Helfgott’s waxy skin paled to cold tallow. “What, exactly, are you saying?”
“We’re in possession of a communication from Ms. Freeman in which she claims she was sexually harassed by fellow teachers at Prep.”
Spots of color splashed on Helfgott’s sunken cheeks. His lips twitched. “Ludicrous.”
Milo thumbed through his pad. “Three other teachers, to be exact: Enrico Hauer, James Winterthorn, Pat Skaggs. Are those individuals still employed at Prep?”
“This is beyond absurd.” Helfgott had kept his tone low enough to discourage eavesdroppers but something in his body language caused one of the pilots to turn.
Milo said, “I’m sure you’re right, but with Ms. Freeman deceased, we need to check it out.”
“Enrico, Jim—no, that’s not possible.”
“So they are still working there.”
“Of course they’re still with us, no reason they shouldn’t be.” Helfgott rose to his feet, teetered, regained balance by clutching the arm of his chair. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I know you’ve got your job to do but so do I. Ergo, I cannot continue in this vein without benefit of legal counsel. Not because those outrageous accusations are anything but slanderous rubbish.” Pausing to let that sink in. “Because my responsibility to Prep precludes me from exposing the school to untrammeled attack without prior… consultation.”
“Institutions can’t be slandered, sir, only individuals.”
“Well, then, Enrico, Jim, and Pat have been slandered and I won’t have it.”
Milo stood. “No one’s saying the accusations are true, Mr. Helfgott, but my responsibilities preclude me from ignoring them. And I’m sure all three of the individuals in question will appreciate the chance to clear their names.”
“I don’t see why they’d need to—”
“The point of today’s meeting was extending a courtesy to you, sir, as well as to Prep. I need to have access to Enrico, Jim, and Pat and rather than disrupt your school during working hours, I’m giving you the opportunity to set up off-campus interviews at a discreet time and place.” Stepping closer, he invaded Helfgott’s personal space. His bulk turned Helfgott into a small man.
“Furthermore, it’s essential that my courtesy doesn’t lead to advance preparation on the part of Enrico, Jim, and Pat. Meaning, I expect you not to alert them as to the purpose of the interviews.”
Helfgott backed away two steps, nostrils flaring, beads of moisture collecting under the rims of his eyeglasses. “The police chief has authorized this?”
“The police chief takes his responsibilities seriously.”
“How… interesting.” Suddenly Helfgott’s hand landed on Milo’s shoulder. Patted. “I’m sure you’re a fine dedicated police lieutenant, sir. Merely doing your job. However, I must do mine. I cannot commit to a course of action without conferring with professionals. We’ll chat in due time.”
He headed toward the electric doors that opened to the tarmac. Before he got there, the concierge pushed a button and the doors swung open. Helfgott marched toward the Escalade. The driver popped out, hurried to open the passenger door.
Milo said, “Who says teaching’s a thankless job.”
As we passed the desk, the concierge looked up from her copy of Elite Traveler. Smiling and murmuring, “Bye, guys.”
Her eyes said we’d soiled the furniture.
CHAPTER
8
As we passed from Santa Monica into West L.A., Milo placed a call to the chief’s office, failed to get past the first secretarial rung, and hung up.
“So what do you think of Il Presidente?”
“Loves his job, will do anything to keep it.”
“Perks like he’s got, he’d probably kill to keep it, Alex.” Tapping the wheel. “Too bad pomposity’s not a felony.”
“I thought your beef analogy was particularly astute.”
“Yeah… my high school experience was ground chuck. You know what really irritated me, Alex? That patronizing false modesty—I’m just a poor, dumb, hardworking mope who somehow managed to earn a cum laude at Brown.”
“A different Brown,” I said. “But there might be some truth to that. Like the chief said, most of the Ivies began as divinity schools but they quickly became repositories for rich white boys. Later, when quotas were relaxed, they became meritocracies but Helfgott’s old enough for the pre-merit days.”
“You were a whiz kid, how come you didn’t go Ivy?”
“My high school was blue collar, same as yours. The guidance counselors directed kids to the trades, most of my friends never even thought about college. I aimed higher because I knew I needed to get away from my family. The night I left Missouri, I snuck out without saying good-bye, hit the road in a clunker I’d bought on the sly.”
“Sixteen years old. Gutsy boy.”
“It was a matter of survival,” I said. “And here’s something I’ve never told anyone: I enrolled at the U. under false pretenses. My mother had an old friend who’d made her own escape—moving to Oakland, becoming a teacher. She knew what I was contending with, lied about being my aunt and my guardian, claimed I’d been a California resident for years. Without that, I could’ve never afforded the out-of-state tuition. I stayed with her for two weeks, mowed her lawn, painted her gutters. Then I bought her some daisies, left a note and cut out again in the middle of the night, drove down to L.A. It wasn’t until my postdoc at Langley Porter that I even saw Oakland again.”
“My buddy the miscreant. Time to revoke your degrees.”
I said, “Fraud’s below your pay grade.” A mile later: “If you add up the alumni contributions I’ve made, they exceed the difference.”
He laughed. “Everything needs to be atoned for, huh?”
“You have to start somewhere.”
Back at his office, Milo phoned Dr. Clarice Jernigan at the coroner’s office.
Last year, he’d closed the murder of one of Jernigan’s investigators, a man named Bobby Escobar, though the solve was officially recorded as a Sheriff’s Homicide victory. Back when the case had looked hopeless, Jernigan flippantly offered to trade priority cutting for resolution on Bobby.
Woman of her word.
Milo switched his phone to conference as Jernigan’s crisp voice filled his tiny office.
“Just sewed up your victim, Milo. Which demigod do you have inroads with besides me?”
“What do you mean, Doc?”
“Freeman’s body comes in, leapfrogs immediately over our backlog, straight to the table, along with an unsigned message slip on different paper from the ones we use with orders for me to get to it stat and keep the findings to myself. When I call my boss, he’s not in, even though I know he is. My C.I. is sure the slip wasn’t with the body when it came in, our drivers say the same thing, so somehow, this body got tagged without our spotting it. I figure maybe it was you, you’re pushing our arrangement a bit, but fine. Then moments after the body hits the table someone calls my private cell line—the ones my kids use—and warns me to be discreet on Elise Freeman. I think the exact phrase was ‘This needs to be handled ultra-quietly.’ When I try to ask why, she hangs up.”
“Who’s she?”
“Someone who identified herself as calling from Parker. Is it true?”
“Probably.”
“What’s going on, Milo? I Googled Freeman and she’s not rich or famous or otherwise noteworthy.”
“It’s complicated, Doc.”
“Meaning shut up and cut,” said Jernigan. “Well, I put my irritation aside and did both and here’s what I’ve got for you: Freeman’s blood alcohol was over three times the legal limit, plus she’d ingested some kind of opiate. No needle marks, so she probably snorted. Precise metabolites will take time to analyze. There’s also clear pulmonary evidence of an overdose. In a relatively healthy young woman.”