Jonathan Kellerman - Deception

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?"

Franck's smile said we couldn't hope to understand.

Milo said, "Smart but not super-smart?"

"At a place like Prep, boosting a 740 SAT to 780 is profound."

"How much do smart kids pay for something like that, Trey?"

"Their parents pay a hundred an hour with a one-thousand-dollar retainer up front. My cut was fifty percent."

"How many clients a week did Elise send you?"

"At the peak I was putting in fifteen hours a week. I still can't believe she's gone." Franck's eyes drifted to the ceiling. Gray stains marred the plaster, as if a greasy-haired giant had butted his head.

"Seven fifty a week," said Milo.

"Well earned, Lieutenant."

"You don't have time for it anymore."

"I need to concentrate on my research," said Franck, slapping hair from his brow.

"What are you researching?"

"Catalysis and response engineering."

"Oh, yeah," said Milo. "Saw a TV Guide special on that."

Franck didn't react.

Milo edged an inch closer. "You're into color, huh?"

"Pardon?"

"Your hair, you dye it."

Franck licked his lips. "You take your fun where you find it."

"What's the next step, a catalysis tattoo?"

Reluctant smile. "I don't think so, Lieutenant."

"Were you Elise's only employee?"

"I was."

"When you went off to Harvard, she didn't hire anyone else?"

"No. When I was back for summers, I resumed. It beat flipping burgers."

"Guy with your talents," said Milo, "I don't see you in fast food."

"Guess what, Lieutenant, that's exactly what I did for two high school summers. McDonald's, Burger King. Then I promoted myself to busboy at Shecky's Deli. You want corned beef sliced thin, I'm your man."

"No summer fellowships available for smart kids?"

"There's no shortage of unpaid internships," said Franck. "And the best summer programs, like Oxbridge, you pay for. My father teaches math and my mother's a nurse. Ergo a funny hat and playing solo deep-fryer."

"So it was a match made in heaven," said Milo. "You and Elise."

"It worked out for both of us."

"How come you're wearing a Yale T-shirt?"

Franck blinked. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Why advertise the opposition?"

The young man's smile was wide and toothy. "It's an Ivy thing. Flaunting your own school is pretentious."

"So when some jerk cuts me off in traffic and he's got a YooHoo University decal on the rear window of his Mercedes he probably didn't go to YooHoo?"

"If he's a jerk, he probably did," said Franck. "Can I assume you have no idea who killed Elise?"

"I never said she was killed, Trey."

"You're homicide detectives."

"Sometimes we investigate suicides."

"You think that's what it was?"

"You see that as possible, Trey?"

"What do you mean?"

"Any signs of depression on Elise's part?"

"No."

"Just like that," said Milo, snapping his fingers. "No hemming and hawing."

"I never saw any depression. Not in the clinical sense."

"Meaning?"

"She had her moods," said Franck. "Like anyone. Mostly when I saw her, she was in fine spirits." He picked at a cuticle. "I probably shouldn't get into this, but I feel duty-bound. Not that I think it's necessarily relevant. But…"

Pick pick.

"There's a kid named Martin Mendoza. He's a senior at Prep and Elise tutored him. But he didn't come to her in the usual way, Prep assigned him to Elise."

"And?"

"And there were problems."

"What kinds of problems?"

"Anger management," said Franck. "He didn't want to be there-at Prep, or working with Elise-and he let her know. He came in as a junior, recruited to pitch for the baseball team, he'd been a star in public school. Early in the season, he got injured, couldn't play anymore, but Prep had already contracted with him for the full two years."

"Contracted?" said Milo. "Sounds like the major leagues."

"In a sense it is, Lieutenant. When a prize athlete from the inner city fits a niche at Prep, Prep draws up a written agreement. If it works out, everyone gets their money's worth. If it doesn't and the student has significant academic issues to begin with-which is fairly typical-the problem generally fixes itself. In a Darwinian sense."

"The student drops out because he can't handle the workload."

"It's a high-pressure environment to begin with," said Franck. "Unless you're academically oriented, you're likely to be miserable."