Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel (7 page)

"I stand corrected, sir. So Ms. Freeman's employment was uneventful."

"We paid her handsomely, her duties were light, no reason for her to be unhappy."

"What was her salary?"

Helfgott's hand waved. "I don't get involved in that kind of thing, but typically, our salaries are the best in the preparatory school universe. Do you work regularly with the chief of police, Lieutenant?"

"We talk when necessary."

"I ask that because when Myron--Mr. Wydette--requested that I meet with you immediately as a favor to the chief of police, I was surprised."

"Why's that, sir?"

"Mr. Wydette emphasized the chief's affection for Prep and how it's benefited his son, Charlie. Who, if you weren't aware, is a graduating senior."

Milo remained silent.

Helfgott said, "Until now, the chief and Charlie's mother have been rather low-profile members of the Prep parent community."

No participation, no donations, no ass-kissing.

"Have you met Charlie, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir."

"Not a social boy, but bright."

We're not easily impressed, so tell your boss not to push it.

Milo pulled out his pad. "So, to your knowledge, Ms. Freeman never complained about any problems with students or faculty--with anyone at Prep."

"Lieutenant, we seem to be hovering over a single issue and not moving forward appreciably. Are you saying you're aware of a complaint--let me amend that to a statement. It sounds as if you doubt my word about Ms. Freeman's sanguine employment history." Hard glint behind the eyeglasses.

"Not at all, sir, and sorry for implying that. Like you said, you don't usually get involved in faculty issues. But unfortunately, we've become involved in just that."

Helfgott's waxy skin paled to cold tallow. "What, exactly, are you saying?"

"We're in possession of a communication from Ms. Freeman in which she claims she was sexually harassed by fellow teachers at Prep."

Spots of color splashed on Helfgott's sunken cheeks. His lips twitched. "Ludicrous."

Milo thumbed through his pad. "Three other teachers, to be exact: Enrico Hauer, James Winterthorn, Pat Skaggs. Are those individuals still employed at Prep?"

"This is beyond absurd." Helfgott had kept his tone low enough to discourage eavesdroppers but something in his body language caused one of the pilots to turn.

Milo said, "I'm sure you're right, but with Ms. Freeman deceased, we need to check it out."

"Enrico, Jim--no, that's not possible."

"So they are still working there."

"Of course they're still with us, no reason they shouldn't be." Helfgott rose to his feet, teetered, regained balance by clutching the arm of his chair. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I know you've got your job to do but so do I. Ergo, I cannot continue in this vein without benefit of legal counsel. Not because those outrageous accusations are anything but slanderous rubbish." Pausing to let that sink in. "Because my responsibility to Prep precludes me from exposing the school to untrammeled attack without prior... consultation."

"Institutions can't be slandered, sir, only individuals."

"Well, then, Enrico, Jim, and Pat have been slandered and I won't have it."

Milo stood. "No one's saying the accusations are true, Mr. Helfgott, but my responsibilities preclude
me
from ignoring them. And I'm sure all three of the individuals in question will appreciate the chance to clear their names."

"I don't see why they'd need to--"

"The point of today's meeting was extending a courtesy to you, sir, as well as to Prep. I need to have access to Enrico, Jim, and Pat and rather than disrupt your school during working hours, I'm giving you the opportunity to set up off-campus interviews at a discreet time and place." Stepping closer, he invaded Helfgott's personal space. His bulk turned Helfgott into a small man.

"Furthermore, it's essential that my courtesy doesn't lead to advance preparation on the part of Enrico, Jim, and Pat. Meaning, I expect you not to alert them as to the purpose of the interviews."

Helfgott backed away two steps, nostrils flaring, beads of moisture collecting under the rims of his eyeglasses. "The police chief has authorized this?"

"The police chief takes his responsibilities seriously."

"How... interesting." Suddenly Helfgott's hand landed on Milo's shoulder. Patted. "I'm sure you're a fine dedicated police lieutenant, sir. Merely doing your job. However, I must do mine. I cannot commit to a course of action without conferring with professionals. We'll chat in due time."

