Jonathan Kellerman - Deception

Ten rings, no answer, no machine.

Milo said, "What the hell, Brentwood 's close. What's your gas situation?"

"Half a tank," I said. "No problem if we don't cogitate too much."

The building was a space-clogging twenty-unit heap two blocks south of Wilshire, faced with poorly tended balconies and satellite dishes perched on railings.

Security door. No answer to the bell-push for Franck, J.

We were about to leave when a woman with short gray hair and sturdy limbs stepped out with a black brindle French bulldog.

Dead ringer for Blanche's feisty predecessor, Spike, and a smile hijacked my mouth. The woman noticed, smiled back. Serenely, as if used to the attention. So was the dog. He planted his legs, faced forward, stacked like a champ.

Milo said, "Brings back memories, huh?"

The woman said, "Pardon?"

"My friend here had one of those, same color."

"They're the best, aren't they?"

"Quasi-human," I said. "How long have you had him?"

"Three years, he just finished filling out."

"I'm guessing twenty-six pounds?"

"On the nose. May I ask how long yours lived?"

"He was a rescue, so I don't know for sure. Best guess is twelve, thirteen years."

"Thirteen would be great. I hear some are making it longer."

"What's his name?"

"Herbie."

"Hey, Herbie." I bent, rubbed the broad, knobby head. Herbie panted, gathered his dignity, and continued to pose.

Milo said, "Do you happen to know a young man who lives in this building? Trey Franck?"

The woman's eyes grew wary. Milo showed her his I.D.

"Police? Trey's such a nice boy."

"He hasn't done anything wrong, ma'am. We're looking for information."

"Trey was a witness to something?"

"It's possible."

"Wow," she said. "Well, he doesn't live here anymore. Has been at Harvard for years, may still be, for all I know."

"Who lives here?"

"His parents. June's a nurse and Joseph's some kind of scientist. A little distant, but overall nice. They both work long hours."

Herbie blew out air. His flews vibrated. He tugged on the leash.

The woman said, "The boss needs his walk, bye."

Herbie led her toward Wilshire, jaunty walk suggesting life really was wonderful.

Milo said, "Rush-hour drive to Pasadena, there's a concept. Let's hedge with a stopoff at the office, then another in the Valley. No sense pursuing a nice boy unless he's the one Doris saw."

He inserted Trey Franck's face into a six-pack photo lineup composed of similar young white men, then I hazarded Beverly Glen toward Van Nuys.

Brutal congestion at Sunset continued as far as I could see. As I neared the road leading up to my house, Milo said, "Go home, I'll pick up my wheels, continue solo."

"Not necessary."

"Feeling benevolent?"

"Feeling curious." I called Robin, told her not to keep dinner waiting, I might be at Caltech for a while.

"You've already got a bunch of degrees," she said.

"I was thinking chemical engineering."

"And here I thought our chemistry was great."

"Wait up and I'll engineer something."

"Long as it's structural, babe, not civil."

I drove up to Fat Boy just after six. Half the counter stools were occupied, same for the booths. The same scalding-oil smell.

Doris was tending to a party of cheerful Hispanic kids, unloading a tray full of fried food. "Uh-uh, too busy, can't break my rhythm."

We stood to the side. She finished and walked past us and we tagged along.

"Enough, I told you everything I know."

"Two seconds to look at a picture and we're out of your way."

"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."

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.