"You're divorced from her mom?"
"Ten years ago but Glorietta's six feet under. Eight years, driving drunk. Luckily no one else got hurt."
I said, "By 'just like her mother' did you mean Brianna has a drinking problem?"
"She doesn't have one yet," said Blevins. "No teetotaler but she seems able to hold it, like I can. Due to my ex's issues, I did a lot of reading on the subject and it's a brain chemistry thing, luck of the draw."
"So her problems are-"
"She's got slut problems," said Blevins. "I know that sounds bad, a father shouldn't talk about his kid that way, but facts are facts. Even there, I can't blame her totally, it's also in the brain, Glorietta was a total round-heels, I didn't find out the extent until all these idiots show up at the funeral and start confessing to me. Classy, huh?"
His lower jaw swung from side to side. "It didn't bother me, we'd been divorced two years, but it did make me resolve to raise Bri the right way. Church, Girl Scouts, the works. For a while, it worked, she loved Sunday school, all the stories they told her. Then when she got to high school she fell in with the wrong crowd, started getting D's and F's. I took her to a bunch of therapists, they said it was a self-esteem issue. I had her tested, no learning disability, she's just one of those the best she can do is a C. So I guess she gave up."
"Started hanging with slackers."
"Slackers, sluts, kids bused in from the barrio or wherever, you name it."
"Was Selma Arredondo part of that crowd?"
Harvey Blevins's bushy eyebrows jiggled. "You know that one, huh? She get Bri in trouble?"
Milo said, "Her name came up as a friend of Brianna's."
"Some friend," said Blevins. "She comes in here, dressed in next to nothing, everything's bouncing and jiggling. Even Bri knows better than that. But what can you expect when they dance for a living?"
"Where do they dance?"
Harvey Blevins sat lower. "I don't like talking about it but every therapist said I need to be realistic, distance myself, finally let her take responsibility."
But he just sat there.
Milo repeated the question.
"What do you think, guys? I'm not talking ballet. We're talking a pole, okay?" He winced. "You wouldn't be asking all this if she didn't get herself into trouble. What's going on?"
"So far, nothing," said Milo.
Blevins peered at him skeptically.
"That's the truth, Mr. Blevins, and I'm sure it can all be cleared up once we talk to Bri. Where do she and Selma dance?"
"Don't know, don't want to know. They started doing it the second they turned eighteen and were legal. I tried to talk Bri into junior college. She said she'd never make as much money as she could doing… that. Everything nowadays is about money, right?"
Blevins checked his Palm Pilot. "Due at work soon."
"Where's that, sir?"
"Ref-Gem Motorworks, in Westchester. We build high-performance components for custom cars and boats. I'm on the paper end, assistant controller, reason I'm home at this time of day is with the economy they asked us to voluntarily cut our hours, so I'm down to thirty per week and they give me flex-time. Makes it harder on Bri 'cause I'm here more. She likes to be around when I'm not."
"So she lives here."
"When she chooses. The rest of the time? No idea."
"When's the last time you saw her?"
"That would have to be two-no, three days ago. She showed up at eight in the morning just as I was leaving, big coincidence. Hello, good-bye, she usually comes in for food and clothes."
"Where does she work?"
"You call that work?" said Blevins. "All she'd tell me is gentleman's clubs. Like any gentleman would go there."
"Was Selma with her?"
"Selma dropped her off but didn't stick around, probably 'cause I was there, Selma knows how I feel about her."
"Bri doesn't drive?"
"She had a car but it got repo'd." Tight smile. "Guess gentlemen don't pay the bills."
"Do you have any idea where Selma lives?"
"Don't know, don't care."
"Who are Bri's other friends?"
"Her line of work, you don't have friends, you have oglers-oh, excuse me: regulars. That was a big deal to her, she kept trying to impress me with the fact she had regulars. I'm thinking great, some pervert has enough money to waste it on you. But I kept my mouth shut, what's the point?"
"Did she tell you anything about her regulars?"
"Rich, they're always rich, right? With the private jets and the platinum cards. I wanted to say, What, you found an old cassette of Pretty Woman?"
"What else besides rich?"
Blevins ticked off his fingers. "Rich, handsome, young, smart-goes to Stanford. Does that make sense? Stanford's up north, why would a smart person-any person fly down here regularly to watch pole dancing? Like there's no poles in Palo Alto."
"So we're talking one guy in particular."
"Two Stanford guys, one for her, one for Selma. Guess if you're going to fantasize, make it good."
"What else did she say about them?"
"It's actually relevant to something?" said Blevins.
"At this point, that's hard to say, sir. We collect as much information as we can, sift through."
"Doesn't sound too efficient."
"Sometimes it's the only way, Mr. Blevins. So what else did Bri tell you?"
"Two rich guys come in to watch her and Selma dance, soon they're taking her and Selma to Aspen, Vail, I forget which, some ski place. On a private jet, no less. This was months ago, it was summer, she tried to get money out of me for ski clothes. See what I mean? She can't even put together a logical fantasy."
Milo said, "Two guys, one jet."
"Maybe one owns it, the other gets to use it, maybe they're partners-hey, maybe you and I can split a private jet. What brand do you like? I'm a Buick guy, myself-guys, I really need to get to work."
We walked him to his car. Milo said, "Did Brianna ever put a name on these fantasy guys?"
"I'm glad you're getting it: fantasy. Like when after her mother died and she started wanting to be a princess. I told her, 'Look what happened to Diana.'"
"So no names."
"Actually, there was, something with a T. Trevor, Turner? Tristan, yeah Tristan. Like that's a real name. Right out of one of those trash paperbacks her mother used to read."
"Not Tremaine? Or Trey?"
Blevins thought. "Nope, Tristan. Like that opera-Tristan and Isabel."
"What about Tristan's friend?"
"If she told me his name I wasn't listening. When you see Bri, don't tell her I finked on her, it's tense enough."
He drove away and we got back in the unmarked. Milo put his cell on speaker and reached Moe Reed.
"Martin Mendoza's status as prime suspect has dropped, Moses, so no need for the watch on his parents, same for the Kenten estate. Unless you've picked up something interesting."
Reed said, "Early this morning, Officer Ramirez spotted Kenten's grandson entering again, another short visit, no surfboard. This time he had a passenger, but a white kid, not Mendoza."
"Two white boys in a nice car," said Milo. "I've got a lead on a couple of strip-joint enthusiasts claiming to be Stanford students." Milo filled in the details.
"Sure, Garret Kenten could fit."
"What did Garret's passenger look like?"
"They drove in and out fast, she couldn't even get a fix on hair color because he wore a baseball cap. But she says definitely Anglo."
"Blue cap with an S insignia?"
"She didn't specify. Want to hold?"
"Sure."
Moments later: "Tan, too far for any insignia, Loo. Brown shirt is the only other thing she can swear to."
"In my office is a Windsor Prep yearbook, Moses. Blue leather, fancy gold seal, it's right below the murder book. Go through it right now and look for any Tristans, starting with seniors. I'll wait."