Free Motive by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

trust and inheritance specialist, Fellinger said he wanted it done right.”
    I said, “How much delay of gratification are we talking about?”
    “The girls will have their basic needs taken care of from the get-go but no access to big bucks until they turn thirty. When they’re thirty-five, the trust terminates and they get everything.”
    “Do the girls know the details?”
    “As far as Fellinger knows, they don’t. They were described to him by both Richard and Ursula as not interested in the world of finance.”
    “So Richard gets the single biggest chunk.”
    “Nice for him,” said Milo. “Let’s see what his ex-girlfriend has to say about it. Maybe her husband, too.”
    Long day since I’d seen Ursula Corey’s corpse in the parking garage. Darkness had settled by the time I drove into Beverly Hills.
    The Tranh residence on the 600 block of North Maple Drive was an ungated, two-story, salmon stucco Mediterranean with a clippedlawn and a modest bed of palms and begonias. The neighborhood was mansions of varying vintage. Compared with its neighbors, this house was understated.
    An elderly Asian man answered the bell ring. Barely above five feet, he wore a spotless white shirt, cream linen slacks, and blue velvet slippers with lions embroidered at the toes. One thin-boned hand held a rolled-up copy of
Forbes
.
    “Yes, please?” Soft voice, oddly boyish.
    “Lieutenant Sturgis, Los Angeles police.”
    The man’s eyelids quivered. “Did something happen at the store?”
    “No, sir. We’re looking for Phyllis Tranh.”
    “That’s my daughter. She’s out of the country. May I ask what’s going on?”
    “Could we come in, Mr.…”
    “Albert Tranh. May I see that badge again, please—yes, of course, come in.”
    A thirty-by-twenty living room was furnished completely in American Colonial, much of it actually from the period. Albert Tranh rang a small pewter bell with a gold handle and a blue-uniformed maid appeared.
    “My coffee please, Irma. And for you gentlemen …?”
    “Nothing, thanks,” said Milo.
    “Bring some sweets, Irma,” said Albert Tranh. His English was barely accented. Precise elocution said he’d worked hard to achieve that.
    As the maid left, Albert Tranh pointed to a silk brocade sofa the color of bruised plums and waited for us to take our places before settling in a yellow silk Chippendale side chair. Dominating the room was the single break in the Colonial motif: a lithograph above the mantel, Jasper Johns flag.
    The rest of the wall art consisted of framed samplers, landscapes portraying bygone Hudson River edens, and stiff-looking portraits ofpuritanically garbed people with severe faces. Deputy D.A. John Nguyen had once told me that his family and their community of Vietnamese emigrants loved America enough to make a DAR lady blush.
    Milo informed Albert Tranh of Ursula Corey’s murder. The old man’s free hand wafted like a dry leaf before settling on his chest. The copy of
Forbes
bent as fragile-looking fingers squeezed. “That’s horrible. What happened?”
    “You knew Ms. Corey well?”
    “Oh, yes, very, we did business together. A lot of business. You can’t tell me what happened?”
    “She was shot to death, sir.”
    “Good grief. Where?”
    “Century City.”
    “Century City? In the mall?”
    “In a parking lot.”
    “A parking lot,” said Tranh. “A robbery? A carjacking?”
    “Doesn’t appear to be either, sir.”
    “Yes, of course,” said Albert Tranh. “Why would you be here if it was a robbery?” He frowned. “May I ask why Phyllis is relevant?”
    “Ursula’s ex-husband told us about her friendship with Ursula.”
    “Richard said that,” said Tranh. “Really.”
    “You find that surprising.”
    “Did Richard also inform you he and Phyllis had a relationship?”
    “A romantic relationship?” said Milo, evading seamlessly.
    “I wouldn’t go that far, Lieutenant. Richard and Phyllis dated briefly. Nothing underhanded, this was