Deception

He stood outside the room as Milo scanned. Milo entered the bathroom, closed the door, emerged moments later. “Not here and nothing iffy, thanks.”

Scuzetti said, “You find him, tell him to cough up last month’s.”

In the car, Milo removed a toilet-paper-wrapped wad from his pocket. “Left his toothbrush and toothpaste and hairbrush, which is kind of impulsive for a good planner.”

“He probably wasn’t thinking in terms of DNA analysis,” I said. “You’re not concerned about a warrantless search?”

“What search? I went in there concerned about the poor boy’s safety because of what li’l Julie said plus everyone associated with the test scam dying unnaturally. Saw this material in plain sight and believed it might help us locate Mr. Franck, all in the interests of his personal safety.”

He started the car. “Not to say DNA wouldn’t be peachy but all I’m after now is a print I can match to the palm on Fidella’s garage. Franck’s smart and amoral. And you heard Moon: Franck had his evenings to himself, had plenty of time to fly in and out and do Elise. He knew we’d trace him through her phone records so he prepares himself, sics me on Marty Mendoza. That leaves him grace time to bash in Sal’s head, after which he drives off in Sal’s car, leaves it in plain sight with a hat that can be traced to Marty on the seat. And Julie just gave us the motive for all this mayhem: Franck’s tired of doing all the work and being a junior partner in the scam. Ergo eliminate the middlemen. Everything fits, including his disappearance: He leaves personal things behind but skips out on the rent, because he’s known for a while that he’s gonna rabbit.”

I said, “The cap being ordered soon after the October SAT test fits with serious premeditation. But since I’m your pal I’m going to point out a problem: If Franck’s motive is to continue the scam, he’ll need to be around.”

“So he lays low, figures out a cover story, returns in time for the next round of SATs. Or, he got antsy because he felt we were getting too close. Given his skills, he can always find another prep school.”

“Which leads me to another problem: Even if Franck’s a psychopath, the smartest psychopaths avoid violence, not because they’re repelled by it but because it’s an inefficient strategy. Franck’s skills are portable, so why murder two people in order to eliminate them as business partners when he could set up shop elsewhere?”

“What a pal. So give me an alternative.”

“Two murderous preppies covering their tracks.”

“Given Franck’s history, why would that be anything but another diversion?”

“It fits with both murders: Elise’s was calculated, mean-spirited, a Hah-hah look-at- me piece of theater. Because she was in no position to resist. Sal, on the other hand, posed a great challenge, easier for two people to overpower him and bash him with a found object.”

“Why wouldn’t two homicidal kids bring a weapon, Alex? And covering up for someone taking your SAT is a better motive? If Elise and Sal—and Franck—went public, they’d be putting themselves in the crosshairs.”

“It could be an excellent motive if you’re a couple of indulged but intensely pressured brats waiting for the Crucial Letter when Elise Freeman lets you know she wants more dough or your future’s blown to smithereens.”

“Same problem, Alex: The scam comes to light, she’s screwing herself.”

“The fact that she considered the rape scam says she was willing to trade a bit of misery and exposure for the chance of big money. In both cases, she and Sal would figure the victims would settle quietly. Like any good cons, they timed the extortion to their prey’s maximum vulnerability. And one more thing: The kids Franck sat in for didn’t show up on Elise’s doorstep randomly. Most likely, she was already tutoring them, but their scores just weren’t edging high enough and they started freaking out. At the height of their anxiety, Elise says, ‘You know, I’ve got a solution.’ And that’s relevant because if they’d spent time at Elise’s house they could be aware of her vulnerabilities: binge-drinking and poor judgment when it came to younger men.”

“Party with Teach, spike her vodka with Oxy, then ice her. Lovely.”

“For all we know, Fidella figured it out, was too greedy to refrain from putting on an additional squeeze. Unfortunately, he underestimated his victims.”

“And Trey Franck misdirects us to Martin because…”

“Anything that keeps us away from the scam is in his best interest.”

“Then li’l Julie blows it by being honest… I’ll keep an open mind but my gut tells me Franck’s an emotionally shallow little prick and he could still be the young guy seen driving away in Fidella’s Vette. And need I remind you that Nosy Neighbor was pretty certain there was only one person in the car, not some deadly duo.”

“Rich kids have their own cars,” I said.

He rewrapped Franck’s brushes. “I get a match to that palm print, it’s no longer theoretical. Same for some juicy info from juicy Brianna Blevins, who I will locate even if it means an unprecedented level of sleep deprivation. Onward to North Hollywood, Jeeves.”

“You’re driving.”

“I was speaking symbolically,” he said. “Side effect of all the clever types I’ve had to contend with.”

CHAPTER

32

 The Blevins residence was a pebble-roofed ranch house on a cul-de-sac north of Chandler Boulevard. Train tracks bisected the neighborhood, foisted on unwilling residents by transportation nannies on another futile quest to clear the freeways.

The house was neatly kept, as were its neighbors, but the lack of curbside trees gave the street a tentative feel. A spotless green Buick LeSabre sat in the driveway. A couple of sago palms sprouted from a lava rock bed below the picture window.

The man who came to the door wore a white shirt and gray tie, held a Palm Pilot in one hand, a stylus in the other. The furnishings behind him ran the gamut of green. The aroma of bacon had settled comfortably.

He poked the Palm, gave a befuddled look. Fifty or so, with the kind of bluish beard that never looks completely shaved and a salt-and-pepper brush cut. He screwed up his mouth as if yet another load of confusion had just been foisted onto his weary shoulders.

Milo’s I.D. elicited a one-second examination. “Police? There was a burglary? Since the trains started running we’re getting more unsavories, just like we worried about. But no serious problems. Yet.”

“You’re Mr. Blevins?”

“Harvey. What’s up?”

“We’d like to talk to Brianna.”

“Now what?”

“You’ve had problems with Brianna?”

“Maybe one day she’ll settle down, get married, pump out a grandchild, and I’ll understand why I became a parent in the first place.” Blevins laughed, as if to scour bitterness from his voice. “Yes, she’s given me problems. What the heck has she gone and done?”

Milo said, “We’re looking at Brianna as a witness, not a suspect, Mr. Blevins, so if you could tell us where she is—”

“Don’t know where she is, that’s part of the problem. She’s just like her mother, talk about genetics—here, come on in while I get my laptop.”

We sat on a stiff green sofa as Blevins tucked his computer under his arm. “Excuse the mess.”

The house was neater than a marine barracks at inspection. Despite the bacon perfume, the kitchen was spotless and a dishwasher hummed.

“Looks fine to me,” said Milo.

“That’s always Bri’s excuse,” said Blevins. “‘Looks fine to me, Dad, you want better, do it yourself.’”

“You’re divorced from her mom?”