“For all I know it was a bag full of chocolate chip cookies for Marty. At ten twenty, Mr. M. arrives, still in his waiter’s uniform, carrying what looks like doggie bags from the country club. No further action until seven a.m., when he leaves in a fresh uniform. I wager on him going to work and stick around to watch Missus. Seven forty-two, she drives to a day care center where a bunch of little kids greet her like the bestest grandma in the whole wide world. I phone the club, Mister’s on the job.”
“Hardworking folks going about their business,” said Reed. “You could subpoena their phone records.”
“I could if John Nguyen changed his mind about my having no grounds. How was your day at the beach, lad? I’m not seeing any tan.”
“I’m one of those pink ones, Loo. Only place I could park was the land side of PCH ten yards up. What you see from there is a wall of hedges and big gates. I picked up from Sean after he trailed Kenten from the office to Mountain Crest, then home. By then it was close to six. Sean got photos of Kenten entering, guy wasn’t exactly incognito, he tools around in a powder-blue Bentley Continental convertible, he’s even got powder-blue caps on the wheels. It was me, I’d go black, charcoal at the lightest.”
“Keep it assertive, huh?”
“We’re talking five hundred sixty horses, Loo. Anyway, the top was down, no passengers, that model doesn’t have much of a trunk.”
“Muscle under the hood,” said Milo, “and yet he paints it like a carousel pony. What does that say about him, Moses?”
Reed shifted his torso. His eyes darted to the left. “He likes to be noticed?”
“That must be it.”
After Reed left, I said, “Carousel pony? You didn’t really expect Reed to tag Kenten as gay.”
“But you saw his eyes, that’s what he was thinking, no? Interesting fellow, Ol’ Eddie. Either he’s in serious denial or he really does have a thing for pastels. I made a few calls last night and the so-called gay community has nothing to say about him except they appreciate the AIDS money.”
“So-called community?”
“Like we’re a powder-blue monolith?”
His next call was thirty hours later, as I finished some court reports at home.
“Surveillance at Kenten’s Xanadu and the Mendoza household has been as useful as a congressional subcommittee, same for drive-bys of Gisella’s place. But as of twenty minutes ago, I am the proud recipient of my first bona fide tip on Elise. Anonymous, no call-back number, the clerk who wrote out the slip thinks the caller might’ve been male but she’s not sure. For all I know, she screwed up the message but here it is: ‘For the murdered teacher think May third, October eighth, November fifth.’”
I said, “Nothing like a little numerology to brighten the day.”
“I already tried a bunch of historical websites and came up with zilch.”
I copied down the dates.
“Freeman hasn’t been publicized so this has to be someone familiar with the school. And please don’t remind me that could include a prank by a preppie.”
I said, “Do you find it interesting that it came in two days after you met with Kenten?”
“Pastel Eddie trying to divert me? Yeah, I thought about that and it would take his interest way past obsession. One of my plainclothesers did get a little excited when a kid around Marty’s age drove up to Kenten’s gates this morning in a BMW ragtop. Unfortunately the tags traced to Garret Kenten, nineteen, address in Trancas Beach, probably a grandson. But that got me thinking. Kinda risky, not to mention sick, for Kenten to be shacking up with Marty when his young descendants have access to the property. On the other hand, Garret was in and out fast, left with the top down on the Beemer and a surfboard in back.”
“Picking up gear at Grandpa’s,” I said.
“We’ll keep watching both sites, maybe try to interview the Mendozas in a day or so. I’ve also got one borderline-interesting finding from the arson techs: Even accounting for incompetence, with the baseball cap found near the highest concentration of accelerant, it shoulda been totally toasted, not partially baked. Fire guys consider the fire wimpy. If you’re gonna use accelerant, why not squirt rather than trickle? Toss in the open dump site and it’s thought-provoking.”
“The car was meant to be found, maybe with the hat in it? Marty Mendoza’s being set up?”
“Eddie the K would sure love like that scenario. But it doesn’t obscure the facts: Elise was scared of the kid, he’s got psychological issues, and he rabbited. I need those two girls but Chavez got kicked out of custody.”
“Chavez lives for weed,” I said. “He’s probably smoking up right now in that same apartment. That makes him arrestable at your convenience.”
“Such faith in the goodness of human nature, from a scientist of the mind, no less.”
“No comment,” I said.
“You just made one.”
Madame Internet’s a seductress but she parcels out more tease than fun. Instead of logging on, I did it the old-fashioned way.
Staring at the dates on the phone tip until a headache came on and my blood screamed for coffee.
May 3
October 8
November 5
I finished a tall mug and half of another, brought the slip back to Robin’s studio, explained what was going on.
She put down her chisel, studied. “Sorry, hon.”
Blanche sighed.
I returned to my desk wondering if the tip really would boil down to a prank and I was wrestling with random numbers.
For argument’s sake, assume a pattern.
Ignoring the dates, I studied the text.
Finals at Prep—someone’s psychotic anger over a poor grade?
No, as a sub she wouldn’t be administering any exams at all.
But her
Two dates in the fall, one in late spring. I logged onto the Educational Testing Service website. October 8 was one of several scheduled dates for this year’s SAT but May 3 and November 5 weren’t.
Those who forget history are condemned to repeat it.
I pounded the keyboard like a chimp with a toy.
Both dates showed up on the previous year’s calendar.
A second-grade teacher’s voice sounded in my head.
CHAPTER
29
Milo loosened his tie, finished his fifth cup of coffee. Kept staring at the printout I’d brought him.
Finally: “What, Elise failed to boost one preppie’s scores three separate times? Or a trio of preppies formed the We Hate Ms. Freeman Club and banded together to ice her?”
“Or she didn’t fail,” I said. “She succeeded but did it in an unorthodox manner.”
