"Don't play with me," said Creighton. "What was going through your head?"
"I need to talk to a student, I figure school's the logical place to find a student."
"What student?"
"Kid named Martin Mendoza." Milo offered a sketchy summary.
Creighton said, "Kid's got a temper so he's a suspect?"
"I'm open to suggestions, Stan."
"Whatever. The point is even with a student the school's not the logical place because the rules were made clear to you. Kids have homes, start there. Now get the hell out of here."
"And here I was thinking a stroll on campus would be educational for all concerned."
"You really have a death wish, don't you?"
Milo smiled. "I'm assuming you're talking metaphor, Stan."
Creighton's pupils were pinpoints. His right eye ticced. "Go. Now."
The elms rustled. From the distance, a girl's laughter sweetened the air.
"You're defying a direct order?"
"Just looking for a shovel so I can dig that grave."
Creighton's nostrils flared.
Milo's jaw worked.
I thought of a trip Robin and I had taken to Wyoming. Herds of bison, face-offs between pairs of massive bulls until someone limped away.
Creighton said, "Don't make me ask you again."
Milo said, "Can I check first to see if I've got rope in my car?"
"Rope? For--"
"So you can tie one of my legs back so I can't walk without falling on my ass, then you can bind both of my arms to my side and oh yeah, maybe I've got some rags in the trunk so you can gag me if God forbid I should talk to a goddamn witness without seeking permission, then you can use some other rags for the blindfold so I walk into fucking walls. After that's done, Stanley, you can tell me how to do the job."
Creighton's neck veins bulged. His fists were the size of cabbage heads.
Rapid pulse in the veins. Audible breathing.
Suddenly he laughed, forced himself into a relaxed posture. "Oh, man, you are really fucking up the job."
"I can only fuck up the job if I've got a job."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"What do you think it means, Stan?"
Creighton snickered. "Right, like you'd quit."
"Like I do, Stan," said Milo, tossing his badge to the ground. "Life's too short, send my regards to the Emperor. If the brain-dead battalion surrounding him grants you access."
Turning heel, he marched away. I followed, catching my breath.
Creighton said, "Yeah, right."
Neither of us spoke until he drove away. Keeping a light touch on the gas. Humming a weird minor-key tune--maybe some old Druid chant buried in his Celtic consciousness.
"Did I mean it? Hell, yes. Or no. Or maybe. Goddammit. Will I regret it? Probably. Okay, let's find Martin Mendoza."
"Off the job but on the job," I said.
"As an independent citizen."
"How're you going to approach him?"
"With my usual tact and sensitivity."
"I meant under what authority?"
"Hmm," he said. "How about power to the people?"
CHAPTER
21
L.A. County hosts scores of golf courses but exclusive enclaves for the big-rich number less than a dozen.
Milo began with the Westside, used his suddenly defunct rank to get through to human resource directors. Success on the third try: Emilio Mendoza was a waiter at Mountain Crest Country Club.
I'd been there a few years ago, as the lunch guest of a psychiatric entrepreneur wooing me to direct a nonprofit home for wayward children. Amiable meal, but the devil had messed up the details and I'd declined, despite a great steak. Soon after, the home closed down in a corruption scandal.
The club occupied lovely, rolling bluffs where Pacific Palisades abuts Malibu. By the sixth hole, ocean views distract. Stout fees and extensive vetting limit the membership to people of a certain type. That day at lunch the only dark faces had been those of the staff; I wondered if Emilio Mendoza had been the one to place a platter-sized rib eye before me as if it were a sacrament.
The HR woman on the phone said, "He's at work, I'll have him call you."
Milo said, "It would be better if I talk to him now, ma'am."
"May I ask what this is concerning?"
"A family matter," said Milo.
"Emilio's family?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"The police--oh, dear. You're not saying something terrible has happened?"
"Terrible things happen all the time, but Mr. Mendoza's family is fine."
"Then why--"
"If you'd prefer, I can drop by, talk to him in person. Maybe shoot a few holes."
"Hold on, I'll try to find him."
A few minutes later, a soft, lightly accented male voice said, "This is Emilio."
Milo misrepresented himself again as still active, but made no mention of homicide. "Sorry for bothering you, Mr. Mendoza, but I need to talk to Martin."
"Martin?" Marteen, emphasis on the second syllable. "Why, sir?"
"It's concerning his tutor, Elise Freeman."
"Her," said Mendoza. "She's no longer his tutor."
"She's no longer anyone's tutor, sir. She's deceased."