He headed toward the electric doors that opened to the tarmac. Before he got there, the concierge pushed a button and the doors swung open. Helfgott marched toward the Escalade. The driver popped out, hurried to open the passenger door.

Milo said, "Who says teaching's a thankless job."

As we passed the desk, the concierge looked up from her copy of
Elite Traveler.
Smiling and murmuring, "Bye, guys."

Her eyes said we'd soiled the furniture.

CHAPTER
8

As we passed from Santa Monica into West L.A., Milo placed a call to the chief's office, failed to get past the first secretarial rung, and hung up.

"So what do you think of Il Presidente?"

"Loves his job, will do anything to keep it."

"Perks like he's got, he'd probably kill to keep it, Alex." Tapping the wheel. "Too bad pomposity's not a felony."

"I thought your beef analogy was particularly astute."

"Yeah... my high school experience was ground chuck. You know what really irritated me, Alex? That patronizing false modesty--
I'm just a poor, dumb, hardworking mope who somehow managed to earn a cum laude at Brown
."

"
A different Brown
," I said. "But there might be some truth to that. Like the chief said, most of the Ivies began as divinity schools but they quickly became repositories for rich white boys. Later, when quotas were relaxed, they became meritocracies but Helfgott's old enough for the pre-merit days."

"You were a whiz kid, how come you didn't go Ivy?"

"My high school was blue collar, same as yours. The guidance counselors directed kids to the trades, most of my friends never even thought about college. I aimed higher because I knew I needed to get away from my family. The night I left Missouri, I snuck out without saying good-bye, hit the road in a clunker I'd bought on the sly."

"Sixteen years old. Gutsy boy."

"It was a matter of survival," I said. "And here's something I've never told anyone: I enrolled at the U. under false pretenses. My mother had an old friend who'd made her own escape--moving to Oakland, becoming a teacher. She knew what I was contending with, lied about being my aunt and my guardian, claimed I'd been a California resident for years. Without that, I could've never afforded the out-of-state tuition. I stayed with her for two weeks, mowed her lawn, painted her gutters. Then I bought her some daisies, left a note and cut out again in the middle of the night, drove down to L.A. It wasn't until my postdoc at Langley Porter that I even saw Oakland again."

"My buddy the miscreant. Time to revoke your degrees."

I said, "Fraud's below your pay grade." A mile later: "If you add up the alumni contributions I've made, they exceed the difference."

He laughed. "Everything needs to be atoned for, huh?"

"You have to start somewhere."

Back at his office, Milo phoned Dr. Clarice Jernigan at the coroner's office.

Last year, he'd closed the murder of one of Jernigan's investigators, a man named Bobby Escobar, though the solve was officially recorded as a Sheriff's Homicide victory. Back when the case had looked hopeless, Jernigan flippantly offered to trade priority cutting for resolution on Bobby.

Woman of her word.

Milo switched his phone to conference as Jernigan's crisp voice filled his tiny office.

"Just sewed up your victim, Milo. Which demigod do you have inroads with besides me?"

"What do you mean, Doc?"

"Freeman's body comes in, leapfrogs immediately over our backlog, straight to the table, along with an unsigned message slip on different paper from the ones we use with orders for me to get to it stat and keep the findings to myself. When I call my boss, he's not in, even though I know he is. My C.I. is sure the slip wasn't with the body when it came in, our drivers say the same thing, so somehow, this body got tagged without our spotting it. I figure maybe it was you, you're pushing our arrangement a bit, but fine. Then moments after the body hits the table someone calls my private cell line--the ones my kids use--and warns me to be discreet on Elise Freeman. I think the exact phrase was 'This needs to be handled ultra-quietly.' When I try to ask why, she hangs up."

"Who's she?"

"Someone who identified herself as calling from Parker. Is it true?"

"Probably."

"What's going on, Milo? I Googled Freeman and she's not rich or famous or otherwise noteworthy."

"It's complicated, Doc."

"Meaning shut up and cut," said Jernigan. "Well, I put my irritation aside and did both and here's what I've got for you: Freeman's blood alcohol was over three times the legal limit, plus she'd ingested some kind of opiate. No needle marks, so she probably snorted. Precise metabolites will take time to analyze. There's also clear pulmonary evidence of an overdose. In a relatively healthy young woman."

