by David Chill
Lazar scowled. "I work better alone."
"Me, too," I added, although the idea was not totally unappealing. As annoying as Lazar was, he seemed bright and knew how to yank people's chains. I knew from personal experience that could be a blessing or a curse. "But I might be up for giving it a shot."
"I don't know about this, Virgil," he said.
"Do it as a favor to me. You might be surprised at what happens."
I thought for a moment. Between LAPD Detective Dennis Lally and Times Reporter Adam Lazar, I was getting my share of partners assigned to me. For someone who had left the LAPD to start my own agency, this wasn't quite what I had planned.
*
Adam Lazar said he'd meet me at the Stone Canyon School at 3:00 pm. I had a few hours to kill, so I tried Desiree Brown's apartment north of the USC campus, but she was still out. The apartment manager, a gruff man with a Deputy Dog accent, said it was hard to catch her, he only saw her periodically. The building was mostly students, he drawled, so in the early afternoon it was mostly empty. It took about 15 minutes of listening to him babble to come away with this information.
I began a slow, meandering drive along Sunset Boulevard, starting at the Harbor Freeway near downtown. The route snaked past the Echo Park bars near Dodger Stadium and wound its way through Silver Lake and Hollywood. When I worked plainclothes for the LAPD this was part of my territory. Over the years, some of these dilapidated neighborhoods had sprung back and began to regentrify, adding trendy shops and eateries. But sections of East Hollywood still had a ways to go. Eventually I passed the stately mansions of Beverly Hills and turned into the hills of Bel-Air. A few minutes later I made a right turn onto a private road that slithered upward for a quarter of a mile before opening into a sprawling, picturesque campus.
I managed to arrive at the Stone Canyon entrance about 30 minutes before I was supposed to meet Adam Lazar. Stopping at the guard station, I gave a friendly smile and a wave to the security officer on duty. He was wearing a dark green rent-a-cop uniform, wire-rimmed sunglasses, and looked professional and polished.
"Hello sir," he smiled. "You know, pickup isn't until 3:30 today."
I smiled back. "Yes, yes, I know," I said in my most jovial fatherly impersonation. In a few years I might have to actually embody this role. "My daughter forgot her sneakers. She has volleyball practice. Teenagers. You know."
The guard's smile continued. "Of course, sir," he said, and as he waved me in he added, "Your timing is perfect. The team starts practice in a few minutes. Big playoff game tomorrow."
I acknowledged this and drove down a smooth, jet black road, framed by perfectly mowed green grass on either side. The parking lot was almost full, but I noticed a black Toyota Prius pulling out of a space. The driver was in his late 50s and had a short white goatee. He waved and smiled. I waved and smiled. Everyone seemed so happy here.
The Stone Canyon campus was unlike any school I had ever visited. The buildings were new and the architecture was majestic. I wandered into the Oppenheim Theatre Complex and was treated to the sounds of about three dozen kids practicing for orchestra. The theater held around a thousand seats, all dark red and velvety. The walls and ceilings were painted black, and dramatic spotlights were shining directly on the young musicians. I spent a few minutes listening to a nice passage from Bach's Brandenburg Concertos before leaving them to their privacy.
Stepping outside, I asked a couple of polite kids where I could find the gym. They pointed me to an olive green structure, two buildings down. As I walked there, I passed a number of students. The girls were all dressed in tan skirts or shorts, with black tops, and the boys were all in tan khakis with black sweaters or golf shirts.
The Tucker Sports Complex had a plaque outside, honoring the family that had donated gobs of money toward building most of the athletic facilities. This included a gymnasium, which housed basketball and volleyball courts, as well as a gorgeous soccer field, an immaculate baseball diamond and an Olympic-size swimming pool. I walked into the gym and saw a group of about fifteen girls in black volleyball uniforms, tapping balls back and forth. I approached one of them.
"I'm looking for Riley Joyner," I said. "Would you mind pointing her out to me."
"Oh, sure," she said and extended her left arm in the direction of the far wall, where a couple of girls were doing their stretching. I approached and asked if one of them was Riley.
"That's me," said a tall girl with big brown eyes and a long, skinny nose. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a small ponytail.
"Can we talk for a moment?" I asked and motioned to the bleachers.
"I guess," she said, as she gave a questioning glance to the girl next to her.
"It's okay," I said and handed Riley my card. I didn't want to arouse suspicion by flashing my P.I. license. While that usually got the attention of the person I was speaking with, people nearby often noticed it as well. In a place like Stone Canyon, I did not want to run the risk of getting a quick escort out.
"I'm an investigator working for the governor."
Riley's eyes widened. "I don't know anything."
"About what?" I peered at her.
"About ... whatever. Molly. You know."
"Anything you can tell me about where Molly is would help," I said, watching her carefully. "As well as anything about Diego. Maybe start with what happened at the Coliseum."
Her big brown eyes grew even wider. "Look. We went to a football game on Saturday. Molly hooked up with Diego. I went home afterwards. What more can I tell you?"
