Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel (19 page)

"When did Martin transfer to Prep?"

"Last year, second half of eleventh grade."

"Middle of the year."

"I was worried about them being snobs but let me tell you, they rolled out the carpet. Big deal, he wasn't impressed."

"Martin didn't like the attention?"

"Martin didn't like
anything.
The kids, the teachers, the buildings, even the trees. Too many trees, Papi, they put dust in my hair. I say are you crazy, man? It's beautiful, a Garden of Eden, you want South El Monte after seeing this? He says yeah, that's what I want. I say you're out of your mind, boy. He turns his back on me, says I like what I like and it's my life."

Head shake. "Stubborn, like his mother. Maybe it helps with baseball. Saturdays he went to the U-pitch. Throwing all day. One time he came home with the arm all black under the skin, he threw so much the muscles were bleeding under the skin. It looked like a disease, his mother screamed, I called his coach--this was middle school, he was twelve, thirteen, say talk to Martin, no more bleeding. He tells me Martin's gifted, maybe he overdoes a little but that's better than being lazy. Stupid man, I hang up, talk to Martin myself. Martin says Sandy Koufax used to pitch with black arms. I say who's Sandy Koufax? Martin laughs and walks away. Later, I look up Sandy Koufax, he's the greatest pitcher ever lived, fine, good for him, I still don't like my son with a black arm."

Another look at his watch. "I go to Martin's games, he says don't embarrass me by screaming and going crazy like the other fathers, just sit there. That's all I can tell you, I need to get back to work."

I said, "How did Martin adjust to the tougher curriculum at Prep?"

"Did he feel stupid?" said Mendoza. "Oh, yeah, and he let me know all the time I made him feel stupid by moving him."

"Did his grades suffer?"

"Sure, this was a real school. No more easy A's, now it's B's if he's lucky. I tell him a B from Prep is worth more than a public school A. He walks away."

Mendoza threw up his hands.

"That's when Elise Freeman stepped into the picture."

"She was their idea--the school's. What happened was Martin wrote a composition--a term paper, it was no good, sloppy, he can do better, I've seen him do better. Maybe he did it on purpose, you know?"

"To prove a point," I said.

"Exactly. Making himself look stupid so the school say bye-bye. I tell him instead of making a scheme, study hard, you're a smart boy, now with no baseball, you got extra time. He hands the paper in anyway. Got a D."

As if announcing a terminal diagnosis. "Never, ever before did he get a D, not him or his sister, never did I see a D anywhere in my house. I was ready to... I got angry, okay, I admit it. There was loud yelling. That's the first time Martin took the bus to his sister."

"How long did he stay away?"

"Just the weekend. Gisella convinced him to go home, she bought him an airline ticket. I paid her back every penny."

"What about the second time?" I said.

"A few weeks later." Blinking.

"What was that about?"

Sigh. "Her. Ms. Freeman. The school arranged a tutor for him, all paid. To Martin that was saying, You're stupid. Stubborn, like I said. Maybe for baseball it's okay but not for life."

Anger had winched his voice higher. No more fatherly protectiveness. He leaned closer. "Everyone helping him, he's spitting in everyone's face--not really spitting, you know what I mean."

Milo said, "Attitude."

"Oh, boy, he's got attitude." Mendoza swigged coffee, narrowly missed sloshing liquid onto his white shirt. He inspected the placket. Flicked off a speck of dust. "Lucky, I only got one more clean in my locker." Another glance at his watch. "I got to go, they need me."

I said, "How long did Martin stay in Texas the second time?"

"Same thing, three days, that time Gisella put him on the bus 'cause I told her no more airplane."

"There's no chance he returned to Gisella's?"

"Gisella never lies."

Milo said, "Could we have her phone number, please?"

"You don't believe me."

"Of course we do, sir. But just in case Martin shows up sometime in the future."

"You think he could?" said Mendoza.

"Kids do all sorts of things."

"That would be good. His mother could stop throwing up."

Milo copied as he recited.

I said, "You're sure Martin doesn't have any friends he could find refuge with?"

"That's part of the problem, he didn't like the kids there. Too rich, too snobby, too white--even the Latino kids and the black kids were white according to him. I say you're the one being a snob. Judge people by what they do not by who their parents are. He laughs, like you'd understand. I say you're a star athlete, good-looking guy, you're smart, what's not to like? He gets
really
mad with the attitude, starts screaming."

