Deception

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 Mr. Helfgott flying in from this morning?"

The driver opened his door. "I just show up where they tell me."

He got inside the SUV. Up went the windows.

Milo looked back at the building behind us. A Fixed Base of Operations called Diamond Aviation. The pretty young female concierge in the marble-and-glass terminal had responded with the same level of protectiveness. "Unless you're Homeland Security, we're not allowed to give out flight information. Can I get you guys some coffee?"

One step from the bottom of the jet's stairs, Helfgott spotted us. Showing no sign of surprise or recognition, he snatched his bags from the pilot, toted them to the Escalade, and placed them in the trunk. Rotating his neck again, he shot his cuffs as he walked toward us, expressionless.

"Morning. I think. Ed Helfgott."

Six feet tall and somewhere in his sixties, Windsor Prep's president was thin and angular but slightly broad in the beam, with the kind of pale, waxy skin that shaves well and co

"Thanks for meeting with us, sir."

Helfgott sca

"Long journey?"

"Journeys, plural," said Helfgott. "Monday was a conference in D.C., then on to New York to interface with some alums, followed by a jaunt over the pond to London and back for a stop in Cambridge, Mass. London, in particular, posed challenges. Scaffolding everywhere and despite the financial vicissitudes, the pace and magnitude of construction remain Promethean. Unfortunately, so does the volume of motor traffic. None of my destinations were in walking distance from my lodgings in Mayfair so a fair bit of ingeniousness was at play."

I said, "School business in London?"

Helfgott's thin lips turned up. What resulted was the initial knife-slice for a jack-o'-lantern mouth. "If you're asking was it a holiday, quite the opposite. I interfaced with my equal numbers at Oxbridge, Cambridge, and LSE-the London School of Economics."

A high school administrator with counterparts at three major universities.

I said, "Smoothing the way for your graduates."

"Most of my time was spent listening as they tried to attract our alums. In a world of growing globalism, Windsor Prep people are regarded as prime intellectual property. Creators rather than prisoners of destiny, if you will. One of our grads attended Oxford twenty years ago and ended up settling in Scotland. He's just been short-listed for the Booker Prize."

"Congrats," said Milo. "Sounds like ultra-prime property-kind of like Wagyu beef."

Helfgott squinted. "Sir?"

"Wagyu-"

"I know what Wagyu is, Lieutenant. What I'm failing to see is the crux of your analogy."

"The stuff comes from pampered cows, right? Back in Japan, they get to guzzle beer, snarf gourmet grub, have regular massages. All that to keep the meat tender. Then they're shipped off to dates with destiny."

Helfgott removed his specs. Ripped the silk handkerchief free, wiped both lenses energetically. Glancing at the Escalade, he pulled out his pocket watch. I was close enough to see it had stopped six hours ago. That didn't stop Helfgott from tsk-tsking.

"Later than I thought. How say we wend our way to the lounge, do whatever it is you feel is important. Then we can all be on our merry ways."

Diamond Aviation's waiting area was thirty feet high, walled in glass, with air spiced by ci

Without being asked, the same cute concierge addressed Helfgott by name as she set down a glass of soda water and lime.

"Change your mind about coffee, guys?"

"No, thanks."

"Anything else, Mr. Helfgott?"

"Not for the moment, Amy. Thank you."

"Anytime, Mr. Helfgott." She sashayed away. He drank, rotated his neck yet again.

Milo said, "Are you in pain, sir?"

"Chronic condition exacerbated by age and too-frequent air travel, Lieutenant. Yoga helped for a while, then some unfortunate personal training led to sprains precisely where I didn't need them."

He eyed Myron Wydette's jet through the glass, now being fueled by a tanker truck. Held his gaze and inhaled, as if yearning to be aloft.

"Nice piece of machinery, Mr. Helfgott."

"Work of art, Lieutenant. I won't pretend it's not immeasurably superior to commercial aviation, but in the last analysis, flying is flying. One strives to eat properly, stretch, hydrate oneself. Nevertheless, the hours of enforced immobility take their toll. As soon as we wrap up whatever it is you feel you need to do, I'm going to swim, then settle in a warm bath and pop off to sleep."

"Sounds good, sir. What have you been told about this meeting?"

"Mr. Wydette's office called me midflight to inform me that poor Elise Freeman had passed on and the police had requested to speak with me. I took that to assume an irregular death."

All the emotion of a Chia pet. He continued admiring the Gulfstream until his eyes lost focus. Somewhere else; maybe thinking about his bath.

Milo said, "If by irregular you mean other than old age, that's true, sir."

"How dreadful," said Helfgott. "May I ask when and where it occurred, and the particulars?"

"Several days ago, at her house, sir. The particulars remain the big question."

"I'm not sure I understand, Lieutenant."

"Mode of death hasn't been determined."

"So there's no obvious crime."