Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 5

  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."

  "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 afforde
d 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."