"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

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."