Scuzetti said, "You find him, tell him to cough up last month's."
In the car, Milo removed a toilet-paper-wrapped wad from his pocket. "Left his toothbrush and toothpaste and hairbrush, which is kind of impulsive for a good planner."
"He probably wasn't thinking in terms of DNA analysis," I said. "You're not concerned about a warrantless search?"
"What search? I went in there concerned about the poor boy's safety because of what li'l Julie said plus everyone associated with the test scam dying unnaturally. Saw this material in plain sight and believed it might help us locate Mr. Franck, all in the interests of his personal safety."
He started the car. "Not to say DNA wouldn't be peachy but all I'm after now is a print I can match to the palm on Fidella's garage. Franck's smart and amoral. And you heard Moon: Franck had his evenings to himself, had plenty of time to fly in and out and do Elise. He knew we'd trace him through her phone records so he prepares himself, sics me on Marty Mendoza. That leaves him grace time to bash in Sal's head, after which he drives off in Sal's car, leaves it in plain sight with a hat that can be traced to Marty on the seat. And Julie just gave us the motive for all this mayhem: Franck's tired of doing all the work and being a junior partner in the scam. Ergo eliminate the middlemen. Everything fits, including his disappearance: He leaves personal things behind but skips out on the rent, because he's known for a while that he's gonna rabbit."
I said, "The cap being ordered soon after the October SAT test fits with serious premeditation. But since I'm your pal I'm going to point out a problem: If Franck's motive is to continue the scam, he'll need to be around."
"So he lays low, figures out a cover story, returns in time for the next round of SATs. Or, he got antsy because he felt we were getting too close. Given his skills, he can always find another prep school."
"Which leads me to another problem: Even if Franck's a psychopath, the smartest psychopaths avoid violence, not because they're repelled by it but because it's an inefficient strategy. Franck's skills are portable, so why murder two people in order to eliminate them as business partners when he could set up shop elsewhere?"
"What a pal. So give me an alternative."
"Two murderous preppies covering their tracks."
"Given Franck's history, why would that be anything but another diversion?"
"It fits with both murders: Elise's was calculated, mean-spirited, a Hah-hah look-at-me piece of theater. Because she was in no position to resist. Sal, on the other hand, posed a great challenge, easier for two people to overpower him and bash him with a found object."
"Why wouldn't two homicidal kids bring a weapon, Alex? And covering up for someone taking your SAT is a better motive? If Elise and Sal--and Franck--went public, they'd be putting themselves in the crosshairs."
"It could be an excellent motive if you're a couple of indulged but intensely pressured brats waiting for the Crucial Letter when Elise Freeman lets you know she wants more dough or your future's blown to smithereens."
"Same problem, Alex: The scam comes to light, she's screwing herself."
"The fact that she considered the rape scam says she was willing to trade a bit of misery and exposure for the chance of big money. In both cases, she and Sal would figure the victims would settle quietly. Like any good cons, they timed the extortion to their prey's maximum vulnerability. And one more thing: The kids Franck sat in for didn't show up on Elise's doorstep randomly. Most likely, she was already tutoring them, but their scores just weren't edging high enough and they started freaking out. At the height of their anxiety, Elise says, 'You know, I've got a solution.' And that's relevant because if they'd spent time at Elise's house they could be aware of her vulnerabilities: binge-drinking and poor judgment when it came to younger men."
"Party with Teach, spike her vodka with Oxy, then ice her. Lovely."
"For all we know, Fidella figured it out, was too greedy to refrain from putting on an additional squeeze. Unfortunately, he underestimated his victims."
"And Trey Franck misdirects us to Martin because..."
"Anything that keeps us away from the scam is in his best interest."
"Then li'l Julie blows it by being honest... I'll keep an open mind but my gut tells me Franck's an emotionally shallow little prick and he could still be the young guy seen driving away in Fidella's Vette. And need I remind you that Nosy Neighbor was pretty certain there was only one person in the car, not some deadly duo."
"Rich kids have their own cars," I said.
