Dead Aim (34 page)

He went back to the hotel where he had spent the night, and checked out. Then he drove home, went into the kitchen, and checked the answering machine beside the telephone. There were no messages.

His confusion about Diane was growing. Was he becoming suspicious of everyone? He had retained Diane a few years ago, right after she had come to Santa Barbara from an enormous law firm in Los Angeles. She had been young but seemed a little tired, as though she had burned herself out, and that had endeared her to him. He had already found that his retirement did not, as he had hoped, allow him to dispense entirely with lawyers, and she was smart and inoffensive. His requirements for legal services had been small and intermittent: he needed a local tax attorney to be sure that he stayed out of trouble with the I.R.S. and to handle the certifications and agreements that were occasionally necessary to the financial management of a fortune.

He made an effort to think clearly about Diane. Taking off like this without warning, without revealing a destination, and without even a prediction as to when she might return seemed strange. What could be said in her favor was that she had provided for professional services for her clients. But what he needed was not her professional services. She was simply the only one who knew everything he knew, and he wanted to verify that he could reach her if he needed to.

He had a very strong feeling that she would call him. He stared at the telephone for a few minutes, then played back the messages he had already heard to be sure he had not missed her voice. He made breakfast, washed his dishes, and did his laundry, always staying where he could reach the telephone quickly. When afternoon came, he called
Diane’s office again to see whether Sylvia had left yet, but wasn’t surprised when the telephone wasn’t answered.

Late in the afternoon, Mallon’s phone rang. He picked it up, his ear tuned for the high pitch of Diane’s voice. It was a woman’s voice, but a different one. “Robert?”

“Yes?”

“Robert, this is Laura Amester at Wells Fargo Private Banking.”

“Hi,” Mallon said, manufacturing a convincing imitation of patience and calm. “How are you?” Laura was the administrator in San Francisco who controlled his investment accounts at Wells Fargo.

“Well,” she said quietly, “I guess that was what I was calling you to ask.”

Mallon had begun to dread this conversation as soon as he had recognized her voice. Laura sometimes called to plumb Mallon’s deepest feelings about some prospective investment decision, and Mallon had no feelings about investment decisions. But this was not how those conversations usually began. He said, “I don’t understand.”

“I just got your order to liquidate about twenty minutes ago. To tell you the truth, it took me a few minutes to recover from the shock, collect myself, and decide to ask you why. You hadn’t said that there was something that you were dissatisfied with. I wondered what—”

“Hold it,” he interrupted. “I haven’t sent you any order to do anything.”

“But … are you sure?”

“I could hardly forget something like that. What does this order say?”

“It says we’re to sell all of your holdings and wire the money to your account at Moncrief and Tydings. It’s signed by your attorney, Diane Fleming. I tried to reach her first, but I missed her, I guess.”

“You haven’t sold anything yet, have you?”

“No. The markets were already closed for the day when we got this.”

“Then don’t. Don’t do anything,” he said. “Let me make this absolutely
clear. I didn’t approve this. I didn’t even know about it. She never had my permission to make any decisions, or to send you anything without my seeing it. I don’t know if she was even the one who did this, but don’t pay any attention to it. I want my investments left where they are. This seems to be some kind of fraud.”

“I’m amazed,” said Laura. “This is one of those times when I’m glad I called before I did anything.”

“What do I do now, to be sure something else like this doesn’t happen?”

“I can guarantee it won’t now that we’ve talked. The next thing I’m going to do is turn on the recorder.” There was a pause.

“Have you done it?”

“Yes,” said Laura. “It is now July the seventh at four-sixteen in the afternoon. I am Laura Amester, and I am speaking with client Robert Mallon, and recording our conversation. Mr. Mallon’s voice is known to me, and I’ve reached him by calling his home number. Is that right, Mr. Mallon?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Can you tell me the last four digits of your social security number?”

He recited the number.

“Thank you,” said Laura. “Can you repeat what you’ve said about the withdrawal order we received today?”

