The Postcard Killers - James Patterson [70]
Chapter 104
CARLOS RODRÍGUEZ AND HIS wife, Carmela, had lived in the small gatekeeper’s lodge at the Mansion ever since he returned from the Vietnam War in the spring of 1975. Both of their children had grown up there.
“Children are the future,” Rodríguez said. “Do you have children?”
“No,” Jacob said, putting his ID back in his wallet. “But I’m interested in the Rudolphs’ children. What happened to them after the murder?”
The gardener sucked his teeth.
“The twins were looked after by Señor Blython,” he said. “He took them down to Los Angeles, to the big house he bought in Beverly Hills.”
The man moved closer to Jacob and lowered his voice, as if someone might overhear him.
“Señorita and Junior didn’t really want to move,” he said. “They wanted to stay in their house here, but it was up to Señor Blython to decide. He was their legal guardian, after all.”
“Who owns this place these days?” Jacob asked.
He remembered that Lyndon said it had been in the hands of a bankruptcy agency.
Rodríguez’s face darkened.
“The children inherited it, along with everything else: paintings, jewelry, stock shares, and small businesses. Señor Blython was charged with managing these assets until the children were twenty-one. But when that day came, the money was gone.”
Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Their guardian defrauded them?”
“He took every last penny. The house was sold at an executive auction. The company that bought it was going to turn it into a conference center. But they went bankrupt in the financial crisis.”
“What did Sylvia and Malcolm Rudolph say about what happened?”
The man’s gaze wavered.
“They couldn’t stay on at UCLA. There was no money, not even for the fees. So they had to get jobs. But they managed,” he said. “They’re very resourceful.”
Jacob’s jaw tightened. If the old man only knew.
“When did you last see them?” he asked.
Carlos Rodríguez didn’t need to think about the answer. “The weekend before the house was sold at auction,” he said. “They came to collect a few mementos, photo albums and things like that.”
“They were both here?”
“And Sandra,” the gardener said. “Sandra Schulman, Sylvia’s best friend. They only stayed a few hours on that last visit, and then they left, in the middle of the night…”
“And then Señor Blython was murdered,” Jacob said.
Carlos Rodríguez snorted.
“If you hang around with putas in Los Angeles…,” he said.
Jacob nodded and let the subject drop. The gardener had told him more than he had expected.
“The main building,” he said, “is it still here?”
Carlos Rodríguez’s face broke into a smile again.
“Pero claro que sí! I’m not formally employed anymore, of course. I get a little from the bank. Mostly we live on my pension. But I look after the Mansion.”
“Could you show me around?” Jacob asked.
“Sí, claro! Of course I can.”
Chapter 105
LYNDON WAS RIGHT.
The house was enormous, and it looked like something from a horror film set in the English countryside. Señor Rodríguez may have done his best to keep the building in good condition, but his lame old body had no chance against the wind, the damp, the weeds, and the ivy. One window frame had slipped its hinge and was squeaking in the wind.
This was where it all began, wasn’t it? The murders — the mystery of the Rudolphs.
“The electricity has been cut off in the main house,” the gardener said apologetically as he unlocked the oak door.
Jacob’s footsteps echoed in the grand stone hallway. Doors stood half open, leading into high-ceilinged rooms and down long, dark corridors.
He took a quick look into the various rooms where Sylvia and Malcolm had once lived.
The whole building seemed to have been emptied of its contents. Jacob noticed a single curtain in a library that was empty of books.
“The master bedroom is on the second floor. Follow me.”
A magnificent curved staircase led up to the more private parts of the mansion.
Pale rectangles on the walls revealed where paintings had once hung. A battered rococo sofa, its stuffing hanging out, stood alone and dusty on the first landing.