Pat Skaggs inhaled, stood. Ran from the room looking smaller.
CHAPTER
14
When we were alone, Milo paced the vacant house. I stayed in the back room, enjoying the view of the garden and wondering.
His footsteps lingered in the kitchen; the primeval urge. When he stomped back in, I said, "My bet's on Freeman making it up."
Milo said, "The teachers are horny but not monsters?"
"If they were drama coaches I might feel differently but all three seemed genuinely surprised about the accusation and it's hard to see the three of them cooperating on a campaign to torment poor Elise. Also, Elise made the DVD but never did anything with it. Maybe she contemplated an extortion scheme but changed her mind?"
"Seducing teachers for blackmail? Not exactly deep pockets."
"These are teachers who work for the richest school in the city," I said. "Talk about a massive workplace harassment suit. And something that waitress at the bar said makes me wonder if Fidella was involved. She pegged him as a get-rich-quick type."
He circled the room. Stopped. "Winterthorn and Skaggs I can see as vulnerable to extortion, but Rico Suavisimo doesn't care what wifey thinks. Why would Elise pick him as a stooge?"
"Maybe she didn't know about his wife's tolerance. She'd see a married man, one clearly giving off sexual vibes."
"Using the three of them to get to ultra-deep pockets... then why change her mind? Given what we're learning about her, I don't see a burst of moral growth."
"Could be she lost her nerve about doing battle with an institution like Prep. Especially after they gave her a permanent gig."
"Maybe the gig was payoff for not suing, Alex."
I thought about that. "Doubt it. She'd hold out for a lot more than a steady job. Another reason could be Rico. Unlike the other two, he describes a prolonged affair. Maybe Elise decided making love beat making war."
"She falls for Senor Stud, decides not to drag him into the muck?"
"And if things went bad, she always had the disc."
"Best-laid plans," he said. "So to speak."
"Which brings us back to Fidella," I said. "If he was involved in the scheme, he'd lose twice: another jackpot dashed and his girlfriend's making a fool of him with another man. I keep going back to his having a key to her house. What if he dropped in one night, found Elise and Hauer together but left without a scene?"
"He stews, builds up the rage, finally accepts the fact that Elise won't go forward with her threats."
"He also was aware of Elise's binge-drinking. Who better to lace her vodka with some kind of opiate? He waits until she's wasted and helpless, lowers her into the tub, packs her like crab legs at the fish market."
He grimaced. "And here I was thinking seafood for dinner. Wonder where that waitress hangs out when she's not drinking at Arnie Joseph's."
The octogenarian bartender held a glass to the light. "That's Doris, she does the three-to-eleven shift at Fat Boy."
"Where's Fat Boy?"
"Two blocks north. If you're thinking Doris had a thing with Sal, she didn't."
"Who did?" said Milo.
"Some blonde."
Milo showed him a snap of Elise Freeman.
"That's her."
"She in here a lot?"
"A few times. Grey Goose, up. Sometimes a twist, sometimes nothing."
"Not an ice freak," said Milo.
"Nope."
"Heavy drinker?"
"One drink, period. Thank God most ain't like her."
"What else do you know about her?"
"Nothing, I know drinks, not people." Studying Milo. "You're beer." To me: "Blended scotch, maybe a high-end single malt if you're feeling flush. Both of you drink wine when your wives want you to."
"Let's hear it for the wives," said Milo. "You're an oracle."
"Been doing this for fifty-three years, nothing changes."
"What does your crystal ball tell you about Sal?"
"Beer, same as you. Only difference is you I might let run a tab."
"Sal's not a good risk?"
"I'm a trusting sort," said the old man. "But jerk me around enough and it's cash on the barrel."
"Sal has trouble meeting his obligations?"
The bartender laid down his towel, folded it neatly. "What kind of dumb-ass empties a slot machine of ten grand and blows it the same day? When it comes to settling up, he's always got a sad story. So now it's cash on the barrel."
"Sal react okay to that?" said Milo.
"What do you mean?"
"He have a temper?"
