"How did Elise react to his murder?"
"Neither of us talked about it and we had his body cremated. I'd like to think part of her was happy. If she allowed herself to get in touch with her feelings."
"Part of her?"
"There was probably sadness. Even I occasionally feel that, crazy as it is. He did make me breakfast every morning for fifteen years. Combed my hair until I was eleven. Everyone said he was a wonderful, nurturing man."
Milo said, "You and Elise never talked at all about his murder."
"Not a word. In his will, he asked to be buried next to Mother. I had one of Frank's busboys toss the ashes into the Chesapeake Bay. Out in back of the Cooker, where the garbage cans are. Can I warm up that coffee for you?"
As we drank, she excused herself, returned with a yellowed newspaper clipping in a plastic sleeve.
Former Principal Murdered.
Milo said, "Could we make a copy?"
"You think it's relevant to Elise's murder? I don't see how it could be."
"I'm sure you're right, Ms. Stuehr, but two murders in one family is worth looking at."
"The Freeman curse?" she said. "You know, last night, when you called and told me what happened to Elise, I actually started thinking about that. Wondering if our family is doomed and I'm next. This morning, I woke up, decided that was stupid superstition, it was time to have a lovely day--you know, don't even bother copying, keep it. I don't know why I held on to it in the first place."
I said, "What you've told us about your father might help explain why Elise made some high-risk choices."
"Such as?"
"She binge-drank."
Sandra Stuehr's eyes got huge. "You're kidding. Are you sure?"
"We are."
"Wow," she said. "I've always thought of her as the moderate one. From the time she turned twenty-one all I got were pompous lectures about the need to control my drinking. We were both attending Blessed, she was a senior, I was a sophomore. Got into partying pretty hard."
"Did you see each other much in college?"
"Not even then. It's a small school but we managed to avoid each other. What did she drink when she binged?"
"Vodka."
"Interesting," said Sandra Stuehr. "Something else we had in common."
She drank her Fresca. "Not a coincidence, I suppose. Part of her sermon was, 'If you're going to be pigheaded and make a fool out of yourself, Sandy, at least drink vodka, it'll keep your breath fresh, no one will know you're a reprobate.'"
I said, "You avoided each other but she found time to lecture."
"Exactly. My best years were the two after she graduated, I could finally be myself. Did she do anything else high-risk?"
Milo said, "The coroner found opiates in her system."
"Like heroin?"
"Or something similar."
Sandra Stuehr placed the flat of a hand against her cheek, as if propping her head. "Unbelievable."
"People change," said Milo.
"There's change and there's charade," she said. "All this time I've seen her as the smart one. Are there any other crushing insights you want to give me about my sister?"
Milo said, "You lived near Pimlico. Any sign Elise played the ponies?"
"She gambled?" said Sandra Stuehr. "This is like meeting her for the first time. No, I never saw her wager on anything and I sure spent some time at Pimlico. She was the smart one, guys. Summa cum laude at Blessed, Hopkins offered her a scholarship to go to grad school in English. I, on the other hand, barely passed the teacher's licensing exam. Though that was 'cause I was distracted by my relationship with Frank. She went to the track?"
"No, but she did go to Reno and play blackjack."
"Must be genetic. He played the ponies. Nothing serious that I knew about, he'd take twenty, thirty dollars to the track, rationalize his losses as 'recreation.' Otherwise, he was a total cheapskate. How often did Elise go to Reno?"
Milo said, "We know about once. She went with her boyfriend, guy named Sal Fidella."
"Sounds like a Mafia type."
"He's an unemployed salesman. He and Elise won a five-thousand-dollar jackpot in Reno, lost it the same day."
"Like Father, like daughter," said Sandra Stuehr. Her mouth turned down. "Hope that doesn't end up applying to me. I can't see how it would."
I said, "What else can you tell us about Elise?"
"She enjoyed lying."
"Lying about what?"
