"You lock me up, I do what you say and you still lock me up."
"That weed locked you up."
"That no mine."
Milo flashed him a pitying look.
"Weed," said Chavez, "is jus a ticket."
"Not that much weed, Gilberto."
Tears filmed Chavez's eyes.
Milo said, "Do your best for me and I'll help you."
"Fine, fine, fine! You want me look say yes, I say yes." Jabbing the first page. "This one. This one. And this one, I give you three, okay? You want four, five? Okay, this one and--"
"Settle down, Gilberto."
"Madre de Dios--they no here!"
"Go through it one more time," said Milo. But his heart wasn't in it.
CHAPTER
27
Milo slouched back to his office. Tried the lab again for prints in the Corvette.
The car had been wiped clean.
He knuckled both eyes. "Yeah, yeah, he's that careful but leaves the damn hat out in plain view. Maybe it fell off his damn head when he lit the damn fire and he got scared and ran. Figured the damn blaze would get rid of damn everything."
I said nothing.
"Don't use that attitude with me, sonny." He called San Antonio PD about the first drive-by of Gisella Mendoza's place.
Been and gone, no sign of unusual activity.
"When in doubt, gluttony."
At Cafe Moghul the bespectacled woman heaped his plate with every item on the buffet, added lobster just out of the tandoori.
"At least somebody loves me," he muttered, tucking a napkin under his chins.
The woman beamed.
As he finished his third bowl of rice pudding, Sean Binchy entered the restaurant. "Wouldn't bug you but some guy called twice in the last half hour, Loot, says it's about Martin Mendoza. I tried your cell but it was off."
Milo fumbled in his pocket, flipped the phone open. "Switched off by accident." Glancing at me. "Unless Freud was right and there are no accidents."
I said, "Freud was wrong about lots of things but this one I'll leave up to you."
"Huh." He turned to Binchy. "What'd this guy have to say about Mendoza?"
"No details, just that he wants to talk to you."
"How did he know to ask for me?"
"Beats me, Loot." Binchy pulled out his pad. "Name's Edwin Kenten, here's the number."
"Kenten phoned personally?"
"Yup. Why wouldn't he?"
"What I've been told, he's a guy gets people to do things for him."
Edwin Kenten put the lie to that by answering his own phone. His voice was nasal, thin, softened by a musical accent--wetlands Florida, southern Georgia.
"Lieutenant Sturgis, thanks for calling back promptly."
"No problem, Mr. Kenten. Who referred you to me?"
"Marty Mendoza's family gave me your name and it's Marty I'd like to talk to you about. I know you're extremely busy, sir, but if there's some way we could meet, I'd be grateful. We could have tea in my office. I'm in Westwood, Wilshire near Broxton."
"What's a good time, Mr. Kenten?"
"At your convenience, Lieutenant."
"I can be there in twenty."
"I'll leave your name with my parking man."
A gracious fourteen-story office building clad in limestone and brick and crowned by hand-carved moldings took up the southwest corner of Wilshire and Glendon.
Butting up against all that architecture was Edwin Kenten's fifteen-story headquarters, an assertively ugly off-white rectangle striped with garish blue glass.
"The gift," said Milo, "and the box it came in."
KNT Enterprises took up the top floor of the shipping carton, accessible by a key-operated elevator marked Private. The parking lot attendant was built like a bouncer, with a wide smile as deep as a decal. Phoning for authorization, he produced the key, turned twice. "Mr. K.'s ready for you. Have a nice day."
We stepped into a windowless, off-white waiting room carpeted in shag the color of a puppy's accident. An unmarked door at the rear was painted matte gray. The amenities consisted of four folding chairs haphazardly positioned, a coffee table hosting a jar of crumbling biscotti, a few plastic bottles of generic water, and two leaning-tower heaps of old magazines.
The man waiting for us was sixty-five to seventy, pudgy and bald on top with gray curls tufting above leprechaun ears. A powder-blue silk shantung shirt billowed over pink linen pants and white patent loafers. The shirt matched the man's curious eyes. The trousers color-coordinated with a diamond pinkie ring. The face of his wristwatch was larger than some cell phones.
