Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online

arched belly. Unmistakably female. "Nice."
    Robin tapped the spruce. A musical tone rang out. "The music's already in the wood, my job is to not screw it up."
    "Any serious job is like that."
    We headed for the house, pausing by the fishpond to feed the koi. Blanche stuck by us, smiling in that strange but endearingly humanoid way.
    Over coffee, I told Robin about the woman on ice.
    She said, "Someone bragging I'm a stone-cold killer ?"
    "Interesting slant."
    "Long days carving, I get symbolic."
    I filled her in on the chief.
    She said, "Politicians are a low life-form."
    "The chief's appointed."
    "His commodity's power, Alex. That puts him two notches below slime mold."
    "My girlfriend the anarchist."
    "If only," she said.
    "If only you were an anarchist?"
    "If only reality made anarchy a reasonable approach."
    That evening, I was at my computer, keywording windsor prep and learning nothing beyond official P.R.
    I switched to victimology. Eleven-year-old Elise Freeman from Great Neck, New York, had an artful MySpace page that showcased her pastel drawings and successful orthodonture. Ninety-six-year-old Elise Freeman had just celebrated her birthday in Pepper Pike, Ohio, and received a card from the Cleveland Cavaliers. No hits on Elise Freeman, deceased tutor.
    When Milo rang in at nine forty, I said, "She's cyber-invisible, Fidella was right about her liking her privacy."
    "Everything else Fidella told us is checking out, including his calls to Elise four hours before she died. The phone subpoena only covered one week of his account, I'm preparing another one for Elise's, we'll see how far back they'll let me go. For the time being, Sal's out of the spotlight."
    "Had a beer and watched TV at home isn't much of an alibi."
    "That's what His Augustness said. I asked him for alternative suspects and he responded with less-than-pristine language. Ten minutes later, his secretary calls back: We've got face time with Windsor Prep's president, guy named Edgar Helfgott."
    "Saw his name on the website," I said. "A parent?"
    "No, at Prep that's a paid job. Helfgott used to be the headmaster before they created the position for him and moved him into the Oval Office. His assistant is now the headmaster, a Dr. Rollins. Under her is an assistant headmaster and it keeps going, the place is structured like a Fortune 500 corporation. Anyway, Helfgott will grant us an audience tomorrow at eleven, you'll never guess where."
    "Some manse the school lets him use as an official residence?"
    "Even better."

CHAPTER
7
    Edgar Helfgott de-planed from the Gulfstream V.
    A trim, rock-jawed uniformed pilot descended behind him lugging two burnished leather suitcases. The aircraft was sleek and white. The same could be said for Helfgott.
    Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he removed and pocketed a pair of earplugs, gazed up at the silver sky, rotated his neck.
    Quiet time at Santa Monica Airport; lots of private jets parked on the tarmac but no other takeoffs or landings. After a bit of negotiation, Milo's badge had gained us access to the field. We stood five yards behind Helfgott's prearranged black Escalade. Moments before the Gulfstream's arrival, we'd made small talk with the chauffeur.
    Yes, he'd driven Mr. Helfgott a few times but didn't really know him, the man didn't talk much, always read books in the car. Unlike the man who owned the plane and the car and paid the driver's salary.
    "Mr. Wydette talks to you like a regular guy, lets you know what's on his mind."
    "What's Mr. Wydette's first name?"
    "Myron," said the chauffeur. "Not that I ever use it."
    Milo said, "What did he do to afford a plane?"
    "Fruit."
    "Fruit?"
    "Peaches, apricots, that kind of thing. He owns a lot of land, I don't know the details."
    "He lend the plane out often?"
    "Nah, mostly it's the family, sometimes it's Mr. Helfgott."
    "Mr. Helfgott's a frequent flier?"
    The driver frowned. "I don't keep a list." He headed back toward his SUV.
    Milo and I followed. "Where's