"Anything, really. My theory is it began with him. When she was around twelve she began faking illness, probably to keep him out of her bed. She did it all kinds of ways--putting a finger down her throat and vomiting all over herself, soaking a thermometer in hot water, rubbing her skin with one of those sandpaper dish-sponges to bring up a rash, complaining of horrible cramps. She also lied about things that seemed pointless. Not eating the lunch he fixed but telling him it was delicious. Or just the opposite, finishing every bite but coming home and telling him she'd lost her lunch, was starved. I guess she was trying to feel in control. She'd pull sneaky pranks on him. Hiding his slippers, putting his reading glasses where he'd have trouble finding them. Once, I looked out my bedroom window in the middle of the night and saw her letting air out of one of his tires."
"How old was she?"
"A teenager... maybe fifteen."
"Did you let her know you'd seen her?"
"No way, I wanted her to like me."
"Did she lie to anyone but your father?"
"Sure," she said. "She cheated in school, stole old tests and sold them. I found out because a boy who'd bought one bragged about it to his friend. That night, I searched Elise's drawers, found a wadded-up bunch of money. I didn't count it but it looked like a lot. She never got caught, at graduation she won honors and commendations for character."
"Did your father ever figure out she was pranking him?"
"Not a chance. In his eyes, Elise could do no wrong. She was the clear favorite."
I said, "Too bad for her."
Sandra Stuehr turned to me. Her eyes were wet. "Good, bad, right, wrong. Sometimes it all gets scrambled. You're sure she didn't suffer?"
Further questioning produced nothing and we were preparing to go when a soft knock sounded on the front door.
Sandra Stuehr said, "It's open, honey, come on in."
The man who entered was midtwenties, good-looking, Asian, with expensively spiked hair. He wore a white silk Nat Nast bowling shirt with blue vertical stripes, cobalt linen slacks, brown hand-stitched deck shoes, and a rose-gold Rolex.
She got up, took his hand, kissed his lips lightly. "Perfect timing, we're finishing up."
Milo introduced himself.
"Will Kham."
Sandra Stuehr said, "Will Kham, M.D. Chief resident in rheumatology at Cottage Hospital."
Kham toed the floor. "It's okay, Sandy--"
"Will's been on call for three days, finally has a day off. I'm sure you guys won't mind if we get going."
Milo said, "Thanks for your time, Ms. Stuehr. If you think of anything else, please let us know."
"Of course," she said. To Kham: "They don't think she suffered, baby."
Kham said, "That's good."
As we closed the door, she was saying, "I'm thinking San Ysidro Inn, baby, that new chef they've got is fantastic."
CHAPTER
17
Milo scanned the clippings on Cyrus Freeman's murder before slipping them back into the sleeve. "Nothing more than Sandy just told us." Flipped the sleeve onto the backseat and checked his Timex. "Four hours of freeway for the Sister Who Knows Nothing."
"And yet she told us so much," I said.
"Elise might've killed Daddy? Maybe so, Alex, but I'm not curious enough to find out."
"I meant Elise developing her lying skills early, as a survival strategy. Faking illness to avoid getting raped was as good a ploy as any, but there's always collateral damage. That's consistent with chronic depression, drinking, using sex as a
means of control, and hooking up with a hustler like Fidella. Same for concocting an extortion scheme involving her sexuality. But what really interests me is her selling tests back in middle school. That kind of thing would come in handy at a place like Prep."
Traffic slowed along the beach. We caught the long stoplight at State. More tourists, easels full of sidewalk art, a few homeless guys lounging on the grass, playing critic.
He said, "She peddles exams, then tries to beef up the take with a little extortion?"
"Picking the wrong sucker could be hazardous to your health."
"Wonderful. Even if I put the rape aside, I can't avoid the damn school."
He closed his eyes, rested his head against the seat. "Best way to find out if she was raking in a lot of extra dough are those goddamn financials."
Another set of calls made him smile. "On their way and her phone records are on my desk. What do you think about Elise two-timing Sal with a young guy, and Sandra leaving her husband for a young guy? Some sort of symbolic distancing themselves from their old man?"
