“That must be it.”
After Reed left, I said, “Carousel pony? You didn’t really expect Reed to tag Kenten as gay.”
“But you saw his eyes, that’s what he was thinking, no? Interesting fellow, Ol’ Eddie. Either he’s in serious denial or he really does have a thing for pastels. I made a few calls last night and the so-called gay community has nothing to say about him except they appreciate the AIDS money.”
“So-called community?”
“Like we’re a powder-blue monolith?”
His next call was thirty hours later, as I finished some court reports at home.
“Surveillance at Kenten’s Xanadu and the Mendoza household has been as useful as a congressional subcommittee, same for drive-bys of Gisella’s place. But as of twenty minutes ago, I am the proud recipient of my first bona fide tip on Elise. Anonymous, no call-back number, the clerk who wrote out the slip thinks the caller might’ve been male but she’s not sure. For all I know, she screwed up the message but here it is: ‘For the murdered teacher think May third, October eighth, November fifth.’”
I said, “Nothing like a little numerology to brighten the day.”
“I already tried a bunch of historical websites and came up with zilch.”
I copied down the dates.
“Freeman hasn’t been publicized so this has to be someone familiar with the school. And please don’t remind me that could include a prank by a preppie.”
I said, “Do you find it interesting that it came in two days after you met with Kenten?”
“Pastel Eddie trying to divert me? Yeah, I thought about that and it would take his interest way past obsession. One of my plainclothesers did get a little excited when a kid around Marty’s age drove up to Kenten’s gates this morning in a BMW ragtop. Unfortunately the tags traced to Garret Kenten, nineteen, address in Trancas Beach, probably a grandson. But that got me thinking. Kinda risky, not to mention sick, for Kenten to be shacking up with Marty when his young descendants have access to the property. On the other hand, Garret was in and out fast, left with the top down on the Beemer and a surfboard in back.”
“Picking up gear at Grandpa’s,” I said.
“We’ll keep watching both sites, maybe try to interview the Mendozas in a day or so. I’ve also got one borderline-interesting finding from the arson techs: Even accounting for incompetence, with the baseball cap found near the highest concentration of accelerant, it shoulda been totally toasted, not partially baked. Fire guys consider the fire wimpy. If you’re gonna use accelerant, why not squirt rather than trickle? Toss in the open dump site and it’s thought-provoking.”
“The car was meant to be found, maybe with the hat in it? Marty Mendoza’s being set up?”
“Eddie the K would sure love like that scenario. But it doesn’t obscure the facts: Elise was scared of the kid, he’s got psychological issues, and he rabbited. I need those two girls but Chavez got kicked out of custody.”
“Chavez lives for weed,” I said. “He’s probably smoking up right now in that same apartment. That makes him arrestable at your convenience.”
“Such faith in the goodness of human nature, from a scientist of the mind, no less.”
“No comment,” I said.
“You just made one.”
Madame Internet’s a seductress but she parcels out more tease than fun. Instead of logging on, I did it the old-fashioned way.
Staring at the dates on the phone tip until a headache came on and my blood screamed for coffee.
May 3
October 8
November 5
I finished a tall mug and half of another, brought the slip back to Robin’s studio, explained what was going on.
She put down her chisel, studied. “Sorry, hon.”
Blanche sighed.
I returned to my desk wondering if the tip really would boil down to a prank and I was wrestling with random numbers.
For argument’s sake, assume a pattern.
Ignoring the dates, I studied the text.
That teacher. Something related to Elise Freeman’s job.
Finals at Prep—someone’s psychotic anger over a poor grade?
No, as a sub she wouldn’t be administering any exams at all.
But her side job was preparing for a different type of test.
Two dates in the fall, one in late spring. I logged onto the Educational Testing Service website. October 8 was one of several scheduled dates for this year’s SAT but May 3 and November 5 weren’t.
Those who forget history are condemned to repeat it.
I pounded the keyboard like a chimp with a toy.
Both dates showed up on the previous year’s calendar.
A second-grade teacher’s voice sounded in my head.
You’re such a thorough boy, Alex.
CHAPTER
29
Milo loosened his tie, finished his fifth cup of coffee. Kept staring at the printout I’d brought him.
Finally: “What, Elise failed to boost one preppie’s scores three separate times? Or a trio of preppies formed the We Hate Ms. Freeman Club and banded together to ice her?”
“Or she didn’t fail,” I said. “She succeeded but did it in an unorthodox manner.”
“Such as?”
“Saving her client the hassle of actually taking the test.”
“Sending in a ringer? What led you there?”
“Because that would be worth covering up. I searched for scandals involving stand-ins and found plenty. And those are the ones who got caught. The testing services are supposed to check handwriting samples, and I.D.’s are inspected at the door. But with a big crowd of test-takers and a ringer with a decent physical resemblance, you could pull it off. Also, sometimes the SAT’s administered at Prep, but not on any of those dates.”
“At Prep, no way a ringer could pass. Well, well, well.”
“A test scam also fits with Elise’s flexible moral boundaries and it could clarify the motive. Assuming the rape DVD was a hoax never put into action, she—probably in concert with Fidella—was no stranger to the concept of extortion. If the tip’s righteous, it might also narrow your suspect profile: a rich kid pressured to get into a selective college, who’d failed to improve significantly with tutoring. That could be why her computer—and Fidella’s—was taken. Her student records were in there.”
“Rich kid with a gonzo bank account or his parents,” he said. “Mr. and Mrs. Deep Pockets pony up for tutoring, then toss in a whole bunch more for someone to take the test for Junior because it’s all about getting Junior into Harvard and Junior can’t hack it on his own. The ringer aces the test, Junior buys himself a crimson sweater, everyone’s over the moon. Then Elise hits ’em up for a serious surcharge. But if it’s only one kid, why three dates?”
“Once could’ve been the general SAT,” I said, “the others the SAT IIs—achievement tests on specific subjects.”
“We cover all your needs at the Academy of Scam.”
“If we’re talking big-time extortion, that could explain abandoning the rape plot. This was so much easier and Elise would keep her job.”
He got up, stretched, sat down. “With the stakes so high, how’d our tipster find out? And why be so cryptic?”
“Maybe a hardworking kid picked up on an unlikely score by another student and got resentful. Peer pressure would frown on snitching publicly, you’d be sentencing yourself to high school hell. And by exposing a scandal you’d be putting everyone at Prep at risk of taint, including yourself.”
“I’m not really a rat, I’m just giving the cops a hint. They don’t figure it out, it’s their fault. Wonder what those ethical seminars they run at Prep would say about that.”