He rewrapped Franck's brushes. "I get a match to that palm print, it's no longer theoretical. Same for some juicy info from juicy Brianna Blevins, who I will locate even if it means an unprecedented level of sleep deprivation. Onward to North Hollywood, Jeeves."
"You're driving."
"I was speaking symbolically," he said. "Side effect of all the clever types I've had to contend with."
CHAPTER
32
The Blevins residence was a pebble-roofed ranch house on a cul-de-sac north of Chandler Boulevard. Train tracks bisected the neighborhood, foisted on unwilling residents by transportation nannies on another futile quest to clear the freeways.
The house was neatly kept, as were its neighbors, but the lack of curbside trees gave the street a tentative feel. A spotless green Buick LeSabre sat in the driveway. A couple of sago palms sprouted from a lava rock bed below the picture window.
The man who came to the door wore a white shirt and gray tie, held a Palm Pilot in one hand, a stylus in the other. The furnishings behind him ran the gamut of green. The aroma of bacon had settled comfortably.
He poked the Palm, gave a befuddled look. Fifty or so, with the kind of bluish beard that never looks completely shaved and a salt-and-pepper brush cut. He screwed up his mouth as if yet another load of confusion had just been foisted onto his weary shoulders.
Milo's I.D. elicited a one-second examination. "Police? There was a burglary? Since the trains started running we're getting more unsavories, just like we worried about. But no serious problems. Yet."
"You're Mr. Blevins?"
"Harvey. What's up?"
"We'd like to talk to Brianna."
"Now what?"
"You've had problems with Brianna?"
"Maybe one day she'll settle down, get married, pump out a grandchild, and I'll understand why I became a parent in the first place." Blevins laughed, as if to scour bitterness from his voice. "Yes, she's given me problems. What the heck has she gone and done?"
Milo said, "We're looking at Brianna as a witness, not a suspect, Mr. Blevins, so if you could tell us where she is--"
"Don't know where she is, that's part of the problem. She's just like her mother, talk about genetics--here, come on in while I get my laptop."
We sat on a stiff green sofa as Blevins tucked his computer under his arm. "Excuse the mess."
The house was neater than a marine barracks at inspection. Despite the bacon perfume, the kitchen was spotless and a dishwasher hummed.
"Looks fine to me," said Milo.
"That's always Bri's excuse," said Blevins. "'Looks fine to me, Dad, you want better, do it yourself.'"
"You're divorced from her mom?"
"Ten years ago but Glorietta's six feet under. Eight years, driving drunk. Luckily no one else got hurt."
I said, "By 'just like her mother' did you mean Brianna has a drinking problem?"
"She doesn't have one yet," said Blevins. "No teetotaler but she seems able to hold it, like I can. Due to my ex's issues, I did a lot of reading on the subject and it's a brain chemistry thing, luck of the draw."
"So her problems are--"
"She's got slut problems," said Blevins. "I know that sounds bad, a father shouldn't talk about his kid that way, but facts are facts. Even there, I can't blame her totally, it's also in the brain, Glorietta was a total round-heels, I didn't find out the extent until all these idiots show up at the funeral and start confessing to me. Classy, huh?"
&
nbsp; His lower jaw swung from side to side. "It didn't bother me, we'd been divorced two years, but it did make me resolve to raise Bri the right way. Church, Girl Scouts, the works. For a while, it worked, she loved Sunday school, all the stories they told her. Then when she got to high school she fell in with the wrong crowd, started getting D's and F's. I took her to a bunch of therapists, they said it was a self-esteem issue. I had her tested, no learning disability, she's just one of those the best she can do is a C. So I guess she gave up."
"Started hanging with slackers."
"Slackers, sluts, kids bused in from the barrio or wherever, you name it."
"Was Selma Arredondo part of that crowd?"
Harvey Blevins's bushy eyebrows jiggled. "You know that one, huh? She get Bri in trouble?"
Milo said, "Her name came up as a friend of Brianna's."
"Some friend," said Blevins. "She comes in here, dressed in next to nothing, everything's bouncing and jiggling. Even Bri knows better than that. But what can you expect when they dance for a living?"
"Where do they dance?"