"Could be," I said. "Or they just prefer younger men."
"For that I need a pal with a Ph.D.?"
We were back at his office by three thirty p.m.
To the left of his computer sat a loose stack of paper. He began pawing, crumpling and tossing departmental memos, sheet after sheet of the city and county junk mail taxpayers pay for but never read.
Toward the bottom, eighteen months of Elise Freeman's bank records at Wachovia and her phone history for sixty days.
The financials elicited an immediate "Whoa." Ninety thousand and some change in a passbook account, most of it accounted for by sixteen five-thousand-dollar deposits posted irregularly over the last three years.
"It ain't buried treasure but it's a lot for a teacher making thirty a year," he said. "Wonder what five grand buys you at Prep."
Turning to the phone records, he used two felt-tipped markers to highlight. Yellow, pink, pink, pink, yellow. The end result was a cheery zebra: thirty-two yellow stripes for Sal Fidella's 818 number, seventeen pinks for someone in 626. The rest was uninteresting.
"Pasadena," he said. Phoning the number, he listened, wide-eyed, hung up. "Caltech, some chemical engineering lab. Everyone's out at this time--probably blowing something up--but leave your name blah blah blah."
"Far be it from me to stereotype," I said, "but Elise's young guy wore a pocket protector."
"Mr. Not-quite-a-nerd." He found the Caltech website, zeroed on chemical engineering. The only bios were of faculty members but a few more clicks brought up an account of a research presentation two months before. A quintet of doctoral students summarizing their research projects. No pictures.
Ellen Choi, Vladimir Bobrosky, Tremaine Franck, Mitchell Yamaguchi, Arlen Arabian.
He said, "Long years of detective training tells me it's unlikely Ms. Choi has undergone a sex-change operation, same for Mr. Yamaguchi undergoing surgery to look Caucasian. So let's pare down and see what MySpace has to offer."
Within seconds he'd pulled up a trio of pages. "Guess even brainiacs crave their fifteen nanoseconds of fame."
Arlen Arabian was mid- to late thirties, with Brillo hair and a rabbinic beard already graying. Skin-headed Vladimir Bobrosky was built like the super-heavyweight power lifter his page claimed him to be.
Tremaine L. Franck was young, slim, pleasant-looking in a doe-eyed, anemic way. Long, lank brown hair swept diagonally over a broad, unblemished brow.
"So he peroxided to blend in with the dudes at County Line." He Googled Franck, found the young man's name in a Windsor Prep newsletter dated the previous year, and pumped his fist.
After completing Harvard, summa, in three years, Trey's been accepted at Caltech for Ph.D. studies in chem-eng and looking forward to getting back to sunny Southern California. But he admits he will miss the bonhomie of Cabot House, as well as selected undergraduate courses, particularly those of Professor Feldheim, who was a shining beacon of erudition, coherence, and tolerance despite Trey's attempts to convince him of the benefits of application as opposed to pure cogitation.
"Couldn't agree more," said Milo. "Pure cogitation gives me gas."
He switched to the LAPD data bank, plugged in his departmental password, got to work on Trey Franck's stats.
No criminal record, a few parkers, one speeding ticket two years ago. Twenty-two years old, five eleven, one fifty-two, blond, blue.
"First he darkens, then he lightens," said Milo. "Embrace change."
"Look at his address," I said.
South side of Brentwood, an apartment number.
"Not the high-priced spread," he said, "but close enough to Prep. Maybe Franck was one of their deserving scholarship students. Elise started four years ago when he was a senior. Maybe she liked 'em real young and tutoring turned to something else."
"He doesn't sound like the type who'd need tutoring."
"Not in math or science, Alex. But Elise coached English. I need to meet this genius and screw due process."
He used his personal cell to contact a source at the phone company, and copied down the landline matching Franck's address.
Ten rings, no answer, no machine.
Milo said, "What the hell, Brentwood's close. What's your gas situation?"
