In the end, a deal was cut. Guilty pleas to first-degree murder and life sentences, but with the possibility of parole because both killers were young, had no prior criminal record, and were potentially “redeemable.”
Milo said, “Coupons are redeemable.”
One file that didn’t show up on either Elise’s computer or Fidella’s was an indication of where four years of SAT scam money had gone. With fees of fifteen thousand a pop and the possibility that Trey Franck, wearing a variety of wigs, had gamed the system over two dozen times during a three-year period, the total was significant.
One day after the plea bargain hit the news, Dr. Will Kham called Milo from Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara and asked for an appointment. We met him at Cafe Moghul, where Milo was making up for lost time with a mountain of lamb.
Kham wore a dark blue suit and a matching shirt and tie, entered the restaurant furtively.
A physician, but his black bag today was a wheeled carry-on.
Out of it came a sheaf of papers. Eighteen months of investment records from a Citibank subsidiary in Santa Barbara.
Nine hundred and eighteen thousand dollars joint-accounted to Kham and Elise Freeman’s sister, Sandra Stuehr.
Milo kept eating as he read. When he turned the last page, he said, “Value stocks and corporate bonds, you guys haven’t done too badly, considering.”
“I want out,” said Kham. “I can tell you exactly what’s mine and what’s hers.”
“Tell me about it, Doc.”
“The figures will speak for themselves.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Not a talkative man, but after some struggle, Kham got the story out.
He and Sandra had planned to be married, though the scandal had changed everything, no way would his family tolerate that kind of thing. And he’d been having doubts, himself.
“Too rushed. The fact that she was so eager was starting to concern me.”
A year ago, Sandra had insisted on a joint account to “prove the strength of their relationship.”
Kham had contributed five hundred and twenty thousand, Sandra a bit over three hundred thousand. Investments purchased at the bottom of the meltdown by Kham had added nearly a hundred in profit.
“Looking back,” said Kham, “I know she used me to launder the money. Because prior to that, she’d been claiming financial hardship, her ex was withholding all sorts of assets from her. All of a sudden, she presented me with a cashier’s check for three oh nine. When I asked her where it came from, she said savings and changed the subject. Back then, I was love-stupid so I let it go. But I held on to the receipt—it’s in here. Drawn on a bank in Studio City. When I heard about what her sister had done, I figured you should know.”
“We should, Doc. Thanks very much.”
“Thank me,” said Kham, “by helping me get my five twenty back. She can keep the interest, it’s dirty money, I don’t want any part of it.”
“Sounds like your parents raised you right.”
“So they’d say, Lieutenant.”
CHAPTER
40
A week after Tristram Wydette and Quinn Glover bargained for their lives, the police chief gave a press conference describing the arrest as “the product of meticulous investigation and precisely the type of corruption I’m committed to eradicating.”
Among the cadre of suits surrounding him was Captain Stanley Creighton. Milo was nowhere to be seen.
I called and asked him about it.
“If I wanted to be an actor, I would’ve learned to wait tables.”
The following morning, at eight a.m., an aide to the chief got through to my private line and asked me to “confer” with her boss in three hours.
“At his house, Dr. Delaware, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
“Great, I’ll give you the address.”
I already had it, but no sense editing her script.
When she hung up, I gave Milo another call.
He said, “Rick and I are going over travel stuff. We were thinking Hawaii, but maybe the Atlantic deserves us. Ever been to the Bahamas?”
“Never. My travel plans extend to Agoura. Want to drive together?”
“I would if I was invited, Alex.”
“Oh.”
“Guess I’m the lucky one.”
“I wonder what he wants.”
“Maybe he’ll sweeten the job offer.”
“There ain’t enough sugar in Hawaii,” I said. “Same goes for whatever they grow in the Bahamas. Okay, keep you posted.”
“Here’s my post: John says Tristram’s lawyers are panicking for a quick transfer to Corcoran.”
“That’s a tough place. County Jail decor doesn’t cut it?”
“Getting the shit beat out of you by some resident County gangbangers doesn’t fit young T’s lifestyle. The fervent hope is isolation with the snitches and the child molesters and the white-collar mopes will help.”
“There you go,” I said. “Everything’s about connections.”
In the daylight, the chief’s spread was scragglier but more appealing. Like the set of an old western movie.
Hot day in Agoura, despite impending autumn. He sat in the same rocker, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and red tie that had to be cooking him. The three metal folding chairs to his left soaked up full, punishing sun.
Three young men occupied the chairs: a husky Latino kid with his arm in a sling wearing a South El Monte High letterman’s jacket, a smallish but muscular guy, slightly older, in cutoffs and a Zuma Jay T-shirt, and a beanpole with a humongous Adam’s apple, awkward mannerisms, and fuzzy red hair protruding from a beige Huntington Gardens cap.
I bypassed the chief and walked up to Cutoff. “You’re Garret Kenten?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good to meet you.”
“Same here.”
“Impressive and entertaining, Doctor,” said the chief. “One day you can take the show to Vegas.”
Charlie removed his cap. “Da-ad.”
“Sorry, son.” Different voice. Subdued, embarrassed, unsure. I’d heard it from countless parents of adolescents.
“Forgive me, Dr. Delaware. As you can imagine, it’s been a bit challenging around here.”
“Shouldn’t be, Dad,” said Charlie. “Seeing as we did the
Garret Kenten high-fived him.
Martin Mendoza smiled.
I shook his left hand, continued to Charlie.
The chief said, “Please sit down, Dr. Delaware. No sense drawing this out. Garret and Charlie have been
