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.
Officer Bostic said, "He claims to be Hector Ruiz but he also claims to live near movie stars."
"That's my name," said the man.
Milo said, "I'll take it from here, thanks," and Bostic left. "Mr. Ruiz, how're things in B.H.?"
Hector Ruiz said, "The guy in anteater shirt," in barely accented English.
"What about him?"
"I know him." Ruiz rotated his wrists, tugged the side of his mouth into a grotesque demi-smile.
Milo said, "I'm waiting."
"I need to get out."
"Next time you get arrested, make sure it's in L.A. and it'll be a snap."
"Please," said Ruiz.
"Tell me about Anteater."
"Please," Ruiz repeated. "My wife coming from Juarez. She can't know."
"You got arrested for the same thing two weeks ago, Hector."
"That was a ticket," said Ruiz. "This time they take me in."
"That's called being a repeat offender."
"Please. I got no bail money, they gonna keep me here, she coming two days."
"Tough lady?"
Ruiz pressed a palm against a temple. "Oh, man."
"I'm LAPD, Hector. Most I can do is talk to Culver City Vice."
"Why just talk? Do," said Ruiz. "You say you gran patron."
"In L.A."
"They lie to me, she was a cop." Ruiz outlined female curves. "They give her the hot pants and the boots, she say I blow you for thirty."
"The boots'll do it every time," said Milo.
"She say she blow me before I say nothing."
"Clear case of entrapment, Hector."
"I need out tomorrow."
"Mrs. Ruiz isn't arriving for two days."
"I need clean the house."
"Hiding the evidence, huh?"
"I need out."
"What's Anteater's name and where can I find him?"
"Get me out I tell you," said Ruiz.
Milo leaned in close. "It doesn't work that way, Hector. And just giving me information won't be enough until I make sure it's worth more than your I.D. card."
Ruiz looked away. "What you want with him?"
"Not your business, Hector, but if you want the wife to be happy, I need him in custody."
No answer.
"Comprende, Hector?"
"I know English."
"And a good English it is." Milo shot a cuff, checked his Timex.
Hector Ruiz said, "You promise to help me?"
"Once I've got Mr. Shirt in custody."
"Okay, okay, okay, he live in my apartment."
"You're roommates?"
"No, no, same building. He number five, the bottom. I number seven, the top."
Milo suppressed a smile. "Beverly Hills?"
"No, no, here," said Ruiz. "Culver City. Venice Boulevard, near the freeway."
Out came the pad. "Address."
Ruiz tugged his mouth. Complied.
"Now I need a name, Hector."
"Gilberto," said Ruiz. "Gilberto Chavez, he say he a painter, in Juarez he never paint, just drywall and no good at drywall."
"One of those darn painter wannabes," said Milo.
"Don't say I the one tell you."
"What else do you know about Mr. Chavez?"
"He smoke a lot." Miming a two-fingered cigarette grasp, Ruiz brought his hand to his mouth, scrunched his eyes, hollowed his cheeks, gave a goofy look.
"Marihuana que fumar," said Milo.
"All the time," said Ruiz. "That's what they pay him with."
"Who?"
"Kids."
"What kids?"
"They pay him with weed to buy dry ice. He say lucky day."
"Tell me about these kids, Hector."
"That's all he say. Kids."
"How many?"
Ruiz shook his head. "That's all he say."
Milo waited.
Ruiz said, "You got to get me out before Lupe come."
"If you've done your best, Hector, I'll do mine. Tell me about the kids."
"That's what he say." Crossing himself. "Kids, that's all."
Milo headed for the door.
Hector Ruiz said, "Please."
A call to a Vice D named Gerald Santostefano revealed that Ruiz was scheduled for release in three hours due to overcrowding at the jail.
"Why'd you take him in to begin with?"
"He's a chronic, Lieutenant."
"Likes the ladies, huh?"
"Likes 'em in boots, real pest," said Santostefano. "You know what it's like, we can't get 'em unless we nab 'em in the act. We put one of our cuter rookies in a pair of knee-high white plastics with stacked heels, he was toast."
"There's an idea for Project Runway."
Santostefano cracked up.
Milo said, "Any way you can keep him in for a while?"
"What's a while?"
"Until I call you and let you know his info's good."
"Well," said Santostefano, "I got no personal problem with that but it's a jail issue. Who's on shift there?"
"Officer Bostic."
"Shirronne's okay, I can maybe get her to lose paper
for another few hours. Beyond that, I can't promise."
Milo thanked him.
"Hey," said Santostefano. "Who knows, maybe one day I'll need you."