"About what?"

"About everything nice I said. I'm a star athlete? He shakes his bad shoulder. This is an athlete? He pinches his cheek, stretches the skin out. This is good-looking? Martin's dark, not like me, his mother's side, sometimes her brother--the basketball player--gets taken for a Brazilian. I say calm down. He keeps going. You think this is good-looking at a place like that? I'm a fucking outcast. Excuse the language, that's how he said it."

"He was pretty upset."

"He's waving his arms, gonna hurt that rotator cuff. He walks out but this time he comes back. With the D term paper. Rips it up, starts eating it." Still incredulous. "Chewing the paper, swallowing, I'm screaming now, what are you doing, fool, you'll get sick. He says since you stuck me in that place, I been eating shit, what's a little paper for dessert? Then he leaves the house, I don't see him until I get home from work the next day."

"Where'd he go?"

"He never says where he goes."

"He didn't want to be tutored but he showed up."

"He's a good boy," said Emilio Mendoza.

"How did he like it?"

"He says it's a waste of time and money, she doesn't care about him, all she wants is the money, all she does is sit there while he reads and writes, then she gives him extra homework that no way he's going to do." Mendoza's eyes shot to the sky.

I said, "Anything else about her bother him?"

"Not really." He gripped his cup with both hands, dented the cardboard.

"What is it, Mr. Mendoza?"

"Look," he said, "Martin can think things that are wrong. Like one time, he knew one of Gisella's friends was interested in him. But she wasn't. Gisella told him, they had a fight."

"Martin thought something about Ms. Freeman that you don't think was true."

"He said she touched him too much. Nothing sexy, his arm, his hand. I say what's the big deal, she's friendly. He says, what the hell, Papi, does touching have to do with English? I say you're making a big deal, she's there to help you."

I said, "Ms. Freeman tutored English and history. What about Martin's science and math grades?"

"In science--biology--he's better, got the B's. He hates writing, said Ms. Freeman figured that out and that's why she gave him extra writing. I say she's trying to fix what you need to be fixed."

"Then he walked out."

"You got it," said Mendoza. "He's a good boy, please don't think he did anything. The whole thing with her--Ms. Freeman--it's no big deal, he went three times, maybe four. Martin's a good boy, he has a lot of pressure, maybe I did the wrong thing by putting him in Prep, my wife says I did."

Split second of reflection. "But no, I don't think so, you need a challenge, without a challenge, you dress up in a bow tie and serve rich people who look at you like you're a piece of furniture. Now I have to go, please don't say a little more, Emilio. I have to go."

CHAPTER
22

Mendoza's white Hyundai rolled down to PCH.

Milo said, "He started off protective but ended up giving up info. Way I see it, one of two things happened: Elise came on to Martin and it creeped him out. She got pissed at being rejected, he got pissed that she was pissed, it escalated and Martin bore a grudge. Or he succumbed to her charms but she made him feel inadequate. Or played around with him and rejected him later."

"There's a third possibility: He had nothing to do with killing her."

"He rabbited, Alex. That's his pattern, when the tension piles up, he leaves."

"Like you said, a teen with a short fuse still doesn't sync with the planning that went into the murder and nothing Martin's father told us depicts Martin as a good planner. Just the opposite, he's impulsive."

"True, but I've got to listen to my victim, even a lying victim like Elise. Martin scared her, enough for her to tell Trey Franck about it. Time to find this kid."

He found Gisella Mendoza's number in his pad.

"Ms. Mendoza? This is Lieutenant Sturgis from the Los Angeles Police Department. Your parents are worried about your brother, Martin, and I'm checking his whereabouts... yes, your father told me he wasn't but I was wondering if Martin's shown up since then... yes, of course you'd call your parents and that's still the first thing you should do. But if you don't mind, please let me know, too, because once I close the file on Martin I can pay attention to other missing kids... yes, unfortunately, we've got lots... I'm sure you are... yes, I know it's anxiety-provoking, though your dad does say Martin has left before and he always comes back quickly... yes, that was good of you, your parents really appreciated your convincing Martin to return. Let me ask you something, Gisella. The second time Martin showed up, your dad said he had issues with a teacher... right, a tutor. Did Martin mention anything about what bothered him about this tutor?... because maybe the same thing happened and it'll help us find him... that's it? Okay, thanks for your time--oh, yeah, could I have your address for the file?"

He clicked off. "Nice girl. I'm gonna ask San Antonio PD to do a drive-by at her place."

"What did Martin tell her about Elise?"

"He felt she didn't care about him. That could mean she blew him off sexually. Wonder if he's fluent in Spanish--shoulda asked his dad about that."

"Dr. Rollins might know," I said.

"Like she'd tell me."

I pulled out my phone, called Prep, asked for Rollins, got put on hold.

He said, "You're kidding."

"Nothing ventured."

Four minutes later, I had the answer, provided by a borderline-hostile headmaster eager to get me off the line. When I thanked her, she said, "Please note: Once again, I've been fully cooperative. Repay the kindness by respecting Prep's privacy?"

Milo said, "You gotta give me some charm lessons. So does he
habla Espanol
?"

"Well enough to pass out of the foreign-language requirement."

"Excellent, who better to pick some Spanish day laborer to do the heavy lifting. Hell, for all we know Mr. Anteater was directly involved with the killing."

"Mr. Anteater bought dry ice in Van Nuys. Martin's got no driver's license but he somehow managed to get from El Monte to the heart of the Valley, then over to Elise's place in Studio City?"

"Big deal, he borrowed wheels or stole 'em--or got someone to drive him. He calls himself an outcast but that doesn't mean he couldn't find another outcast. Can't you see a couple of bitter adolescents hatching a weird ice scheme?"

His cell rang. "Fur Elise" again. I said, "Got the joke," but he was concentrating, didn't hear.

"Afternoon, sir... no, I suppose not, sir... in all fairness, sir, it wasn't a deliberate provoca... yes, sir. But still... yes, sir. I just felt... Stan Creighton came on a bit heavy... yes, sir... can I say one thing? Strictly speaking, if I'm off the job, I'm not actually obligated to... yes, sir... yes, sir... yes, sir, right now, sir."

Snapping the phone shut, he rubbed his face.

I said, "Out of retirement?"

"Apparently I never was in retirement. Apparently decisions about my career aren't mine to make. Apparently doing the job properly 'has nothing to do with your fucking ego or your histrionic, grandstanding bullshit, Sturgis.' I'm due at his office, A-sap. This time, you're explicitly
dis
invited."

"Aw shucks."

"His exact wording was 'Don't even think about shlepping along your Ph.D. nursemaid. This shit you wipe on your own. And be thankful your fucking badge doesn't end up in a bodily orifice.'"

"Maybe you can bring a peace offering," I said.

"Like?"

"Special-order a double-sized burrito. Tell him it's the Chief."

"Oh, man," he said. "There'll be enough gas without that."

I next heard from him at eight p.m.

Standing at my door holding a bouquet of flowers.

"For Robin," he said. "Because I'm invading her privacy."

He walked past me, stopped to pet Blanche, griping, as always, about a taller dog not killing his back. Blanche licked his hand and pressed her head against his shin. He muttered, "Yeah, you're cute... where's Robin?"

"Out for dinner with an old friend from San Luis."

He handed me the flowers. "Put 'em in water, they'll keep."

"How'd it go downtown?"

He strode to the kitchen, searched the fridge, pulled nothing out.

"I arrive expecting to be disemboweled with garden shears, he's all mellow, smoking a cigar, tie loosened, 'Come right in, Sturgis.' It's like nothing ever happened, he just wants a progress report. It was only after I finished that he reverted to type. 'I said progress, Sturgis, not a fucking exposition of the obvious. Why the hell haven't you followed up on the Italian boyfriend, seeing as he's a con and a loser? Work this one logically.' Which translates to forget about the school."

"He'd rather have you on supervised duty than freelancing. What does he think about Martin Mendoza?"

"Not impressed. Same for Trey Franck. 'It's always loved ones and lowlifes, Sturgis. The Italian guy is both.'"

He opened the fridge again, retrieved a loaf of bread, and snarfed a slice dry. Blanche looked up with customary fascination.