Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel (26 page)

"I'm one of those pink ones, Loo. Only place I could park was the land side of PCH ten yards up. What you see from there is a wall of hedges and big gates. I picked up from Sean after he trailed Kenten from the office to Mountain Crest, then home. By then it was close to six. Sean got photos of Kenten entering, guy wasn't exactly incognito, he tools around in a powder-blue Bentley Continental convertible, he's even got powder-blue caps on the wheels. It was me, I'd go black, charcoal at the lightest."

"Keep it assertive, huh?"

"We're talking five hundred sixty horses, Loo. Anyway, the top was down, no passengers, that model doesn't have much of a trunk."

"Muscle under the hood," said Milo, "and yet he paints it like a carousel pony. What does that say about him, Moses?"

Reed shifted his torso. His eyes darted to the left. "He likes to be noticed?"

"That must be it."

After Reed left, I said, "Carousel pony? You didn't really expect Reed to tag Kenten as gay."

"But you saw his eyes, that's what he was thinking, no? Interesting fellow, Ol' Eddie. Either he's in serious denial or he really does have a thing for pastels. I made a few calls last night and the so-called gay community has nothing to say about him except they appreciate the AIDS money."

"So-called community?"

"Like we're a powder-blue monolith?"

His next call was thirty hours later, as I finished some court reports at home.

"Surveillance at Kenten's Xanadu and the Mendoza household has been as useful as a congressional subcommittee, same for drive-bys of Gisella's place. But as of twenty minutes ago, I am the proud recipient of my first bona fide tip on Elise. Anonymous, no call-back number, the clerk who wrote out the slip thinks the caller might've been male but she's not sure. For all I know, she screwed up the message but here it is: 'For the murdered teacher think May third, October eighth, November fifth.'"

I said, "Nothing like a little numerology to brighten the day."

"I already tried a bunch of historical websites and came up with zilch."

I copied down the dates.

"Freeman hasn't been publicized so this has to be someone familiar with the school. And please don't remind me that could include a prank by a preppie."

I said, "Do you find it interesting that it came in two days after you met with Kenten?"

"Pastel Eddie trying to divert me? Yeah, I thought about that and it would take his interest way past obsession. One of my plainclothesers did get a little excited when a kid around Marty's age drove up to Kenten's gates this morning in a BMW ragtop. Unfortunately the tags traced to Garret Kenten, nineteen, address in Trancas Beach, probably a grandson. But that got me thinking. Kinda risky, not to mention sick, for Kenten to be shacking up with Marty when his young descendants have access to the property. On the other hand, Garret was in and out fast, left with the top down on the Beemer and a surfboard in back."

"Picking up gear at Grandpa's," I said.

"We'll keep watching both sites, maybe try to interview the Mendozas in a day or so. I've also got one borderline-interesting finding from the arson techs: Even accounting for incompetence, with the baseball cap found near the highest concentration of accelerant, it shoulda been totally toasted, not partially baked. Fire guys consider the fire wimpy. If you're gonna use accelerant, why not squirt rather than trickle? Toss in the open dump site and it's thought-provoking."

"The car was meant to be found, maybe with the hat in it? Marty Mendoza's being set up?"

"Eddie the K would sure love like that scenario. But it doesn't obscure the facts: Elise was scared of the kid, he's got psychological issues, and he rabbited. I need those two girls but Chavez got kicked out of custody."

"Chavez lives for weed," I said. "He's probably smoking up right now in that same apartment. That makes him arrestable at your convenience."

"Such faith in the goodness of human nature, from a scientist of the mind, no less."

"No comment," I said.

"You just made one."

Madame Internet's a seductress but she parcels out more tease than fun. Instead of logging on, I did it the old-fashioned way.

Staring at the dates on the phone tip until a headache came on and my blood screamed for coffee.

May 3
October 8
November 5

I finished a tall mug and half of another, brought the slip back to Robin's studio, explained what was going on.

She put down her chisel, studied. "Sorry, hon."

Blanche sighed.

I returned to my desk wondering if the tip really would boil down to a prank and I was wrestling with random numbers.

For argument's sake, assume a pattern.

