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Longevity wasn’t a thing for the Banksters of Columbus, Ohio, and Alicia had the paperwork to prove it.
She met us outside Milo’s office and handed him a sheaf.
“He’s not in our system, Loo, but if you want, I can try digging around some more.”
“Good job, kiddo. Go for it.”
As she hurried off, Milo and I studied what she’d presented. Starting with death records from Social Security.
Zorena Bankster, the mother of Charles Bankster aka Caspian Delage, had passed away seven years ago, age forty-eight, from liver cancer. Two years later, her husband, Joseph Bankster, Sr., had succumbed to emphysema, age fifty-two.
Only one other relative could be located, an older brother, Joseph, Jr. Currently thirty-six years old and living in L.A.
If you could call it that.
The remainder of the paperwork revealed a disability history of nearly two decades for Caspian’s only sibling. Profound head injuries caused by a single-vehicle motorcycle accident on a highway outside ofDayton, the formerly healthy, eighteen-year-old Joseph, Jr., surviving in seriously diminished condition.
Following the death of both parents, Caspian had moved himself and his brother to L.A. and found an apartment near Skid Row for himself and a care facility downtown for the quadriplegic, minimally conscious Joseph. Just over two years ago, the brothers had shifted westward, Caspian subletting the flat on Barrington, Joseph transferred to a rest home in nearby Palms.
Round-the-clock maintenance at Palms Tudor Care Center cost six figures a year, with most of that covered by government payments.
Most, but not all; a nearly fifteen-thousand annual overage remained. Caspian Delage had assumed that obligation.
The real reason he’d lived like a monk.
I said, “Mona has no idea what Caspian was dealing with but given his closeness to Cordi, I wonder if she did.”
Milo said, “And still took a discount? Yeah, that ain’t morality.”
We examined the money trail, including another futile search for credit or debit accounts, followed up with a visit to Palms Tudor Care Center.
—
That led to confirmation of what we’d read: fifteen grand paid faithfully for two years, per the facility’s administrative director, a round, cheerful man named Hector Aguirre packed into a white polo shirt with a TCC logo and mustard-colored slacks.
The drive from Delage’s apartment to Palms Boulevard just south of National had taken thirteen minutes. Convenient when you rented rides and wanted to be near your helpless sib.
Milo said, “So Mr. Bankster was a good client.”
Hector Aguirre said, “Well, Joey’s the actual client, but sure, Charlie’s been fine.”
He beamed nervously at us across an empty almost-woodconference table. On the way, we’d passed several people slumping in wheelchairs, heard the beeps of I.V. monitors, anguished throat clearing and wet coughs, passed attendants coming and going at a steady but unhurried pace.
The facility was done up in that strange mix of colors—orange and pinkish tan—that you see in medium-sized airports and places like Palms Tudor.
Milo said, “He paid on time.”
Hector Aguirre looked at his watch. “Like clockwork. ’Course, we facilitated by billing only three times a year.”
Milo and I looked at each other. How that helped was unclear.
Aguirre saw the boast had fallen flat and tried to recover. “The main thing, we trimmed off the top because what the heck, you have to be human.”
Trying to sell it smoothly.
Milo said, “How much did you take off?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
