"Towelheads," said Rutger. "And I won't shrink from saying so. They bomb us and then we kowtow? Utter rubbish."

"Arabs," said Milo.

"Who else? Oil money, otherwise known as blood money, came into play, oh did it! In my day, they'd have been told what for."

"Not allowed to buy property?"

"Covenants we called them, and a good thing they were." Turning back toward the framework. "Monstrosity. This was a lovely neighborhood, put Beverly Hills and those people to shame."

"Those people being..."

"Beverly Hills people. Hollywood. Now it's them with their oil."

"Can you give us names of people a.s.sociated with DS-"

"I can't give you something I never knew," said Rutger. "The entire transaction was manipulated by slick Jew lawyers. You'd think they'd avoid each other like the plague. Jews and towelheads. But when it comes to money, there's common ground."

"Sir," said Milo, "we're investigating a murder, so if there's something you can-"

"I know what you're investigating, I just told you I heard it on the news."

"And rushed right over."

"Absolutely."

"Why, Mr. Rutger?"

"Why?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why not? Last I heard this was still a free country."

"Mr. Rutger, this is a serious case and I don't have time-"

"Neither do I, Officer. Why did I rush over? Because I've been violated. Again."

"Again?"

"This place was mine, Officer. They took it from me. And now blood has spilled. Barbarians."

"Tell me how they took it from you, sir."

"Tell?" said Rutger. "I could write you a book. In fact, I've been thinking about doing just that. 'Pillage of the Innocent.' It could be a bestseller, given the way people feel about them."

"How about a summary, Mr. Rutger?"

"Why would you want that?"

"So I can understand-"

"Fine, fine, here's your summary: a tragedy that symbolizes everything vulgar this country has become. When I was a boy, a beautifully proportioned home sat here. A lovely Georgian Revival designed by Paul Williams. Not that you'd know who that is-"

"Top architect in the forties and fifties," said Milo. "Black, so he couldn't live in most of the neighborhoods where he worked."

Rutger smoothed his tie. "Be that as it may, he knew how to design a home. My father paid for it with honest work, not by manipulating currency or money-changing or scheming."

"What business was your father in?"

"Honest business. My sister and I grew up in bucolic splendor. Not that she cares... so what do they do? Demolish our lineage and put up that." His chin quivered. "Visigoths."

"You were opposed to selling DSD the property but your sister disagreed?"

Rutger glared. "Haven't you been listening? They stole it from under me."

"How?"

No answer.

"Sir?"

"No need to get into any of this, Officer."

"I'd like to anyway."

"Bully for you, but I do not wish to discuss personal matters."

"Homicide makes everything public, Mr. Rutger."

"That does not concern me." More chin calisthenics. Rutger's eyes filled with tears. Ripping the pocket square loose, he dabbed. "Blasted dust."

I said, "You came here because you felt your family's memory was being sullied all over again."

Rutger stared at me. "You're Jewish, aren't you? My father used to play golf with Rabbi Magnin. Now, there was a shrewd man, used family money to build that temple of his. Big money, from San Francisco. His brothers were haberdashers, knew how to turn a nice profit."

Milo said, "Are you making an actual claim of ownership to this property, Mr. Rutger?"

"I would if I could find a knight errant willing to do battle."

"A lawyer to take your case."

"Cowards," said Rutger.

"Okay, sir, you need to avoid any more confrontations-hold on, let me finish. Yes, it's a free country but freedom means responsibility. You're an educated man, you know that."

Rutger humphed. "Last I heard, this was still a free country."

"Sir, this is a crime scene. No unauthorized entry will be tolerated."

"That's what he said-that fool in a uniform. He was rude and uncouth and I was compelled to take action." Holding up two fists. He refolded the handkerchief, repeated until he'd produced a perfect dimple. "I'm leaving now, Officer, but I will not accept any arbitrary p.r.o.nouncements banning me from my-"

"I have no objection to your driving by, Mr. Rutger. But please don't stop and try to enter for any reason. And if you do observe something out of the ordinary, call me. Here's my number."

Rutger regarded the business card as if it were tainted.

"Sir?" said Milo.

"Just like that?" Rutger snapped his fingers. "You command and I obey?"

"Mr. Rutger, I'm defining limits to avoid future misunderstanding. You may drive by to your heart's content but do not try to enter the property."

Charles Ellston Rutger drew himself up. Jacket b.u.t.tons battled his belly. "At this time, I see no reason to return."

"Good choice, sir."

"This is America. I don't need you to define my choices."

CHAPTER.

13.

Rutger's Town Car rumbled off, squeaking on bad bearings and belching exhaust.

Milo exhaled. "Well, that was different."

