Milo looked back at the building behind us. A Fixed Base of Operations called Diamond Aviation. The pretty young female concierge in the marble-and-glass terminal had responded with the same level of protectiveness. "Unless you're Homeland Security, we're not allowed to give out flight information. Can I get you guys some coffee?"
One step from the bottom of the jet's stairs, Helfgott spotted us. Showing no sign of surprise or recognition, he snatched his bags from the pilot, toted them to the Escalade, and placed them in the trunk. Rotating his neck again, he shot his cuffs as he walked toward us, expressionless.
"Morning. I think. Ed Helfgott."
Six feet tall and somewhere in his sixties, Windsor Prep's president was thin and angular but slightly broad in the beam, with the kind of pale, waxy skin that shaves well and connotes long nights of scholarly study. Longish rusty hair streaked with silver swept back over a high brow and broke over his collar in waves. The glasses were owlish, framed in tortoiseshell. A gold watch chain hung from the vest of a whiskey-colored glen plaid suit tailored to give him more shoulder. His shirt was lime-green broadcloth, his tie a hugely knotted ocher foulard. A yellow handkerchief flecked with brown was stuffed haphazardly into a breast pocket, just short of tumbling.
"Thanks for meeting with us, sir."
Helfgott scanned Milo 's card absently. "My pleasure, Lieutenant. I do hope this doesn't stretch on for too long." Sudden, incongruous smile. "I'm a bit tuckered."
"Long journey?"
"Journeys, plural," said Helfgott. "Monday was a conference in D.C., then on to New York to interface with some alums, followed by a jaunt over the pond to London and back for a stop in Cambridge, Mass. London, in particular, posed challenges. Scaffolding everywhere and despite the financial vicissitudes, the pace and magnitude of construction remain Promethean. Unfortunately, so does the volume of motor traffic. None of my destinations were in walking distance from my lodgings in Mayfair so a fair bit of ingeniousness was at play."
I said, "School business in London?"
Helfgott's thin lips turned up. What resulted was the initial knife-slice for a jack-o'-lantern mouth. "If you're asking was it a holiday, quite the opposite. I interfaced with my equal numbers at Oxbridge, Cambridge, and LSE-the London School of Economics."
A high school administrator with counterparts at three major universities.
I said, "Smoothing the way for your graduates."
"Most of my time was spent listening as they tried to attract our alums. In a world of growing globalism, Windsor Prep people are regarded as prime intellectual property. Creators rather than prisoners of destiny, if you will. One of our grads attended Oxford twenty years ago and ended up settling in Scotland. He's just been short-listed for the Booker Prize."
"Congrats," said Milo. "Sounds like ultra-prime property-kind of like Wagyu beef."
Helfgott squinted. "Sir?"
"Wagyu-"
"I know what Wagyu is, Lieutenant. What I'm failing to see is the crux of your analogy."
"The stuff comes from pampered cows, right? Back in Japan, they get to guzzle beer, snarf gourmet grub, have regular massages. All that to keep the meat tender. Then they're shipped off to dates with destiny."
Helfgott removed his specs. Ripped the silk handkerchief free, wiped both lenses energetically. Glancing at the Escalade, he pulled out his pocket watch. I was close enough to see it had stopped six hours ago. That didn't stop Helfgott from tsk-tsking.
"Later than I thought. How say we wend our way to the lounge, do whatever it is you feel is important. Then we can all be on our merry ways."
Diamond Aviation's waiting area was thirty feet high, walled in glass, with air spiced by cinnamon-flavored air-freshener. A man in a white jumpsuit dry-mopped the black marble floor. No jet-setters occupied the puce leather seating; off to the side, a couple of bored-looking pilots studied a computer terminal. One said something about weather in Roseville. The other said, "Maybe we'll get delayed enough to stick around and try that sushi place."
Without being asked, the same cute concierge addressed Helfgott by name as she set down a glass of soda water and lime.
"Change your mind about coffee, guys?"
"No, thanks."
"Anything else, Mr. Helfgott?"
"Not for the moment, Amy. Thank you."
"Anytime, Mr. Helfgott." She sashayed away. He drank, rotated his neck yet again.
Milo said, "Are you in pain, sir?"
"Chronic condition exacerbated by age and too-frequent air travel, Lieutenant. Yoga helped for a while, then some unfortunate personal training led to sprains precisely where I didn't need them."
He eyed Myron Wydette's jet through the glass, now being fueled by a tanker truck. Held his gaze and inhaled, as if yearning to be aloft.
"Nice piece of machinery, Mr. Helfgott."
"Work of art, Lieutenant. I won't pretend it's not immeasurably superior to commercial aviation, but in the last analysis, flying is flying. One strives to eat properly, stretch, hydrate oneself. Nevertheless, the hours of enforced immobility take their toll. As soon as we wrap up whatever it is you feel you need to do, I'm going to swim, then settle in a warm bath and pop off to sleep."
"Sounds good, sir. What have you been told about this meeting?"
"Mr. Wydette's office called me midflight to inform me that poor Elise Freeman had passed on and the police had requested to speak with me. I took that to assume an irregular death."
All the emotion of a Chia pet. He continued admiring the Gulfstream until his eyes lost focus. Somewhere else; maybe thinking about his bath.
Milo said, "If by irregular you mean other than old age, that's true, sir."
"How dreadful," said Helfgott. "May I ask when and where it occurred, and the particulars?"
"Several days ago, at her house, sir. The particulars remain the big question."
"I'm not sure I understand, Lieutenant."
"Mode of death hasn't been determined."
"So there's no obvious crime."
Milo didn't answer.
Helfgott finally swiveled away from the jet field. "And you requested to speak with me because…"
"Elise Freeman worked at Prep."
"Surely you can't imagine her passing has anything to do with her job."
"Was she happy at Prep?"
"Why wouldn't she be?"
"Any job can be stressful, sir."
Helfgott put his water glass down, removed his specs. His eyes were small, diminished further by heavy lids, with watery hazel irises. "I don't customarily deal with faculty issues but if there'd been a serious problem, I assume I'd have heard about it. In fact, she seemed quite pleased at the contract we offered her. After I received Mr. Wydette's call, I immediately phoned Headmaster Rollins and she confirmed that fact, as well as the fact that Ms. Freeman had been happily and uneventfully employed."
"Sounds like you wondered yourself if her death had anything to do with Prep."
Back went the glasses. "Not at all, Lieutenant. I am not a brilliant thinker and I attempt to compensate for my intellectual deficits with meticulousness. That's a lesson I try to pass on to our less inspired students. Rara avises though they are."
"Prep's website says you graduated cum laude from Brown."
Helfgott smiled. "You've researched me?"
"I read the website."
"Well, Lieutenant, that was a different Brown. Now, what else can I help you with?"
"When did you offer Ms. Freeman her contract?"
"She came on as a per diem temporary employee four years ago. A year later, we offered her more steady employment. I remain puzzled by that term-mode of death."
"She's being processed by the coroner as we speak."
"How grim sounding. So it could be a medical condition, one of those rough patches-an aneurysm."
"At this point, anything's possible, Mr. Helfgott."
"Then why, may I ask, am I talking to homicide detectives?"