Over coffee, I told Robin about the woman on ice.
She said, “Someone bragging I’m a stone-cold killer?”
“Interesting slant.”
“Long days carving, I get symbolic.”
I filled her in on the chief.
She said, “Politicians are a low life-form.”
“The chief’s appointed.”
“His commodity’s power, Alex. That puts him two notches below slime mold.”
“My girlfriend the anarchist.”
“If only,” she said.
“If only you were an anarchist?”
“If only reality made anarchy a reasonable approach.”
That evening, I was at my computer, keywording windsor prep and learning nothing beyond official P.R.
I switched to victimology. Eleven-year-old Elise Freeman from Great Neck, New York, had an artful MySpace page that showcased her pastel drawings and successful orthodonture. Ninety-six-year-old Elise Freeman had just celebrated her birthday in Pepper Pike, Ohio, and received a card from the Cleveland Cavaliers. No hits on Elise Freeman, deceased tutor.
When Milo rang in at nine forty, I said, “She’s cyber-invisible, Fidella was right about her liking her privacy.”
“Everything else Fidella told us is checking out, including his calls to Elise four hours before she died. The phone subpoena only covered one week of his account, I’m preparing another one for Elise’s, we’ll see how far back they’ll let me go. For the time being, Sal’s out of the spotlight.”
“Had a beer and watched TV at home isn’t much of an alibi.”
“That’s what His Augustness said. I asked him for alternative suspects and he responded with less-than-pristine language. Ten minutes later, his secretary calls back: We’ve got face time with Windsor Prep’s president, guy named Edgar Helfgott.”
“Saw his name on the website,” I said. “A parent?”
“No, at Prep that’s a paid job. Helfgott used to be the headmaster before they created the position for him and moved him into the Oval Office. His assistant is now the headmaster, a Dr. Rollins. Under her is an assistant headmaster and it keeps going, the place is structured like a Fortune 500 corporation. Anyway, Helfgott will grant us an audience tomorrow at eleven, you’ll never guess where.”
“Some manse the school lets him use as an official residence?”
“Even better.”
CHAPTER
7
Edgar Helfgott de-planed from the Gulfstream V.
A trim, rock-jawed uniformed pilot descended behind him lugging two burnished leather suitcases. The aircraft was sleek and white. The same could be said for Helfgott.
Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he removed and pocketed a pair of earplugs, gazed up at the silver sky, rotated his neck.
Quiet time at Santa Monica Airport; lots of private jets parked on the tarmac but no other takeoffs or landings. After a bit of negotiation, Milo’s badge had gained us access to the field. We stood five yards behind Helfgott’s prearranged black Escalade. Moments before the Gulfstream’s arrival, we’d made small talk with the chauffeur.
Yes, he’d driven Mr. Helfgott a few times but didn’t really know him, the man didn’t talk much, always read books in the car. Unlike the man who owned the plane and the car and paid the driver’s salary.
“Mr. Wydette talks to you like a regular guy, lets you know what’s on his mind.”
“What’s Mr. Wydette’s first name?”
“Myron,” said the chauffeur. “Not that I ever use it.”
Milo said, “What did he do to afford a plane?”
“Fruit.”
“Fruit?”
“Peaches, apricots, that kind of thing. He owns a lot of land, I don’t know the details.”
“He lend the plane out often?”
“Nah, mostly it’s the family, sometimes it’s Mr. Helfgott.”
“Mr. Helfgott’s a frequent flier?”
The driver frowned. “I don’t keep a list.” He headed back toward his SUV.
Milo and I followed. “Where’s Mr. Helfgott flying in from this morning?”
The driver opened his door. “I just show up where they tell me.”
He got inside the SUV. Up went the windows.
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.