"Hooked up," I repeated, knowing this could mean just about anything. "Can you tell me more about that?"
"She liked him. And I think he liked her."
"Good match?" I asked.
"I dunno. I guess. The whole thing now is just so sad."
"Sure is. Did Diego ever indicate he was in trouble in any way?"
"No," she said, now with a trace of annoyance. "And neither did Molly."
"You know where Molly might be?"
"I dunno," she said, her voice trailing away, and her eyes looking past me.
"Is she safe?"
"I guess."
"You guess?" I asked, with more than a trace of annoyance rising from my own voice. I didn't want to bully her, but she obviously knew more than she was letting on. "Molly's been missing for five days. The guy she's been romantically linked to was shot dead last night. And all you can say is 'I guess'?!"
"Hey," she said, taking a step backward. "You can't talk to me like that."
"I can talk any way I want. And unless you want to get dragged down to the police station and get grilled by the cops, you had better start talking about what you know, rather than what you don't know. You can get into some big trouble here."
"What? Do you know who my father is? He's a major donor to this school."
"Do you know I really don't care? But if you're withholding evidence in a kidnapping or a murder case, all your father can do is provide you with a pricey lawyer. And visit you on weekends up at the state prison in Lompoc."
Riley's cheeks started to flush. "Look. Molly's had a crappy life. You wouldn't know it, nobody would. Everyone thinks it's easy being Rex Palmer's daughter. They have no idea what she's dealing with."
I looked at her and decided to push the needle a little further. "Daughter of a governor. Sure. She's had it rough. Rich, famous. Who would want that?"
Riley's mouth opened in anger and disbelief. "You don't know what you're talking about. Molly felt her life couldn't get any worse. Diego came from a different world, but at least he had a family around, and people who cared about him."
"Diego's world was different from hers all right."
"Oh, how would you know? How would anyone know?"
"I don't," I said, my voice softening. "I'm just trying to understand all of this. I'm trying to find Molly and I'm trying to find out more about what happened to Diego. Anything you might know could help out here."
Riley drew si
lent for a moment. "Look, I might know where Molly could be," she finally said. "Let me, uh, ask around. But Diego? I don't know what happened to him. He was nice, I guess. But he lived in a bad neighborhood. Stuff happens."
"Sure," I said. "Look, anything you can do to help locate Molly would be appreciated. And you may not think much of her family, but I'm sure you can imagine her father is worried."
A look of anger flashed across her face again. "I don't know about that. Her father's too busy running the state."
I thought of something. "What about her mother?"
"Her mother is too busy with her own life. Planning fundraisers. Getting her nails done. Whatever. I doubt her mother even cares where she is."
"Okay," I sighed. "One last thing. There were a couple of other kids at the game with you last week. Where can I find them? I think their names are Alex and Connor."
"Alex is probably at football practice," she said. "But Connor's right over there. Shooting baskets."
She pointed to a tall, lanky kid at the far end of the floor. Most of the backboards had been raised to the ceiling to make way for volleyball practice, but a couple remained down. I said goodbye to Riley and walked across the gym. As I approached the basket, Connor sunk a 20-foot set shot.
"Swish," I said, gathering up the ball and tossing it back to him. "Connor Pierce?"
"That's me," he said, catching the basketball and tossing another shot straight into the basket. I picked up the ball again, but this time didn't pass it back to him. "Got a minute?"
"Sure," he said and walked over. He stuck out his hand. "I guess you know who I am."
"Yup," I said, shaking hands. "My name's Burnside."
"Are you a college scout?"
"Not exactly," I said. "Are you expecting one?"
"Just kidding. I start for the varsity, but I'm not in line for a scholarship. I'm a 6'2" forward. If I had another six inches, every D-1 college would be all over me."
"Funny how that works. Where are you thinking of going after Stone Canyon?"
"I've applied to Stanford for early decision, but it's 50-50. After that, I'm looking at Duke and Northwestern. Maybe Amherst. And if all else fails," he laughed, "there's always USC."
"That's not such a bad choice," I remarked.
"Where'd you go to college?"
"USC."
He blinked for a moment and then held up his hands. "Sorry man, no offense."
"None taken," I said. It's funny how one person's ceiling is another person's floor. USC was my only scholarship offer, and it was also my first choice. My mother had enough money saved to pay for the first two years at a state college. After that, I'd have needed student loans or financial aid. My mother said she'd help as much as she could, but that was before she got sick. When a scholarship offer came in from USC, it was one of the happiest days of my life.
"So I'm actually here on a different type of business," I said, handing him my business card.
"Wow," he said as he fondled the card. "Am investigator? How can I help you?"
"I need to ask you about Diego Garcia. And Molly Palmer."
"Oh. Diego, yeah. That was awful. Really terrible."
"Did you know him well?" I asked.
"I guess. It's not a big school here. Everyone sort of knows everyone."
