"It goes to three seconds, you're tipping me."
Milo showed her the six-pack. A blunt-nailed finger jabbed Trey Franck's face. "That's him, satisfied?"
"Extremely. I'm even willing to tip." He reached into his pocket.
"Don't insult me," said Doris. Then she laughed, punched his shoulder lightly. "I'm giving you attitude 'cause that's what I do, boys. What, the kid's a dangerous criminal?"
"Not so far."
"But maybe."
"Not even maybe, Doris."
"Tease," she said. "You ever solve this thing, come back and I'll trade you the gory details for lunch." Another punch. "But you still have to tip."
CHAPTER 18
Milo worked the phone as I picked up the freeway.
Well past working hours at Caltech but he tried the chemical engineering department again. Same recording.
"They're definitely blowing something up."
DMV gave up an address for Tremaine L. Franck two blocks from campus. Forty-five minutes later we were pulling up to a six-unit dingbat, enhanced by two flowering magnolia trees but otherwise sad. A tilting bicycle rack stood near the entrance. A single chain coiled around the slats but no bikes in sight.
Inside, the place smelled like a dorm with two-wheelers crowding a dim hallway. Green walls were chipped and cracked, ravaged carpeting was worn down to the padding in spots, hip-hop blared through plywood doors. One section of the hallway had been glued with hundreds of pennies. Crude black-marker lettering above the array: Penny Paved Is Penny Ioned.
No music leaked from Trey Franck's unit. No answer to Milo 's knock. He slipped his card between the jamb and the door, with a message to call asap.
"Let's grab a bite in Olde Towne, try him again. I know a fish-and-chips place, got the whole English pub thing going on. Ever throw darts?"
Five minutes later, as I neared Colorado Boulevard, his cell beeped a Bach fugue.
"Mr. Franck, thanks for calling back. Listen, I was wondering if we could talk about Elise Freeman… you haven't heard? Sorry to be the one to tell you but she's passed… no, not naturally… we're not certain yet… that would be good, Mr. Franck… Trey it is… no, it won't take long at all, Trey.
"Pull a U-ey, Dr. D. Haddock will have to wait. He was in the apartment next door, we just missed him. Sounds like a nice kid, appropriately freaked about Elise. On the other hand, he snuck around with her while she was supposedly going with Fidella and he changes his hair like I change shirts. So maybe he got involved in more than May-December hoohah."
"Multifaceted," I said. "That could help get you into Harvard."
"You bet. Look at His Flawlessness."
As we returned to Trey Franck's building, the fugue repeated. "Sturgis… Dr. Jernigan, what's up? No, I haven't… probably… yeah, it does, what can I say, you play the cards you're dealt… that's pretty quick, not that I'm complaining… okay… makes sense… no, I haven't, thanks for letting me know… yes, I will keep it close to the vest."
He hung up, bounced his lower teeth against his uppers. "The unnamed opiate has been identified as oxycodone, possibly administered as a liquid because there was no pill residue in Elise's stomach, but Jernigan won't swear to that. Not enough dope for an O.D. but the interaction with all the booze in Elise's system would significantly kick up the risk for heart stoppage."
"Someone gave her a chaser," I said. "Liquid form would make it easier to doctor the alcohol."
"Jernigan was double-checking to see if there were Oxy bottles at the scene or in the trash. When I told her no, she said that clinched it, she's calling it a homicide."
"What are you keeping close to the vest?"
"The fact that she called me. The labs came in yesterday with instructions from Above not to disseminate without official permission. Jernigan was surprised when I didn't do a follow-up call, so she went out on a limb."
"Nothing like a pal at the coroner."
"Too bad I need one."
Trey Franck slumped on the Murphy bed of his shabby single room. Near his left hand was a contact-lens case and a bottle of eyedrops. The orbs to which he'd just applied the drops were big and round, gray-blue flecked with gold, shiny with moisture.
Hanging on a grimy wall opposite the bed was the room's sole nod to decoration: a black poster curling at the corners, bearing a single line of white script limned in electric blue.
DIGITAL CLOUD BOSTON
Milo pointed. "That a band?"
"Art exhibit," said Trey. "Allison Birnbaum, a friend from college."
"Harvard?"
"Indeed, that's a college." Franck shook his head. "I can't believe this."
"How'd you know Elise?"
"I did some work for her. This is utterly horrifying."
"When's the last time you and she had contact?"
"We spoke on the phone around… two weeks ago."
Confirmed by the records.
"Social call?"
"She called me to catch up." Franck's speech had an odd delay to it, lips forming words milliseconds before any sound emerged.
"About?"
"Work." Franck knuckled an eye, touched a chin dotted with sparse blond stubble. He had on a baggy blue Yale T-shirt, gray sweatpants, rubber thongs. His hair was longer than his DMV shot, a good two inches below his shoulders and tinted coppery brown with white-blond tips. Smooth, hairless arms hung like vines from narrow sloping shoulders. Nails bitten to the quick. A bright green beanbag chair and a splintering dresser comprised the decor. Atop the dresser, a hot plate shared space with food spatter, used and unused cans of Pepsi, a bag of cheese curls, books, spiral notepads. One corner was filled with a jumble of dirty clothing. A laptop and a printer sat on the floor.
Milo had considered the beanbag, eyed an ambiguous stain, and opted to remain on his feet. "What kind of work did you do for Elise?"
"I took tutoring jobs when she was full up."
"Did she pay you or just recommend your services?"
"Elise handled the business aspect. For every hour I worked, I earned half."
"So she had plenty of business, gave you the overflow."
"Her business is seasonal," said Franck. "But, yes."
"Did Elise ever tutor you? Back in your high school days?"
Franck blinked. "No." Reproachfully, as if the question was absurd.
"Perfect SATs all on your own?"
Shrug. "It's just a test."
"What subjects do you specialize in, Trey?"
"Anything that's required."
"Math-science as well as English?"
"Yes."
"Elise only tutored English and history."
"She could do basic math but she preferred not to go beyond that."
"So for algebra, calculus, APs, and such, you're the man."
"Was," said Franck. "I don't do it anymore."
"Too busy?"
"I've got a research assistantship that pays for room, board, and tuition." Taking in the room. "It's not luxe but I'm fine."
"This building a dorm?"
"Not officially," said Franck. "It's owned by an alumnus and he gives a substantial break on the rent. What exactly happened to Elise?"
"All we can say at this point is that she's deceased, Trey. Tell us how you met her."
"That's relevant because…"
"It's relevant because I asked."
Franck stared up at him. "Sorry, I'm still trying to integrate."
"You were close to Elise."
"She helped me by sharing her business-"
"When did that start?"
"I was a senior at Prep, she knew I needed the money."
"And you were smart."
Shrug. "She thought so."
"No problems tutoring your peers?"
"I had something they needed. For the most part, they were smart kids."
"Why would smart kids need tutoring?"