Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 4

  "These are students from Windsor Prep we're talking about."

  "Yeah," said Fidella. "She did SAT tutoring. And that other test, I forget the name."

  I said, "The ACT."

  "That's the one. She said all those tests were stupid and meaningless but God bless whoever invented them because rich people were so insecure they needed their kids to be perfect, she could charge 'em big bucks for something they could do themselves."

  "What was her training?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "To tutor SATs."

  "She went to college."

  "Where?"

  "Somewhere in the East, I don't know. The thing about Elise, she didn't like to talk about herself." He spread his palms. "I'm the kind of guy, you want to know something about me, ask. Elise was just the opposite. 'We're not going there, Sal.' She said that a lot. 'We're not going there.' But I stuck with her, she was good-looking, could be a ton of fun."

  Milo said, "The times she got moody and nursed the bottle, did things ever get unpleasant?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "She ever get aggressive?"

  "Elise? You kidding? She was a pussycat. Like I said, she'd just go into her room."

  "And you left."

  "No point staying."

  "Did things ever get argumentative?"

  "How can you argue with someone who won't talk?"

  "That musta been frustrating, Sal."

  "I figured it out soon enough."

  "Any idea what happened to Elise's computer?"

  "Huh?"

  "Her computer's gone."

  "Really."

  "You didn't notice?"

  "I was looking for Elise, not some computer."

  "What kind of computer was it?"

  "I dunno."

  "Laptop or desktop?"

  "Laptop--a Dell, I think."

  "When's the last time you saw it?"

  Fidella's mouth screwed up. "Hell if I know. You're saying the killer took it? Makes sense if it was those bastards from the school."

  "Why's that?"

  "Maybe Elise learned something weird about some rich family, put it on her computer. That makes sense, right?"

  "Anything's possible, Sal." Milo uncrossed his legs. "I need to ask this: What was your schedule the day before you discovered Elise?"

  "The whole day?"

  "As much of it as you can recall."

  Fidella brushed his soul patch with the side of his thumb. "You're asking this because I was the one found her?"

  "There are basic questions we always need to ask, Sal."

  "Fine, I get it, no offense taken." But the blue eyes had narrowed and Fidella's thighs tightened, lifting his shoe-tips above the carpet. "Let me just say one thing: Sal Fidella loves women and respects them."

  "Granted," said Milo. "We still need to ask."

  "Where was I that day?" said Fidella. "I was at Star Toys and Novelties, San Pedro Street, the toy district. Why was I there? Trying to get a job repping crap from China. They had an ad on Craigslist for an opening. I show up, it's all bullshit, they had to run it to show they were being fair, know what I mean? They're all Chinese, every one of them, some of them didn't even speak no English. You'd think my speaking English would be a good thing, right? Wrong."

  "They wanted someone Chinese."

  "They didn't come out and say it but it was pretty damn obvious when they asked me if I spoke Mandarin. They couldn't put that in the ad? Must speak Mandarin?"

  "What a hassle," said Milo. "So what time were you there?"

  "Let's see... the appointment was for eleven. I showed up early, maybe a quarter to, they kept me waiting till noon, I'm in there maybe five minutes, sitting and listening to the guy behind the desk talk in Chinese over the phone. Then he smiles, walks me out, don't call us, we'll call you."

  "So you were out of there shortly after twelve."

  "Guess so."

  "What about the early part of the morning? What time did you wake up?"

  "You're kidding," said Fidella. "C'mon, guys, I loved Elise."

  "We still need to ask, Sal."

  "What you need to do is go to that fuckin' school and find out who was hassling Elise. She hated the place, called it a... hotbed of stupidity and pretentiousness. She only stayed there for the money."

  "We'll be heading to the school soon as we finish talking to you. What time did you wake up?"