Ignoring the dates, I studied the text.

That teacher.
Something related to Elise Freeman's job.

Finals at Prep--someone's psychotic anger over a poor grade?

No, as a sub she wouldn't be administering any exams at all.

But her
side
job was preparing for a different type of test.

Two dates in the fall, one in late spring. I logged onto the Educational Testing Service website. October 8 was one of several scheduled dates for this year's SAT but May 3 and November 5 weren't.

Those who forget history are condemned to repeat it.

I pounded the keyboard like a chimp with a toy.

Both dates showed up on the previous year's calendar.

A second-grade teacher's voice sounded in my head.

You're such a thorough boy, Alex.

CHAPTER
29

Milo loosened his tie, finished his fifth cup of coffee. Kept staring at the printout I'd brought him.

Finally: "What, Elise failed to boost one preppie's scores three separate times? Or a trio of preppies formed the We Hate Ms. Freeman Club and banded together to ice her?"

"Or she didn't fail," I said. "She succeeded but did it in an unorthodox manner."

"Such as?"

"Saving her client the hassle of actually taking the test."

"Sending in a ringer? What led you there?"

"Because that would be worth covering up. I searched for scandals involving stand-ins and found plenty. And those are the ones who got caught. The testing services are supposed to check handwriting samples, and I.D.'s are inspected at the door. But with a big crowd of test-takers and a ringer with a decent physical resemblance, you could pull it off. Also, sometimes the SAT's administered at Prep, but not on any of those dates."

"At Prep, no way a ringer could pass. Well, well, well."

"A test scam also fits with Elise's flexible moral boundaries and it could clarify the motive. Assuming the rape DVD was a hoax never put into action, she--probably in concert with Fidella--was no stranger to the concept of extortion. If the tip's righteous, it might also narrow your suspect profile: a rich kid pressured to get into a selective college, who'd failed to improve significantly with tutoring. That could be why her computer--and Fidella's--was taken. Her student records were in there."

"Rich kid with a gonzo bank account or his parents," he said. "Mr. and Mrs. Deep Pockets pony up for tutoring, then toss in a whole bunch more for someone to take the test for Junior because it's all about getting Junior into Harvard and Junior can't hack it on his own. The ringer aces the test, Junior buys himself a crimson sweater, everyone's over the moon. Then Elise hits 'em up for a serious surcharge. But if it's only one kid, why three dates?"

"Once could've been the general SAT," I said, "the others the SAT IIs--achievement tests on specific subjects."

"We cover all your needs at the Academy of Scam."

"If we're talking big-time extortion, that could explain abandoning the rape plot. This was so much easier and Elise would keep her job."

He got up, stretched, sat down. "With the stakes so high, how'd our tipster find out? And why be so cryptic?"

"Maybe a hardworking kid picked up on an unlikely score by another student and got resentful. Peer pressure would frown on snitching publicly, you'd be sentencing yourself to high school hell. And by exposing a scandal you'd be putting everyone at Prep at risk of taint, including yourself."

"I'm not really a rat, I'm just giving the cops a hint. They don't figure it out, it's their fault. Wonder what those ethical seminars they run at Prep would say about that."

He laughed. Turned serious. "Maybe Marty Mendoza's our tipster. He'd sure be p.o.'d watching some rich brat pay for a high score."

"Maybe," I said. "Though I'd think Marty would have less trouble being explicit. And something else: The basics of the scam could be right but the murder motive could be different. Not protection from blackmail, snuffing out the competition. Because the drive from Fidella's house to Sierra Madre runs right through Pasadena. And someone lives there who'd be a perfect ringer."

He stared at me. "Trey Franck."

"Brilliant, Prep alumnus, looks young enough to pass for a high school student, changes his hair color regularly."

"Not a hipster thing, a goddamn disguise. Does the grunt work and takes all the risk, gets tired of Elise and Fidella pocketing the big bucks."

"He's the one who directed you to Marty. We have only his word that Elise was scared of Marty. If that was a diversionary tactic, it worked."

