Evidence by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

left open to the elements would have
made me guess older. He’d lied about his height and weight, adding an inch or
two, subtracting the fifteen pounds that strained the buttons of the sport
coat. The white hair, slicked back, waxy and furrowed by comb marks, was topped
by a yellowish sheen. Heavy eyelids were specked with tiny wens.
    South
Pasadena address, not the fashionable part of that city, an apartment unit. The
single vehicle registered in his name was a fifteen-year-old maroon Lincoln
Town Car. The very same sedan parked haphazardly near the fence.
    “Bit
of a drive from South Pasadena, Mr. Rutger.”
    “This
is my homestead, I can get here in my sleep.” Plummy voice, vaguely
mid-Atlantic, explicitly disapproving.
    “You
say you own this property?”
    “I don’t say it, basic decency says it. When I
heard about what happened, I rushed right over.”
    “How’d
you find out?”
    “The
news. Of course.” Charles Ellston Rutger tugged his lapels straight.
    “The
registered owner is a company named DSD.”
    “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 associated 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,