any other shooter would have brought his own tools. It’s all circumstantial, but short of an eye witness, the D.A. has an effective game plan.”

“Hell, Brad,” I said, trying to put something on the other side of the scales of justice. “Garson’s kids have lots of reasons to lie. If Clarice is found guilty, the two kids will likely split the millions she would have gotten under the executed will.”

“Five million is the number that fits in your comment. The unchanged will, the only will at the time of his death, gives her five million with about ten more to be split between Susan and Charlie.”

“So,” I said, quickly doing the math, “the kids each get an extra 2.5 mil. Lots of murders have been done for less.”

“Not quite. The prenuptial guarantees her one million, so each of the kids would net an extra two mil. But, Matt, may I call you Matt?” I nodded. “We’re facing their testimony about the phone calls and for now, we have to assume the D.A. will produce phone records confirming Garson called his son who then called his sister. He’ll have Blackton for corroboration to the extent that Talmadge did plan to revise. Now, for the whipped cream and cherry: the jury, being mothers and fathers themselves, will want to accept any argument other than children kill their fathers for money. As for the greed of the two children, if Garson had planned to drop Clarice from his will, the kids could’ve done nothing and ended up splitting the other five mil, well, four, net of the prenup. So they don’t appear to have even a financial reason for killing their father.”

“Other than the
more and sooner rule
,” I offered in weak counter. “More money is better than less and getting it sooner is better than getting it later. They’d get more money and receive it sooner
with Daddy dead and their pigeon convicted.”

“I need you to primarily focus on those two kids,” Fisher said. “Find me some dirt to sprinkle on ‘em, anything that might give them a motive to kill their father. If we can discredit them, even a little, I might knock a chunk out of the D.A.’s foundation. I also want you to find out where the kids were the night Garson was killed.”

“Maybe Garson killed himself to make it look like Clarice did it?” I asked without much enthusiasm.

“At this point, anything’s possible,” Brad said, with his reply matching my comment for lack of enthusiasm. “But we have no reason to believe he hated his wife enough to punch his own ticket to frame her. While you’re working the kids’ angle, I’ll check into his health and state of mind, but for now we’ve got no clothesline on which to hang suicide.”

“What have you learned about Garson’s business affairs?” I asked. “Around the building, he always changed the subject when talk swung toward how he’d made his dough.”

Brad stood up and moved out from behind his desk. After looking down, he pinched his left trouser pleat, raised the pant leg and then released it. The cuff had been hung up on the lace of his wingtip. Then, with his slacks shipshape, he continued.

“There’s no reason for secrecy now that Talmadge is dead. Blackton told me old man Talmadge was a dealer in weapons who primarily sold to Saddam Hussein, brokering for some unnamed French munitions manufacturers. Blackton doesn’t know specifics because he only represented Talmadge in his U.S. business and personal dealings. Blackton did, however, allege that Talmadge told him he had stopped selling weapons after he got U.S. citizenship.”

“We got ourselves a small contradiction,” I said. “The kids told Sergeant Fidgery that their father stopped dealing weapons fifteen years ago, five years before the three of them came to the States. Now Blackton told you that Talmadge said he stopped after he got his citizenship which was about ten years ago.”

“I know Blackton,” Fisher said, “he’s as big a dove on defense as there is, so it figures Blackton wouldn’t have anything good to say about anyone in that business. I think he’s trying to help me as much as he can. That started when he referred Clarice to me. To be clear, though, Blackton didn’t say Talmadge was still running guns. That’s just me covering the possibilities. You know something, that old man must have had a real crust on him. I mean, selling death. Then again, I suppose everyone has some good points.”

“I suppose,” I said with a shrug. “But some folks keep them well hidden.”

Brad Fisher and I went on to discuss the more likely Plan B: French arms manufacturers and politicians as well as Middle East conduits were worried. Their concern: weapons found in Iraq would be traced back to Talmadge who, to protect his American citizenship, might be squeezed into talking. That seemed more likely than kids killing their papa, but any good investigator follows up more than one lead. Most don’t pan out, a few do. It’s a numbers game.

