He laughed. Turned serious. “Maybe Marty Mendoza’s our tipster. He’d sure be p.o.’d watching some rich brat pay for a high score.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Though I’d think Marty would have less trouble being explicit. And something else: The basics of the scam could be right but the murder motive could be different. Not protection from blackmail, snuffing out the competition. Because the drive from Fidella’s house to Sierra Madre runs right through Pasadena. And someone lives there who’d be a perfect ringer.”
He stared at me. “Trey Franck.”
“Brilliant, Prep alumnus, looks young enough to pass for a high school student, changes his hair color regularly.”
“Not a hipster thing, a goddamn disguise. Does the grunt work and takes all the risk, gets tired of Elise and Fidella pocketing the big bucks.”
“He’s the one who directed you to Marty. We have only his word that Elise was scared of Marty. If that was a diversionary tactic, it worked.”
“Oh, man.” He shot up again, stomped into the hall, returned flushed. “I’m getting that itchy feeling, like I’ve been played. The whole Marty thing steered us away from Franck’s relationship with Elise. All along you’ve been saying Elise’s murder stank of calculation and brains. Franck’s a chemical engineer, claims he hasn’t worked with dry ice since he was a little kid but so what? Nothing adds fun to homicide better than a little nostalgia, right?”
“Franck as our bad guy also explains why Fidella got his brains bashed in. Franck had to finish both of them. Maybe he showed up at Fidella’s house for a business discussion—now that Elise was gone, how would the scam continue. He didn’t bring a weapon because he’d been there, knew Fidella had a pool cue. There is the matter of that alibi but he was up north for four days, could’ve had enough time by himself to fly down, do Elise, fly back. He was sleeping with her, may very well have a key to her house. And his presence wouldn’t have alarmed her, she’d feel comfortable drinking in front of him.”
“Then in goes the Oxy. So who are the two girls?”
“A couple of kids who’d do anything for a cute, older guy. For all we know, they’re undergrads at Caltech. They could’ve even thought it was a prank. They’re big on that, there: taking apart cars and reassembling them in dorm rooms, hacking into the Rose Bowl scoreboard.”
He said, “The young guy driving away in the Vette could easily be Franck. And who better than a chemical engineer to orchestrate a controlled arson?”
“After ordering a South El Monte baseball cap that he leaves behind to set up favorite patsy Marty Mendoza.”
“Evil,” he said. “If there’s something to the tip… okay, let’s try to connect some dots, see if they lead to young Master Franck.”
He phoned South El Monte High, talked to Jane Virgilio.
“Hi, it’s Lieutenant Sturgis, again… no, not yet, but could you please check your student store and find out who bought an Eagles baseball cap within the last two months? Anyone who’s not a team member… it’s too complicated to explain right now, ma’am, and I’m really busy looking for Martin, so please check… yes, I know it’s online but you must have access… yes, I’ll be happy to wait.”
After three minutes of toe-tapping, he gave a rocket-fueled thumbs-up. “Thank you so much, Ms. Virgilio, I’ll be sure to tell the family you helped.”
Grinning, he logged onto his PC. “Apart from players who lose theirs and the occasional alumnus, Eagle caps are a low-volume item, only one moved during the last sixty days. And get this, amigo: October twentieth.”
“Twelve days after this year’s SAT. Franck bought it himself?”
“I should be so lucky, but at least I’ve got a name: Brianna Blevins, address in North Hollywood. Which ain’t that far from the ice place. If she turns out to be a voluptuous white girl, I’m gonna make her feel real uncomfortable. Yo Facebook!”
Brianna Blevins was nineteen years old, full-faced and prone to grinning vacantly, with gleaming black hair that hung past her waist and a pneumatic body showcased by a bikini shot that proclaimed Less Is Not More.
Not a student at Caltech; she’d graduated last year from North Hollywood High, was “looking for my place in the world.”
Easy mark for someone with half Trey Franck’s IQ. I wondered how the two of them had met.
If she did value the relationship with a Caltech genius, she wasn’t advertising the fact. No shot or mention of Franck. But one of her frequently pictured friends was a pretty, slender girl with blond-tipped hair and overenthusiastic eye shadow.
Brianna’s BFF for sure and always, we party with our souls and dance to the same beat.
Selma Arredondo.
Milo said, “Got to be La Flaca. Love this social networking.”
Arredondo’s page bore no reference to Franck, either.
He turned to the phone directories. No listings for either girl. “Maybe they still live at home, can’t be too many Blevinses in North Hollywood… lucky me, only one: Harvey P.”
No answer, canned voice-mail recording.
He left no message, searched for Arredondos in the Valley, found several, connected to most. No one knew Selma.
DMV coughed up driver’s licenses for both girls, obtained three years ago when they were fresh-faced.
Brianna had racked up several moving violations in a Ford truck registered to Harvey Blevins.
Milo sang, “Til her Daddy takes the T-Bird away,” found Selma’s wheels:
Five-year-old black Honda.
“Chavez actually told the truth,” he said. “It ain’t quite enough to restore my faith in human nature, but maybe one tiny step forward.”
Arredondo’s address conformed to one of the no-answer numbers Milo had tried. He phoned it again. The only one without voice mail.
“That’s why I don’t play games of chance, bucko.”
“Sal scored a jackpot and look what happened to him,” I said.
“Let’s pay Franck another visit. Don’t wanna make him nervous so the cover story will be we found new evidence that implicates Marty Mendoza, e.g. the Corvette. Is there anything else he can tell us about the kid?”
“I wouldn’t mention Fidella’s murder. There’d be no reason for you to tell him.”
“Makes sense. Same goes for bringing up Brianna and Selma. If Franck is connected to them, no sense giving them a heads-up. Any other suggestions?”
“Just be your usual master-thespian self.”
He twirled the end of a nonexistent mustache. Punched the air again and clapped his hands. “Trey, my boy, I may be dumb but I can still nab your Einsteinian ass.”
CHAPTER
30
No answer at Trey Franck’s apartment. The hallways of the dingy building echoed.
“Probably in the lab,” said Milo. “Mixing up his potions or whatever chemical engineers do.”
We made the drive to Caltech in three minutes. The chem-eng receptionist studied Milo’s card. “Lieutenant?… one second.”
She disappeared into an inner office. Her voice on the phone was a low buzz of anxiety. Moments later, a thin, white-bearded man in his fifties walked through the department’s main door.
“Gentlemen? Norm Moon, I’m Trey Franck’s dissertation advisor.”
Milo held out a hand. “Professor.”
Moon waved off the honorific as he shook. “You’ve located Trey? Please don’t tell me something unfortunate has occurred.”
“He’s missing?” said Milo.
Moon tugged a beard hair. “You weren’t aware, foolish of me to assume. Then I suppose you’re inquiring again about that tutor he worked for.”