He inspected both of us, guessed correctly. "Lieutenant? Eddie Kenten."
"Good to meet you, sir. This is Alex Delaware."
"Pleasure. You boys come in."
Kenten's sunburned face was a near-perfect sphere. Same for his torso and abdominal region, as if a trio of apples had been stacked carelessly. When he turned toward the door, each segment rolled with eerie independence. He appeared on the brink of falling apart and I felt myself tensing up to prevent disaster.
We followed him past a maze of plain-wrap cubicles. Twenty or so people worked quietly at phones and computers. Kenten waved to a few, smiled at everyone. Continuing toward the requisite corner office, he exuded gingery aftershave that hit us in gusts.
His personal space was predictably vast with blue-glass walls, but northern and western vistas were blocked by taller structures. To the east, the tops of Wilshire Corridor condos were barely visible. Only the southern view was free and clear: miles of houses and low-profile shopping sinking into the flight paths over Inglewood. Everything clouded by a milk-chocolate puff of smog.
A cheap-looking desk was heaped with papers where it wasn't crowded with framed snapshots. Some of the pictures were positioned for visitor viewing: a younger, thinner, crew-cut Kenten in formal army dress marrying a bony woman nearly a head taller, a slew of kids and grandkids in various stages of development.
A circular folding banquet table and plastic chairs served as the conference area. A plug-in kettle, tea bags strewn loosely, and more crumbling biscotti were the refreshments du jour.
Kenten said, "Can I pour for you fellows?"
"No, thanks, sir."
"You don't mind if I indulge, do you?" Ripping open a packet of Earl Grey, Kenten poured, steeped, pawed a biscotti, chewed noisily, unmindful of crumbs on his shirtfront.
Blowing into the teacup, he pursed his lips. "Nice and hot... thank you for coming."
"What can we do for you, Mr. Kenten?"
"Everyone calls me Eddie. I'll come right to the point: The Mendozas are worried you're looking into Marty as having something to do with the death of Ms. Elise Freeman. I'm here to tell you Marty had nothing to do with it."
"You know that because--"
"Because I know Marty, Lieutenant. I'm the one who brought him to Prep." Kenten put down his tea. "I thought I'd done him a favor."
"You feel differently now?"
"With the police chasing after him?" Challenging words, but twinkly eyes and grandfatherly cheer.
"We're not chasing him, Mr. Kenten. We'd like to talk to him."
"Why?"
"We can't get into that right now."
"Kind of a catch-22?" said Kenten.
"No, sir. Just the early stages of an investigation."
"A murder investigation." Head shake. "Never thought I'd be talking to the police about murder. Especially in regard to Marty. Trust me, Lieutenant, he had absolutely nothing to do with Ms. Freeman's death."
"He's told you that?"
Kenten put down his teacup. "No. I'm being logical."
"How well did you know Ms. Freeman?"
"I knew of her," said Kenten. "By reputation."
"What reputation was that, sir?"
"Sexually inappropriate."
"Marty told you that?"
Kenten lifted the cup. "She tutored many students, not just Marty."
"You hea
rd it from another kid at Prep?"
"At this point," said Kenten, "I'd prefer not to get into those details. Suffice it to say they don't impact your investigation."
"I should be the judge of that, Mr. Kenten."
"Lieutenant, I didn't need to call you in the first place, so please don't punish civic responsibility. Let's just say that Ms. Freeman had acquired what you people would call a jacket--that is the correct term?"
Milo said, "A jacket is a criminal history, backed up by an official record."
"Well, then, let's say Ms. Freeman had acquired a... sweater. Something jacket-like--a cardigan."
Kenten chuckled. Encountered two stoic faces.
"Please forgive me, I'm not making light of her death. Terrible, terrible thing, no one should die unnaturally. I'm just saying she trod on shaky grounds with some male students, so perhaps you should broaden your focus."
"Sure," said Milo. "Give me some names."
"Someone I know--not Marty--talked to me in strict confidentiality. Someone with only thirdhand knowledge, so there'd be no point."