  Fidella exhaled. "Maybe eight, eight thirty? I didn't have to get downtown until eleven, I wasn't exactly setting the alarm. What'd I do from then till I left at ten thirty? Real exciting, guys. I had some breakfast, watched some shows I TiVo'd--Rides, they made over a Chevy pickup, if you wanna know. And Repo Men: Stealing for a Living, some guy with a semi got his entire rig taken away, talk about pissed. Then I took a shower, got dressed, drove to Star Toys, and got shafted by the Chinese."

  "What happened after you left Star Toys?"

  "I ate lunch," said Fidella. "Philippe's, on Alameda. The French dip. Will they remember me? Hell, no, place was jammed like it always is, I waited in line, ate my sandwich, had a beer, got the hell outta there. Where'd I go next--by then it's probably one thirty, two. I drive back to San Pedro, looking for other places I can contact for a job interview, if the signs got no Chinese lettering just English. Did I follow up when I got home? Hell, yeah, with half a dozen. Did it make a difference? Hell, no. Oh, yeah, I also drove around the garment district a little. Never repped clothes before, but it's how you do it, not what you're doing that counts. Did that work out any better? Hell, no."

  "Sorry," said Milo.

  "For what?"

  "Tough times."

  "Hey," said Fidella, "it happens. You wanna cheer me up? Find out who killed Elise and leave me with 'em. Five minutes."

  "You're sure she was killed?"

  "What?"

  "There's no official cause of death yet, Sal."

  "You said you were Homicide."

  "We look into suicides, as well."

  "Suicide? Why would Elise commit suicide?"

  "She was moody, Sal. Sometimes moods get the best of people."

  "She wasn't moody like that," said Fidella.

  "Like what?"

  "Like suicidal. She never talked about ending it."

  I said, "Those times she'd drink and lock herself into her room, there was no way to know how she felt."

  "But she always came out of it. And got herself in a good mood."

  "How long did she take to cheer up?"

  "Like... a day. She'd call me, let's go out, Sal, have a nice dinner."

  "Was it ever longer than a day?"

  "I dunno... maybe sometimes it was two." Fidella cracked his knuckles. "Elise wasn't some nut-job, you guys are on the wrong path if you're thinking suicide. Lots of times, I saw her happy. Why would she kill herself? She did okay money-wise, was even talking about getting a bigger place."

  "She own the house?"

  "No, it's a rental, she was talking about renting a bigger place. And it's not like she was drinking the day I found her, there was no bottle in the bathroom. And why the hell would she put herself on ice, you answer me that."

  Milo said, "At this point, Sal, we've got questions not answers. Let's get back to your schedule. After lunch, you drove around looking for possible employment. Then what?"

  "Then like I said, I drove home and got on the phone and came up empty. You want my phone records?"

  "If you don't mind."

  Fidella stared. "You're serious."

  "We need to be, Sal."

  "Fine, look at my phone records, I got nothing to hide."

  Milo had him sign a release form.

  Fidella said, "You guys are unbelievable. You wanna bother, suit yourselves, but I can tell you what you're gonna find: I made calls to a buncha places downtown. Real short calls, no one gave me the time of day."

  "Frustrating," I said.

  "Been through it before, something'll turn up."

 
Milo said, "What time did you finish making your calls?"

  "Musta been fiveish, five thirty. Took a walk over to Van Nuys Boulevard, there's a bar, Arnie Joseph's. I had a coupla drinks, some shrimp and wasabi peas and hickory almonds, and watched TV. Over there, they'll remember me, they know me. Just do me a favor, don't tell them I'm a suspect or nothing. I don't need no one looking at me weird."

  "No problem," said Milo.

  Fidella studied him. "What're you gonna tell 'em?"

  "That you're a witness. When did you leave Arnie Joseph's?"

  "Musta been eightish, eight thirty. What'd I do then? Go home, fix myself a sandwich--anchovies, tomatoes, and mozzarella cheese. Then I called Elise because she still wasn't picking up. So I watched more TiVo, had a beer, brushed my teeth and used mouthwash for the cheese and the anchovies, just in case Elise answered. She didn't, I said forget about her, she'll call you like she always does. Then I got worried 'cause this was longer than usual and drove over. Musta been close to elevenish."

