Todd said, “She was an undergrad econ major at Brown.”
“As a sop to Daddy,” said Padgett. “He runs cor-po-ra-tions.”
“How long have you been publishing?” I said.
“Four years,” said Todd. Adding with pride: “We are currently four hundred thousand in the hole.”
“In hock to my daddy,” said Padgett. “To appease him, we maintain a job.”
“Jaguar Tutorials,” said Milo. “Which is?”
“SAT preparation,” said Padgett, lifting a business card from her desk and flashing it at us.
Patricia S. Padgett, B.A. (Brown) MFA (Yale)
Senior Consultant, Jaguar Tutorials
“Our mission should we accept it,” she said, “is to educate the offspring of anxiety-ridden social climbers in the fine points of college entrance exams.”
Milo said, “Jaguar as in…”
“The connotation,” said Todd, “is of mastery and swiftness.”
“Also,” said Padgett, “of upscale. As in Jag-oo-ar motorcars. We can’t afford Beverly Hills rent, but we want to pull in the B.H. kids.”
Todd said, “The Ivy League thing helps.”
Padgett said, “Todd did his undergrad at Princeton.”
“So,” said Milo, turning back to the screen, “this Faithful Scrivener person sent you a piece under a pseudonym, and you printed it and never paid.”
“Looks that way,” said Todd. “This notation- OTT- means an over-the-transom submission.”
Padgett said, “That’s publishing-speak for we didn’t solicit it, it just showed up.”
“You get a lot of that?”
“Plenty. Mostly garbage. Real garbage- I’m talking illiterate.”
“Has ‘FS’ written any other pieces for you?”
“Let’s see,” said Todd. He scrolled. “Here’s one. All the way back at the beginning.” To Padgett: “Back in Issue Two.”
Milo read the date. “Three and a half years ago.”
She said, “The halcyon days- look at this: evidence, clues, red herrings- we’re stylin’ and sleuthin’, Todd- hey, Officer, can we get cool badges, too?”
She went and got a copy of Issue Two. Faithful Scrivener’s first piece was in a section entitled “Pits and Peaches.” Brutal reviews alternating with mindless raves.
This one, a Peach. Two paragraphs singing the praises of a promising young dancer named Angelique Bernet.
Review of a ballet concert at the Mark Taper, in L.A. Experimental piece by a Chinese composer entitled “The Swans of Tianenmen.”
Two months before Bernet’s murder in Boston.
The company had been to L.A., first.
Angelique had been part of a trio of ballerinas featured during the final act. FS had picked her out because of “slap-in-the-face cygnian grace so fully synched with the tenor of the composition that it tightens one’s scrotum. This is DANCE as in paleo-instinctuo-bioenergetics, so right, so real, so unashamedly erotic. Her artistry sets her apart from the palsiform pretendeurs that comprise the rest of la compagnie allegement.”
“Ouch,” said Padgett. “We really need to be more selective.”
“ ‘Cygnian,’ “ said Milo.
Todd said, “It means swanlike. It’s on the advanced SAT vocab list.”
“ ‘Tight scrotum,’ “ said Padgett. “He had the hots for her. What are we dealing with, some kind of sexual psycho?”
Milo said, “Could you print copies of both articles? And as long as we’re at it, have you ever run anything by someone named Drummond?”
Padgett pouted. “I ask, he doesn’t answer.”
“Please?” said Milo, smiling at her again, but talking in the low, threatening tones of a bear emerging from its cave.
Padgett said, “Yeah, yeah, sure.”
“First name?” said Todd.
“Check any Drummond.”
“Check Bulldog,” said Padgett.
No one laughed.
No record of Kevin or Yuri or any other Drummond showed up in the SSA contributor files. No articles on Baby Boy Lee or China Maranga, either, but Todd did find a write-up of a recital given by Vassily Levitch. Another “Pits and Peaches” entry, one year ago. Levitch had played one piece at a group recital in Santa Barbara.
“Another Over The Transom,” said Milo.
The byline: E. Murphy.
The hyperbolic, sexually loaded prose evoked Faithful Scrivener: Levitch was “lithe as a harem houri” as he “stroked Bartok’s tumescent etude” and “squeezed every drop from the time/space/infinity between notes.”
Padgett rotated her chin stud. “Boy, do we print crap, this walk down memory lane is not making me proud.”
Todd said, “Keep your perspective, Patti. Your old man markets toxic chemicals.”
Patti Padgett photocopied the articles and walked us to the door. Sticking close to Milo.
He said, “Ever hear of GrooveRat?”
“Nope. Is it a band?”
“A zine.”
“There are hundreds of those,” she said. “Anyone with a scanner and a printer can do one.”
Her smile began fresh, ended up old, sad, defeated. “Anyone with a rich dad can take it a step higher.”
21
As we got back in the car, Milo’s cell phone chirped the first seven notes of Für Elise. He slapped it to his ear, grunted, said, “Yeah, I’ll be there ASAP, treat her nice.”
To me: “Vassily Levitch’s mother flew in last night from New York and is waiting for me at the station. Maybe she’ll know something that ties Levitch to Drummond beyond ‘E. Murphy’- so what was that all about? Drummond using pen names? And if he’s got his own zine, why send stuff to Patti and Todd?”
“The Bernet piece was written before GrooveRat was started- if Kevin was the author, he would’ve still been a sophomore. Maybe he sent the others because Patti and Todd were getting distribution and he wasn’t.”
“The need for exposure,” he said. “Lots of sex in the prose. He wants to screw them.”
“He wants to own them,” I said. “And he traveled to do it. Levitch’s recital was in Santa Barbara. Angelique Bernet was reviewed in L.A. but murdered in Boston. If you could verify his presence in Boston at the time, that would be grounds for a warrant.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but how do I verify without a warrant? The airlines have tightened up big-time, and Kevin’s family isn’t going to volunteer the info.”
We traveled west on Santa Monica. When we reached Doheny, I said, “If Drummond freelanced for SeldomScene, he may very well have submitted to other magazines.”
His hands clenched around the wheel. “What if the bastard uses a dozen pseudonyms? What do I do- find some expert to conduct linguistic analysis of every fringe mag in the country?”
“I’d start with Faithful Scrivener and E. Murphy bylines, see where that leads.”
“Extracurricular reading. Meanwhile, a grieving mother waits.”
A few blocks later, he said, “Any other insights? From the writing?”
“It’s the type of inflated prose you see in college papers. Writing to impress. If it’s Kevin we’re dealing with, he didn’t get strokes at home, channeled his energies into projects, came to see himself as a maven of the art world. I’d check his college newspaper for reviews, see if the writing matches.”
“You keep saying that. ‘If it’s Kevin.’ “
“Something bothers me,” I admitted. “Even at twenty-four, Kevin seems young for these killings. If he murdered Angelique Bernet he did it at the age of twenty-one. There are elements of Angelique that fit a novice: multiple stab wounds that could mean a blitz attack, the body left out in the open. But traveling three thousand miles from his comfort zone’s pretty calculated.”