Читать книгу Predator - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 10

The web site for the Cervical Dystonia Center was founded twenty-five years ago by Baroness Graciela Johannesbourgh. The pictures of gala events in the recent past showed a tight-faced, tight-lipped, stick-thin blonde in her fifties wearing a multitude of gowns on a multitude of occasions. In the earlier archival pictures, Marge had noticed the baroness’s pronounced cant of the head to the right side. As the years passed, the twisting had lessened until her posture seemed completely normal. It used to be that cervical dystonia was a problem without many solutions, but now the condition was treated quite successfully with Botox.

Two in the afternoon, PST, meant five in the afternoon, EST. The foundation was probably closed, but she called anyway. The phone was picked up by a smoky voice.

“Cervical Dystonia Center.”

“Yes, this is Sergeant Marge Dunn from the Los Angeles Police Department. Is Hollie Hanson available?”

“This is Hollie.” A pause. “What can I help you with, Sergeant?”

“I’m trying to get hold of Graciela Johannesbourgh. I was told that you could connect me to her.”

“What is this in regards to?”

“Hobart Penny.”

“Is he all right?”

“It’s a personal matter.”

“I see.” A pause. “If you give me your name and number, I can pass the information forward to the baroness.”

Marge reiterated her name and gave Hollie the cell phone number. “If she could call me back, I’d appreciate it.”

“You know, Sergeant, I am aware of Mr. Penny’s age. And I also know that a call from the police isn’t typical unless there’s something wrong.”

Marge said, “Please have Ms. Johannesbourgh call me back.”

“I’ll give the baroness your message.”

“Thank you very—” But Marge was talking to a dead line. Next was Darius Penny. With any luck, he’d still be in the office. The line connected, she was transferred, and transferred, and transferred until she actually reached Darius Penny.

“It’s about my father?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He passed?”

“Yes, sir, he did.”

“When?”

Marge hesitated. “Probably two days ago.”

“Probably …” Silence. “It took a while to discover the body.”

“Something like that.”

“No surprise there. My father was a hermit. Where’s the body now?”

“With the county coroner.”

“Do you have a contact number? I’ll call right away and have someone transfer the body to a funeral home.”

“Sir, the body is being autopsied.”

“Autopsied? My father was eighty-nine. What on earth merits an autopsy?”

The man sounded annoyed. Since there was no easy way to break the news, Marge decided to be forthright. “I’m sorry to say this, Mr. Penny, but your father was found murdered.”

“Murdered? Oh my God! What … what happened?”

At last some genuine emotion. She said, “I can’t say for certain. That’s why the coroner is doing an autopsy.”

“Was it bad? Oh my God, it must have been bad. Was it a robbery? Not that my father kept anything of value in that cruddy apartment. But sometimes he had cash. This is just crazy. Was it a robbery?”

“We’re still investigating.”

“Are you part of the investigation or is it your job to call people up and drop bombshells?”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Penny. And yes, it is a bombshell.”

“Do you have a suspect?”

“The investigation just started, Mr. Penny. All this just happened last night.”

The lawyer paused. “Do you want to know where I was last night?”

She was taken aback. “Sure.”

“I worked until around midnight, then came home, grabbed six hours of sleep, and was back at my desk by seven. That has been my routine—day in and day out—for the last twenty years except for vacations. The last time I took time off was six months ago. My wife and I went to our island in Greece. Any other questions I can answer for you?”

“I do have a few. Are you coming to L.A. to deal with the burial?”

“I suppose I have to. I’ve barely had time to process what you’ve told … murdered?”

“We think so. Would you have any ideas about what happened?”

“Not really. I know my father made many enemies, but he’s been out of commission for years. Why would anyone harm him now, especially with death looming at his door?”

“Do you have names of some of those enemies?”

“No one specific comes to mind. My father was very abrasive. He had half of the Dale Carnegie method right. He influenced people. The friend part … not so much.”

“Okay. Does your father have a lawyer that we could talk to?”

“Dad has a slew of lawyers. He generally used McCray, Aaronson and Greig as his firm. Why?”