"People don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Fuss when I read 'em the law." He reached behind the bar, hefted a Louisville Slugger. Black worn to gray, same for the tape around the handle.
Milo said, "It came to that with Sal?"
"Nah, but he knows it's here. Everyone does. Got robbed twenty-eight years ago, coupla cholos pistol-whipped me, my skull was like eggshell. I got smart."
"A bat's enough?"
The old man winked. Watery eyes dropped to a spot behind the bar. "Gotta be seeing as how normal people can't get carry permits for firearms, only rich dumb-asses who know the mayor."
"You got that right," said Milo. "Sal ever hit you up with easy-money schemes?"
"People don't do that with me."
"He ever hit up your patrons?"
"Probably."
"Probably?"
"People drink, their lips flap. Sal flaps a lot even before the first beer. But he never impresses anyone. I ignore all that noise and think about my grandchildren."
"Hear no evil?"
"Crap floats by me, why would I touch it?"
"Still," said Milo, "you smell it. What kinds of things is Sal into?"
"Mostly he bitches about how he used to have money. Stocks, bonds, real estate. Back when kids played instruments. You believe that, I'll sell you GM. Want anything, a soft drink? On the house."
"No, thanks. Tell us about the blonde."
"Not much to tell," said the barkeep. "Quiet, but not friendly quiet, more like nose in the air, she was too good for the place. She'd drink her one Goose, get all fidgety, make Sal leave. He followed her like a puppy dog."
Lifting the towel with deft fingers, he snapped it midair. "You want Doris, she's on shift right around now. Don't tell her I sent you."
"Doris likes her privacy?"
The old man returned the bat to its hiding place. "I don't give a rat's ass what she or anyone else likes. My age, I keep things simple."
Fat Boy was a holdout against franchise fever, a glass-fronted fifties cube with an upwardly thrusting roof that evoked manned space travel. Breakfast special banner taped to the glass, breakfast smells late in the afternoon. Blue Naugahyde booths, counter stools, and aqua carpeting had long conceded the war against dirt and wear.
The place was empty but for two bearded truckers inhaling bacon and eggs at the counter and a young Hispanic woman tending to them with good cheer and banter. Same unflattering pink uniform as Doris but she made it work.
"You guys can sit up here."
No sign of Doris. Then she emerged through rear doors, carrying a two-foot stack of yellow paper napkins.
Milo waved.
She ignored him and began filling dispensers. Her name tag said Dorrie.
"Afternoon, Dorrie."
"To you it's Doris," she said. "What now?"
"A few more questions about Sal."
"I already told you what I know." Moving on to the next booth, she spotted a crumb, flicked it away before dry-wiping the Formica, pressed the spring-latch of the dispenser, crammed in paper.
Letting go with an audible snap, she did the same at the neighboring booth.
"Soon as you're done, Doris."
"I'll be done in five hours."
"Doesn't look too crowded."
"Rub it in."
"How about we help you load the napkins, you spare us a few minutes."
The truckers turned. Milo stared them down and they returned to their food.
Doris said, "How'd you find out I was here? Adolph told you, right?"
"Who's Adolph?"
"The mummy pours drinks at Arnie's."
"Just a few questions," said Milo.
"Damn Adolph--look, it's not like me and Sal are buddies."
"You mentioned get-rich-quick schemes. What kind?"
"That card you handed out said homicide, not con stuff. What, Sal killed his girlfriend over money?"
"What girlfriend is that?"
"Some blonde. Was it her?"
Milo produced Freeman's picture.
"That's the one," said Doris. "He really did her? Jesus, I never woulda thought."
"He's not a suspect at this time."
She snorted. "You're here for your health."
"A woman dies, we look at her boyfriend, Doris. If you've got information about their relationship, that would be helpful."
"He brought her to Arnie's, that's all."
"Often?"
"Sometimes. She never talked to no one, wasn't exactly fun in the drinking department."
"Timid drinker."
"One vodka she sometimes didn't even finish." She scowled. "Expensive stuff--Grey Goose. Making like she was superior."