"Relative to what?"

"She had a smidge of atherosclerosis and some hepatic scarring--the beginnings of cirrhosis. Meaning she could've been hitting the sauce pretty hard. Clogged arteries could also be booze-related, or she had bad genetics. Or both. But none of that would've proved problematic in the short run, she had years to go before she slept. There are no signs of violence to the body, no damage to the hyoid to indicate strangulation, same for ocular petechiae. No sexual assault and she's never been pregnant. Cause of death is overdose, mode of death is up for grabs."

"Could it be an accidental O.D.?"

"Or suicide. Or homicide. My C.I. didn't spot any vomitus at the scene, or other signs of a seizure. Same for empty liquor bottles or drug Baggies. That dry ice bath is bizarre, never seen that before. I suppose it could've been some sort of erotic game that she played by herself, though it's hard to see how she could've withstood the agony."

"Could she have O.D.'d herself into stupor, slipped into the ice just before losing consciousness?"

"I suppose it's theoretically possible--talk about feeling no pain. Any idea where the ice came from? My C.I. didn't see any bags, either."

"I just got the case, Doc."

"Given a drugged state," said Jernigan, "I'd expect her to plunge rather than slip and that would've caused a mess, maybe even a head bump. There was none of that. Dry ice doesn't melt, it sublimates, so you wouldn't expect puddles. But still, she was tucked in too perfectly and skin burns say she'd been in there for a while. We both know this is homicide, but I don't have enough to put that in writing."

"Any way to know if she was alive or dead when she got put in?"

"Rosiness in the burns suggests alive but on the stand my answer would be 'I don't know.' How come you caught it when it's a Valley case?"

"My silence is profound, Doc."

"Got it," said Jernigan. "Well, good luck."

"Thanks, Doc."

"If you really want to show your gratitude," said Jernigan, "continue to keep me out of the loop."

Milo phoned the lab, ate some double talk, engaged in a spirited conversation with someone named Bill, and said, "I don't get clarification right now, I'm coming over to do a hands-on. Instructions from above."

Bill said, "What do you mean, above?"

"Use your imagination."

"I don't get paid for that."

"See you in thirty."

"That's not going to work, Milo. Per our specific instructions."

"My instructions are as of five minutes ago and they trump your instructions."

"Who are yours from?" said Bill.

"From where you can't go higher."

"Just like that, you've got a direct line to God."

"Santa, too. Don't believe me, here's the number. Now tell me what I need to know. Were there dry ice bags at the scene, empty booze bottles, drugs, or drug paraphernalia?"

"Negative on the bags," said Bill. "One empty Grey Goose bottle in the kitchen, negative on the dope. And here's a freebie: The only prints throughout the house are the vic's and that's just on a corner of the bed. Which is not right. My guess? Someone wiped the place down. But I'm not allowed to guess on this one. Now do me a favor, okay?"

"What?"

"Don't call for a while."

CHAPTER
9

The following noon, Milo phoned. "Ready for a DTA meeting?"

It took a moment to process that. "There's a detective-teacher association?"

"There is now. His Exaltedness just let me know three members of Windsor Prep's faculty will avail themselves to me at two p.m., three fifteen, and four thirty. Not at the school, God forbid. Some address in Beverly Hills. I said, 'Arbitrary time limits don't help, sir.' He said, 'Be thankful you're getting more than a forty-five-minute hour, ask Delaware.' That was his way of saying you can be there."

"Are they coming with lawyers?"

"Didn't get the chance to ask. Here's the place."

McCarty Drive, two blocks south of Wilshire.

I said, "Nice neighborhood. Who lives there?"

"Guess we'll find out when we get there."

We got there twenty minutes early. The house was a white two-story Mediterranean with diamond mullion windows, a front courtyard teeming with flowers beginning to go to seed, a lawn greener than envy. A
For Sale
sign was staked to the left of a gracefully winding stone footpath.

The front door was unlocked. We stepped into a high, tiled entry. Clean, warm light filtered to the right of a sinuous staircase. In an otherwise empty living room, a woman sat reading in a folding chair. From what I could see, the entire house was vacant.