Franck’s knees pressed together. “I suppose that was incongruous. But so what? I wasn’t romantically attached to Elise.”
“Obviously,” said Milo. “She kept no picture of you.”
Silence.
“Unless she did and you removed it after she died.”
“No way, I haven’t been to her house in months! You keep coming back to total irrelevancies—”
Milo said, “Of course, there could be another reason—another theoretical. Elise had students coming in and out. Parents, too, sometimes. Flaunting a nonromantic, recreational relationship with a former student wouldn’t do much for business.”
“I was never her student.”
“You were eighteen when you met her.”
“That made me legal.”
“We’re not talking legal, Trey, we’re talking appropriate.”
Silence.
Milo said, “How soon after you started working for Elise did it get personal?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Guy like you with memory problems?”
“My memory’s fine,” said Franck. “I never made note of the precise date because I never thought I’d have to explain myself to—”
“Was it soon after, or did it take a while to develop?”
Franck shook his head. “This is humiliating.”
“So was Elise’s death.”
The young man lowered his head.
“How soon, Trey?”
“Not weeks. Months.” Franck looked up. “You want the voyeuristic details? Fine. One night I went over to Elise’s house to collect my money. She was wearing a tank top and shorts. White top, blue shorts. All the other times I’d seen her, she’d dressed in dresses to the knee or slacks, her hair tied back, no makeup. That night, her hair was loose, she wore makeup. She had on perfume. She told me I was doing a great job, invited me to sit down, have a drink—not alcohol, I don’t drink alcohol, never have, she meant a soft drink, that’s what she was having. We sat down together on the couch, talked.” His eyes moved to one side, drifted back, cloudy with reminiscence. “It just happened.”
“And kept happening,” said Milo. “We’re talking four years.”
“On and off. Have you heard the expression booty-call?”
Milo smiled. “Yes, son. Who booty-called who?”
“She always called me. The last one was two weeks ago—the phone call you saw, but that time I didn’t go over.”
“Why not?”
“Other obligations.” Franck scratched a corner of his mouth. “I’d grown ambivalent about the relationship. For one thing I came to learn that Elise has a drinking problem. Nothing chronic, but she binges. My mother has a problem in that area and I’ve seen how it’s affected her. Secondly, I prefer to date women my own age. I’m not claiming to be some kind of big-time player, but right now there’s someone I’m involved with. She knows nothing about Elise and I’d like to keep it that way. I’m deeply sorry Elise is dead, I couldn’t feel worse, she did a lot for me. But I’m really nervous about my personal life going public. That would be hell.”
“No reason for your girlfriend to know, unless she’s your alibi.”
Franck’s eyes widened. “I need an alibi?”
“Let me give you some—I guess you’d call them parameters—for the period of Elise’s death.”
As Milo outlined the time frame, Franck’s shoulders loosened almost immediately. His grin was Christmas-morning bright, a kid in a room full of presents.
“During that entire time, I wasn’t even in L.A., I was in Palo Alto for a series of research meetings with Professor Milbank—Professor Seth Milbank. He’s conducting research at Stanford that might conceivably relate to mine. Professor Moon—my advisor, Professor Norman Moon—thought it would be a good idea for the three of us to sit down face-to-face and discuss possibilities. Professor Moon has travel money on his grant so we flew up. Feel free to check my plane tickets and my hotel reservation. I’d show you restaurant receipts—we ate out every meal—but Professor Moon paid for everything with his business card.”
Milo said, “Tickets and hotel sound like a good start, Trey.”
The young man slid off the sofa bed, retrieved his laptop from the floor, held the computer like a glockenspiel, and typed while standing.
Seconds later he showed us an online travel site screen.
Four-day stay at the Palo Alto Sojourner Inn, incoming and outgoing flights on Southwest.
“Satisfied?” said Franck.
“Four days,” said Milo. “That’s a lot of meetings.”
“We made a side trip to Berkeley to confer with Professor Rosen.”
Milo phoned the hotel, spoke with the desk, hung up. “Looks like you’re cleared, Trey. Unless you’ve figured out how to be in two places simultaneously.”
“Not yet, but maybe one of these days,” said Franck.
“You’re working on that?”
“Wait long enough, Lieutenant, and everything happens.”
We left the shabby building, nearly collided with a helmeted student speeding up the footpath on a skateboard.
“Hey, watch it!”
Milo said, “Put more time into your physics homework.”
“Huh?”
“Plotting trajectories, pal. Yours sucked.”
The kid stared, waited until Milo’s back was turned before flipping us off. Back in the car, I said, “Fish-and-chips?”
“Something’s off with Franck but I can’t pinpoint it.”
“There’s a minuscule speech delay,” I said. “Like a machine processing.”
“That’s it. Reminds me of a witness on the stand who’s been coached. A four-year affair leaves plenty of room for rage. Too bad he’s alibied tight.”
“You’re not buying the booty-call defense?”
“That’s what it was to Elise. But young guy, experienced older woman? I’ll bet Franck was a virgin when she seduced him and he grew a lot more emotionally involved than he’s letting on.”
The door to Franck’s building opened. Franck stepped out and walked straight toward us.
“This should be interesting,” said Milo, starting to roll down the window.
But Franck, staring down as he hurried, never saw us. Cutting across the lawn, he continued south.
We waited a few minutes before following him.
Two blocks south, he entered another apartment building. A whole different world from Franck’s dump; this one was thirties Spanish architecture, immaculate upkeep, thoughtful landscaping. The right side of the building was a wide veranda arranged with wrought-iron furniture. Real estate ads would call the place charming and, for once, they wouldn’t be lying.
We didn’t sit long before Franck was out again, arm in arm with a petite dark-haired girl in jeans and a Brown sweatshirt.
Milo said, “Obviously, she went to Columbia.”
Franck and the girl faced, pecked lips. Strolling to the veranda, they pushed a love seat toward the shadows, settled, held hands, kissed some more. The girl’s head rested on Franck’s shoulder.
Milo said, “Now I feel like a voyeur. And now it is fish-and-chips.”
The pub was gone, replaced by half a storefront peddling vintage jeans, another serving fast-food Thai.
“Time to be geographically eclectic,” he said. “What can I get you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t think your discretion will shame me into fasting.”
I idled by the curb as he loped into the Thai place. Something he told the counter girl made her smile. He got back in the car with bags full of takeout.
“Double order of pad to go, just in case you change your mind. Extra spice, extra shrimp, extra everything she could think of.”
I cruised west on the 210 as he wielded a plastic fork and gobbled.
When he stopped to breathe, I said, “The daisy chain continues.”