“Yes. I did not authorize any withdrawal of funds from my account. I do not believe that my attorney did either. Just to be safe, I am now revoking the power of attorney I granted to Diane Fleming. Please make no changes to my account unless you have verified it with me first.”

When the conversation was over, Mallon made a list of the other banks and brokers that held investment or savings accounts for him. He had once signed a power of attorney authorization for Diane for a specific, limited set of circumstances: she had needed to withdraw
money from one of his accounts from time to time to pay taxes and fees. But if something dishonest was going on, someone might have altered that authorization and sent it to other institutions to gain control of other accounts. He began making telephone calls. Most of the offices were closed, but even those had voice mail. As soon as he had gone down the list, he went to his computer and wrote a letter that repeated the same information. He strongly suspected that e-mail had no legal status, so he customized his letter twenty times with different addresses and account numbers, printed out and signed the copies, then made out the envelopes and went out to mail the letters. As soon as they were in the mailbox, he made his third trip to the police station on Figueroa.

He stepped into the too familiar lobby of the station and up to the counter. The desk sergeant had an exaggeratedly respectful expression on his face as he said, “Mr. Mallon. How can we help you today?”

Mallon’s stomach tightened. He said, “Is Detective Fowler in? Or Detective Long?”

The sergeant shook his head. “No, but I can take a message for you and make sure they receive it.”

They were all convinced he had lost his mind, but he had to try. He said carefully, “I think something strange is going on with my attorney, Diane Fleming. She may be in danger, or threatened in some way. And she’s disappeared.”

The sergeant squinted at him. He said, “What makes you believe that?”

“She suddenly took off this morning, or maybe yesterday. I’m not sure, but probably it was then. An attempt had been made on my life, and I called her a number of times, but she didn’t return any of my calls.”

He stopped and blinked his eyes. He sounded crazy. He paused, trying to think of a way to repair the impression. There was no way, so he pressed on. “A couple of hours ago, I got word from Wells Fargo
Bank in San Francisco that she had requested that an investment account of mine there be liquidated and the proceeds wired to another account at Moncrief and Tydings.”

“In her name?”

“I don’t think so. They said, ‘to your account at Moncrief and Tydings.’ So it must be in my name. I don’t know of an account at Moncrief and Tydings, but it’s possible one has been opened there.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know, really. It appears to me to be an attempt by someone to embezzle the money. It’s possible that they were doing it just so I wouldn’t have the use of it. Do you see? It would be hard for them to withdraw it, but if it were simply moved to another account in my name that I didn’t know about, I couldn’t use it.”

“Does she usually handle your money? Can she move it around like that?”

“Well, she has—had—a power of attorney that allowed her to move money to pay some bills and taxes and so on. But this is different.”

“How?”

“It’s a lot of money. It’s about fifteen million dollars.”

He had lost the sergeant. He could see that. Maybe the idea that he had that kind of money created a gulf between them that precluded sympathy or even understanding. Maybe the other policemen had not talked about him as a wealthy man, and his throwing these numbers around convinced the sergeant that he was hallucinating. He tried to keep his dignity. He tried to summarize his complaint. “She has left—left town, supposedly—with no notice, and is now—again supposedly—doing things she’s never done before, and which I don’t believe she would ever do, at least voluntarily.”

“Mr. Mallon,” said the sergeant. “Have you ever been to court with Miss Fleming?”

“No,” said Mallon.

“You’re sure.”

“Yes. I only saw her in court once, but it was because I was meeting her for lunch. It wasn’t anything she was doing for me.”

“You don’t recall ever hearing the word
conservator
or
conservatorship
?”

“Of course I’ve heard those terms,” he said angrily. “But they have nothing to do with me. Nobody has ever thought I needed a conservator. I’m not deluded or something. I’m telling you that a young woman, a respected attorney in this city, has abruptly disappeared, and now there are papers appearing with her signature on them that she would never sign. In other words, either she’s suddenly become an embezzler or she’s in trouble.”

