"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 disinvited."
"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.
"So guess where I'm headed now? Reason I stopped here, first, is I'm not sure how to approach Fidella. He's cooperated so far, what's my reason for recontacting him without getting him antsy and pulling back into his shell?"
I said, "If he's a con man he'll be naturally suspicious, so I'm not sure you can avoid getting him wary. You could try telling him you've found some kids at the school who had conflict with Elise, figured if she confided in anyone it would be him."
"Which leads to an interesting point: Elise told Trey Franck about Martin but if she mentioned it to Fidella, he didn't pass that along. So either she felt closer to Franck or Fidella's keeping his cards under the table. If it's the latter, Fidella may be considering another extortion scheme."
"All the more reason to tantalize him with a possible link to the school. You're confirming his initial theory and making him feel like part of your team, as opposed to a suspect. He lets his guard down, you might learn something interesting."
"And Santa's on call twelve months a year." Yanking the fridge open for the third time, he scored a second slice of bread, deliberated, added a third. Pulled out a jar of boysenberry jam topped by a gingham-wrapped lid.
"Looks homemade. You guys going slow-food?"
"Robin's friend brought it."
Slathering both slices, he chewed noisily. "I'd love to see Fidella's spontaneous reaction to the mention of Franck's name. He gives off a serious tell, I've got a clear pathway to your basic crime of passion. But I can't risk showing my cards. Not that the odds like Uncle Milo. Unlike Sal, I never scored a jackpot."
"If you had, you might've held on to the dough."
"Well, look at that." He pinged the vase of flowers with a fingernail. "For the price of some stems and petals, I get therapy."
CHAPTER
23
The sky above Sal Fidella's block was moonlit, particle-clogged, heavy with mist. Houses and shrubs and trees appeared partially erased.
No Corvette in the driveway, dim yellow porch light over the door but no illumination from within.
Milo got out and rang the bell anyway, was greeted by the expected silence. Someone called "'Scuse me?" from across the street.
A man gestured from the lawn of a neatly kept ranch house.
Big man in T-shirt and shorts. Big shaggy dog on a leash sitting obediently at his side.
The dog studied our approach, dark, bear-like, unmoving but for intelligent eyes that cut through the haze.
The man was in his early thirties, bullnecked and crew-cut with a fuzzy chin-beard and the top-heavy physique of a silverback gorilla. "You're cops, right? I came out with Rufus and seen you." He hooked a thumb at Fidella's house. "What'd he do?"
Milo said, "What makes you think he did anything?"
"He didn't?"
"What's on your mind, sir?"
The man shifted his weight. The dog didn't budge. "Tell the truth, Officer, none of us likes him living so close."
"None of us being..."
"Me, my wife, also the Barretts--two houses down, they also got kids."
"You're worried about your kids?"
"Not yet," said the man. "So far, he just bothered the wives."
"Bothered them how?"
"Trying to sell 'em stuff they didn't want. With my wife it was a guitar for my oldest. But Sean don't play the guitar, Sean's into sports, she told him that. He kept pushin', telling Dara kids who played instruments were smarter than kids who didn't play instruments, he had some good cheap guitars, Sean could pick his color. Dara said thanks but no thanks. He follows her all the way up to our door, finally she has to say, really, I'm not interested, and he's still talking. Dara told me about it later, I said let me go over there, she said if he does it again, no sense making a scene. Later we were having a barbecue with Doug and Karen--the Barretts--and Dara found out he'd pulled the same stunt with Karen."
"Trying to sell her a guitar."
"Drums, their oldest plays the drums, you can hear it a mile away when he practices. One day he catches Karen as she's driving up, tells her doesn't sound like Ryan's drum kit's any good. She says it's fine. He says it's really not, he can get her a better one, cheap. Karen says no thanks, we're fine, he gets pushy the same way he did with Dara. Karen's tougher than Dara, she yells at him to back off."
"Did he?"
"Yeah. But he had a foot in her door, that's weird, no?"
"Anything else about him we should know, Mr...."
"Roland Staubach," said the man. "I go by Rolly. This is a nice family block, he lives by himself, never goes to work. So tell me, how'd he get that Corvette? And that ginormous flat-screen?"
"You've been inside his house?"
"Me? Why should I?"
"You saw his flat-screen."
"It's right in front and sometimes he opens those sheets he uses for curtains. I'll be walking Rufus and he's right there for the whole world to see. Sitting on the couch
in his underwear drinking and watching his flat-screen. When I saw you drive up in that unmarked, I said finally, someone I can talk to."
"You know about unmarkeds," said Milo.
"I used to drive for one of the tow-yard services used by your department. Van Bruggen's, over in Silverlake? Once in a while I hooked up an unmarked. So what'd he do?"
"Nothing," said Milo.
"Nothing? You knocked on his door."
"He's a potential witness, Mr. Staubach."
"To what?"
"Nothing that concerns the neighborhood. Is there anything else you want to tell me about him?"
"He gives me a bad feeling," said Staubach. "Anytime he gets in that Corvette, guns the engine like he does, Rufus is at the front window, all tense." Rubbing the dog's neck. "Also, he never goes to a regular job, this is a working block. I drive for UPS, work weekends at Mack's Aquarium in Tarzana. Dara's a teacher's aide at the kids' school, for tuition. Doug and Karen are both at Con Edison. The Millers down the block are respiratory therapists, everyone's working like crazy except him."
"How long has he lived here?" said Milo.
"He was already here when we moved in, that's a year and a half ago."
"Thanks, Mr. Staubach. We'll be back to talk to him."
"You could talk to him now, Officer."
"He's home?"
"I saw him pulling that Corvette into the driveway around four thirty, never saw him leave. Gunning it, like he always does, Rufus was up at the window, all tense. Then an hour ago the Corvette starts up again only this time no gunning and Rufus is relaxed so I go check it out. Some other guy's driving it away. Some kid."
"How old of a kid?" said Milo.
"Didn't get a long look at him but I could see him through the open window and it sure wasn't Fidella."
"We talking teenager?"
"Could be. I really didn't see that good."
"Caucasian?"
"Not black, that's for sure," said Staubach.
"Hair color?"
"Couldn't tell you."
"Could he have been Hispanic?"
"All I can say is light enough so he wasn't black. Or maybe he was black but a light black. I figured maybe he's Fidella's kid, a divorce situation, Fidella never sees him, that would fit. With his character, you know?"
Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 15