By the end of our meeting, Fisher had convinced me to become his investigator, part of his defense team. Truth was I had already made up my mind to look into Garson’s death. Working for the defense would legitimize my digging and grease my access to some information. The nasty part, Fidge and I would be on opposite sides. But I had realized that from the start.

Then again, maybe Clarice had been right, maybe I had gotten a PI license because I still liked to think of myself as a detective. That could also explain why I had taken on the investigation. In any event, I wasn’t altogether comfortable with my refresher course coming in a case which could jeopardize the woman’s freedom, maybe even her life. It would also be disingenuous if I did not admit I lusted to see a grateful Clarice in something more fetching than jailhouse orange. Clarice was now a widow which meant, under my code, she was back in play.

Garson’s daughter lived on the second floor of an older, two-story stucco-and-wood building about a block from what the locals called Cherry Beach. Cherry was a little sandy inlet near Belmont Shore, a tired, but not an unattractive neighborhood populated with beach lovers who come in all ages and sizes. For decades, foxy chicks have loitered on the Cherry to attract stares before feigning indignation at being gawked. Nothing about that had changed much over the decades except for the shrinkage of women’s bathing suits—one of the very few ways the modern world had improved the good-old days.

The records in Brad Fisher’s office showed Susan Talmadge to be thirty-eight years old, the same age as her stepmother, Clarice. No, I never asked Clarice her age. Once a man got to know the modern woman he could ask if she was wearing a bra, even panties, but it would always remain tacky to ask her age. Clarice had once told me she was exactly half her husband’s age, and I had attended Garson’s seventy-sixth birthday the month before.

I got to Susan Talmadge’s place around noon, a fourplex, two on the ground with two above. I walked up wooden stairs and after two rings separated by reasonable patience, I rang once more, but my heart wasn’t in the third attempt. No answer was the risk of coming without being expected, but I didn’t like people I planned to interrogate to have prior notice of my arrival.

On the way down the steps, my eyes stopped on one of the well-tanned feminine refugees from Cherry Beach crossing at the nearby intersection. She was a full grown woman, not one of the older teens or young twenties that were common in the area. She wore a yellow bikini, which except for not having the polka dots, could have been the itsy, bitsy, teeny, weenie, yellow-polka dot bikini made famous in a 60’s song.

Through a well-executed plan I got to the bottom of the stairs just as she arrived at that point on the sidewalk. I admit the plan was a bit adolescent, but most men from their teens to their final days remain adolescent about shapely women with abundant cleavage, so I felt a certain duty to maintain my good standing in the men-of-the-world club.

“May I help you?” Her hand rested on the railing, her little finger touching the side of my hand.

With the way she filled that bikini, she could definitely have helped me, but instead of going with that thought, I held firm to my manners. “Excuse me?”

“You just came down from my front door. And you’re blocking me from going up. So, how can I help you?”

“Are you Sappho Talmadge?”

“Sappho is the name on my birth certificate. But please call me, Susan. Not Sue. I hate that.”

I introduced myself. We shook hands. Her come-on smile plus her curves totaled up to wow! As for me, if my smile could walk it would have stumbled.

When she turned sideways and came onto the stairs our noses, and more, bumped as she edged past me. I had come to surprise her, to catch her off guard. Instead, she had surprised me.

I followed her yellow and tan parts up the stairs while trying to maintain my composure, and remember what I had come to find out.

Once inside, I said, “Let’s start fresh. My name’s Kile. Matt Kile.”

“You’re not exactly a small man are you?”

“I tried to be. It just didn’t work out.”

She didn’t offer me a tour, but a quick look around revealed she had an obvious flair for decorating: excellent contemporary furniture nicely accessorized with pillows and paintings. She didn’t give me a tour, but I could see the kitchen was off the living/dining room, and she had a patio with an unobstructed view of the Pacific, complete with a space heater, surf and gull sounds. And a swing, not at all like the rope and tire hanging from a tree that my brother and I shared as kids. This was a small swing suspended by white nylon rope, with a padded seat adorned by a pleasantly sized impression that told me Susan sat there often.