“Why do you think she’s disappeared?”

“She left without telling her secretary where she was going or when she’d be back.”

“Who is the secretary?”

“Her name is Sylvia.”

“Is she worried too? Did she come to you to tell you this?”

“No. But she doesn’t know any of the things I’ve told you about the money. She was in the office to take the plants home because Diane told her not to bother coming into the office until she returned. If it was Diane. I’m beginning to think it couldn’t have been.”

“Can you give me Sylvia’s full name?”

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ve never heard her last name.”

The sergeant looked at his watch and wrote something at the top of a form, then glanced at Mallon. “Seven o’clock. Do you happen to know the date today?” He held the pen above the line for the date.

It was the question doctors asked old people to see whether they had dementia. Mallon felt hot panic. “July seventh.”

“I’m going to make a full report, and make sure it gets to the detectives. They’ll let you know what they find out, I’m sure. But it’ll take a while. You may as well go home and get some rest.”

Mallon stood in silence for a moment. “I’m not insane, you know.”

“Of course not.”

Mallon stared at him for a moment, but his eyes were on the paper. He was busy writing, filling in blanks on the form. Mallon desperately searched his mind for something tangible, some piece of evidence that the police couldn’t ignore, couldn’t dismiss as either a delusion or a magnification of a routine event into something sinister. He was aware that time was passing, and that while the cop was pretending to pay attention to the form he was observing him, waiting.

Mallon said earnestly, “I know that this sounds vague, and I have no single piece of physical evidence that I can use to prove what I’m saying. But honestly, none of what’s happened is normal, or within the usual range of behavior for Diane Fleming. I need to have you take this seriously.”

The cop looked up from his paper, his clear, benevolent eyes wide open in a look of innocent surprise. “I assure you, we are taking it seriously.” The fact that he was lying was completely undisguised, and there was absolutely nothing Mallon could do about it.

He had nothing more to say that would convince anyone. He reluctantly turned and walked. Mallon left by the side door and stepped out into the sunlight. The exit he had chosen gave him a short, shaded passage to walk before he reached Figueroa Street. He walked slowly, his shoulders hunched and his eyes studying the ground ahead. At the sidewalk he turned to the left, away from his house. He needed to walk and to think.

He was in trouble. Somebody—either the man walking on the beach or the man in the boat with a rifle—had tried to kill him. Now it was clear to him that the police believed that he had imagined the whole episode, or made it up. His lawyer, the only one who really knew what had been going on since the death of Catherine Broward and could verify the details, had suddenly vanished. What Mallon decided to do next would very likely determine whether he lived or died. As he walked, he began to feel more and more alone and uneasy.

He used the intersections as opportunities to turn and look back at
the streets behind to detect followers. People were driving past on their way to stores or restaurants on the streets surrounding State. As they passed, he studied the faces of the drivers, looking for something out of the ordinary, some peculiar look, some expression that would give him a warning.

Yesterday, the man on the beach had been striding along, his eyes focusing on Mallon and then moving away, then returning to check on him, as though to see how close he was getting. During those minutes, those steps on the beach, the young woman had been leaning close to the man, talking. She had slid her eyes to the side to keep Mallon in sight while she talked. She had looked like a person whispering secrets, although normal speech would not have been audible to Mallon over the surf. Mallon had never imagined that the older man and the young woman in a bathing suit were dangerous. The change had come suddenly.

It was a strange look that had appeared on the man’s face. It had in it a preoccupied concentration at the brow. The eyes had been sharp and alert and hot with eagerness for what was about to happen. On the lips had been the beginnings of a smile. Could it have possibly been pleasure? No. It was excitement, anticipation, the certainty of winning. He had thought a lot about the expression on the man’s face, but it still made no sense to him. Was this the man who had killed Lydia? Had he been trying to kill Mallon next, because Mallon knew something that would help catch him? Was there some price on Mallon’s head that he had been sure he was about to collect? Then who were the others—the girl, the man with the rifle? There was simply no answer.