Harvey Blevins sat lower. "I don't like talking about it but every therapist said I need to be realistic, distance myself, finally let her take responsibility."
But he just sat there.
Milo repeated the question.
"What do you think, guys? I'm not talking ballet. We're talking a pole, okay?" He winced. "You wouldn't be asking all this if she didn't get herself into trouble. What's going on?"
"So far, nothing," said Milo.
Blevins peered at him skeptically.
"That's the truth, Mr. Blevins, and I'm sure it can all be cleared up once we talk to Bri. Where do she and Selma dance?"
"Don't know, don't want to know. They started doing it the second they turned eighteen and were legal. I tried to talk Bri into junior college. She said she'd never make as much money as she could doing... that. Everything nowadays is about money, right?"
Blevins checked his Palm Pilot. "Due at work soon."
"Where's that, sir?"
"Ref-Gem Motorworks, in Westchester. We build high-performance components for custom cars and boats. I'm on the paper end, assistant controller, reason I'm home at this time of day is with the economy they asked us to voluntarily cut our hours, so I'm down to thirty per week and they give me flex-time. Makes it harder on Bri 'cause I'm here more. She likes to be around when I'm not."
"So she lives here."
"When she chooses. The rest of the time? No idea."
"When's the last time you saw her?"
"That would have to be two--no, three days ago. She showed up at eight in the morning just as I was leaving, big coincidence. Hello, good-bye, she usually comes in for food and clothes."
"Where does she work?"
"You call that work?" said Blevins. "All she'd tell me is gentleman's clubs. Like any gentleman would go there."
"Was Selma with her?"
"Selma dropped her off but didn't stick around, probably 'cause I was there, Selma knows how I feel about her."
"Bri doesn't drive?"
"She had a car but it got repo'd." Tight smile. "Guess gentlemen don't pay the bills."
"Do you have any idea where Selma lives?"
"Don't know, don't care."
"Who are Bri's other friends?"
"Her line of work, you don't have friends, you have oglers--oh, excuse me: regulars. That was a big deal to her, she kept trying to impress me with the fact she had regulars. I'm thinking great, some pervert has enough money to waste it on you. But I kept my mouth shut, what's the point?"
"Did she tell you anything about her regulars?"
"Rich, they're always rich, right? With the private jets and the platinum cards. I wanted to say, What, you found an old cassette of Pretty Woman?"
"What else besides rich?"
Blevins ticked off his fingers. "Rich, handsome, young, smart--goes to Stanford. Does that make sense? Stanford's up north, why would a smart person--any person fly down here regularly to watch pole dancing? Like there's no poles in Palo Alto."
"So we're talking one guy in particular."
"Two Stanford guys, one for her, one for Selma. Guess if you're going to fantasize, make it good."
"What else did she say about them?"
"It's actually relevant to something?" said Blevins.
"At this point, that's hard to say, sir. We collect as much information as we can, sift through."
"Doesn't sound too efficient."
"Sometimes it's the only way, Mr. Blevins. So what else did Bri tell you?"
"Two rich guys come in to watch her and Selma dance, soon they're taking her and Selma to Aspen, Vail, I forget which, some ski place. On a private jet, no less. This was months ago, it was summer, she tried to get money out of me for ski clothes. See what I mean? She can't even put together a logical fantasy."
Milo said, "Two guys, one jet."
"Maybe one owns it, the other gets to use it, maybe they're partners--hey, maybe you and I can split a private jet. What brand do you like? I'm a Buick guy, myself--guys, I really need to get to work."
We walked him to his car. Milo said, "Did Brianna ever put a name on these fantasy guys?"
"I'm glad you're getting it: fantasy. Like when after her mother died and she started wanting to be a princess. I told her, 'Look what happened to Diana.'"
"So no names."
"Actually, there was, something with a T. Trevor, Turner? Tristan, yeah Tristan. Like that's a real name. Right out of one of those trash paperbacks her mother used to read."
"Not Tremaine? Or Trey?"
Blevins thought. "Nope, Tristan. Like that opera--Tristan and Isabel."
"What about Tristan's friend?"
"If she told me his name I wasn't listening. When you see Bri, don't tell her I finked on her, it's tense enough."