"You're kidding--my God, that's terrible. The police? She was hurt by someone? Why do you need to talk to Martin?"
"We're talking to all her former students, Mr. Mendoza. Trying to learn everything we can about her."
Long silence. "That's the only reason?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"You don't suspect Martin of something?"
"No, sir, we'd just like to talk to him. You can be there, or his mother can, I'm happy to come to your home, keep everything low-key."
"Martin didn't spend much time with her, sir. He took a few lessons, that's all."
"I know, sir, but we've got a list to go through. Routine, nothing to be worried about. Is Martin ill today?"
"Ill?"
"He wasn't at school."
"You went to the school?" Mendoza's voice cracked on the last word.
"We did."
"They told you he was ill?"
"No," said Milo. "Just that he wasn't there. Is he home?"
Silence.
"Sir?"
"No," said Emilio Mendoza. "He is not at home."
"Where is he, then?"
Silence.
"Mr. Mendoza."
"I don't know."
"Martin ran away?"
"His mother and I came home from work, he was gone. He left his cell phone. He didn't take anything that we can see. My wife is sick, she is throwing up."
"How long ago did he leave?"
"Three days ago," said Mendoza.
Shortly after the murder.
Milo said, "When you last saw him he was at home?"
"In bed, he said he was sick. We thought he looked okay, was just sick of school. We were tired of arguing, so we let him stay home."
"Sick of school in general, or Prep in particular?"
"He didn't like that place." Emilio Mendoza's voice faltered. "Three days. My wife is having a real hard time."
"Have you called the police?"
"I was going to. Today. I kept hoping he'd come home. When you called I thought maybe you found him. Somewhere."
Milo said, "Kids drop out for a few days all the time, I see it all the time."
"Martin has left before," said Mendoza. "Twice, he took the bus to his sister in Texas. This time, she says he's not there."
"You think she'd cover for Martin?"
"They're close, but no, after Gisella heard how upset her mother was, she wouldn't do that."
"Let's get together, Mr. Mendoza, I'm sure we can sort things out."
"What could you do?"
"Tell me about Martin, maybe I can help find him. If a missing persons report is the way to go, I'll see that yours gets full attention."
"You want to ta
lk about Ms. Freeman," said Mendoza. "You don't suspect Martin of anything?"
Milo nodded and mouthed Now I do. "Not at all, sir."
"I don't know," said Mendoza.
"Brief chat, sir."
"I'm working all day and then maybe I do a double shift if they need me."
"Whenever you're free," said Milo.
"I don't know," Mendoza repeated. "Okay, enough of Anna throwing up, one way or the other we need to--in an hour, okay?"
"Perfect. Where, sir?"
"Not at the club, they won't let you in. Meet me on Pacific Coast Highway, around half a mile north of the club. Malibu Mike's, you're hungry, they're okay."
"See you there, sir. Thanks."
"I don't know what I'll even say to you."
Malibu Mike's was a flimsy white-frame lean-to set on a patch of land-side asphalt. A grinning, overly fanged shark cutout teetered atop the fraying roof. Picnic tables canted on the uneven pavement, some shaded by wind-scarred umbrellas. Behind the property, a hill of iceplant-encrusted soil formed a bright green curtain.
The chalkboard menu listed burgers, hot dogs, fish tacos, and something called a Captain's Burrito. Milo said, "I'm under-ranked."
You're no rank at all.
I said, "Order half and call it a Lieutenant."
"Let's eat something, I need to fuel up for serious lying."
A young chubby brunette girl worked the counter, a young, floppy-haired Asian boy, the grill. The ocean across the highway couldn't compete with blaring hip-hop from a speaker placed perilously close to the burners. Some millionaire gangsta bragging about having no conscience.
"Help you guys?"
I ordered a chili dog.
Milo said, "Two half-pound cheeseburgers, anything extra you want to put on is fine with me."
The girl said, "All we got extra is onion and pickles--I guess we could throw on chili, too, but I'll have to charge you."
"Go for it. How's that Captain's Burrito?"
The girl grimaced. "Guys order it but I don't like it. It's messy, you end up with most of it on the paper, then it sticks to the paper 'cause a the cheese, then it hardens you can't peel it off without peeling off the paper. Then afterward, your hands smell of sauce, cheese, it's gross."
"Captains can be like that."
"Huh?"
"All show, no substance."
No comprehension in young, brown eyes.
Milo said, "But the burger's okay?"
"I like it."
Milo finished his first half-pounder, unwrapped the second but didn't touch it. The ocean was calm. He wasn't.
