Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel (12 page)

"A few more questions about Sal."

"I already told you what I know." Moving on to the next booth, she spotted a crumb, flicked it away before dry-wiping the Formica, pressed the spring-latch of the dispenser, crammed in paper.

Letting go with an audible snap, she did the same at the neighboring booth.

"Soon as you're done, Doris."

"I'll be done in five hours."

"Doesn't look too crowded."

"Rub it in."

"How about we help you load the napkins, you spare us a few minutes."

"Soon you'll be wanting to split tips."

The truckers turned. Milo stared them down and they returned to their food.

Doris said, "How'd you find out I was here? Adolph told you, right?"

"Who's Adolph?"

"The mummy pours drinks at Arnie's."

"Just a few questions," said Milo.

"Damn Adolph--look, it's not like me and Sal are buddies."

"You mentioned get-rich-quick schemes. What kind?"

"That card you handed out said homicide, not con stuff. What, Sal killed his girlfriend over money?"

"What girlfriend is that?"

"Some blonde. Was it her?"

Milo produced Freeman's picture.

"That's the one," said Doris. "He really did her? Jesus, I never woulda thought."

"He's not a suspect at this time."

She snorted. "You're here for your health."

"A woman dies, we look at her boyfriend, Doris. If you've got information about their relationship, that would be helpful."

"He brought her to Arnie's, that's all."

"Often?"

"Sometimes. She never talked to no one, wasn't exactly fun in the drinking department."

"Timid drinker."

"One vodka she sometimes didn't even finish." She scowled. "Expensive stuff--Grey Goose. Making like she was superior."

"A snob," said Milo.

Doris put her napkins down. "The way she talked, overly pronouncing her words, you know? Like
I
went to college and
you
didn't. Like anyone gives a rat at a place like Arnie's."

"Why'd she hang with Sal?"

"How should I know? The other guy I saw her with was a lot cuter. Too young for her, but maybe she was one of those Goldilocks girls, know what I mean? One day it's too hot, the next too cold. No nose for just-right."

"Tell us about the other guy, Doris."

"He's the one killed her, not Sal?"

"We don't know who killed her, Doris. That's why we're here."

Doris's smile spread like a rash. Her teeth were randomly placed. "You didn't even know about the other guy, did you? Well, don't get me involved, I just saw him once."

"Where?"

"Walking down Van Nuys with her. They stop short of Arnie's, there's an alcove, this old office building. They duck in there, there's an overhang, soon they're in there doing kissy-face. She plants a big one on him, takes his face like this." Cupping her chin. "In goes the tongue. Blech. We're talking young enough to be her kid."

"May-December romance."

"You could say that. Or you could say they had the hots for each other, I ain't Dr. Ruth."

"You saw all this because--"

"I was walking behind them from my bus stop like I always do."

"What time of day?"

"Two, two thirty, I like to get to Arnie's, lubricate the throat before I arrive at this gourmet palace. Only reason I noticed her was I'd seen her with Sal. Also her getup. Tight red dress, talk about advertising the goods. I said to myself,
Hey, that's Goose gal but that cutie sure ain't Sal.
"

"What happened after they kissed?"

"She pats him on his cute little butt, he leaves, she goes to Arnie's. Soon after, Sal shows up, Blondie's smiling at him like it's true love. One drink and she's bugging him to leave, he doesn't even finish his beer, what a limp onion. So maybe he found out she was cheatin' and got mad, huh? That's what you're thinking, right?"

Calling out to the young waitress behind the counter. "Guess what, Rosie, I'm a big-time detective now."

Rosie said, "How much they payin' you, Dorrie?"

Milo said, "How young was this other guy?"

"A lot younger than her--what was she forty, forty-five?"

"Thirty-eight."

"I'da pegged her as older."

"What about him?"

"Twenties--twenty-two, twenty-three."

"Not younger?"

"That's not young enough?"

"Could he have been a high school student?"

"To me he looked twenties," she said, "but who knows? He dressed like one of those preppies. Nice buttondown shirt, khaki pants--but tennis shoes, kind of nerdy. Pen protector in the pocket--that I remember 'cause I thought it was real nerdy. But he didn't look like a nerd, too cute. More like a surfer--the peroxide hair." Grinning. "Real tight butt. I'd think he could do better than her but guys want one thing. Give it to 'em and they're burgers on the griddle."

