"You figured Fidella loaned him his car."
"I guess... you're thinking the car got stolen?"
"Was the kid inside Fidella's house?"
"That I can't tell you. You're thinking this kid hot-wired it or something?"
"You're sure Fidella wasn't in the passenger seat?"
"I guess he could've been. All I saw was someone at the wheel."
Milo looked up and down the block. "There was enough light?"
Staubach pointed. "He passed right under that street lamp, Officer. I wouldn't tell you something I saw when I didn't."
"What was the kid wearing?"
"All I saw was his head," said Staubach. "That's my point, I'm not gonna make stuff up."
"Have there been any other car thefts in the neighborhood?"
"You know, last year, Mr. Feldman--he's an old man, his wife just died, that blue house with all the flowers. Last year, someone drove off in Mr. Feldman's Cadillac, middle of the night, rolled it right out of his driveway. It got found in East L.A., tires gone, the moonroof cut out. That's why you asked about Hispanic? Some kind of East L.A. gangbangers? Yeah, sure, he could've been."
"You saw this kid drive off an hour ago."
"What time is it now?"
"Nine fifteen."
"Then it's an hour and a quarter. So what's next, Officer?"
"I'll give Mr. Fidella another try."
"Great idea."
Milo said, "Looks like Rufus is itching for his walk."
"Already walked him," said Staubach.
"Then I guess he deserves a nice rest."
"Wha--oh, sure, I'll stay out of your way. But keep in touch, okay? We're a block likes to know what's going on."
Another try at Fidella's front door brought the same result.
He peered across the street at Staubach's house. Neatly pleated drapes ruffled as someone moved.
I said, "Your year for helpful citizens."
"Must be El Nino."
We continued up Fidella's cracked driveway. The yard was an unlit patch of dirt or grass--too dark to tell which. High hedges loomed on three sides. The rear door was wood set with a glass panel. The single garage was bolted shut.
No illumination. Milo pulled out his little fiber-optic flashlight, held it high, the way cops are trained to do, aimed at a rusty light fixture over the rear door. "Empty socket, lots of rust. Sal's behind in his maintenance." A rap on the panel was followed by silence. He cast a cool white beam over the property.
Mostly dirt, some weeds, a single struggling orange tree. The hedge was ficus, worn bare in spots by disease and backed by cement block.
A second go-round, closer to the rear of the property, picked up something lying near the hedge.
What looked to be a roll of carpeting. Closer inspection showed it to be a cloth tube, fattened by substantial content.
Giant sausage.
Person-sized sausage.
Milo held me back instinctively, inched forward, scanned. Stopped.
Clamping the flashlight in one armpit, he gloved up. Lit up the dirt separating him from the package. Bent at the knees.
"Footprints... looks like some sort of sneaker."
Shifting to the left, he skirted the prints, checked the ground for other signs of disruption, inched his way toward the roll of cloth. Stooping, he held the flashlight in his teeth, peeled back a corner of sheeting.
"Bald head," he announced. "Cracked like an egg, lots of blood."
He got up, walked backward. "Can't move anything until the C.I. gets here but anyone taking bets this ain't Sal?"
I said, "No good odds on that one."
Three hours later, Fidella's body had been taken to the crypt. Blood spatter freckled the kitchen of the house, including some fairly heavy ceiling castoff. A pool cue coated with skin and brain matter stood propped in a corner, bloody sneaker prints trailed through the hallway near the linen closet. Under strong light, red specks darkening the dirt outside grew visible.
Despite all the blood, no sign of a struggle. Milo's working hypothesis was a blunt-force blitz near the kitchen sink, followed by wrapping of the body in a blanket and three fitted sheets taken from the linen closet and a dump in a corner of the yard. No argument from the C.I. or anyone else.
Techs dusted and processed. Van Nuys uniforms guarded the yellow tape out front. A gray-haired, stoop-shouldered Van Nuys detective named Wally Fishell showed up after the body was gone, looking sleepy and put-upon. After getting the facts from Milo, he said, "I'm happy to work with you, Lieutenant, but if you see this as fruit from the tree you planted, that's fine with me."
"Meaning farewell and good luck."
"If that's your preference," said Fishell.
"Because you're a pal."
Fishell looked as if he'd been slapped. "I'm not dumping, I don't want to get in your way is all."
"No prob."
"Look, whatever you want, Lieutenant. I been working like a dog, supposedly I'm off. The plan was to spend time with my granddaughter. She lives in San Mateo, I don't get to see her often enough."
"Go home, then."
"Naw, it's okay, I'm here already."
"Forget it," said Milo. "This is definitely gonna hook into mine."
"You have an idea who killed him?"
"Probably the same person who killed my vic."
Fishell waited.
Milo said, "That's as far as it's gotten. Go home and enjoy the granddaughter. How old is she?"
"Five."
"Great age."
"You bet. We were watching Dora the Explorer," said Fishell. "That's a cartoon show--you got kids?"
"Nope."
"Oh," said Fishell. "Well, thanks, I get back now I can finish Dora."
We waited around longer, in case the crime scene crew came up with anything dramatic.
No signs of forced entry. Fidella's slippers and three empty beer bottles with Fidella's prints were found in the living room.
No prints on the pool cue, probably wiped clean. Same for a bloodstained leather case. Screening the house for physical evidence would stretch until morning. No sign of any computers, but clear space on a bedroom desk and an old laser printer in the closet suggested a linkup had once existed.
Fidella's cell phone lay on the bed. Milo checked recent calls. Nothing since morning. He returned the phone to a tech admiring the murder weapon.
"Look at this, Lieutenant. Ivory handle, probably genuine. And this is real cute." Eyeing a middle section of rosewood imprinted with silver hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds.
"This cost some serious bucks, Lieutenant. No table in the house so he probably took it with him to bars, pool halls, whatever."
"Or the killer brought the cue with him."
"And risk damaging something so cool?" said the tech.
"Depends on the payoff."
"For what?"
"Bashing in Mr. Fidella's skull."
"Oh. I guess, maybe."
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 hi
s 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.
Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 16
