Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel (6 page)

Cozy as Elise Freeman in her bed of frozen carbon dioxide.

The studio smelled like a conifer forest after a drizzle. That brought back autumns in Missouri.

Walking through the parkland behind the little sad house I grew up in. A kid with a head full of fear and confusion sneaking out when Mom escaped to her locked room and Dad raged at high-burn.

Hoping I'd get lost.

I smiled and kissed Robin. She put down her chisel, flexed her fingers. "Perfect timing, I'm ready to quit."

The mandolin top was smooth, curvy, with a subtly arched belly. Unmistakably female. "Nice."

Robin tapped the spruce. A musical tone rang out. "The music's already in the wood, my job is to not screw it up."

"Any serious job is like that."

We headed for the house, pausing by the fishpond to feed the koi. Blanche stuck by us, smiling in that strange but endearingly humanoid way.

Over coffee, I told Robin about the woman on ice.

She said, "Someone bragging
I'm a stone-cold killer
?"

"Interesting slant."

"Long days carving, I get symbolic."

I filled her in on the chief.

She said, "Politicians are a low life-form."

"The chief's appointed."

"His commodity's power, Alex. That puts him two notches below slime mold."

"My girlfriend the anarchist."

"If only," she said.

"If only you were an anarchist?"

"If only reality made anarchy a reasonable approach."

That evening, I was at my computer, keywording
windsor prep
and learning nothing beyond official P.R.

I switched to victimology. Eleven-year-old Elise Freeman from Great Neck, New York, had an artful MySpace page that showcased her pastel drawings and successful orthodonture. Ninety-six-year-old Elise Freeman had just celebrated her birthday in Pepper Pike, Ohio, and received a card from the Cleveland Cavaliers. No hits on Elise Freeman, deceased tutor.

When Milo rang in at nine forty, I said, "She's cyber-invisible, Fidella was right about her liking her privacy."

"Everything else Fidella told us is checking out, including his calls to Elise four hours before she died. The phone subpoena only covered one week of his account, I'm preparing another one for Elise's, we'll see how far back they'll let me go. For the time being, Sal's out of the spotlight."

"Had a beer and watched TV at home isn't much of an alibi."

"That's what His Augustness said. I asked him for alternative suspects and he responded with less-than-pristine language. Ten minutes later, his secretary calls back: We've got face time with Windsor Prep's president, guy named Edgar Helfgott."

"Saw his name on the website," I said. "A parent?"

"No, at Prep that's a paid job. Helfgott used to be the headmaster before they created the position for him and moved him into the Oval Office. His assistant is now the headmaster, a Dr. Rollins. Under her is an assistant headmaster and it keeps going, the place is structured like a Fortune 500 corporation. Anyway, Helfgott will grant us an audience tomorrow at eleven, you'll never guess where."

"Some manse the school lets him use as an official residence?"

"Even better."

CHAPTER
7

Edgar Helfgott de-planed from the Gulfstream V.

A trim, rock-jawed uniformed pilot descended behind him lugging two burnished leather suitcases. The aircraft was sleek and white. The same could be said for Helfgott.

Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he removed and pocketed a pair of earplugs, gazed up at the silver sky, rotated his neck.

Quiet time at Santa Monica Airport; lots of private jets parked on the tarmac but no other takeoffs or landings. After a bit of negotiation, Milo's badge had gained us access to the field. We stood five yards behind Helfgott's prearranged black Escalade. Moments before the Gulfstream's arrival, we'd made small talk with the chauffeur.

Yes, he'd driven Mr. Helfgott a few times but didn't really know him, the man didn't talk much, always read books in the car. Unlike the man who
owned
the plane and the car and paid the driver's salary.

"Mr. Wydette talks to you like a regular guy, lets you know what's on his mind."

"What's Mr. Wydette's first name?"

"Myron," said the chauffeur. "Not that I ever use it."

Milo said, "What did he do to afford a plane?"

"Fruit."

"Fruit?"

"Peaches, apricots, that kind of thing. He owns a lot of land, I don't know the details."

"He lend the plane out often?"

"Nah, mostly it's the family, sometimes it's Mr. Helfgott."

"Mr. Helfgott's a frequent flier?"

The driver frowned. "I don't keep a list." He headed back toward his SUV.

