Easy mark for someone with half Trey Franck's IQ. I wondered how the two of them had met.

If she did value the relationship with a Caltech genius, she wasn't advertising the fact. No shot or mention of Franck. But one of her frequently pictured friends was a pretty, slender girl with blond-tipped hair and overenthusiastic eye shadow.

Brianna's BFF for sure and always, we party with our souls and dance to the same beat.

Selma Arredondo.

Milo said, "Got to be La Flaca. Love this social networking."

Arredondo's page bore no reference to Franck, either.

He turned to the phone directories. No listings for either girl. "Maybe they still live at home, can't be too many Blevinses in North Hollywood... lucky me, only one: Harvey P."

No answer, canned voice-mail recording.

He left no message, searched for Arredondos in the Valley, found several, connected to most. No one knew Selma.

DMV coughed up driver's licenses for both girls, obtained three years ago when they were fresh-faced.

Brianna had racked up several moving violations in a Ford truck registered to Harvey Blevins.

Milo sang, "Til her Daddy takes the T-Bird away," found Selma's wheels:

Five-year-old black Honda.

"Chavez actually told the truth," he said. "It ain't quite enough to restore my faith in human nature, but maybe one tiny step forward."

Arredondo's address conformed to one of the no-answer numbers Milo had tried. He phoned it again. The only one without voice mail.

"That's why I don't play games of chance, bucko."

"Sal scored a jackpot and look what happened to him," I said.

"Let's pay Franck another visit. Don't wanna make him nervous so the cover story will be we found new evidence that implicates Marty Mendoza, e.g. the Corvette. Is there anything else he can tell us about the kid?"

"I wouldn't mention Fidella's murder. There'd be no reason for you to tell him."

"Makes sense. Same goes for bringing up Brianna and Selma. If Franck is connected to them, no sense giving them a heads-up. Any other suggestions?"

"Just be your usual master-thespian self."

He twirled the end of a nonexistent mustache. Punched the air again and clapped his hands. "Trey, my boy, I may be dumb but I can still nab your Einsteinian ass."

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER
30

No answer at Trey Franck's apartment. The hallways of the dingy building echoed.

"Probably in the lab," said Milo. "Mixing up his potions or whatever chemical engineers do."

We made the drive to Caltech in three minutes. The chem-eng receptionist studied Milo's card. "Lieutenant?... one second."

She disappeared into an inner office. Her voice on the phone was a low buzz of anxiety. Moments later, a thin, white-bearded man in his fifties walked through the department's main door.

"Gentlemen? Norm Moon, I'm Trey Franck's dissertation advisor."

Milo held out a hand. "Professor."

Moon waved off the honorific as he shook. "You've located Trey? Please don't tell me something unfortunate has occurred."

"He's missing?" said Milo.