"Half a tank," I said. "No problem if we don't cogitate too much."
The building was a space-clogging twenty-unit heap two blocks south of Wilshire, faced with poorly tended balconies and satellite dishes perched on railings.
Security door. No answer to the bell-push for Franck, J.
We were about to leave when a woman with short gray hair and sturdy limbs stepped out with a black brindle French bulldog.
Dead ringer for Blanche's feisty predecessor, Spike, and a smile hijacked my mouth. The woman noticed, smiled back. Serenely, as if used to the attention. So was the dog. He planted his legs, faced forward, stacked like a champ.
Milo said, "Brings back memories, huh?"
The woman said, "Pardon?"
"My friend here had one of those, same color."
"They're the best, aren't they?"
"Quasi-human," I said. "How long have you had him?"
"Three years, he just finished filling out."
"I'm guessing twenty-six pounds?"
"On the nose. May I ask how long yours lived?"
"He was a rescue, so I don't know for sure. Best guess is twelve, thirteen years."
"Thirteen would be great. I hear some are making it longer."
"What's his name?"
"Herbie."
"Hey, Herbie." I bent, rubbed the broad, knobby head. Herbie panted, gathered his dignity, and continued to pose.
Milo said, "Do you happen to know a young man who lives in this building? Trey Franck?"
The woman's eyes grew wary. Milo showed her his I.D.
"Police? Trey's such a nice boy."
"He hasn't done anything wrong, ma'am. We're looking for information."
"Trey was a witness to something?"
"It's possible."
"Wow," she said. "Well, he doesn't live here anymore. Has been at Harvard for years, may still be, for all I know."
"Who lives here?"
"His parents. June's a nurse and Joseph's some kind of scientist. A little distant, but overall nice. They both work long hours."
Herbie blew out air. His flews vibrated. He tugged on the leash.
The woman said, "The boss needs his walk, bye."
Herbie led her toward Wilshire, jaunty walk suggesting life really was wonderful.
Milo said, "Rush-hour drive to Pasadena, there's a concept. Let's hedge with a stopoff at the office, then another in the Valley. No sense pursuing a nice boy unless he's the one Doris saw."
He inserted Trey Franck's face into a six-pack photo lineup composed of similar young white men, then I hazarded Beverly Glen toward Van Nuys.
Brutal congestion at Sunset continued as far as I could see. As I neared the
road leading up to my house, Milo said, "Go home, I'll pick up my wheels, continue solo."
"Not necessary."
"Feeling benevolent?"
"Feeling curious." I called Robin, told her not to keep dinner waiting, I might be at Caltech for a while.
"You've already got a bunch of degrees," she said.
"I was thinking chemical engineering."
"And here I thought our chemistry was great."
"Wait up and I'll engineer something."
"Long as it's structural, babe, not civil."
I drove up to Fat Boy just after six. Half the counter stools were occupied, same for the booths. The same scalding-oil smell.
Doris was tending to a party of cheerful Hispanic kids, unloading a tray full of fried food. "Uh-uh, too busy, can't break my rhythm."
We stood to the side. She finished and walked past us and we tagged along.
"Enough, I told you everything I know."
"Two seconds to look at a picture and we're out of your way."
"It goes to three seconds, you're tipping me."
Milo showed her the six-pack. A blunt-nailed finger jabbed Trey Franck's face. "That's him, satisfied?"
"Extremely. I'm even willing to tip." He reached into his pocket.
"Don't insult me," said Doris. Then she laughed, punched his shoulder lightly. "I'm giving you attitude 'cause that's what I do, boys. What, the kid's a dangerous criminal?"
"Not so far."
"But maybe."
"Not even maybe, Doris."
"Tease," she said. "You ever solve this thing, come back and I'll trade you the gory details for lunch." Another punch. "But you still have to tip."
CHAPTER
18
Milo worked the phone as I picked up the freeway.
Well past working hours at Caltech but he tried the chemical engineering department again. Same recording.
Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 11
