Deception

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 afforded 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.”

“It’s complicated, Doc.”

“Meaning shut up and cut,” said Jernigan. “Well, I put my irritation aside and did both and here’s what I’ve got for you: Freeman’s blood alcohol was over three times the legal limit, plus she’d ingested some kind of opiate. No needle marks, so she probably snorted. Precise metabolites will take time to analyze. There’s also clear pulmonary evidence of an overdose. In a relatively healthy young woman.”

“Relative to what?”

“She had a smidge of atherosclerosis and some hepatic scarring—the beginnings of cirrhosis. Meaning she could’ve been hitting the sauce pretty hard. Clogged arteries could also be booze-related, or she had bad genetics. Or both. But none of that would’ve proved problematic in the short run, she had years to go before she slept. There are no signs of violence to the body, no damage to the hyoid to indicate strangulation, same for ocular petechiae. No sexual assault and she’s never been pregnant. Cause of death is overdose, mode of death is up for grabs.”

“Could it be an accidental O.D.?”

“Or suicide. Or homicide. My C.I. didn’t spot any vomitus at the scene, or other signs of a seizure. Same for empty liquor bottles or drug Baggies. That dry ice bath is bizarre, never seen that before. I suppose it could’ve been some sort of erotic game that she played by herself, though it’s hard to see how she could’ve withstood the agony.”

“Could she have O.D.’d herself into stupor, slipped into the ice just before losing consciousness?”

“I suppose it’s theoretically possible—talk about feeling no pain. Any idea where the ice came from? My C.I. didn’t see any bags, either.”

“I just got the case, Doc.”

“Given a drugged state,” said Jernigan, “I’d expect her to plunge rather than slip and that would’ve caused a mess, maybe even a head bump. There was none of that. Dry ice doesn’t melt, it sublimates, so you wouldn’t expect puddles. But still, she was tucked in too perfectly and skin burns say she’d been in there for a while. We both know this is homicide, but I don’t have enough to put that in writing.”

“Any way to know if she was alive or dead when she got put in?”

“Rosiness in the burns suggests alive but on the stand my answer would be ‘I don’t know.’ How come you caught it when it’s a Valley case?”

“My silence is profound, Doc.”

“Got it,” said Jernigan. “Well, good luck.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“If you really want to show your gratitude,” said Jernigan, “continue to keep me out of the loop.”

Milo phoned the lab, ate some double talk, engaged in a spirited conversation with someone named Bill, and said, “I don’t get clarification right now, I’m coming over to do a hands-on. Instructions from above.”

Bill said, “What do you mean, above?”

“Use your imagination.”

“I don’t get paid for that.”

“See you in thirty.”

“That’s not going to work, Milo. Per our specific instructions.”

“My instructions are as of five minutes ago and they trump your instructions.”

“Who are yours from?” said Bill.

“From where you can’t go higher.”

“Just like that, you’ve got a direct line to God.”

“Santa, too. Don’t believe me, here’s the number. Now tell me what I need to know. Were there dry ice bags at the scene, empty booze bottles, drugs, or drug paraphernalia?”

“Negative on the bags,” said Bill. “One empty Grey Goose bottle in the kitchen, negative on the dope. And here’s a freebie: The only prints throughout the house are the vic’s and that’s just on a corner of the bed. Which is not right. My guess? Someone wiped the place down. But I’m not allowed to guess on this one. Now do me a favor, okay?”

“What?”

“Don’t call for a while.”

CHAPTER