Deception

“Two white boys in a nice car,” said Milo. “I’ve got a lead on a couple of strip-joint enthusiasts claiming to be Stanford students.” Milo filled in the details.

“Sure, Garret Kenten could fit.”

“What did Garret’s passenger look like?”

“They drove in and out fast, she couldn’t even get a fix on hair color because he wore a baseball cap. But she says definitely Anglo.”

“Blue cap with an S insignia?”

“She didn’t specify. Want to hold?”

“Sure.”

Moments later: “Tan, too far for any insignia, Loo. Brown shirt is the only other thing she can swear to.”

“In my office is a Windsor Prep yearbook, Moses. Blue leather, fancy gold seal, it’s right below the murder book. Go through it right now and look for any Tristans, starting with seniors. I’ll wait.”

“On the way, Loo.”

A train whistle broke the silence, then faded west. A couple of ravens settled atop Harvey Blevins’s house, pecked at gravel, dislodged a few pebbles and cackled in triumph.

Reed came back on. “Okay, got the book… here’s the senior class… no Tristans… here’s a Tristram. Big dark-haired kid, kinda got that actor thing going on—the fake smile, you know?”

“Could he pass for twenty-one?”

“Oh, sure, easy. Want me to check Tristans in the junior class?”

“Go.”

Moments later: “Nope, just one Tristram, last name Wydette.” Reed spelled the surname.

Milo and I looked at each other. The morning we’d met up with President Helfgott, he’d flown in on a Gulfstream borrowed from a Myron Wydette.

Milo said, “Fantasy springs to life.”

“Pardon, Loo?”

“What does the book say about Young Master Tristram?”

“His extracurricular activities,” said Reed. “Business club, foreign policy club, Model U.N., mock trial, varsity baseball, varsity golf—they’ve got a golf course?”

“Nine holes. I’m more interested in the Great American Pastime.”

“Sir?” said Reed. “Oh. The hat in the car. Maybe he played baseball with Mendoza, developed a grudge?”

“Or he just knows a good scapegoat when he sees one. Moses, run him through every damn database you can find, then do a search pairing his name with Garret Kenten’s. That comes up empty, go through the yearbook page by page to see if there’s another male he’s been photographed with consistently. If so, search that name also—and pair it with Garret, just to be safe. Sean in the shop today?”

“Still at the Mendoza house.”

“At this hour?”

“Plainclotheser called in sick, Sean said he’d double-shift. Guy’s got a bladder the size of Australia.”

Milo said, “Don’t rub it in, lad. One more thing: When you look into Tristram don’t just count parking violations, look for consistent addresses on the citations, maybe it’ll lead us to a strip joint or two or three. I need those girls.”

“Done, Loo.”

He got hold of Binchy, told him to get over to Harvey Blevins’s house immediately, do his usual “eagle- eye.”

“Thanks for the compliment, Loot.”

“Thank me by producing.”

We sped back to my house where Milo commandeered the computer.

Sometimes money intersects with fame. At a higher level, it can also purchase obscurity.

Keywording myron wydette produced only five hits and a single image.

The citations were a quintet of charity benefits with Myron and Annette Wydette’s names embedded in lists of major donors.

American Cancer Society, the eye clinic at the U., Planned Parenthood, a pair of galas for Windsor Preparatory Academy.

Only the ophthalmology reference hinted at the source of Wydette’s income: Mr. and Mrs. M. Wydette and the Wydette Orchard Foundation.

Muttering “peaches,” Milo found a handful of references to a family fruit-growing concern founded by Myron’s great-grandfather during Gold Rush days and sold a decade ago to Trident Agriculture, a publicly traded corporation. Myron Wydette’s name remained on the board of directors but he didn’t seem to be involved in day-to-day activities.

The solitary image was of a broad, ungainly-looking white-haired man with a benevolent, somewhat bleary- eyed frog-face, arm in arm with a tightly coiffed, tightly toned, tightly tucked brunette half a head taller.

Milo said, “Sounds like Tristram got his looks from Mommy.”

Pairing wydette and stanford pulled up a three-year-old article in the university’s magazine about a trio of incoming freshman, ostensibly picked at random. Annie Tranh was the granddaughter of Vietnamese boat people and a Westinghouse Science Award winner. Eric Robles-Scott was a biracial kid from Harlem who’d won a national competition in foreign languages by demonstrating proficiency in French, Swedish, and Gullah dialect.

Aidan Wydette of L.A. was the tenth member and fourth generation of his family to grace the Palo Alto campus.

Aidan’s headshot revealed a dark-haired, thick-necked boy with an open, confident smile. Note was made of the Wydette clan’s long history of contribution to higher education but no dollar amounts were mentioned and care was taken to list Aidan’s qualifications: “outstanding scholar and athlete” at Windsor Preparatory Academy in Brentwood, National Merit Scholar, summer internship at a Washington, D.C., think tank where he’d co-authored a paper on fiscal policy in emerging democracies, followed by a summer at the sports section of The New York Times.

Achievements at Prep included “a full academic load,” varsity letters in golf, hockey, and soccer, captain of the Model U.N. team and mock trial, co-captain of the business club, co-founder of a program donating unused restaurant food to the homeless.

Milo said, “Guess the Nobel comes in his sophomore year.”

I said, “Three sports for him, only two for Tristram, Tristram serves on Model U.N. and mock trial, but Aidan’s the captain of both teams.”

“If Li’l Bro doesn’t make National Merit, he’s reduced to peasant status? Yeah, that would kick up the pressure.”

“Merit scholarships are based on PSAT scores. Your percentile’s high enough, you write a legible essay, you’re in.”

“Fake a score, get an award,” he said. “Hell, maybe we’re not just talking Tristram. For all we know Aidan’s resume got pumped up the old-fashioned way.”

“Cheating as a way of life.”

“You read the papers.” His pocket jumped as his phone played a too-fast Bach prelude. No more “Fur Elise.” Did that mean something?

Moe Reed broke in. “Can’t find a single link between Tristram Wydette and Garret Kenten, though Garret did graduate from Prep four years ago.”

“He goes to college somewhere local?”

“There’s no record he goes anywhere, the only thing that comes up under his name is a band. You’ll love this: the Slackers. But there is a kid in the yearbook who’s with Tristram in ten photos. Seven are from the baseball team, but there’re also shots of the two of them horsing around on campus. To me they look like buds, Loo.”

“What’s this prince’s name?”