"School gossip?" said Milo.
"I'm sorry, that's all I can say."
"She was a cougar so she had to die?"
"Pardon?"
"You said no one should have to die unnaturally. That sounds as if she'd been sentenced."
Kenten massaged a freckled dome. "I thought I left that kind of parsing behind when I dropped out of law school. It was a figure of speech, Lieutenant. Look, I sympathize with Ms. Freeman and her family. I'm sure they're devastated. And I'm certain you'll eventually get to the bottom of it. But I'm here to tell you that the sooner you get away from chasing Marty, the sooner you'll succeed. He's a fine boy, I'd be proud to call him one of my own, and I've got six of my own, as well as nine grandchildren with two more on the way. So I'd like to think I'm a pretty good judge of juvenile character and Marty's character is sterling. The same applies to his family, you'll never meet more upstanding, industrious people. I found out about Marty through Emilio. He works at my club and we've become friends."
Mistaking subservience for friendship, the way rich, delusional people do.
Milo said, "You've called us here for the sole purpose of offering character testimony?"
"Forgive me if I've wasted your time," said Kenten. "However, this isn't some situation where a friend of a friend asks me to write their offspring a letter to get them into Prep or Yale. I'm familiar with this boy's character in depth."
"You went to Yale?"
"Class of 'fifty-two, graduated at the bottom of my class, started law school, quit and went to Korea. You're ex-military, correct? Combat or ancillary?"
"I was a medic."
"That's combat," said Kenten. "I was ancillary. Monitoring inventory at one of the larger armories in Seoul. Taught me all about people, no need to get an M.B.A. after that."
"Glad it was a good experience for you, sir."
"Vietnam," said Kenten, "was a whole different ball of paraffin. My eldest, Eddie Junior, serviced helicopters, still won't talk about it. In any event, back to Marty: wonderful boy, bright, industrious, but for that blasted accident he'd be destined for stardom. Even with the injury, I'm holding out hope. The key is for him to take care of the shoulder, avoid undue stress. I'm afraid your chasing him doesn't help."
"Where's Marty now, Mr. Kenten?"
"Why are you after him?"
"I'd like an answer to my question, sir."
"What makes you think I know his whereabouts?"
"You're his mentor."
"And I'd be happy to mentor him now. Unfortunately, my efforts to reach him have failed, the poor boy's so frightened, who knows where he's gone?"
Kenten drank tea. "I'm surprised, Lieutenant."
"At what?"
"You didn't come back with the standard warning about aiding and abetting."
"Are you aiding and abetting, sir?"
Kenten laughed. "Hardly. I'm available to Emilio and Anna for support is all."
"For Marty, as well."
"Should he ask."
"If he does contact you, Mr. Kenten, you'll need to let me know."
"And you'll go straight to your boss."
"Pardon?" said Milo.
"No need to be coy, Lieutenant. We both know your boss's boy attends Prep and that raises the stakes. Needless to say, Marty or someone like him would be a much better suspect than a student from the right zip code."
"If you've got other students I should be looking at, Mr. Kenten, give me their names."
"If I did, I'd have already given them to you. Two things I do know: Marty's not involved and the chief's situation raises the risk of tunnel vision."
"The chief and everyone else in the department is interested in arresting the right offender for both cases."
"Both?"
"Yesterday, Ms. Freeman's boyfriend was beaten to death, his car stolen from his driveway. A young man was seen driving it away. I just returned from a dump site where the victim's car was found partially burned. All the contents had been removed except for a baseball cap that may have fallen off during the arson. Dark blue cap with what looks to be a gold S."
Kenten's cup held steady. So did his eyes. "That's your evidence? A baseball cap?"
"A South El Monte Eagles baseball cap."
"Marty hasn't pitched for them for over a year."
"It's not exactly a commonplace garment."
Kenten looked away. "I'm sure there's an explanation--anyone can buy a baseball cap."
"I'm sure your intentions were noble, sir, but from what I've heard, public school was a happier place for Marty than Prep. That would be good reason for him to hold on to a memento."