"Oh, man." He shot up again, stomped into the hall, returned flushed. "I'm getting that itchy feeling, like I've been played. The whole Marty thing steered us away from Franck's relationship with Elise. All along you've been saying Elise's murder stank of calculation and brains. Franck's a chemical engineer, claims he hasn't worked with dry ice since he was a little kid but so what? Nothing adds fun to homicide better than a little nostalgia, right?"

"Franck as our bad guy also explains why Fidella got his brains bashed in. Franck had to finish both of them. Maybe he showed up at Fidella's house for a business discussion--now that Elise was gone, how would the scam continue. He didn't bring a weapon because he'd been there, knew Fidella had a pool cue. There is the matter of that alibi but he was up north for four days, could've had enough time by himself to fly down, do Elise, fly back. He was sleeping with her, may very well have a key to her house. And his presence wouldn't have alarmed her, she'd feel comfortable drinking in front of him."

"Then in goes the Oxy. So who are the two girls?"

"A couple of kids who'd do anything for a cute, older guy. For all we know, they're undergrads at Caltech. They could've even thought it was a prank. They're big on that, there: taking apart cars and reassembling them in dorm rooms, hacking into the Rose Bowl scoreboard."

He said, "The young guy driving away in the Vette could easily be Franck. And who better than a chemical engineer to orchestrate a controlled arson?"

"After ordering a South El Monte baseball cap that he leaves behind to set up favorite patsy Marty Mendoza."

"Evil," he said. "If there's something to the tip... okay, let's try to connect some dots, see if they lead to young Master Franck."

He phoned South El Monte High, talked to Jane Virgilio.

"Hi, it's Lieutenant Sturgis, again... no, not yet, but could you please check your student store and find out who bought an Eagles baseball cap within the last two months? Anyone who's not a team member... it's too complicated to explain right now, ma'am, and I'm really busy looking for Martin, so please check... yes, I know it's online but you must have access... yes, I'll be happy to wait."

After three minutes of toe-tapping, he gave a rocket-fueled thumbs-up. "Thank you
so
much, Ms. Virgilio, I'll be sure to tell the family you helped."

Grinning, he logged onto his PC. "Apart from players who lose theirs and the occasional alumnus, Eagle caps are a low-volume item, only one moved during the last sixty days. And get this, amigo: October twentieth."

"Twelve days after this year's SAT. Franck bought it himself?"

"I should be so lucky, but at least I've got a name: Brianna Blevins, address in North Hollywood. Which ain't that far from the ice place. If she turns out to be a voluptuous white girl, I'm gonna make her feel
real
uncomfortable. Yo Facebook!"

Brianna Blevins was nineteen years old, full-faced and prone to grinning vacantly, with gleaming black hair that hung past her waist and a pneumatic body showcased by a bikini shot that proclaimed
Less Is Not More.

Not a student at Caltech; she'd graduated last year from North Hollywood High, was "looking for my place in the world."

Easy mark for someone with half Trey Franck's IQ. I wondered how the two of them had met.

If she did value the relationship with a Caltech genius, she wasn't advertising the fact. No shot or mention of Franck. But one of her frequently pictured friends was a pretty, slender girl with blond-tipped hair and overenthusiastic eye shadow.

Brianna's
BFF for sure and always, we party with our souls and dance to the same beat.

Selma Arredondo.

Milo said, "Got to be La Flaca. Love this social networking."

Arredondo's page bore no reference to Franck, either.

He turned to the phone directories. No listings for either girl. "Maybe they still live at home, can't be too many Blevinses in North Hollywood... lucky me, only one: Harvey P."

No answer, canned voice-mail recording.

He left no message, searched for Arredondos in the Valley, found several, connected to most. No one knew Selma.

DMV coughed up driver's licenses for both girls, obtained three years ago when they were fresh-faced.

Brianna had racked up several moving violations in a Ford truck registered to Harvey Blevins.

Milo sang, "Til her Daddy takes the T-Bird away," found Selma's wheels:

Five-year-old black Honda.

"Chavez actually told the truth," he said. "It ain't quite enough to restore my faith in human nature, but maybe one tiny step forward."

Arredondo's address conformed to one of the no-answer numbers Milo had tried. He phoned it again. The only one without voice mail.