Deception

CHAPTER

32

The Blevins residence was a pebble-roofed ranch house on a cul-de-sac north of Chandler Boulevard. Train tracks bisected the neighborhood, foisted on unwilling residents by transportation nannies on another futile quest to clear the freeways.

The house was neatly kept, as were its neighbors, but the lack of curbside trees gave the street a tentative feel. A spotless green Buick LeSabre sat in the driveway. A couple of sago palms sprouted from a lava rock bed below the picture window.

The man who came to the door wore a white shirt and gray tie, held a Palm Pilot in one hand, a stylus in the other. The furnishings behind him ran the gamut of green. The aroma of bacon had settled comfortably.

He poked the Palm, gave a befuddled look. Fifty or so, with the kind of bluish beard that never looks completely shaved and a salt-and-pepper brush cut. He screwed up his mouth as if yet another load of confusion had just been foisted onto his weary shoulders.

Milo’s I.D. elicited a one-second examination. “Police? There was a burglary? Since the trains started running we’re getting more unsavories, just like we worried about. But no serious problems. Yet.”

“You’re Mr. Blevins?”

“Harvey. What’s up?”

“We’d like to talk to Brianna.”

“Now what?”

“You’ve had problems with Brianna?”

“Maybe one day she’ll settle down, get married, pump out a grandchild, and I’ll understand why I became a parent in the first place.” Blevins laughed, as if to scour bitterness from his voice. “Yes, she’s given me problems. What the heck has she gone and done?”

Milo said, “We’re looking at Brianna as a witness, not a suspect, Mr. Blevins, so if you could tell us where she is—”

“Don’t know where she is, that’s part of the problem. She’s just like her mother, talk about genetics—here, come on in while I get my laptop.”

We sat on a stiff green sofa as Blevins tucked his computer under his arm. “Excuse the mess.”

The house was neater than a marine barracks at inspection. Despite the bacon perfume, the kitchen was spotless and a dishwasher hummed.

“Looks fine to me,” said Milo.

“That’s always Bri’s excuse,” said Blevins. “‘Looks fine to me, Dad, you want better, do it yourself.’”

“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.”

“On the way, Loo.”

A train whistle broke the silence, then faded west. A couple of ravens settled atop Harvey Blevins’s house, pecked at gravel, dislodged a few pebbles and cackled in triumph.

Reed came back on. “Okay, got the book… here’s the senior class… no Tristans… here’s a Tristram. Big dark-haired kid, kinda got that actor thing going on—the fake smile, you know?”

“Could he pass for twenty-one?”

“Oh, sure, easy. Want me to check Tristans in the junior class?”

“Go.”

Moments later: “Nope, just one Tristram, last name Wydette.” Reed spelled the surname.

Milo and I looked at each other. The morning we’d met up with President Helfgott, he’d flown in on a Gulfstream borrowed from a Myron Wydette.

Milo said, “Fantasy springs to life.”

“Pardon, Loo?”

“What does the book say about Young Master Tristram?”

“His extracurricular activities,” said Reed. “Business club, foreign policy club, Model U.N., mock trial, varsity baseball, varsity golf—they’ve got a golf course?”

“Nine holes. I’m more interested in the Great American Pastime.”

“Sir?” said Reed. “Oh. The hat in the car. Maybe he played baseball with Mendoza, developed a grudge?”

“Or he just knows a good scapegoat when he sees one. Moses, run him through every damn database you can find, then do a search pairing his name with Garret Kenten’s. That comes up empty, go through the yearbook page by page to see if there’s another male he’s been photographed with consistently. If so, search that name also—and pair it with Garret, just to be safe. Sean in the shop today?”

“Still at the Mendoza house.”

“At this hour?”

“Plainclotheser called in sick, Sean said he’d double-shift. Guy’s got a bladder the size of Australia.”

Milo said, “Don’t rub it in, lad. One more thing: When you look into Tristram don’t just count parking violations, look for consistent addresses on the citations, maybe it’ll lead us to a strip joint or two or three. I need those girls.”

“Done, Loo.”

He got hold of Binchy, told him to get over to Harvey Blevins’s house immediately, do his usual “eagle-eye.”

“Thanks for the compliment, Loot.”

“Thank me by producing.”

We sped back to my house where Milo commandeered the computer.

Sometimes money intersects with fame. At a higher level, it can also purchase obscurity.

Keywording myron wydette produced only five hits and a single image.