He drove away and we got back in the unmarked. Milo put his cell on speaker and reached Moe Reed.
"Martin Mendoza's status as prime suspect has dropped, Moses, so no need for the watch on his parents, same for the Kenten estate. Unless you've picked up something interesting."
Reed said, "Early this morning, Officer Ramirez spotted Kenten's grandson entering again, another short visit, no surfboard. This time he had a passenger, but a white kid, not Mendoza."
"Two white boys in a nice car," said Milo. "I've got a lead on a couple of strip-joint enthusiasts claiming to be Stanford students." Milo filled in the details.
"Sure, Garret Kenten could fit."
"What did Garret's passenger look like?"
"They drove in and out fast, she couldn't even get a fix on hair color because he wore a baseball cap. But she says definitely Anglo."
"Blue cap with an S insignia?"
"She didn't specify. Want to hold?"
"Sure."
Moments later: "Tan, too far for any insignia, Loo. Brown shirt is the only other thing she can swear to."
"In my office is a Windsor Prep yearbook, Moses. Blue leather, fancy gold seal, it's right below the murder book. Go through it right now and look for any Tristans, starting with seniors. I'll wait."
"On the way, Loo."
A train whistle broke the silence, then faded west. A couple of ravens settled atop Harvey Blevins's house, pecked at gravel, dislodged a few pebbles and cackled in triumph.
Reed came back on. "Okay, got the book... here's the senior class... no Tristans... here's a Tristram. Big dark-haired kid, kinda got that actor thing going on--the fake smile, you know?"
"Could he pass for twenty-one?"
"Oh, sure, easy. Want me to check Tristans in the junior class?"
"Go."
Moments later: "Nope, just one Tristram, last name Wydette." Reed spelled the surname.
Milo and I looked at each other. The morning we'd met up with President Helfgott, he'd flown in on a Gulfstream borrowed from a Myron Wydette.
Milo said, "Fantasy springs to life."
"Pardon, Loo?"
&n
bsp; "What does the book say about Young Master Tristram?"
"His extracurricular activities," said Reed. "Business club, foreign policy club, Model U.N., mock trial, varsity baseball, varsity golf--they've got a golf course?"
"Nine holes. I'm more interested in the Great American Pastime."
"Sir?" said Reed. "Oh. The hat in the car. Maybe he played baseball with Mendoza, developed a grudge?"
"Or he just knows a good scapegoat when he sees one. Moses, run him through every damn database you can find, then do a search pairing his name with Garret Kenten's. That comes up empty, go through the yearbook page by page to see if there's another male he's been photographed with consistently. If so, search that name also--and pair it with Garret, just to be safe. Sean in the shop today?"
"Still at the Mendoza house."
"At this hour?"
"Plainclotheser called in sick, Sean said he'd double-shift. Guy's got a bladder the size of Australia."
Milo said, "Don't rub it in, lad. One more thing: When you look into Tristram don't just count parking violations, look for consistent addresses on the citations, maybe it'll lead us to a strip joint or two or three. I need those girls."
"Done, Loo."
He got hold of Binchy, told him to get over to Harvey Blevins's house immediately, do his usual "eagle-eye."
"Thanks for the compliment, Loot."
"Thank me by producing."
We sped back to my house where Milo commandeered the computer.
Sometimes money intersects with fame. At a higher level, it can also purchase obscurity.
Keywording myron wydette produced only five hits and a single image.
The citations were a quintet of charity benefits with Myron and Annette Wydette's names embedded in lists of major donors.
American Cancer Society, the eye clinic at the U., Planned Parenthood, a pair of galas for Windsor Preparatory Academy.
Only the ophthalmology reference hinted at the source of Wydette's income: Mr. and Mrs. M. Wydette and the Wydette Orchard Foundation.
Muttering "peaches," Milo found a handful of references to a family fruit-growing concern founded by Myron's great-grandfather during Gold Rush days and sold a decade ago to Trident Agriculture, a publicly traded corporation. Myron Wydette's name remained on the board of directors but he didn't seem to be involved in day-to-day activities.
Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 22