"Kid runs away, right. Maybe Franck did me a favor."
He studied the water, got up. "I will not be influenced by the opinions of others, gonna try the damn burrito. Get it to go, Rick's on call, I can eat with my hands, no one's gonna squawk. Should reheat okay, don't you think?"
He returned with a greasy cardboard box that he placed in the trunk of the unmarked. The car's built as tight as a drunk's resolve, so the ride home would be fragrant. Just as he returned to the table, a white Hyundai drove into the lot and a smallish man got out. Round face, thinning dark hair combed straight back, pale complexion, crisp features.
"Lieutenant?"
Milo waved.
Emilio Mendoza seemed disappointed. He'd arrived ten minutes early, maybe wanting to rehearse his own script. But we'd beat him by fifteen.
He wore a white drip-dry shirt, pleated black pants, tiny black bow tie. No sign of the red waist-length jacket I remembered from my lunch.
Milo said, "Thanks for coming, sir. We'll wait while you order."
"I'm not eating," said Emilio Mendoza. "Even if I wanted to spend the money, my stomach's jumping all over the place." Patting the offending area. "I can't stay long, there's a big dinner crowd, a couple rookies need educating."
Milo said, "Speaking of education, how did Martin come to Prep?"
"You mean how could a waiter from Uruguay afford to send his kid to a place like that? I can't, they gave him a scholarship."
"Baseball."
Mendoza's eyes narrowed. "You've already talked to the school?"
"I looked up Martin's MySpace. Only thing on there was baseball."
Mendoza looked at him, doubtful.
"That's why they call us detectives, Mr. Mendoza. So how'd Martin end up at Prep, rather than at another school?"
"You're talking to students? You don't think Martin did something?"
"Are you worried Martin did something?"
"Of course not." Emilio Mendoza's eyes watered. "Maybe I'll get a coffee."
After he sat down with a cardboard cup, Milo said, "Does Martin have a special friend? Someone he'd go to when he's upset?"
"Only his sister."
"Where in Texas is she?"
"San Antonio, she's a nurse at Bexar Hospital. Martin called her the day he left--after his mother and I went to work. Just to say hi, that bothered Gisella, it wasn't like Martin."
"Your son's not talkative?"
"He's a quiet boy."
"What was his mood with Gisella?"
"She said he sounded distracted. She couldn't say by what."
"Is Gisella Martin's only sibling?"
"Yes, it's only the two of them." As if he regretted that. "Gisella's seven years older but they're close."
Milo let him sip coffee, used the time to finish his second burger. "I'd still like to hear how you connected to Prep."
"Oh, that," said Mendoza. "A good man--a regular at the club, his kids and grandkids went to Prep, I was talking to him about Martin, how Martin was a smart boy, I wasn't happy with his education. We live in El Monte, Martin was happy with the public school but no way. Sure he liked it, everything was too easy for him, he didn't have to work. You go to college like that, you can't compete with kids who went to tough schools. The member, he's a rich man but a good man, treats everyone like a person--he said maybe there's a solution, Emilio. I say, what, sir? He just smiles. Next time he comes in, orders his tri-tip and his martini, gives me a brochure from Windsor Prep."
Mendoza's laugh was more nose than mouth. "That is what I gave Mr. Kenten. A big laugh. Then I apologized for being rude, a fool. He says don't worry, Emilio, I know I caught you by surprise. If it's money you're worried about, maybe we can find a solution for that, too."
Mendoza placed the coffee on the table. "I felt even more the fool. Then he says, didn't you once say your boy was an excellent pitcher?"
Mendoza shrugged. "I don't remember saying it, we don't get personal with the members, but the nice ones... he always comes in by himself, I figure it's good for him someone pays attention. I say, sure, Martin's a great pitcher. Strong, like his mother's side." Pinching his own thin biceps. "His mother's father was a blacksmith, muscles out to here, his uncle Tito, his mother's brother, played basketball for Miramar--that's a big team in Uruguay--before he got hurt."
Frowning. "Martin also got hurt, maybe that's from her side, too."
"What was Martin's injury?"
Mendoza touched his left shoulder. "Rotator cuff, it can heal if he rests. Maybe surgery, maybe no. Either way, no baseball for a long time."
Mendoza slapped the table. "Perfect opportunity, like from God. They need a star pitcher, Martin needs a good education. At South El Monte, there was talk some professional scouts came to see him. But no one said anything to me so I think it was just talk."
"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."
Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 14