"A snob," said Milo.
Doris put her napkins down. "The way she talked, overly pronouncing her words, you know? Like I went to college and you didn't. Like anyone gives a rat at a place like Arnie's."
"Why'd she hang with Sal?"
"How should I know? The other guy I saw her with was a lot cuter. Too young for her, but maybe she was one of those Goldilocks girls, know what I mean? One day it's too hot, the next too cold. No nose for just-right."
"Tell us about the other guy, Doris."
"He's the one killed her, not Sal?"
"We don't know who killed her, Doris. That's why we're here."
Doris's smile spread like a rash. Her teeth were randomly placed. "You didn't even know about the other guy, did you? Well, don't get me involved, I just saw him once."
"Where?"
"Walking down Van Nuys with her. They stop short of Arnie's, there's an alcove, this old office building. They duck in there, there's an overhang, soon they're in there doing kissy-face. She plants a big one on him, takes his face like this." Cupping her chin. "In goes the tongue. Blech. We're talking young enough to be her kid."
"May-December romance."
"You could say that. Or you could say they had the hots for each other, I ain't Dr. Ruth."
"You saw all this because--"
"I was walking behind them from my bus stop like I always do."
"What time of day?"
"Two, two thirty, I like to get to Arnie's, lubricate the throat before I arrive at this gourmet palace. Only reason I noticed her was I'd seen her with Sal. Also her getup. Tight red dress, talk about advertising the goods. I said to myself, Hey, that's Goose gal but that cutie sure ain't Sal."
"What happened after they kissed?"
"She pats him on his cute little butt, he leaves, she goes to Arnie's. Soon after, Sal shows up, Blondie's smiling at him like it's true love. One drink and she's bugging him to leave, he doesn't even finish his beer, what a limp onion. So maybe he found out she was cheatin' and got mad, huh? That's what you're thinking, right?"
Calling out to the young waitress behind the counter. "Guess what, Rosie, I'm a big-time detective now."
Rosie said, "How much they payin' you, Dorrie?"
Milo said, "How young was this other guy?"
"A lot younger than her--what was she forty, forty-five?"
"Thirty-eight."
"I'da pegged her as older."
"What about him?"
"Twenties--twenty-two, twenty-three."
"Not younger?"
"That's not young enough?"
"Could he have been a high school student?"
"To me he looked twenties," she said, "but who knows? He dressed like one of those preppies. Nice buttondown shirt, khaki pants--but tennis shoes, kind of nerdy. Pen protector in the pocket--that I remember 'cause I thought it was real nerdy. But he didn't look like a nerd, too cute. More like a surfer--the peroxide hair." Grinning. "Real tight butt. I'd think he could do better than her but guys want one thing. Give it to 'em and they're burgers on the griddle."
"Hot?" said Milo.
"Hot and sizzly and bad for your heart."
"Let's talk about Sal's money schemes."
Doris said, "Who listened--okay, here's one I remember because it was so stupid. I'm enjoying my drink before work, Sal comes in, sits at the other end of the bar, pretends he's not gonna talk to me, has a beer and gives out this big sigh. All of a sudden, he's next to me. Pretends to make small talk, then: 'Would you believe this, Dorrie, I just got a huge commission check for some tubas'--he sells instruments, or so he claims, I never saw him do nothing but sit and drink. I say congratulations. He says, 'Problem is it won't clear for a week, I got a pile of bills, do me a little favor, I'll make it worth your while.'"
Milo said, "Lemme guess: You deposit the check in your account, he withdraws some of the money and pays you interest. If the check bounces, you're saddled with the charges."
"Guess you're a big-time detective, too."
"How much money we talking about, Doris?"
"Two thousand and some change, he said he'd give me a hundred for my trouble. Like I'd do it. Too good to be true always is."
"Why would he try to scam someone at a place he frequented?"
"Why don't you ask him?" she said. "Far as I know no one at Arnie's ever says yes to his b.s."
"He tries that kind of thing regularly?"