“I assume your dad had a will. Sometimes a will points us in the right direction.”

“I’ve been in charge of Dad’s estate planning for the last twenty-five years. He definitely has a will and he’s changed it a number of times, depending on who has curried his favor. Dad was mercurial.”

“What kind of changes did your father make?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss the particulars. Let’s just say his changes had to do with who was flattering him. When you are worth over half a billion dollars, you deal with a lot of sycophants.”

“Did you invest his money personally?”

“No, no, no. I am the president of his foundation. But Dad used our firm for his estate planning, so I am well aware of what he’s worth. But as far as control over his fortune, I had nothing to do with how the money was invested or spent. But I do know that Dad has his assets spread out among a dozen different brokerage houses. Sometimes, I’d write checks at his behest.”

“What kind of checks?”

“Charity. As I told you, I’m president of his foundation.”

“So you were in regular contact with your father?”

“My father was a recluse. I haven’t seen him since he married Sabrina. And even after the divorce, we rarely spoke. Whenever he wanted something specific, he’d notify me via phone call but mostly written word. Then I’d execute the order.”

“So you two must have had some kind of relationship if he gave you that power.”

“I think I was the least of many evils. We don’t really have a relationship, but my father recognized that I was honest.”

Don’t have a relationship. Still using present tense. “What kind of charities did your father support?”

“They’d vary, depending on his mood. And let me tell you, the man was very, very temperamental. He was my father and he supported his family, but he’s not likable. He was a womanizer and a louse when he drank. Is this interview going to take a while? If it is, could I call you back in a bit?”

Marge said, “Just a couple more questions. Are you coming to L.A. to make arrangements for the body?”

“My dad had made prior arrangements to be buried somewhere in L.A. I’ll come in for the burial. I can’t talk for my sister—Oh dear. Did you call her? My sister?”

“I left a message with Hollie Hanson to have her call me.”

“So you haven’t spoken to her?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll call and tell her the news. What else do you want to know?”

“If your firm did your father’s estate planning, you must know the contents of your father’s will.”

“That’s not a question, Sergeant, that’s a statement.”

Marge was quiet.

Penny said, “This is not a discussion to be had over the phone. Let’s just say there is plenty to go around. No reason for any of the principals to be covetous. I’m wealthy and my sister is even wealthier. We both were aware that it was only a matter of time before my father passed on.”

“A matter of time? Was your father in poor health?”

“Not that I know of, but he was old.” A long pause. “The fact that someone hurried his death along is troublesome. I’m wondering if a phony will isn’t about to make an appearance. Anyway that’s not your concern. Or maybe it will be your concern. I should hang up now. I have to call my sister. This is just terrible—the murder. No one deserves to have their life cut down.”

“Could I call you later?”

“How about if I have time, I’ll call you later.”

“When do you think you’ll be coming into L.A.?”

“When are you done with the autopsy?”

“Probably by tomorrow.”

“Please call me when you’re done so I can transfer the body to a funeral home. I’ll try to schedule the funeral on Monday or Tuesday.”

“Do you think your sister will come out?”

“I honestly don’t know. Graciela had even less tolerance for Dad than I do.”

“When you come out to L.A., I’d like to talk to you a little more at length.”

“No problem. I really do have to go now, Sergeant Dunn.”

“One more thing. Were you aware that your father kept a tiger in his apartment?”

“A tiger?” A pause. “Are you serious?”

“An adult female tiger. We had to extract the tiger before we could even enter the apartment.”

“Oh my God! Did the tiger attack … no, that wouldn’t be a police matter. Is my father’s body even recognizable?”

“As far as we could tell, the tiger didn’t lay a paw on your dad.”

“That’s good to know. I knew my father was giving that crazy organization some money, but I had no idea he had become so personally involved in wild animal rescue. To keep a tiger in his apartment is beyond ludicrous.”

“What wild animal organization did he support?”

“Global Earth Sanctuary. It’s in San Bernardino. I know because I sent out the checks.”

“Was he giving them a lot of money?”

“Pocket change for what he was worth: a hundred thousand a year. If you have further questions, you’d be better off calling them. I really must hang up now.”