She brought out a pitcher of iced tea, poured two glasses, and sat on the lower half of her yellow two-piece swimsuit. The upper yellow piece—I didn’t know the right name for that kind of top, oysters on the half shell came to mind—but I had never seen an oysters of that size jiggle like that. Actually I had never seen oysters of that size, jiggling or stationary; but I digress. The half shell nearly disappeared when she cinched her crossed arms under her breasts. Her body reminded me of her stepmother, Clarice, their playful sensualities also being very similar. I’m proud to say I also remembered the first question I came to ask.

I took a small sip of tea and steadied myself the way men always have in such circumstance, I glanced at her cleavage. It’s my theory that women who show cleavage want men to look, just not to leer. Men can allow their thoughts to linger, just not the looks. I didn’t disappoint her or myself; the look didn’t linger, but my thoughts did. Then I swam deeper into the water that had washed me onto her shore. “Tell me about your relationship with your stepmother.”

“She’s got a great little pooch. That Asta is a real sweetie pie. Where’s the dog now?”

“Asta is with me.”

“With you?”

“Yeah. I’ve never had a dog. Always figured that one day I’d get a man’s dog, but it’s just until Clarice gets out.”

“Gets out! That bitch is a murderer, or is it a murderess? She married Papa for his money. When Papa wised up to that fact and decided to drop her out of his will, she killed him.”

“She could have filed for a divorce,” I countered. “California is a community property state. That presumes a 50-50 split of assets.”

“Presumes?” She huffed, and then crossed her legs, leaving her top foot bobbing up and down the way I’d seen lots of women foot bob. And come to think of it, I’ve never seen a man foot bob; it must be part of those differences folks talk about. “The signed prenuptial,” she said, “establishes that all Papa’s assets were his sole and separate property. In it, she agreed not to make any claim challenging that point. In return, Papa agreed that she would get a minimum of one million as long as she stayed with him until he died or ended the marriage. The prenuptial also acknowledged he could use his will to leave her more if he chose to, but that he could change his will anytime at his sole discretion. His executed will stipulates Clarice will get a full third along with Charlie and me. If Papa took her out of the will, she would be back to the one mil in the prenup. That’s your motive: about four million dollars.”

“You sound like a lawyer.” I said, while watching her reverse the top gam in her crossed pair. The new top foot was not a bobber.

“And you strike me as a man pretty much at ease with himself.”

“I know who I am, what I believe in. But you haven’t answered me. I asked if you were a lawyer.”

“No, you didn’t. You said I sounded like a lawyer. That’s a statement, not a question.”

“That sounded like a lawyer, too. Are you an attorney?”

“I graduated from law school more than a year ago; I started later in life. Since then I’ve not taken a job. Papa provides my brother and me with an annual stipend. With that and some part time work, I get by. I’ll likely take serious employment someday. Not sure if it’ll be the law. Just haven’t had to decide, I guess.”

Actually I already knew that Susan had gone to law school. Clarice told me that Susan had attended the U.C.L.A. School of Law, but Clarice wasn’t certain if Susan had graduated. I checked. She had, with honors.

Susan uncrossed her legs, slid out of her sandals, and pulled her feet up onto the couch sideways, turning herself toward me. I waited patiently, watching the entire maneuver and could not have imagined it being done with more … how should I describe it, style?

“What kind of part time work?”

“I work at a few gentlemen’s clubs in the area. Strictly fill in … Ah, yes. The look. Your middle-class judgment.”

“No. No. That’s your business.”

“I saw your expression. You pulled it back, but it had already come. Just for your information, I don’t hook. I give it away to whomever I choose. At the clubs, I do some pole, frankly pole is really healthy work. I also do laps, mostly younger men wanting a new experience, and you middle-aged guys.”

“Ouch. That should even us up after my look, as you called it.”

“Do you want to change the subject?”

“I wish I had a few minutes ago.” We shared one of those brief, polite laughs. “Tell me about your mother.”

“I’m not clear on how that is relevant,” she said in mild protest, “but I don’t mind. Our mother was Iraqi. Charlie and I are twins.”