The citations were a quintet of charity benefits with Myron and Annette Wydette’s names embedded in lists of major donors.

American Cancer Society, the eye clinic at the U., Planned Parenthood, a pair of galas for Windsor Preparatory Academy.

Only the ophthalmology reference hinted at the source of Wydette’s income: Mr. and Mrs. M. Wydette and the Wydette Orchard Foundation.

Muttering “peaches,” Milo found a handful of references to a family fruit-growing concern founded by Myron’s great-grandfather during Gold Rush days and sold a decade ago to Trident Agriculture, a publicly traded corporation. Myron Wydette’s name remained on the board of directors but he didn’t seem to be involved in day-to-day activities.

The solitary image was of a broad, ungainly-looking white-haired man with a benevolent, somewhat bleary-eyed frog-face, arm in arm with a tightly coiffed, tightly toned, tightly tucked brunette half a head taller.

Milo said, “Sounds like Tristram got his looks from Mommy.”

Pairing wydette and stanford pulled up a three-year-old article in the university’s magazine about a trio of incoming freshman, ostensibly picked at random. Annie Tranh was the granddaughter of Vietnamese boat people and a Westinghouse Science Award winner. Eric Robles-Scott was a biracial kid from Harlem who’d won a national competition in foreign languages by demonstrating proficiency in French, Swedish, and Gullah dialect.

Aidan Wydette of L.A. was the tenth member and fourth generation of his family to grace the Palo Alto campus.

Aidan’s headshot revealed a dark-haired, thick-necked boy with an open, confident smile. Note was made of the Wydette clan’s long history of contribution to higher education but no dollar amounts were mentioned and care was taken to list Aidan’s qualifications: “outstanding scholar and athlete” at Windsor Preparatory Academy in Brentwood, National Merit Scholar, summer internship at a Washington, D.C., think tank where he’d co-authored a paper on fiscal policy in emerging democracies, followed by a summer at the sports section of The New York Times.

Achievements at Prep included “a full academic load,” varsity letters in golf, hockey, and soccer, captain of the Model U.N. team and mock trial, co-captain of the business club, co-founder of a program donating unused restaurant food to the homeless.

Milo said, “Guess the Nobel comes in his sophomore year.”

I said, “Three sports for him, only two for Tristram, Tristram serves on Model U.N. and mock trial, but Aidan’s the captain of both teams.”

“If Li’l Bro doesn’t make National Merit, he’s reduced to peasant status? Yeah, that would kick up the pressure.”

“Merit scholarships are based on PSAT scores. Your percentile’s high enough, you write a legible essay, you’re in.”

“Fake a score, get an award,” he said. “Hell, maybe we’re not just talking Tristram. For all we know Aidan’s résumé got pumped up the old-fashioned way.”

“Cheating as a way of life.”

“You read the papers.” His pocket jumped as his phone played a too-fast Bach prelude. No more “Für Elise.” Did that mean something?

Moe Reed broke in. “Can’t find a single link between Tristram Wydette and Garret Kenten, though Garret did graduate from Prep four years ago.”

“He goes to college somewhere local?”

“There’s no record he goes anywhere, the only thing that comes up under his name is a band. You’ll love this: the Slackers. But there is a kid in the yearbook who’s with Tristram in ten photos. Seven are from the baseball team, but there’re also shots of the two of them horsing around on campus. To me they look like buds, Loo.”

“What’s this prince’s name?”

“Quinn Glover. He doesn’t have a record and neither does Tristram but your idea about parking was good because Tristram has piled up a lot of paper on or near Los Angeles Street, downtown. That’s industrial but there used to be rave clubs in vacant buildings so maybe there’re strip clubs.”

“They bother enforcing parking there?”

“A while back there were complaints about drug deals so Central blocks off the area after six p.m. I guess once in a while they do enforce.”

He read off the addresses on the citations. “One more thing, Loo. Quinn Glover’s daddy is CEO of Trident Agriculture—that’s the outfit Tristram’s daddy sold his orchards to.”

“Multigenerational ties that bind,” said Milo. “Make up six-packs with each of these kids’ faces. I’m gonna troll for a couple of pole dancers.”

♦

The block was grubby, dim, lined with warehouses and industrial buildings, a good half of them vacant. Loose garbage specked the sidewalk. The air smelled oddly of raw pork and rubber cement. Signs every ten yards warned No Parking 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. No one in sight but for a few homeless men lolling or driving carts. Some of the drivers managed a straight line.