"Hot?" said Milo.

"Hot and sizzly and bad for your heart."

"Let's talk about Sal's money schemes."

Doris said, "Who listened--okay, here's one I remember because it was so stupid. I'm enjoying my drink before work, Sal comes in, sits at the other end of the bar, pretends he's not gonna talk to me, has a beer and gives out this big sigh. All of a sudden, he's next to me. Pretends to make small talk, then: 'Would you believe this, Dorrie, I just got a huge commission check for some tubas'--he sells instruments, or so he claims, I never saw him do nothing but sit and drink. I say congratulations. He says, 'Problem is it won't clear for a week, I got a pile of bills, do me a little favor, I'll make it worth your while.'"

Milo said, "Lemme guess: You deposit the check in your account, he withdraws some of the money and pays you interest. If the check bounces, you're saddled with the charges."

"Guess
you're
a big-time detective, too."

"How much money we talking about, Doris?"

"Two thousand and some change, he said he'd give me a hundred for my trouble. Like I'd do it. Too good to be true always is."

"Why would he try to scam someone at a place he frequented?"

"Why don't you ask him?" she said. "Far as I know no one at Arnie's ever says yes to his b.s."

"He tries that kind of thing regularly?"

"He's always inching up to someone with that look, like he's carrying around the biggest secret in the world. Oh, yeah, I remember another one: He had truckloads of surplus trumpets and trombones coming in, just needed some money to ship them to Indiana or wherever it is they melt trombones down for brass. I pitch in, he'll split the profits with me. Another time he tried to sell everyone New Jersey lottery tickets at a discount. He's annoying but he gives up quick, not pushy and no one gets mad because he's pathetic. I got him pegged as a spineless worm, no guts no glory. That's why it surprises me you think he killed her."

"We don't, Doris--"

"Whatever. He's at his finest after a few," she said. "Six, seven beers and he's creative. You really think he killed her?"

We left Fat Boy, got back into the car.

"Clumsy con man," he said. "Yeah, I can see him getting tumescent over a big-money squeeze job on a place like Prep."

"And correspondingly mad when Elise pulled out of the scheme. Plus, the jealousy angle just got stronger."

"Our tutor and a young guy. She sure covered a lot of ground. Meaning there could be who-knows-how-many partners out there." Chuckling. "She might as well have tutored biology. You got where I was going with that age question."

"A preppie type," I said. "If Doris's age estimate is off Elise could've been sleeping with a student."

"Pens in the pocket--maybe a math brain but he needed help in English. Be nice to get hold of some Prep yearbooks, have Doris go through the boys."

"If Prep even has yearbooks."

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Mere paper and ink? I'm thinking sacred tablets."

CHAPTER
15

Back at his closet-sized office, Milo belly-dived into the cyber-world. If Windsor Prep issued yearbooks they weren't cataloged online and none of the pay services promising to hunt down alumni had anything on the school.

No snarky critiques on the Internet, either, just paeans to the school's physical plant and academic standards.

I said, "Didn't know police protection could reach that far."

His smile devolved to an abdominal growl. "Time to subpoena Elise's phone records. Something traces back to a student, I'm beelining for the damn school." Rubbing his face. "That'll be so much fun I'll follow it up with do-it-yourself open-heart surgery using a rusty can opener."

I drove home, cleared paper, drank two black coffees, and began my own computer search, starting with MySpace and Facebook and using
windsor prep
as keywords.

No shortage of smiling, attractive kids attending the school, along with the usual friends lists, music choices, poetic excerpts ranging from lewd to sad, some home-drawn comic strips, the occasional photo of a cat or dog.

A handful of postings about Elise Freeman, but nothing more specific than
did u hear? ms. f. died. bizarre.

No memorials or calls for tribute. Not a hint of rumor about sexual indiscretions.

Returning to the commercial alumni sites, I plugged Elise Freeman's name into the U. of Maryland database. No such person. Pairing her name with
maryland
pulled up a five-year-old search for graduates of Blessed Heart College on Garrison Boulevard in Baltimore, the school wanting to get in touch for a centennial celebration.