  "You were home for most of the evening."

  "Seeing as the yacht was out of commission and the Malibu Beach house was being borrowed by Brad and Angelina? Yeah, I was home. Where else should I go?"

  Fidella slumped and his eyes grew sad. As if his question had turned metaphysical.

  "Nowhere to go," he said.

  We left him pouring a third tequila.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Milo drove a block from Fidella's house, parked, and called in a search for current wants and warrants. Clean, but Fidella had paid a fine for a first-offense DUI eighteen months ago. "Time to verify his whereabouts, I'll drop you off first."

  "You see him as a serious suspect?"

  "I see him as someone whose whereabouts need to be verified."

  "Planning on taking Van Nuys to the Glen?"

  "Yup."

  "You'll pass that bar on the way."

  Arnie Joseph's Good Times Inn sat north of Riverside, your basic dim, tobacco-bitter, serious-drinker establishment. The octogenarian behind the bar verified Sal Fidella's account. So did bowls of dried shrimp that looked like fish food, hickory almonds, wasabi peas. Mention of Fidella's name elicited smirks from the other customers. A woman nursing a beer said, "Sal Fidella, the luckiest fella."

  "Lucky, how?" said Milo.

  "He won a jackpot in Reno. Didn't he tell you? He tells everyone."

  "Claim to fame," said a man.

  The woman put her beer down. Fifty, stout, gray-haired, wearing a pink waitress uniform created by the same sadist who designs bridesmaid's dresses. "So what's he a witness to?"

  "A crime."

  "Not some get-rich-quick thing?"

  "Sal's into that?"

  "Sal talks a lot."

  "About what?"

  "Coulda been, shoulda been. What's he a witness to?"

  "A crime."

  She shrugged, turned away.

  Milo walked up to her. "Anything else I should know?"

  "Not from me." She buried her face in her mug.

  Another man said, "Hey, if Sal had enough money he could finance an infomercial, sell a million of something. You ask him what something is, he says it don't matter."

  "That's 'cause money ain't the issue, smarts is," said a guy nursing a tall glass of something amber.

  Milo said, "Sal's not smart?"

  "Wins a ten-grand jackpot and blows it in a day? You tell me."

  The guy next to him said, "Straight down the toilet, oughta work for the government."

  Laughter slithered up and down the bar.

  Milo distributed business cards like a Vegas dealer. A few people actually read them. "Anything else anyone wants to tell me about Sal?"

  A man laughed. "We love Sal. Sometimes he even offers to pick up a tab."

  Back in the car, Milo said, "Tells us five, tells them ten, even a bunch of alkies know he's a loser. Elise was an educated woman, smart enough to teach at Prep and tutor SATs. Why would she hang with someone like that?"

  "Love," I said. "The ultimate mystery."

  "Seriously, Alex. I'm trying to know my victim."

  "People tend to select mates they think they deserve."

  "Elise didn't like herself, so she aimed low?"

  "I'm not saying she thought it through, but low self-esteem generally shoves you downhill. It's also a factor in depression--cause as well as effect. Fidella claims Elise withdrew only when she drank but who knows? On the DVD, her words weren't slurred, on the contrary, she seemed focused. So either she'd built up enough tolerance over time to maintain, or alcohol wasn't the only thing that laid her low."

  "Sexual harassment could do that," he said.

  "Any other situation, you'd already be talking to those teachers."

  He frowned and drove south to Ventura Boulevard, headed west and connected to Beverly Glen. "People get what they think they deserve, huh? What's that say about Rick and me?"

  "Rick's smart, affluent, handsome. Strip away all that morose Irish cop stuff and I'll bet you feel pretty nifty about yourself."

  "Only on alternate Wednesdays," he said. "We won't get into Rick's psyche."

  Robin's pickup was parked in front of the house. I found her in her studio at the back carving the top of a mandolin. Spruce shavings created a soft, creamy carpet at her feet. Blanche had found herself a warm spot and burrowed.

  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 fa
ce 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?"