"Could be," I said. "Or they just prefer younger men."
"For that I need a pal with a Ph.D.?"
We were back at his office by three thirty p.m.
To the left of his computer sat a loose stack of paper. He began pawing, crumpling and tossing departmental memos, sheet after sheet of the city and county junk mail taxpayers pay for but never read.
Toward the bottom, eighteen months of Elise Freeman's bank records at Wachovia and her phone history for sixty days.
The financials elicited an immediate "Whoa." Ninety thousand and some change in a passbook account, most of it accounted for by sixteen five-thousand-dollar deposits posted irregularly over the last three years.
"It ain't buried treasure but it's a lot for a teacher making thirty a year," he said. "Wonder what five grand buys you at Prep."
Turning to the phone records, he used two felt-tipped markers to highlight. Yellow, pink, pink, pink, yellow. The end result was a cheery zebra: thirty-two yellow stripes for Sal Fidella's 818 number, seventeen pinks for someone in 626. The rest was uninteresting.
" Pasadena," he said. Phoning the number, he listened, wide-eyed, hung up. "Caltech, some chemical engineering lab. Everyone's out at this time-probably blowing something up-but leave your name blah blah blah."
"Far be it from me to stereotype," I said, "but Elise's young guy wore a pocket protector."
"Mr. Not-quite-a-nerd." He found the Caltech website, zeroed on chemical engineering. The only bios were of faculty members but a few more clicks brought up an account of a research presentation two months before. A quintet of doctoral students summarizing their research projects. No pictures.
Ellen Choi, Vladimir Bobrosky, Tremaine Franck, Mitchell Yamaguchi, Arlen Arabian.
He said, "Long years of detective training tells me it's unlikely Ms. Choi has undergone a sex-change operation, same for Mr. Yamaguchi undergoing surgery to look Caucasian. So let's pare down and see what MySpace has to offer."
Within seconds he'd pulled up a trio of pages. "Guess even brainiacs crave their fifteen nanoseconds of fame."
Arlen Arabian was mid- to late thirties, with Brillo hair and a rabbinic beard already graying. Skin-headed Vladimir Bobrosky was built like the super-heavyweight power lifter his page claimed him to be.
Tremaine L. Franck was young, slim, pleasant-looking in a doe-eyed, anemic way. Long, lank brown hair swept diagonally over a broad, unblemished brow.
"So he peroxided to blend in with the dudes at County Line." He Googled Franck, found the young man's name in a Windsor Prep newsletter dated the previous year, and pumped his fist.
After completing Harvard, summa, in three years, Trey's been accepted at Caltech for Ph.D. studies in chem-eng and looking forward to getting back to sunny Southern California. But he admits he will miss the bonhomie of Cabot House, as well as selected undergraduate courses, particularly those of Professor Feldheim, who was a shining beacon of erudition, coherence, and tolerance despite Trey's attempts to convince him of the benefits of application as opposed to pure cogitation.
"Couldn't agree more," said Milo. "Pure cogitation gives me gas."
He switched to the LAPD data bank, plugged in his departmental password, got to work on Trey Franck's stats.
No criminal record, a few parkers, one speeding ticket two years ago. Twenty-two years old, five eleven, one fifty-two, blond, blue.
"First he darkens, then he lightens," said Milo. "Embrace change."
"Look at his address," I said.
South side of Brentwood, an apartment number.
"Not the high-priced spread," he said, "but close enough to Prep. Maybe Franck was one of their deserving scholarship students. Elise started four years ago when he was a senior. Maybe she liked 'em real young and tutoring turned to something else."
"He doesn't sound like the type who'd need tutoring."
"Not in math or science, Alex. But Elise coached English. I need to meet this genius and screw due process."
He used his personal cell to contact a source at the phone company, and copied down the landline matching Franck's address.
Ten rings, no answer, no machine.
Milo said, "What the hell, Brentwood 's close. What's your gas situation?"
"Half a tank," I said. "No problem if we don't cogitate too much."
The building was a space-clogging twenty-unit heap two blocks south of Wilshire, faced with poorly tended balconies and satellite dishes perched on railings.
Security door. No answer to the bell-push for Franck, J.
We were about to leave when a woman with short gray hair and sturdy limbs stepped out with a black brindle French bulldog.
Dead ringer for Blanche's feisty predecessor, Spike, and a smile hijacked my mouth. The woman noticed, smiled back. Serenely, as if used to the attention. So was the dog. He planted his legs, faced forward, stacked like a champ.
Milo said, "Brings back memories, huh?"
The woman said, "Pardon?"
"My friend here had one of those, same color."
"They're the best, aren't they?"
"Quasi-human," I said. "How long have you had him?"
"Three years, he just finished filling out."
"I'm guessing twenty-six pounds?"
"On the nose. May I ask how long yours lived?"
"He was a rescue, so I don't know for sure. Best guess is twelve, thirteen years."
"Thirteen would be great. I hear some are making it longer."
"What's his name?"
"Herbie."
"Hey, Herbie." I bent, rubbed the broad, knobby head. Herbie panted, gathered his dignity, and continued to pose.
Milo said, "Do you happen to know a young man who lives in this building? Trey Franck?"
The woman's eyes grew wary. Milo showed her his I.D.
"Police? Trey's such a nice boy."
"He hasn't done anything wrong, ma'am. We're looking for information."
"Trey was a witness to something?"
"It's possible."
"Wow," she said. "Well, he doesn't live here anymore. Has been at Harvard for years, may still be, for all I know."
"Who lives here?"
"His parents. June's a nurse and Joseph's some kind of scientist. A little distant, but overall nice. They both work long hours."
Herbie blew out air. His flews vibrated. He tugged on the leash.
The woman said, "The boss needs his walk, bye."
Herbie led her toward Wilshire, jaunty walk suggesting life really was wonderful.
Milo said, "Rush-hour drive to Pasadena, there's a concept. Let's hedge with a stopoff at the office, then another in the Valley. No sense pursuing a nice boy unless he's the one Doris saw."
He inserted Trey Franck's face into a six-pack photo lineup composed of similar young white men, then I hazarded Beverly Glen toward Van Nuys.
Brutal congestion at Sunset continued as far as I could see. As I neared the road leading up to my house, Milo said, "Go home, I'll pick up my wheels, continue solo."
"Not necessary."
"Feeling benevolent?"
"Feeling curious." I called Robin, told her not to keep dinner waiting, I might be at Caltech for a while.
"You've already got a bunch of degrees," she said.
"I was thinking chemical engineering."
"And here I thought our chemistry was great."
"Wait up and I'll engineer something."
"Long as it's structural, babe, not civil."
I drove up to Fat Boy just after six. Half the counter stools were occupied, same for the booths. The same scalding-oil smell.
Doris was tending to a party of cheerful Hispanic kids, unloading a tray full of fried food. "Uh-uh, too busy, can't break my rhythm."
We stood to the side. She finished and walked past us and we tagged along.
"Enough, I told you everything I know."
"Two seconds to look at a picture and we're out of your way."