What else had she lied about?

I clicked the reunion link. Elise Freeman appeared in the
Where Are You?
column. So did Sandra Freeman Stuehr, graduation date two years later.

Four forty p.m. made it past working hours in Baltimore so I tried the city's white pages. Over five hundred Freemans.

But only one Stuehr, a business address:
Stuehr's Crab Cooker, E. Pratt Street.

The woman who answered put me on hold. A minute or so later, she returned, talking over restaurant clatter. "When do you want your reservation?"

"I'd like to speak to Sandra."

"Who?"

"Sandra Stuehr."

Two beats. "Hold on."

The silence lasted nearly three minutes before a man got on. No more clatter, maybe a private office. "This is Frank, what now?" Clipped diction, vocal cords that sounded as if they'd been dragged a few miles on a gravel road.

"I'm looking for Sandra. You're Mr. Stuehr?"

"Yeah, right."

"Pardon?"

"Another lawyer heard from. Christ, stop bugging me."

I told him who I was, played up the LAPD connection more than reality justified.

"Yeah, right, more cock and bull. Look, pal, I can't stop you from calling but trust me, next time you won't get through, just like those other guys."

"This is a homicide investigation, Mr. Stuehr. The victim's Elise Freeman. If she's not related to Sandra--"

"Elise? Someone killed her? You're kidding."

"I'm not, Mr. Stuehr."

Silence. "I haven't seen Elise in a long time. Not since the wedding."

"Which was?"

"I married Sandy nine years ago. Wish I could forget the date. Sandy and Elise aren't close, Elise showed up, drank herself silly, left early."

"Sandra is her sister."

"One and only."

"Could I talk to Sandra?"

"Be my guest, pal. She's where you are--California. Or maybe it's Arizona by now, she likes warm weather, could be Florida for all I know. Or care. We've been divorced three years, she's still filing paper on me, she's money-mad--what's the diff. For all I know, this conversation really is cock and bull and you're one of her lawyers."

"Call the LAPD West L.A. station and ask for Lieutenant Sturgis." I gave him Milo's cell.

"You just told me another name."

"I'm Delaware. Lieutenant Sturgis is the chief investigator on the case. Talk to him directly."

"About what?"

"We're trying to track down Elise's family. There's a body that needs to be dealt with."

"Oh... well, that's not my problem."

"How about the last known address and number for Sandra?"

He rattled off the information as if he chanted it daily. Gutierrez Street, Santa Barbara. Three years of animosity but he kept his ex close at hand.

I said, "Thanks. Anything you want to tell me about Elise?"

"From what I hear, she's just like her sister."

"How so?"

"Hot-pants, thinks she's an intellectual, lies like a convict. My family's been running one of the best crab joints in Baltimore for sixty years. Listen to Sandy, it's a greasy spoon, I'm imposing by wanting her to occasionally help out."

"Hot-pants," I said.

Frank Stuehr said, "I'm not talking fashion, that's an old-fashioned expression for slut. Okay, you want to know something about Elise--and Sandy? Both of them got bothered by their old man. Know what I mean?"

"Molested."

"That's another word for it."

"Sandy talked about that?"

"Only once, when she was in one of her weepy moods, wanted me to put my arm around her or something. After that, nothing, like it never happened in the first place. Only other time I raised the topic was when Sandy and me tried mediation. She was making a play to steal a big chunk of the Cooker and that really pissed me off so I put forth the case she was morally turpitude. Spelled it out. She gets up, walks around the table, smacks me wham across the face. That ended mediation, she screwed herself, the judge didn't look kindly on her. You find her,
don't
give regards."

"What kind of guy was the father?"

"He died before I met Sandy, but I hear he was a run-around. That's what people said in the neighborhood. Outward, he was respectable, never met a Mass he didn't like. Principal of a school, top of that. I'd love to hear his confession. A virtuous father don't turn out two sluts."

"Sandy was promiscuous?"

"Sandy was a
slut.
Never stopped banging other guys the whole time we were married. Out at night all the time, I was a dumb-ass, believed those stories about Scrabble club, bridge, gardening."