Milo nodded. “Any idea why she was attacked?”

That startled Anger. “I was at college when it happened- read about it in the papers.”

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

Anger said, “What exactly was your question?”

“The motive behind the attack.”

“I have no idea.”

“Any local theories you’re aware of?”

“I don’t engage in gossip.”

“I’m sure you don’t, Mr. Anger, but if you did, is there something you would have heard?”

“Mr. Sturgis,” said Anger, “you need to understand that Gina’s been out of circulation for a long time. She’s not a topic of local gossip.”

“What about at the time of the attack? Or shortly after, when she moved to San Labrador. Any gossip then?”

“From what I recall,” said Anger, “the consensus was that he was out of his mind- the maniac who did it. Does a madman need a motive?”

“Guess not.” Milo scanned his notes. “Those highly conservative investments you mentioned. They also Dickinson’s idea?”

“Absolutely. The rules of investment are spelled out in the will. Arthur was a very cautious man- collecting art was his only extravagance. He would have bought his clothes off the rack if he could.”

Milo said, “Think he was too conservative?”

“One doesn’t judge,” said Anger. “With what he’d put together from the strut royalties, he could have invested in real estate and parlayed it into a really sizable estate- two or three hundred million. But he insisted on security, no risks, and we did as told. Continue to do so.”

“You’ve been his banker since the beginning?”

“Fiduciary has. My father founded the bank. He worked directly with Arthur.”

Anger’s face creased. Sharing credit with reluctance. No portraits of The Founder in here. None out in the main room of the bank, either.

None of Arthur Dickinson in the house he’d built. I wondered why.

Milo said, “You pay all her bills?”

“Everything except small cash purchases- minor household expenditures.”

“How much do you pay out each month?”

“One moment,” said Anger, swiveling to face the computer. He turned on the machine, waited until it had booted up and beeped a welcome, then hunted and pecked, waited, typed some more, and sat forward as the screen was filled with letters.

“Here we go- last month’s bills totaled thirty-two thousand two hundred fifty-eight and thirty-nine cents. The month before that, a little over thirty- that’s about typical.”

Milo got up, walked behind the desk, and looked at the screen. Anger began to shield it with his hand, protecting his data like a Goody Two-Shoes kid guarding an exam. But Milo was looming over him, already copying, and the banker let his hand drop.

“As you can see,” he said, “the family lives comparatively simply. Most of the budget goes to cover staff salaries, basic maintenance on the house, insurance premiums.”

“No mortgages?”

“None. Arthur bought the beach house for cash and lived there while he built the main house.”

“What about taxes?”

“They’re paid out of a separate account. If you insist I’ll call up the file, but you’ll learn nothing from it.”

“Humor me,” said Milo.

Anger rubbed his jaw and typed a line. The computer made digestive noises. He rubbed his jaw again and I noticed that the skin along his mandible was slightly irritated. He’d shaved before coming over.

“Here,” he said as the screen flashed amber. “Last year’s federal and state taxes amounted to just under a million dollars.”

“That leaves about two-and-a-half to four million to play with.”

“Approximately.”

“Where does it go?”

“We reinvest it.”

“Stocks and bonds?”

Anger nodded.

“Does Mrs. Ramp take any cash out for herself?”

“Her personal allowance is ten thousand dollars per month.”

“Allowance?”

“Arthur set it up that way.”

“Is she allowed to take more?”

“The money’s hers, Mr. Sturgis. She can take whatever she wants.”

“Does she?”

“Does she what?”

“Take more than ten.”

“No.”

“What about Melissa’s expenses?”

“Those are covered by a separate trust fund.”

“So we’re talking a hundred twenty thousand a year for how many years?”

“Since Arthur died.”

I said, “He died just before Melissa was born. That makes it a little over eighteen years.”

“Eighteen times twelve is what,” said Milo. “Around two hundred months…”

“Two sixteen,” said Anger reflexively.

“Times ten thou is over two million dollars. If Mrs. Ramp put it in another bank and earned interest, it could have doubled, right?”

“There’d be no reason for her to do that,” said Anger.

“Where is it, then?”

“What makes you think it’s anywhere, Mr. Sturgis? She probably spent it- on personal items.”

“Two million plus worth of personal items?”

“I assure you, Mr. Sturgis, that ten thousand dollars a month for a woman of her standing is hardly worth considering.”

Milo said, “Guess you’re right.”

Anger smiled. “It’s easy to be staggered by the idea of all those zeroes. But believe me, that kind of money is inconsequential and it goes fast. I have clients who spend more on a single fur coat. Now is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Ramp share any accounts?”

“No.”

“Mr. Ramp do his banking here, too?”

“Yes, but I’d prefer you talk to him directly about his finances.”

“Sure,” said Milo. “Now how about those credit-card numbers?”

Anger’s fingers danced across the keyboard. Machine-burp. Flash. “There are three cards. American Express, Visa, and MasterCard.” He pointed. “These are the numbers. Below each are the credit allowances and purchase totals for the current fiscal year.”

“This all of it?” said Milo, writing.

“Yes, it is, Mr. Sturgis.”

Milo copied. “Between all three, she’s got around a fifty-thousand monthly credit line.”

“Forty-eight thousand five hundred and fifty-five.”

“No purchases on the American Express- not much on any of them. Looks like she doesn’t buy much.”

“No need to,” said Anger. “We take care of everything.”

“Kind of like being a kid,” said Milo.

“Beg pardon?”

“The way she lives. Like being a little kid. Getting an allowance, having all her needs taken care of, no fuss, no muss.”

Anger’s hand clawed above the keyboard. “I’m sure it’s amusing to ridicule the rich, Mr. Sturgis, but I’ve noticed you’re not immune to material amusements.”

“That so?”

“Your Porsche. You chose it because of what it means to you.”

“Oh, that,” said Milo, rising. “That’s borrowed. My regular transportation’s much less meaningful.”

“Really,” said Anger.

Milo looked at me. “Tell him.”

“He drives a moped,” I said. “Better for stakeouts.”

“Except when it rains,” said Milo. “Then I take an umbrella.”

Back in the Porsche, he said, “Looks like little Melissa may have been wrong about Stepdaddy’s intentions.”

“True love?” I said. “Yet they don’t sleep together.”

Shrug. “Maybe Ramp loves her for the purity of her soul.”

“Or maybe he intends one day to contest the prenuptial.”

“What a suspicious guy,” he said. “In the meantime, there’s all that allowance money to wonder about.”

“Two million?” I said. “Chump change. Don’t get staggered by a few zeroes, Mr. Sturgis.”

“Heaven forfend.”

He got back on Cathcart, drove slowly. “Thing is, he’s got a point. Her kind of income, a hundred twenty a year, could seem like petty cash. If she spent it. But after being up in her room, I don’t see where it went. Books and magazines and a home gym don’t add up to a hundred twenty gees a year- hell, she didn’t even have a VCR. There’s the therapy, but that’s only for the last year. Unless she’s got some secret charity, eighteen years’ worth of unspent allowance would have accumulated to something pretty tidy. By anyone’s standards. Maybe I should have checked her mattress.”