“Did your dad live in Iraq when you two were born?”

“No. Papa made business trips to Baghdad. I don’t know all that much about it. He went there a few times a year. That’s how he met our mother. I hate to admit it, but I don’t even know her name. Papa told me once when we were young, but I just don’t remember.”

“Were you raised in Baghdad?”

“No. When we were babies, Papa brought us to France where we grew up. He had a wife in Paris, and the three of us, Papa, Charlie and I, lived with her, and Papa continued his business trips to the Middle East. Ten years ago Papa divorced his French wife, and we moved to the U.S. and became citizens.”

“Where did your father meet Clarice?”

“Here. America,” she said, then narrowed it still further, “Long Beach. Rumor is she worked as an escort, but in fairness, we don’t know that for certain. Ask her. She’s your client. Although, I suspect, you’ve been formally retained by her attorney, this Fisher guy.”

“You know, you two, Clarice and you, look a bit alike aside from your slightly darker complexion.”

“It’s okay to say what you mean: our bodies are very similar. We wear the same size clothes. She’s a C-cup, I’m a D, other than that we’re the same. We have never shared clothing, however. May I ask you something, Mr. Kile?”

“Sure, but drop the Mr. Kile.”

“Matthew?”

“I prefer Matt.”
Although the way she said ‘Matthew’ sounded a lot hotter than when Fidge said it.

“All right, Matt. Why are you helping that bitch? She murdered Papa.”

“She’s only accused, not convicted. You know that, being a law school grad.”

“Technically speaking that’s true, but there’s no doubt. I’ve explained her motive. So, why are you helping her?” Susan again crossed her arms below what she had described as D cups. I let my look linger, breaking the rule. She reached over, put her fingers under my chin and raised my stare back to her eyes.

“She was with me that night,” I said, “early into the next morning. I don’t believe she did it.”

“I see.” She raised her eyebrows this time. “You two have a thing?”

“Clarice had come down to talk with me, scared someone might kill your father. She was frightened. I tried to console her.” I went on to tell Susan about the call for Gar—Jar—it would all come out anyway.

“She came down after Papa had gone to bed for the night,” Susan said, continuing her accusatory tone. “I can imagine how you consoled her, how she would want you to console her.”

“Nothing happened that night.”

“But you two have shared the sheets. Clarice loves to get it on. She told me so one night when we were both a bit soused. Papa knew she did, and he understood she had needs he could no longer fulfill. Still, she was always there for him when he could. I give her that much.”

“When they first moved in, I thought your father was her father.”

“Hey. It would have been out of character for her not to seduce you. Matt, you’re too much a hunk for her to pass up.”

Susan got up, stepped around the coffee table and faced me teasingly while leaning forward to refill our tea glasses.

I crossed my legs, the effect being nothing like when she had crossed hers. I added a throat clearing. She sat back down, trumping both my leg crossing and throat clearing.

“Okay,” I said, “we’ve established where I was the night your father was killed. Where were you?”

“I danced at the club until it closed at two. Right after that my brother called. A few of the other girls and I got out of there about two-thirty and went to an all-night diner for some early breakfast. Working on a pole can build up an appetite.”

I imagined it would for her; for me I’d work up the appetite watching her work the pole.

“Where was your brother that night?”

“All I know is he was home when he called me. He must have been out on his deck because I could hear his wind chimes. Let’s be a little less serious for a minute here. Can I get you something stronger than ice tea? I’ve got most anything you’d want.”

“Irish whiskey?”

“No. I’m sorry. I’m going to get some wine. Join me?”

“Sure. That’d be nice.”

“Its white wine. Okay?”

I nodded, although I had never really known if white wine was for drinkers or people who wished to appear to be sophisticated drinkers.

She came back a moment later carrying two stemmed wine glasses. The wine was obviously cold; the glasses were dressed in condensation. “Are you Irish?” she asked.

“With a name like Matthew Kile, what’s to doubt? But if you want proof, I’ll let you pet my leprechaun.”

“I’ve never heard it called that before. I guess it’s small.” She frowned. “All leprechauns are small, or so I hear.”