Milo and I followed. "Where's Mr. Helfgott flying in from this morning?"

The driver opened his door. "I just show up where they tell me."

He got inside the SUV. Up went the windows.

Milo looked back at the building behind us. A Fixed Base of Operations called Diamond Aviation. The pretty young female concierge in the marble-and-glass terminal had responded with the same level of protectiveness. "Unless you're Homeland Security, we're not allowed to give out flight information. Can I get you guys some coffee?"

One step from the bottom of the jet's stairs, Helfgott spotted us. Showing no sign of surprise or recognition, he snatched his bags from the pilot, toted them to the Escalade, and placed them in the trunk. Rotating his neck again, he shot his cuffs as he walked toward us, expressionless.

"Morning. I think. Ed Helfgott."

Six feet tall and somewhere in his sixties, Windsor Prep's president was thin and angular but slightly broad in the beam, with the kind of pale, waxy skin that shaves well and connotes long nights of scholarly study. Longish rusty hair streaked with silver swept back over a high brow and broke over his collar in waves. The glasses were owlish, framed in tortoiseshell. A gold watch chain hung from the vest of a whiskey-colored glen plaid suit tailored to give him more shoulder. His shirt was lime-green broadcloth, his tie a hugely knotted ocher foulard. A yellow handkerchief flecked with brown was stuffed haphazardly into a breast pocket, just short of tumbling.

"Thanks for meeting with us, sir."

Helfgott scanned Milo's card absently. "My pleasure, Lieutenant. I do hope this doesn't stretch on for too long." Sudden, incongruous smile. "I'm a bit tuckered."

"Long journey?"

"Journeys, plural," said Helfgott. "Monday was a conference in D.C., then on to New York to interface with some alums, followed by a jaunt over the pond to London and back for a stop in Cambridge, Mass. London, in particular, posed challenges. Scaffolding everywhere and despite the financial vicissitudes, the pace and magnitude of construction remain Promethean. Unfortunately, so does the volume of motor traffic. None of my destinations were in walking distance from my lodgings in Mayfair so a fair bit of ingeniousness was at play."

I said, "School business in London?"

Helfgott's thin lips turned up. What resulted was the initial knife-slice for a jack-o'-lantern mouth. "If you're asking was it a holiday, quite the opposite. I interfaced with my equal numbers at Oxbridge, Cambridge, and LSE--the London School of Economics."

A high school administrator with counterparts at three major universities.

I said, "Smoothing the way for your graduates."

"Most of my time was spent listening as
they
tried to attract
our
alums. In a world of growing globalism, Windsor Prep people are regarded as prime intellectual property. Creators rather than prisoners of destiny, if you will. One of our grads attended Oxford twenty years ago and ended up settling in Scotland. He's just been short-listed for the Booker Prize."

"Congrats," said Milo. "Sounds like ultra-prime property--kind of like Wagyu beef."

Helfgott squinted. "Sir?"

"Wagyu--"

"I know what Wagyu is, Lieutenant. What I'm failing to see is the crux of your analogy."

"The stuff comes from pampered cows, right? Back in Japan, they get to guzzle beer, snarf gourmet grub, have regular massages. All that to keep the meat tender. Then they're shipped off to dates with destiny."

Helfgott removed his specs. Ripped the silk handkerchief free, wiped both lenses energetically. Glancing at the Escalade, he pulled out his pocket watch. I was close enough to see it had stopped six hours ago. That didn't stop Helfgott from tsk-tsking.

"Later than I thought. How say we wend our way to the lounge, do whatever it is you feel is important. Then we can all be on our merry ways."

Diamond Aviation's waiting area was thirty feet high, walled in glass, with air spiced by cinnamon-flavored air-freshener. A man in a white jumpsuit dry-mopped the black marble floor. No jet-setters occupied the puce leather seating; off to the side, a couple of bored-looking pilots studied a computer terminal. One said something about weather in Roseville. The other said, "Maybe we'll get delayed enough to stick around and try that sushi place."

Without being asked, the same cute concierge addressed Helfgott by name as she set down a glass of soda water and lime.

"Change your mind about coffee, guys?"

"No, thanks."

"Anything else, Mr. Helfgott?"