"Not for fashion advice."
The building besmirched a corner lot on the south side of Venice just west of Sepulveda. Two gloomy stories of cracked, gray stucco were rust-striped like a tabby cat. Waist-high chain link boxed in a yard coated with powdery brown dust. Cans and bottles and trash bags had been kicked into a corner. Errant flecks of garbage dotted the dirt near the doorway.
During the quarter hour we watched the premises, two Hispanic males left and three others entered, the third swaggering arm in arm with a chubby, heavily made-up woman wearing a floral micro-dress.
Gilberto Chavez, aspiring housepainter, didn't show up in DMV, AutoTrack, or any other database, making the surveillance guesswork.
Milo watched another man enter. "Could be any one of them." A few more minutes passed, then: "Might as well."
Unit Five was at the rear of the ground floor. A bumper sticker issued by a Spanish A.M. station was glued diagonally across the door.
Milo put one hand near his Glock and knocked three times.
The door opened and the sweet, vegetative aroma of marijuana blew out.
The man who blinked at us in surprise was small--five four, tops, with thick black hair that shrouded his forehead and grazed the top of bushy eyebrows. The eyes below were brown meatballs floating in hot-pink soup. His mouth hung open, showcasing half the teeth he'd grown by six.
He was dressed for stoner comfort in loose, grubby pale blue sweatpant shorts and a T-shirt. The tee was white, three sizes too big, emblazoned with the UC Irvine logo in gold lettering and an anteater of matching hue. The animal was caricatured in profile, extravagantly snouted, hipster-slouching in a way that evoked Robert Crumb.
Milo said, "Gilberto Chavez?"
The man blinked. "Ah... no."
"On the contrary, ah yes."
Chavez tried to close the door. Milo had him spun around, cuffed, patted, and trundling toward the curb before Chavez got out another denial. One of the sweatpant pockets gave up Mexican I.D., a tin of organic rolling papers, and a Baggie of clean-looking marijuana.
"No Gilberto," he insisted.
"That Juarez driver's license sure looks like you."
"No Gilberto."
"Gimme a break," said Milo.
"Okay."
Milo stared down at his diminutive quarry. "Okay, what?"
"I Gilberto."
"So glad we've reached a consensus."
"No my weed."
We waited until traffic thinned to cross Venice, put Chavez in the car. The dope reek embedded in his clothes saturated the interior and Milo cranked open a window. "Tell me about dry ice, Gilberto."
"Huh?"
"Kids paying you to buy dry ice."
"Huh?"
"Last week, in the Valley. Some kids gave you marijuana after you bought them dry ice."
Blank stare from Chavez.
"Hielo seco," said Milo. "Muy frio. Some kids asked you to--"
"Oh," said Chavez, grinning broadly.
"Something's funny, Gilberto?"
Chavez turned serious. "This no about weed?"
"It's about dry ice."
"What the problem?"
"No problem, just tell me about the kids."
"Girls."
"The kids were girls?"
"Oh, yeh, nice," said Chavez. "Very nice."
"How many?"
"Two."
"How old?"
"I dunno."
"Guess."
"Huh?"
"How old?"
"Eighteen?"
"Why'd they want dry ice?"
"I dunno."
"How much weed they give you?"
Silence.
Milo dug up a business card and flashed it in front of Chavez's bloodshot orbs. "See what it says here? Homicide. I don't care about dope."
Chavez's blank look said he wasn't processing. Illiteracy or too much THC.
"Homicide, Gilberto. Know what that is?"
"Someone get kill?"
"Yes, Gilberto."
"So?"
"So the ice you bought was involved in someone being killed."
Chavez's mouth dropped open. Anxiety burned through some of his high and his eyes sharpened. "Oh, no. No no, no, no, no!"
"Yes, yes, yes. Tell me about the two girls."
"I dint do nothin'."
"Then you have nothing to worry about."
"I dint do nothin'."
"Okay. Now tell me about the girls."
"I dint do nothin'."
We drove Chavez to West L.A. station where a claustrophobic solo cell was available because no psychotics were in residence in the holding jail. Milo's repeated attempts to open Chavez up failed. He seemed to drop in and out of lucidity.
We left him curled on the floor, snoring, and climbed to Milo's office on the second floor. He shuffled through messages, tossed everything.
"There's enough product in that bag to keep him here on a possession with intent. Maybe jail food'll convince him to look at pictures of those girls."
"You think they're in a mug book?"
"I think they're in another book. Let's get outta here."