Silence.
"Sir, have you ever seen a cap like that in Marty's house?"
"I've never been to Marty's house."
"Has he been to yours?"
"I've had the entire family over for cookouts and such--we've got a fire pit, a game court, access to the beach, my grandchildren call it the Fun House. Marty hung out with my grandchildren. Does that tell you about my level of trust? There's no violence in the boy, Lieutenant."
"He ever show up wearing a hat like that? Blue with--"
"Never," Kenten snapped. "Never saw anything like that."
"We haven't latched on to him randomly, Mr. Kenten. Elise Freeman was frightened of him."
"That's ridiculous."
"Spoken like a mentor."
Kenten's blue eyes hardened. "Given your unique perspective about me, I can understand your skepticism. But mark my words, Lieutenant: You won't solve your case--your cases--until you take off the blinders and stop pursuing Marty."
"Marty could help himself by showing up and submitting to an interview."
Kenten rose and rolled toward the door. "I've done my best to educate you. If I've frittered away your time, I'm truly regretful."
Milo said, "What did you mean by my 'unique perspective'?"
"Oh, come now, Lieutenant."
"I'm serious."
Kenten eyed him. "I'll take you at your word. What I meant was you need to be thinking about your boss's role in this investigation. Because of my involvement."
"How so, Mr. Kenten?"
"I was asked to serve on the Ad Hoc Public Safety Committee searching for a new police chief. I interviewed your boss and found him an interesting, capable man. But I had reservations about his judgment and his temperament. One example of his weaknesses in those areas was his pressing me to commit to hiring him early in the interview. Needless to say, I resisted, but apparently not with sufficient clarity, because he left that meeting convinced I supported him unconditionally. Nothing could've been further from the truth, though part of the blame may rest with me. I'm not one to confront, so he probably mistook lack of debate for assent. When it came time to vote on him--an allegedly confidential process--I was a dissenting voice. Since that time, he's convinced I sandbagged him."
Kenten plinked one elfin ear.
"Lieutenant, don't tell me the moment he made the link between Marty and myself he didn't inform you of his version."
"Lieutenants and police chiefs don't meet regularly for tea, sir."
"That may be so, sir, but this particular chief meets with this particular lieutenant." Kenten took hold of the doorknob. Twisted, released, let his arms drop as if suddenly exhausted.
"Lieutenant Sturgis, I'm going to leave you with something to chew on: Your name came up during that first interview."
Milo blinked but remained impassive. "Did it?"
"Oh, yes," said Kenten. "He cited you as an example of what a tolerant fellow he was. I'm paraphrasing but his little speech went something like this: 'You know, Ed, there's a detective in the department named Sturgis, queerer than a second left shoe but does the job. Someone else would be put off by that lifestyle, but I keep my personal feelings of revulsion to myself as long as he continues to do the job. Send me a three-eyed, albino dwarf chimpanzee who can clear felonies, Ed, and I'll make sure it gets regular promotions.'"
Milo said, "That hasn't happened yet but we do have some knuckle-dragging primates in the department."
"Lieutenant, 'queerer than a second left shoe' is a verbatim quote. At the time, I wondered why he brought up the matter of homosexuality just to make a point. Years later, when I found out what he was saying about me, I figured it out. Not only does he think I'm insincere, he's convinced I'm gay. For the record, I'm not, though if I was I'd be comfortable with it. Any idea why he thinks that of me?"
"Why, sir?"
"I've donated substantial money to AIDS research, five million just at the U. Want to guess why I did that, Lieutenant?"
"You thought it was a good cause, sir."
"There are lots of good causes, Lieutenant. I prioritized AIDS because Major Andrew Jack Kenten, one of the finest fighter pilots the United States Air Force has ever produced, but more important a kid brother I raised after our parents died, was one of the first Americans to die of the plague. Your boss never took the time to learn that because his perspective makes it impossible for him to understand why anyone would operate outside a narrow range of selfish interest."
Kenten twisted the doorknob again. Smiled. "To be fair, I have been known to wear pastels from time to time."
"I see that, sir."
Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 19