The Hungry Lion Gentleman’s Lounge occupied a windowless maroon cube. A stretch of dirt and broken asphalt running behind the buildings served as parking. The space behind the club was empty. Posted hours on the gunmetal door out front said the merriment wouldn’t start for another two hours.

A sign above the building featured a leering simba wearing a red paisley shirt and mirrored sunglasses and sporting a slicked-back mullet-mane. One manicured paw clutched a glass of something fizzy. The other held a wild-eyed, grinning, unclad blonde. The girl’s expression said her ultimate life goal had been achieved.

Milo said, “King Kong was ambivalent, this critter’s licking his chops. Hungry, indeed.” He rapped the metal door, evoked a barely audible thud.

One of the cart-pushers rounded a corner, spotted us, and nearly overturned as he attempted a sharp U-turn. Contents shot out of the cart. We caught up as he stooped to reload cardboard boxes, newspapers, cans, bottles.

Milo bent to help him with the last few treasures.

“That’s okay, Officer, I’m fine.”

“Know anything about that club, friend?”

“I know to stay away, Officer.”

“Bad influence, huh?”

“Bouncer getting upside your head is a bad influence, Officer. Used to be quiet around here, nice place to spend the night, then that place opened and it’s like they own the whole street.”

“Ever get close enough to see the girls?”

“The girls go in through the back.”

“Same question, friend.”

“Something happen there, Officer?”

“Still the same question.”

The man said, “Sometimes the girls come out in front to smoke.”

Milo produced Brianna Blevins’s and Selma Arredondo’s DMV photos. “That include these two?”

“These two,” the homeless man echoed. “Big and little.” Massaging his chest. “Yeah, they’re always together.”

“When’s the last time you saw them?”

“The last time… hmm.” Something changed in the man’s eyes. Clearer, more purposeful. “I could sure use some breakfast, Officer.”

“It’s closer to dinnertime—what’s your name, by the way?”

“I’m called L.A.”

“Love your city?”

“It’s for Loving Albert. My auntie who raised me called me that. She was a moral lady, would sure like me to have breakfast—I like breakfast anytime of day, Officer.”

“Help me out, L.A., and you’ll be breakfasting with the best of them. When’s the last time you saw these two girls?”

“The last time… I’m thinking two nights ago, yeah, two, not last night, last night was the Ebony Princess contest, they had only black girls. Plenty of white guys coming in to watch, though.”

“Two nights for sure or a guess?”

“For sure, Officer.”

Milo gave him a twenty.

The guy stared at the bill. “I guess that could go two breakfasts.”

“Who said anything about two?”

“My auntie was big on nutrition.”

“Ever see these girls with the same customers consistently?”

“No, sir,” said the man. “They with each other, always laughing, you know?”

“Know what?”

“I get the feeling they like each other.” Three rapid winks caused the opposite side of his face to contract like a harried sea anemone. “Wonder which one gives and which one gets.”

The twenty remained in his outstretched palm. Filthy palm but when he closed it over the money, he exposed trimmed nails. Go know.

“Twenty more, I could have three, four breakfasts, Officer.”

Milo peeled off an additional ten.

“Another twenty would be nicer, but thank you, Officer.”

“You lie to me, we’re going out for a four-course dinner and you’re picking up the tab, L.A.”

“Whoa.” Laughter. “That could clean out my 401(k).”

As we edged out of the downtown business district and got on Sixth Street, Milo said, “I’ll be back when it opens, need to figure out a good watch-spot.”

“Let’s buy gold chains, return as gentlemen.”

“Acrylic shirts I’ve already got—all that breakfast talk got me thinking Paul Revere.”

“Little too early for a midnight munchie ride, Big Guy.”

“I’m talking one by land, one by sea. As in surf and turf, as in the T-bone-fillet-langoustine combo at that place on Eighth.”

I said, “Don’t want my patriotism questioned.”

We were well short of the steak house when Sean Binchy phoned in.

“Got Bri and Selma, Loot. Right in front of the father’s house, I barely turned off my engine when they showed up.”

Dropping names as if he and the strippers were old friends. Sean loves the world, an attitude unchanged by facing felonies daily.

Milo said, “Take ’em into custody.”

“Already done, we’ll be at the station in twenty. They’ve got interesting stories, Loot.”

“About the murders?”

“No, nothing like that, just how they’re thinking of turning religious, leaving the life.”

“Tell ’em to hold off on repentance, Sean. I need ’em in full sinner-mode.”