Angel of the Dark

Angela Jakes thought about this for a moment. “You know, I never thought so. Although, as you can imagine, Detective, with an age difference like the one between me and Andrew—over fifty years—people are quick to judge. I know there were many in Andrew’s social circle who distrusted me. They assumed I was after his money. I imagine you thought the same thing.”

“Of course not,” lied Danny, avoiding her eyes.

“I tried to persuade Andrew to leave me out of his will, to prove to people our marriage was never about money. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He said the naysayers were bullies and one should never give in to bullies.”

“Is that why you gave all his money to charity? To prove people wrong?”

She shrugged. “Maybe that was part of it, subconsciously.”

“Did your husband know that you were planning to give everything away when he died?”

“No.” She shook her head. “It might have hurt his feelings. Andrew wanted me to have the money, and I wanted him to be happy. But the truth is, I have no use for that sort of wealth.”

Without meaning to, Danny raised an eyebrow.

Angela Jakes laughed, a warm, mellifluous laugh, like honey oozing off a spoon. “You look dubious, Detective. But really, what on earth would I do with four hundred million dollars? I like to paint, I like walking in the canyons. Those things don’t cost millions. Far better for it to go to people who need it, who can really make use of it. In some small way, it makes me feel as if what happened wasn’t entirely in vain.”

She looked down at her hands again and Danny could see she was fighting back tears. Instinctively, he reached out and put a hand over hers. He was embarrassed to admit it, but the intimacy felt wonderful. Electric.

“What the hell’s going on?”

Danny jumped. Lyle Renalto’s voice had shattered the mood like a stone crashing through a windshield.

“What are you doing here?” the lawyer demanded.

As he stood in the doorway, Renalto’s handsome features were twisted into an angry mask and his shoulders thrust aggressively forward. He was wearing an identical suit to the one he’d worn at the hospital, with a pale blue silk tie that matched his eyes. Danny didn’t think he’d ever been less pleased to see a person in his entire life.

“A police interview is going on,” he replied coldly. “And as usual, Mr. Renalto, you’re interrupting. May I ask what you’re doing here?”

“That’s easy,” Lyle replied, “I live here. Didn’t Angel tell you?”

Danny turned to Angela. “He’s the friend you’re staying with? You never mentioned it.”

She shrugged. “You never asked. Lyle was kind enough to offer me a place to stay while I recuperate. As I told you, he’s been a tremendous support through all of this.”

Lyle Renalto said curtly, “If you’re done harassing Mrs. Jakes, Detective, I’ll be happy to show you out.”

“Detective McGuire is not harassing me,” said Angela. “He’s been perfectly polite.”

“Hmm.” Renalto sounded unconvinced.

Ignoring him, Danny said, “I have one more question for you, Mrs. Jakes, if you don’t mind. You mentioned that you first met Mr. Jakes at an art class.”

“That’s right.”

“May I ask what your name was at that time?”

Angela glanced nervously toward Lyle Renalto. “My name? I don’t understand.”

“Your maiden name,” Danny explained. “Before you and Mr. Jakes were married.”

“Oh!” She looked palpably relieved. “I wondered what on earth you meant for a moment.” She fixed Danny with the chocolate eyes for a third and final time. “Ryman. My maiden name was Ryman.”

THE ROOM WAS SMALL AND DRAB and claustrophobic, and the smell of day-old Chinese takeout was overpowering. Detective Henning thought: Stolen art isn’t the booming business the media makes it out to be.

Roeg Lindemeyer, an art fence turned occasional police informer, lived in a dilapidated single-story house in one of the more run-down Venice walk-streets, narrow, pedestrian-only alleyways that ran between Ocean Avenue and the beach. A few blocks farther north, 1920s “cottages” like Roeg’s had been renovated by hip, young West L.A. types and were changing hands for seven hundred grand or more. But not here. This was Venice Beach as it used to be: dirt-poor. Roeg Lindemeyer’s “showroom” was as seedy and impoverished as any junkie’s squat.

“So? Have you seen any of them?”