“Thank you for your time. Be sure to call us when you’re in Los Angeles.”

“Yes, I will. Bye.”

Marge hung up the phone. The man was professional and straightforward when answering questions. For the time being, Marge put him at the bottom of the list.

“I have an appointment to tour the sanctuary tomorrow at eleven,” Decker told Marge. He was at his desk with his feet propped up; she was sitting on a chair and paging through her notes. “You can come if you’d like.”

“I’d love to come with you, but Sabrina Talbot called back. Oliver and I are meeting her in Santa Barbara tomorrow at eleven in the morning.”

“That’s fine. If I get a weird feeling about the place, we’ll do a return visit.”

“Have you looked up the organization yet?”

“Just the Web site. It began with a woman named Fern Robeson, who bought some acreage in the San Bernardino Mountains in 1975. According to the bio, she started taking in wild animals because there was no other refuge for them. One thing led to another, and now her place is a way station for all sorts of wild animals.”

“What kind of animals?”

“Anything—lions, tigers, bears, snakes, apes, chimps, crocs. She has her own private zoo.”

“Is she licensed to do that?”

“Now she is. The place was almost shut down thirty years ago. Fern persevered, went on a massive fund-raising campaign, and received over a million dollars for the cause. Eventually she managed to secure a license to house wild animals. Fern died three years ago at seventy-two. There is some money in her foundation to care for the animals, but it is quickly running out. When I talked to the acting director—a woman named Vignette Garrison—she wasn’t sure that Global Earth would last more than a year without Penny’s support. I don’t know how much he gave, but it must be sizable. Exotic animals are expensive to feed.”

“Penny’s son said the old man was giving about a hundred gees a year.”

“Well, that is sizable.”

“You know, you just can’t put all those animals together,” Marge said. “They live in different environments. The place must be large.”

“I’ll find out tomorrow.”

“Know anything about Vignette Garrison?”

“She’s thirty-seven, unmarried, and has devoted her life to saving wild animals. She worked as an assistant in a vet’s office before becoming involved with Global Earth. She’s been there for fifteen years.”

“Do you have a picture of her?”

“Not on me. I can pull up the web site.”

“Let me guess,” Marge said. “She’s tall and stick thin with stringy blond hair and no makeup.”

“I don’t know how tall she is, but she looks very thin.” Decker pushed a button and printed out her picture from the sanctuary’s web site. He gave it to Marge. “She was Fern Robeson’s protégée. She asked me about Penny’s will when I spoke to her.”

“Really,” Marge said. “That’s not only crass, but it also says to me that she has something to gain by his death.”

“Penny was giving her money while he was alive,” Decker said. “Unless she expects a windfall once he dies, why knock him off? And that brings up another question. Penny was old. Why kill him at all? Makes more sense to just wait it out and let nature take its course.”

Marge said, “Darius Penny said his old man was mercurial. If the old guy was about to change his will and leave you nothing, you might want him dead before he has a chance to make the change.”

“How would Vignette Garrison know if he was about to change his will?”

“Maybe she pissed him off,” Marge said. “Maybe he told her.”

“Why would he tell her?”

“To manipulate her or maybe just to be mean,” Marge said. “Darius said his father had made a lot of enemies. He was a mean guy, especially when he drank.” She thought a moment. “I don’t remember seeing alcohol bottles around. I’ll ask Scott about that.”

Decker ran his fingers through gray hairs streaked with youthful red. “If Darius Penny’s firm handled the estate, he would know if his dad was changing the will.”

“He doesn’t seem like a good prospect for the murder. He’s rich in his own right. Plus for the last two months, Darius has been at work from seven in the morning to midnight.”

“And you’ve verified that?”

“Not yet, but something like that would be easily verifiable. He works in a skyscraper near the Battery. Those buildings have video cameras everywhere.” Marge gave him a smile. “If you want to send me to New York for verification, I’m willing.”

“I bet you are.” Decker laughed. “Look, sister, I’ve put in for meals and gas money for your upcoming trip to Santa Barbara. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. All you’ll find there is bad breath.”