"Not for the moment, Amy. Thank you."

"Anytime, Mr. Helfgott." She sashayed away. He drank, rotated his neck yet again.

Milo said, "Are you in pain, sir?"

"Chronic condition exacerbated by age and too-frequent air travel, Lieutenant. Yoga helped for a while, then some unfortunate personal training led to sprains precisely where I didn't need them."

He eyed Myron Wydette's jet through the glass, now being fueled by a tanker truck. Held his gaze and inhaled, as if yearning to be aloft.

"Nice piece of machinery, Mr. Helfgott."

"Work of art, Lieutenant. I won't pretend it's not immeasurably superior to commercial aviation, but in the last analysis, flying is flying. One strives to eat properly, stretch, hydrate oneself. Nevertheless, the hours of enforced immobility take their toll. As soon as we wrap up whatever it is you feel you need to do, I'm going to swim, then settle in a warm bath and pop off to sleep."

"Sounds good, sir. What have you been told about this meeting?"

"Mr. Wydette's office called me midflight to inform me that poor Elise Freeman had passed on and the police had requested to speak with me. I took that to assume an irregular death."

All the emotion of a Chia pet. He continued admiring the Gulfstream until his eyes lost focus. Somewhere else; maybe thinking about his bath.

Milo said, "If by irregular you mean other than old age, that's true, sir."

"How dreadful," said Helfgott. "May I ask when and where it occurred, and the particulars?"

"Several days ago, at her house, sir. The particulars remain the big question."

"I'm not sure I understand, Lieutenant."

"Mode of death hasn't been determined."

"So there's no obvious crime."

Milo didn't answer.

Helfgott finally swiveled away from the jet field. "And you requested to speak with me because..."

"Elise Freeman worked at Prep."

"Surely you can't imagine her passing has anything to do with her job."

"Was she happy at Prep?"

"Why wouldn't she be?"

"Any job can be stressful, sir."

Helfgott put his water glass down, removed his specs. His eyes were small, diminished further by heavy lids, with watery hazel irises. "I don't customarily deal with faculty issues but if there'd been a serious problem, I assume I'd have heard about it. In fact, she seemed quite pleased at the contract we offered her. After I received Mr. Wydette's call, I immediately phoned Headmaster Rollins and she confirmed that fact, as well as the fact that Ms. Freeman had been happily and uneventfully employed."

"Sounds like you wondered yourself if her death had anything to do with Prep."

Back went the glasses. "Not at all, Lieutenant. I am not a brilliant thinker and I attempt to compensate for my intellectual deficits with meticulousness. That's a lesson I try to pass on to our less inspired students. Rara avises though they are."

"Prep's website says you graduated cum laude from Brown."

Helfgott smiled. "You've researched me?"

"I read the website."

"Well, Lieutenant, that was a different Brown. Now, what else can I help you with?"

"When did you offer Ms. Freeman her contract?"

"She came on as a per diem temporary employee four years ago. A year later, we offered her more steady employment. I remain puzzled by that term
--mode of death.
"

"She's being processed by the coroner as we speak."

"How grim sounding. So it could be a medical condition, one of those rough patches--an aneurysm."

"At this point, anything's possible, Mr. Helfgott."

"Then why, may I ask, am I talking to homicide detectives?"

"We investigate any unusual death."

Helfgott tucked his handkerchief tighter. "I see. When can we expect some definitive answers as to
mode
of death
?"

"I really can't say, Mr. Helfgott."

"Are we talking days, weeks, an inordinate amount of time?"

"I really can't answer that, sir."

"Surely some kind of narrowing--"

Milo leaned in closer. "Sir, I know from your website that Prep's got a great mock-trial team. Maybe the best in the country, you guys took high national honors last year. All those big-time lawyers' kids, no surprise. But right now, it's best if I ask the questions."

Helfgott's manicured fingers grazed the tips of the handkerchief. "Mea culpa, Lieutenant, I didn't mean to upset your investigatory routine, I was simply thinking of our students and faculty. The news of Elise's death is going to be upsetting, particularly if the mode is... unusual. Ergo, the sooner we can offer accurate information, the sooner closure will arrive." Faint smile. "I should point out that the captain of that extraordinary debate team was the daughter of a neurosurgeon, not an attorney."