“Such as?”
“Saving her client the hassle of actually taking the test.”
“Sending in a ringer? What led you there?”
“Because that would be worth covering up. I searched for scandals involving stand-ins and found plenty. And those are the ones who got caught. The testing services are supposed to check handwriting samples, and I.D.’s are inspected at the door. But with a big crowd of test-takers and a ringer with a decent physical resemblance, you could pull it off. Also, sometimes the SAT’s administered at Prep, but not on any of those dates.”
“At Prep, no way a ringer could pass. Well, well, well.”
“A test scam also fits with Elise’s flexible moral boundaries and it could clarify the motive. Assuming the rape DVD was a hoax never put into action, she—probably in concert with Fidella—was no stranger to the concept of extortion. If the tip’s righteous, it might also narrow your suspect profile: a rich kid pressured to get into a selective college, who’d failed to improve significantly with tutoring. That could be why her computer—and Fidella’s—was taken. Her student records were in there.”
“Rich kid with a gonzo bank account or his parents,” he said. “Mr. and Mrs. Deep Pockets pony up for tutoring, then toss in a whole bunch more for someone to take the test for Junior because it’s all about getting Junior into Harvard and Junior can’t hack it on his own. The ringer aces the test, Junior buys himself a crimson sweater, everyone’s over the moon. Then Elise hits ’em up for a serious surcharge. But if it’s only one kid, why three dates?”
“Once could’ve been the general SAT,” I said, “the others the SAT IIs—achievement tests on specific subjects.”
“We cover all your needs at the Academy of Scam.”
“If we’re talking big-time extortion, that could explain abandoning the rape plot. This was so much easier and Elise would keep her job.”
He got up, stretched, sat down. “With the stakes so high, how’d our tipster find out? And why be so cryptic?”
“Maybe a hardworking kid picked up on an unlikely score by another student and got resentful. Peer pressure would frown on snitching publicly, you’d be sentencing yourself to high school hell. And by exposing a scandal you’d be putting everyone at Prep at risk of taint, including yourself.”
“I’m not really a rat, I’m just giving the cops a hint. They don’t figure it out, it’s their fault. Wonder what those ethical seminars they run at Prep would say about that.”
He laughed. Turned serious. “Maybe Marty Mendoza’s our tipster. He’d sure be p.o.’d watching some rich brat pay for a high score.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Though I’d think Marty would have less trouble being explicit. And something else: The basics of the scam could be right but the murder motive could be different. Not protection from blackmail, snuffing out the competition. Because the drive from Fidella’s house to Sierra Madre runs right through Pasadena. And someone lives there who’d be a perfect ringer.”
He stared at me. “Trey Franck.”
“Brilliant, Prep alumnus, looks young enough to pass for a high school student, changes his hair color regularly.”
“Not a hipster thing, a goddamn disguise. Does the grunt work and takes all the risk, gets tired of Elise and Fidella pocketing the big bucks.”
“He’s the one who directed you to Marty. We have only his word that Elise was scared of Marty. If that was a diversionary tactic, it worked.”
“Oh, man.” He shot up again, stomped into the hall, returned flushed. “I’m getting that itchy feeling, like I’ve been played. The whole Marty thing steered us away from Franck’s relationship with Elise. All along you’ve been saying Elise’s murder stank of calculation and brains. Franck’s a chemical engineer, claims he hasn’t worked with dry ice since he was a little kid but so what? Nothing adds fun to homicide better than a little nostalgia, right?”
“Franck as our bad guy also explains why Fidella got his brains bashed in. Franck had to finish both of them. Maybe he showed up at Fidella’s house for a business discussion—now that Elise was gone, how would the scam continue. He didn’t bring a weapon because he’d been there, knew Fidella had a pool cue. There is the matter of that alibi but he was up north for four days, could’ve had enough time by himself to fly down, do Elise, fly back. He was sleeping with her, may very well have a key to her house. And his presence wouldn’t have alarmed her, she’d feel comfortable drinking in front of him.”
“Then in goes the Oxy. So who are the two girls?”
“A couple of kids who’d do anything for a cute, older guy. For all we know, they’re undergrads at Caltech. They could’ve even thought it was a prank. They’re big on that, there: taking apart cars and reassembling them in dorm rooms, hacking into the Rose Bowl scoreboard.”
He said, “The young guy driving away in the Vette could easily be Franck. And who better than a chemical engineer to orchestrate a controlled arson?”
“After ordering a South El Monte baseball cap that he leaves behind to set up favorite patsy Marty Mendoza.”
“Evil,” he said. “If there’s something to the tip… okay, let’s try to connect some dots, see if they lead to young Master Franck.”
He phoned South El Monte High, talked to Jane Virgilio.
“Hi, it’s Lieutenant Sturgis, again… no, not yet, but could you please check your student store and find out who bought an Eagles baseball cap within the last two months? Anyone who’s not a team member… it’s too complicated to explain right now, ma’am, and I’m really busy looking for Martin, so please check… yes, I know it’s online but you must have access… yes, I’ll be happy to wait.”
After three minutes of toe-tapping, he gave a rocket-fueled thumbs-up. “Thank you
Grinning, he logged onto his PC. “Apart from players who lose theirs and the occasional alumnus, Eagle caps are a low-volume item, only one moved during the last sixty days. And get this, amigo: October twentieth.”
“Twelve days after this year’s SAT. Franck bought it himself?”
“I should be so lucky, but at least I’ve got a name: Brianna Blevins, address in North Hollywood. Which ain’t that far from the ice place. If she turns out to be a voluptuous white girl, I’m gonna make her feel
Brianna Blevins was nineteen years old, full-faced and prone to grinning vacantly, with gleaming black hair that hung past her waist and a pneumatic body showcased by a bikini shot that proclaimed
Not a student at Caltech; she’d graduated last year from North Hollywood High, was “looking for my place in the world.”
Easy mark for someone with half Trey Franck’s IQ. I wondered how the two of them had met.
If she did value the relationship with a Caltech genius, she wasn’t advertising the fact. No shot or mention of Franck. But one of her frequently pictured friends was a pretty, slender girl with blond-tipped hair and overenthusiastic eye shadow.
Brianna’s
Selma Arredondo.
Milo said, “Got to be La Flaca. Love this social networking.”
Arredondo’s page bore no reference to Franck, either.
He turned to the phone directories. No listings for either girl. “Maybe they still live at home, can’t be too many Blevinses in North Hollywood… lucky me, only one: Harvey P.”
No answer, canned voice-mail recording.
He left no message, searched for Arredondos in the Valley, found several, connected to most. No one knew Selma.
DMV coughed up driver’s licenses for both girls, obtained three years ago when they were fresh-faced.
Brianna had racked up several moving violations in a Ford truck registered to Harvey Blevins.
Milo sang, “Til her Daddy takes the T-Bird away,” found Selma’s wheels:
