Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel (21 page)

We left the scene.

Roland Staubach observed, accompanied by Rufus and a fair-haired woman also in shorts and a tee. Neighbors drifted out of their homes and stayed to watch.

Milo waved.

Staubach returned the gesture woodenly before looking away.

Milo drove on. "All of a sudden it's a block doesn't want to know too much."

Midway up Beverly Glen, he said, "Martin Mendoza's looking better and better. Bashing Fidella's skull then stealing the car is exactly the kind of poor-impulse crap a kid like him would do."

"What's the motive?" I said.

He had no answer for that and ignorance didn't sit well with him. Hunching over the wheel, he switched on the police radio, pretended to be interested in misdemeanors and traffic violations. By the time he dropped me at my house we hadn't spoken for ten minutes.

"Night," I said.

"Guess who I'm calling soon as you're out of the car?" Cursing under his breath. "Don't suppose he'll take the news well, seeing as he just lost his favorite suspect and this puts it right back at the school... why
would
Martin go after Fidella?"

"Don't know."

"Hey," he said, "that's my mantra. Be sure to tell Robin where the
flores
came from, I forgot a card."

He drove off as I climbed the stairs to my front door. Moments after I was inside, settled next to Robin, a familiar knock sounded at the front door.

Milo stood there, looking like a shy kid at the prom.

Robin stood on tiptoes and bussed his cheek. "Thanks for the bouquet, darling. What have you brought me now?"

"I
should
bring you something. Same reason, abuse of privacy."

"C'mon in, darling."

"Love to, but I've been summoned by the boss. As in now. Unfortunately, so has Alex. If you can spare him, I'll send you three dozen roses tomorrow."

"He's worth more than vegetative matter, but sure."

I said, "I'm re-invited?"

"Better. You're the guest of honor."

CHAPTER
24

The freeway at one a.m. was slick black tape.

I said, "Chief's in his office this late?"

"He's home."

"You do house calls?"

"Now I do."

I said, "Anyone in the office notices a meeting at this hour, it arouses suspicion and documents his meddling. Meaning where he lives, no one'll notice. Last time, he met us in Calabasas. My guess is he's got one of those secluded West Valley spreads."

"Now you know why he likes you, Sherlock."

The chief's spread in Agoura backed up against horse farms, undeveloped pasture, the umber mass of the Santa Monica Mountains.

Getting close took us half an hour beyond the freeway, past the point where streets were identified by signs. Early on we'd sped past desperately cute strip malls, a Porsche dealership, a gas station charging ten percent more than in the city. Now we hurtled through dark, unfocused space.

Milo had trouble navigating the increasingly complex web of trails barely wide enough for a vehicle. Several wrong turns into frustration, he flipped on the dome light, read his own hand-scrawled directions while coasting. By the time we arrived at a small wooden sign he was sweating and cursing. Burned into rough plank:

SERENITY RANCH

I said, "Bit of a commute to Windsor Prep. Nothing like parental dedication."

"Nothing like mommy dedication."

We passed through an open swing gate--just a steel frame and a single diagonal cross-beam--and the Crown Vic labored up an asphalt ribbon worn to raw earth in spots, lumped unpleasantly in others. The car's overtaxed suspension whined at every concussion.

The gate wasn't much of a barrier. I said, "A lesser man might be concerned about intruders."

"Apex predators don't fret about that kind of thing."

A half-acre motor court spread tight as a fitted sheet fronted a wide, shallow-roofed, one-story house. Parking for scores of cars but no vehicles in sight. Maybe the family wheels were buttoned up in the quadruple garage.

The court was unadorned concrete. Other than a couple of huge oaks listing dangerously, no greenery graced the house. The rear was clear, flat acreage, lots of it. The trees were probably the last surviving remnants of an ancient grove decimated for Top Cop's lair. Too many wet years and they might topple vengefully.

The chief was waiting for us, rocking in a chair set at the front edge of the court, tastefully lit by a low-watt pole fixture resembling a gas lamp. The tip of his cigar created tiny orange curlicues. Wisps of smoke were ingested by the darkness.

Milo cruised to a halt, opened his window. "Sir."

"Over there." A stiff thumb jabbed to the left. Embers tumbled to the concrete, sparked, died.

We parked, got out. No other seating meant we stood like supplicants. The chief's white hair gave off metallic glints when the cigar tip favored it with transitory light. Otherwise, he was a charcoal sketch.

"Two murders, Dr. Delaware," he said, softly. "My diagnosis is 'big fucking mess.' What's yours?"

"I'll go with that."

"Inconsiderate bastard, the Italian guy. I liked him better as an offender." He clicked his tongue. "So we're looking at the Mexican kid for the Italian."

That made it sound like an international conspiracy. I suppressed the urge to say,
With an American pool cue.

Milo said, "Like I said, a young man was spotted leaving the--"

"Exactly, you've said, let's move on. In terms of Freeman, we've pretty much eliminated those teachers?"

Milo said, "There's no evidence against them, but--"

"So we move on."

Long silence, then the sound of a slow, sucking inhalation. The cigar tip expanded, a miniature orange planet. Smoke-rings floated upward like tiny UFOs. "Not that you've got anywhere to move, Sturgis."

I said, "Hard to go anywhere when you're stuck in Park."

The orange disk bounced. "Meaning, Doctor?"

"Meaning this hasn't been a conventional investigation."

Throat clear. "You're a social observer, Doctor?"

"A casual observer. More isn't required."

"Maybe we'd all be better off, Doctor, if we stuck to our areas of expertise. Yours being psychopathology. In terms of that, does the Mexican kid sound potentially violent to you?"

"He sounds frustrated," I said. "His family's from Uruguay."

"Wherever he's from, he sounds like a fucking ingrate.
Senor
Daddy tell you which alumnus got his
nino
into Prep?"

"A man named Kenten."

"Edwin Kenten?" he said. "Another fucking layer of complication."

"Who is he?"

"A builder of cities, Doctor." Laughing bitterly. "A Titan among mere mortals. His game is partnering with municipalities, then evoking eminent domain to bulldoze private property. In place of which he nails up low-budget housing and big-box stores financed by taxpayer money. All in the name of the greater good."

His laugh was low, hoarse, ominous. "Ed Kenten served on the committee that recommended hiring me. We had an interview during which he led me to believe he supported me. When the time came to vote, he supported someone else because their dark skin mattered more to him than the ability to get the fucking job done." Another threatening snicker. "Yeah, can see him putting the Mexican kid in an awkward situation just so he could feel noble. Kid freaks out, gets violent, does Freeman, but that's not enough to quell his rage, so he bashes the Italian's brains."

He clucked. "Eddie's going to have to find himself another barrio darling. Meanwhile, he's playing his eighteen holes at Mountain Crest and getting chauffeured to Paradise Cove. Hell, the kid's daddy's probably still serving Ed his shrimp cocktail."

The cigar tip danced merrily.

I said, "Why does Kenten complicate matters?"

"Once the kid gets busted, Eddie being his mentor will come to light and first thing he'll assume is I'm out to make him look bad. So you be damn sure, Sturgis, that you've got rock-solid evidence before you stir up the cesspool."

A light went on in the big, low house. The chief shot a quick look back, faced us again.

"Okay, here's the deal, Sturgis: Concentrate on finding the Corvette. It shows up with the Mexican kid's prints in it, or if you get any kind of physical evidence from the house pointing to the kid, we'll be forced to deal with the consequences. You find squat in the car and the house, you leave the kid alone."

"And?" said Milo.

"And take a breather. Regroup. Put everything on ice until you've got evidence. Pun intended. And don't worry about getting bored. I just sat through a PowerPoint dog-and-pony from my math techies and they say West L.A.'s due for a fresh homicide in thirty to fifty days, most likely a gang shooting. Once in a while, even you can catch something easy."

Milo said, "Mendoza's never been in the system, AFIS won't have his prints."

"A nice, law-abiding
nino
," said the chief. "How uplifting. Maybe Eddie Kenten sensed that. On the other hand, maybe the kid's kind of cute."

The orange disk dipped. "Catch my meaning, Sturgis?"

"Kenten's gay?"

Laughter. "A married grandpa? Tsk-tsk, I don't rumor-mong. On the other hand, you tell me Mendoza's a strapping, muscular stud, I'm not going to gasp in shock."

"Sir, in terms of Martin Mendoza's prints not being in the--"

"No sense what-iffing, you don't even have the car. Find it, have the techies do their thing, who knows, you might luck out and get prints from someone who is in the system. I just saw the GTA stats for Van Nuys. Shameful, it's something we definitely need to work on. So the Italian could've gotten brained by a jack-happy Eastside punk just like the neighbor assumed and we can all go home, have a beer, fuck whoever it is we customarily fuck."

"That doesn't close Freeman, sir."

"Some of life's mysteries, Sturgis, are destined to remain enigmatic."

Milo didn't respond.

I said, "Convenient. Except for the moral dilemma."

The chief's head shot forward. Cigar sparks flew like miniature fireworks. "Whose dilemma might that be, Doctor."

"Charlie's."

His next words came out tight, as if extruded from a clogged machine. "You don't know Charlie."

"I know kids and from what you said last time, Charlie sounds like a thoughtful kid. The murder of a teacher would get any student curious. A serious young man with a moral compass and a direct link to law enforcement might take that curiosity to another level. It wouldn't surprise me if this is the first time he's expressed any interest in your work."

The cigar tip dipped suddenly.

I said, "If Elise Freeman's murder languishes in bureaucratic purgatory, Charlie will want to know why. You'll give him an explanation and he might even pretend to accept it. Alternatively, he'll be assertive and push you and you'll embroider. Either way, he's smart, nothing short of the truth is going to satisfy his curiosity. The kind of curiosity that could linger well past graduation from Yale."

"Yale," he said. "Boolah Boolah."

"Fight songs endure," I said. "Surrender songs don't."

The orange dot bobbled. Shaky hand. He tried to steady it. Failed. Dropping the cigar, he stomped hard. Embers scattered, glinted, vanished.

He sat there, bracing his hands on his knees. Shot upright like a switchblade flicking open. Turning his back on us, he trudged across the cement court, grew small. Entered his house and closed the door silently.

Lights off.

I said, "Sorry, Big Guy."

"For what?"

"Messing you up with the boss."

"Screw that," he said. "Quitting and getting roped back in gave me a whole new perspective." Staring at the house. "Never seen him retreat like that."

"He could be too mad to speak."

"Who cares? You got to him, Alex. Trust me, he's in there right now, brooding about Junior. And being a rank opportunist, I'm grabbing the white card."

"What white card?"

"Carte blanche,
mon frere.
Until he specifies otherwise, I'm gonna do whatever the hell I please on Freeman and Fidella."

"He already specified the plan," I said. "Half-assed search for Mendoza, Freeman goes cold."

"That was before you tweaked his psyche and he didn't fight back. Silence is acquiescence,
amigo.
The lion wimps out, the wildebeests proceed to the drinking hole."

CHAPTER
25

Carte blanche at two a.m. meant putting a BOLO out on Sal Fidella's Corvette as we sped east on the 101.

Milo said, "I get non-AFIS prints that aren't Fidella's, all the more reason to hunt for Marty Mendoza
seriously.
As in talking to every damn student and teacher at Prep who knew him, maybe flying out personally to San Antonio where I will enjoy tamales and carne asada and drive by his sister's apartment at frequent intervals, myself."

"I am detective, hear me roar."

"Beasts of burden make noise, too."

Nine hours later, he called me. "Top of the morning." Lightness in his voice.

"You found the car?"

"Nope, but I made a new friend."

I met him at noon at the Culver City jail on Duquesne, where a guard named Shirronne Bostic led us to a locked holding room.

Tapping a foot, she shuffled through a key ring.

Milo said, "When did he come in?"

"Last night around ten. Picked up in a hooker sting, pretended
no hablo ingles
then changed his tune when he got hauled in instead of just a ticket like the last time. Your card was in his pocket along with some bullshit I.D. You were his one call."

"Flattered."

"He for real, Lieutenant?"

"Depends on what he has to say."

"Guess he is real," said Bostic. "You're here."

Inside the holding cell, a middle-aged balding man with a droopy mustache sat on a metal bench, dusky skin jaundiced by cruel light. White stubble dotted his face, his eyes were defeated.

Jumpy eyes and unstable hands, same as when he'd been part of the day-laborer crowd waiting for pickup work near the ice joint. The one who'd claimed a fake address in Beverly Hills.