"He's always inching up to someone with that look, like he's carrying around the biggest secret in the world. Oh, yeah, I remember another one: He had truckloads of surplus trumpets and trombones coming in, just needed some money to ship them to Indiana or wherever it is they melt trombones down for brass. I pitch in, he'll split the profits with me. Another time he tried to sell everyone New Jersey lottery tickets at a discount. He's annoying but he gives up quick, not pushy and no one gets mad because he's pathetic. I got him pegged as a spineless worm, no guts no glory. That's why it surprises me you think he killed her."
"We don't, Doris--"
"Whatever. He's at his finest after a few," she said. "Six, seven beers and he's creative. You really think he killed her?"
We left Fat Boy, got back into the car.
"Clumsy con man," he said. "Yeah, I can see him getting tumescent over a big-money squeeze job on a place like Prep."
"And correspondingly mad when Elise pulled out of the scheme. Plus, the jealousy angle just got stronger."
"Our tutor and a young guy. She sure covered a lot of ground. Meaning there could be who-knows-how-many partners out there." Chuckling. "She might as well have tutored biology. You got where I was going with that age question."
"A preppie type," I said. "If Doris's age estimate is off Elise could've been sleeping with a student."
"Pens in the pocket--maybe a math brain but he needed help in English. Be nice to get hold of some Prep yearbooks, have Doris go through the boys."
"If Prep even has yearbooks."
"Why wouldn't they?"
"Mere paper and ink? I'm thinking sacred tablets."
CHAPTER
15
Back at his closet-sized office, Milo belly-dived into the cyber-world. If Windsor Prep issued yearbooks they weren't cataloged online and none of the pay services promising to hunt down alumni had anything on the school.
No snarky critiques on the Internet, either, just paeans to the school's physical plant and academic standards.
I said, "Didn't know police protection could reach that far."
His smile devolved to an abdominal growl. "Time to subpoena Elise's phone records. Something traces back to a student, I'm beelini
ng for the damn school." Rubbing his face. "That'll be so much fun I'll follow it up with do-it-yourself open-heart surgery using a rusty can opener."
I drove home, cleared paper, drank two black coffees, and began my own computer search, starting with MySpace and Facebook and using windsor prep as keywords.
No shortage of smiling, attractive kids attending the school, along with the usual friends lists, music choices, poetic excerpts ranging from lewd to sad, some home-drawn comic strips, the occasional photo of a cat or dog.
A handful of postings about Elise Freeman, but nothing more specific than did u hear? ms. f. died. bizarre.
No memorials or calls for tribute. Not a hint of rumor about sexual indiscretions.
Returning to the commercial alumni sites, I plugged Elise Freeman's name into the U. of Maryland database. No such person. Pairing her name with maryland pulled up a five-year-old search for graduates of Blessed Heart College on Garrison Boulevard in Baltimore, the school wanting to get in touch for a centennial celebration.
What else had she lied about?
I clicked the reunion link. Elise Freeman appeared in the Where Are You? column. So did Sandra Freeman Stuehr, graduation date two years later.
Four forty p.m. made it past working hours in Baltimore so I tried the city's white pages. Over five hundred Freemans.
But only one Stuehr, a business address: Stuehr's Crab Cooker, E. Pratt Street.
The woman who answered put me on hold. A minute or so later, she returned, talking over restaurant clatter. "When do you want your reservation?"
"I'd like to speak to Sandra."
"Who?"
"Sandra Stuehr."
Two beats. "Hold on."
The silence lasted nearly three minutes before a man got on. No more clatter, maybe a private office. "This is Frank, what now?" Clipped diction, vocal cords that sounded as if they'd been dragged a few miles on a gravel road.
"I'm looking for Sandra. You're Mr. Stuehr?"
"Yeah, right."
"Pardon?"
"Another lawyer heard from. Christ, stop bugging me."
I told him who I was, played up the LAPD connection more than reality justified.
"Yeah, right, more cock and bull. Look, pal, I can't stop you from calling but trust me, next time you won't get through, just like those other guys."
Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 9