He phoned in Rutger's name. Several moving violations, nothing criminal. "Crazy old coot but for all his attachment to this heap, I don't see him having the stamina to climb those stairs with a weapon, dominate, and double-murder."

"Agreed," I said. "And despite his age, he doesn't sound like our tipster."

We drove back to the station where he let Doyle Bryczinski simmer in an empty interview room and searched the county a.s.sessor for the Borodi property's previous owners.

Only one: the Lanyard A. Rutger Family Trust, established twenty years previously. The trust had sold the place fourteen years later, the transaction handled by Laurence Rifkin, Esq., of Rifkin, Forward, and Levitsky, Beverly Hills. Their website pegged them as tax and estate lawyers.

Milo said, "Start at the top," phoned and asked for Rifkin. A mellow baritone came on the line surprisingly quickly. "Larry Rifkin here. Police? What's going on?"

Milo summed up.

Rifkin chuckled. "I'm not laughing about murder. I'm laughing at theater of the absurd. Good old Charlie."

"You've got a history with him?"

"I can't believe he's still claiming he was defrauded. He was the one who pushed the sale in the first place, Lieutenant. On top of being crazy, he must be going senile."

"So any claim of fraud is groundless."

"Groundless? It's insane. Here's what it boils down to: Lanyard, their father-Charlie's and Leona's, that's Charlie's sister-made some money in manufacturing and investments but by the time he'd died, he'd lost quite a bit in the market and once debts were settled there wasn't much estate left. You know the rich, my treasures, your junk? Paintings Charlie thought were priceless turned out to be piddling, same for a bunch of supposedly rare books that weren't first editions. The only sizable a.s.set was residential real estate: three houses, worth maybe five mil at the time. The place on Borodi was the biggest-ticket item. Lan built it back in the forties, got Paul Williams to design, the place was gorgeous. There's also a chalet-type weekend place with a dock on Lake Arrowhead, and a three-acre spread in Palm Springs. Lan died ten years ago, made it to ninety-one, but Barbara-his wife-died when she was much younger, so everything went to the kids. Leona's a doctor, oncologist, lovely lady. Lan was a perceptive man and named her the executor. Technically, that was logical but it accomplished the obvious."

"Family strife."

"Charlie strife. We-my dad was still alive, headed the firm-tried to talk Lan out of designating Leona, suggested we should execute. Or Lan could find someone at one of his banks. He wouldn't hear of it."

"And Charlie went ballistic."

"Nuclear. Pitting one sib against the other is always a disaster and these sibs never had much in common to begin with. Not that Leona didn't try to make nice with Charlie. You won't meet a more reasonable human being. But Charlie's another matter, you don't need to be a psychologist to see why he resents Leona. She's everything he isn't: smart, accomplished, happily married, a gem."

"Charlie never got it together."

"Charlie has spent nearly seventy years in a dream-state."

"Delusional?"

"That's another name for it," said Rifkin. "I can tell you all this because we don't represent him and nothing's confidential. In fact, he became our adversary, has threatened to sue us numerous times."

"Over what?"

"Over he needs money and thinks Leona will give it to him if he makes enough noise."

"Who represents him?"

"No one. He files his own paper, thinks he's smarter than everyone else. Needless to say, he gets wiped out every time."

"Likes to think he's a lawyer."

"And a stockbroker and a financial advisor and a freelance investor, you name it. Prior to the house being sold, he was trying to syndicate the sale of an island off Belize, lost everything he put into it. He's been married four times, no kids, is basically broke and stuck in a one-bedroom in South Pas. Sad, but it's his own doing. Leona has tried to be fair, offered to set up a trust for him managed by professionals, so he can build up a little net worth. He accuses her of trying to control him. She's never taken a cent as executor, has been scrupulous about everything being divvied up fifty-fifty. Which brings me back to my original point: It was Charlie who spearheaded selling the properties. That's why his b.i.t.c.hing about it is so crazy."

"Leona didn't want to sell?"

"Absolutely not. Her idea was to keep everything in trust for future generations. Set up a separate management account to take care of expenses."

"But Charlie has no kids, so he figured she was bypa.s.sing him for her heirs."

"I understand that objection," said Rifkin. "But it's not as if Charlie wasn't making money from Borodi. The house was renting out at twenty grand a month, and after tax and management fees, he was still netting six figures."

"Who were the tenants?"

"Various industry people needing temporary quarters during shoots. Not stars-producers, directors. Payments came directly out of the film budgets, everything was smooth until Charlie started dropping in at the house and demanding to see if they were keeping it up to his specifications. Needless to say, no one wanted to put up with that, so bye-bye studio rental deals. Which Charlie needed a lot more than Leona. Whatever he gets hold of slips right through his fingers."