"Did Elise ever say Fidella had actually gone through with any of his schemes?"

Franck smirked. "So you already suspect him."

"Don't second-guess us, son."

"She never got specific beyond saying he was all heat, no light."

"She ever say he was violent?"

"Unfortunately, she never mentioned that."

"Unfortunately?"

"You'd concentrate on him and I wouldn't have to talk about my sex life."

"You've seen a photo of Elise and Fidella in her living room?"

"Okay. So?"

"That didn't make you think?"

"About what?"

"She's over him but hangs on to his picture?"

Franck's knees pressed together. "I suppose that was incongruous. But so what? I wasn't romantically attached to Elise."

"Obviously," said Milo. "She kept no picture of you."

Silence.

"Unless she did and you removed it after she died."

"No way, I haven't been to her house in months! You keep coming back to total irrelevancies--"

Milo said, "Of course, there could be another reason--another theoretical. Elise had students coming in and out. Parents, too, sometimes. Flaunting a nonromantic, recreational relationship with a former student wouldn't do much for business."

"I was never her student."

"You were eighteen when you met her."

"That made me legal."

"We're not talking legal, Trey, we're talking appropriate."

Silence.

Milo said, "How soon after you started working for Elise did it get personal?"

"I don't recall."

"Guy like you with memory problems?"

"My memory's fine," said Franck. "I never made note of the precise date because I never thought I'd have to explain myself to--"

"Was it soon after, or did it take a while to develop?"

Franck shook his head. "This is humiliating."

"So was Elise's death."

The young man lowered his head.

"How soon, Trey?"

"Not weeks. Months." Franck looked up. "You want the voyeuristic details? Fine. One night I went over to Elise's house to collect my money. She was wearing a tank top and shorts. White top, blue shorts. All the other times I'd seen her, she'd dressed in dresses to the knee or slacks, her hair tied back, no makeup. That night, her hair was loose, she wore makeup. She had on perfume. She told me I was doing a great job, invited me to sit down, have a drink--not alcohol, I don't drink alcohol, never have, she meant a soft drink, that's what she was having. We sat down together on the couch, talked." His eyes moved to one side, drifted back, cloudy with reminiscence. "It just happened."

"And kept happening," said Milo. "We're talking four years."

"On and off. Have you heard the expression booty-call?"

Milo smiled. "Yes, son. Who booty-called who?"

"She always called me. The last one was two weeks ago--the phone call you saw, but that time I didn't go over."

"Why not?"