This time we drove straight up to the Windsor Prep guardhouse. Herb Walkowicz emerged, khakis pressed, an old-fashioned visor cap jaunty on his head. "Hey, guys, gonna get me in trouble again?"
"We'll do our best," said Milo. "Dr. Rollins in?"
"Since eight a.m." Eye roll. "Unless she climbed over a back fence or something without snagging her designer pantsuit. She in trouble?"
"I just need to talk to her."
Walkowicz looked disappointed. "I'd like to see that one in an interview room without her damn BlackBerry."
"Not a pleasant gal, Herb?"
"You could say that." Wink wink. "You could also say she's a tight-assed, snobby bitch. But you never heard that from me."
"What about her boss?"
"Dr. Helfgott? He's okay, not around much. Day to day, Rollins runs the place."
"Know any of the teachers?"
"Know 'em by sight, that's all," said Walkowicz. "Everyone goes in and out, I'm in my cage watching. The invisible man. Take my advice: Don't retire, just die on the job."
"I'm working on that, Herb."
Walkowicz laughed. "So you want to go in? I got a key to that big front gate. Only problem is, I have to let the office know before I let anyone through and when Rollins finds out it's you she's for sure gonna make a stink. Last time she told me not to let you get within twenty feet."
"Call her and tell her we're being obnoxious, then put me on the line."
"Yeah," said the guard. "That would be better."
Ten minutes later, Mary Jane Rollins emerged swinging a royal-blue book bag marked with the school's crest. She wore a charcoal pin-striped pantsuit, red flats, a withering frown.
"Here." Thrusting the bag. "I'm sure you could've gotten one on eBay."
"Nothing like straight from the source," said Milo. "How much is it gonna cost me?"
"Oh, please. What I don't see is why you need it to identify Martin. You already know what he looks like."
"It's called careful documentation, Doctor."
"Of what?"
"Everything associated with a case."
"So Martin is... we still haven't seen him. Not for days."
Matter-of-fact, not the least bit upset.
I said, "What's he like, Dr. Rollins?"
"In what sense?"
"What kind of kid is he, personality-wise?"
"I have no idea."
"While he was here you didn't have much contact with him?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary."
"No special attention," I said, "despite his circumstances."
"We were acutely aware of his circumstances. That's why we paid to hire a tutor for him. Obviously that didn't work
out."
Irritation, not a trace of horror.
"So he got no other help besides tutoring?"
"Such as?"
"Counseling, maybe from someone on the faculty who knew him well."
"Sir," she said, "we have two hundred and ninety-three students preselected for intelligence, character, and the ability to reason independently. That means minimal need for babysitting."
"Other than academic tutoring."
"That is a matter among students, their families, and their tutors. Our paying was an additional courtesy we extended Martin. Obviously, it didn't work out as we'd hoped. Now, in the future, if you people believe there's something you absolutely must have immediately, use the phone." Crooked smile. "During these days of fiscal austerity, I'd think city agencies would prefer to save on gasoline."
Milo said, "We like the personal touch."
"Good day, gentlemen."
"Thanks for your cooperation, Doctor."
"I'm not cooperating," said Rollins. "I'm acquiescing."
When she was back behind the gates, Herb Walkowicz whistled softly through his teeth. "Welcome to my world."
"Working with Stan Creighton was better, Herb?"
"Let me tell you something about Stan. He used to be a good guy before he got involved."
"Involved with what?"
"Suits and weenies and other assorted bullshit artists," said Walkowicz. His mouth tightened. "Kinda people send their kids to a place like this."
As we headed to the car, Milo reached into the blue bag and drew out last year's Windsor Prep yearbook.
Three-hundred-plus gilt-edged pages bound in royal-blue calfskin. Each student's headshot in full, high-def color.
I said, "Nice production values."
"Only the best for show-pooches." He inspected a few photos. "Some of them even look happy."
Gilberto Chavez remained curled on the floor of his cell.
"He been that way all this time?" Milo asked the uniform on duty.
"For the most part. He peed once, we made him clean it up. Hey, Dr. Delaware, how come the deceptive ones always sleep like babies?"
I said, "Minimal or no conscience."
Milo said, "Pop the lock on Rip Van Winkle."
The uniform opened the cell, made sure the door clanged loud. Chavez stirred but but didn't awaken. When Milo called out his name, he opened his eyes briefly before clamping them shut.
Milo toed his shoulder. "Sit up. Now."
Chavez groaned, struggled to his elbows, finally complied with theatrical sluggishness. Milo took him by the shoulder, propped him up, slid him to the edge of the bench. Flipping the yearbook to the freshman page, he placed it on Chavez's lap.
Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 17