"Diego have any enemies?"
Connor shrugged. "Hey man, it's high school. No one gets out of here without pissing someone off along the way," he said and then stopped. "But Diego was a good guy. Everyone liked Diego."
"Apparently not everyone."
"Oh. Yeah. I dunno. I can't imagine who would do such a thing. I read the police think it was a random drive-by. That's the only thing that could ever make sense. The person who did this? They probably didn't know him."
"Maybe not," I said. "Were you and Diego friends?"
"Not friends exactly. We were into different things. And we're all real busy. Schoolwork, sports, clubs. Plus, Diego worked part-time. At the Coliseum. Also at his father's store. Real crazy place, that neighborhood down there."
"You've been there?"
"I've driven through it. You know. On the way downtown to Laker games and stuff. It's a little scary, no one speaks English there, all the signs are in Spanish. It's like being in Tijuana."
I nodded. Scary indeed. The neighborhoods surrounding downtown had a far greater share of violent crime than those on the Westside of LA. Separated by less than 10 miles, but a world apart.
"Think Molly had any connection with what happened to Diego?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I can't imagine. She seemed to really like him."
"Have you heard from Molly since Saturday? I heard you went to the SC game with her and a few friends."
"Yeah. She got up in the 4th quarter, said she was going to the restroom or something, and then she never came back. She texted Riley and said she had found Diego and was going to hang out with him."
"You didn't go to the Coliseum in her car?"
"No. Molly doesn't drive. Weird, huh? We all went in my Prius."
"And you haven't heard anything since?"
"No," he said with a shrug. "But that's not unusual. Molly comes and goes."
"Were you and Molly close?"
"We went out for a little while this year. Nothing serious. We're still friends."
"Who ended it?"
"I dunno. Mutual, I guess. We didn't really break up. It just sort of stopped."
At that point my phone rang. It was Adam Lazar. It turned out the security guard was unaware of an interview with Loretta Moss, the head of school. Lazar was fuming when he told me the school had a strict policy of limiting access to the media. He said he had a plan to get in and would meet me at Ms. Moss's office in 10 minutes. I turned back to Connor.
"Okay, look. If you hear from Molly or you think of anything else, please give me a call."
"Yeah," he said. "Hey, is Molly in any trouble?"
"I don't know. I hope not. But she hasn't been home since Saturday."
"Okay," he shrugged. "But I'm sure she'll turn up. She always does."
Connor gave me directions to the office of the Head of School. I waited outside the building for what was close to 30 minutes before a rumpled Adam Lazar showed up. He had grass stains on his pants and I told him to remove a couple of leaves from his hair.
"I hiked up through the back entrance," he panted. "Knew about that from when we played Stone Canyon in soccer and I saw some cross country runners. Nice place to go jogging if your parents can cough up $40,000 a year."
"What happened with security?"
"Oh, I don't know," he said. "Virgil said he set up the appointment but that Nazi at the gate likes to throw his weight around. I tried to argue, but it didn't work. Had to take the long way in."
"I admire your tenacity," I said, scanning his disheveled appearance, "but not much else."
"How'd you get past Security?"
"To be honest, I lied a little. Old detective's trick."
Lazar shook his head as we walked into the administrative building. A minute later we were ushered into the office of Loretta Moss. She was a handsome woman in her late 40s, wearing a gray, tailored business suit with a low cut top that did little to hide what was clearly an extremely attractive figure. Standing behind her desk, she had a cross look on her face. She didn't invite us to sit down.
"Ms. Moss," Lazar began, "I'm a reporter ... "
"I know who you are," she interrupted him. "What I don't know is how you got in here. I believe our security guard sent you away."
Lazar's face contorted in mock outrage. Possibly even real outrage. "I think the public deserves to hear more about Diego Garcia. It's not a school issue."
"No, it's not. It's a tragic situation. And I can't comment on a criminal investigation."
"I think you might want to get out in front of this," I offered, trying to soften the tone Lazar had set. Good cop, bad cop. "This way you can define Diego before the police do."
; "What do you mean?"
"Right now he's just being considered the victim of a drive-by shooting. Gang-related. But he's a kid who was going to an elite prep school. It doesn't add up. None of this makes any sense. It won't make sense to the police. And it certainly won't make sense to the public."
Loretta Moss stared for a moment and finally motioned for us to sit. She plopped into a big overstuffed desk chair. "This is a terrible day for the school. Not to mention the family. Diego was not a typical Stone Canyon student, he was here on scholarship, and not an athletic scholarship. He was just someone in whom we saw potential, albeit with some risk."
"What do you mean you saw some risk?" Lazar asked.
"Every student we admit is thoroughly vetted. Academically, socially. They need to be a good fit for our program. We want our graduates to succeed once they leave Stone Canyon. It helps our reputation. We're like any other brand. We live and die by what we produce. And what we produce are successful students who turn into successful adults."
"I'm not sure I understand what you mean by brand here," I asked.
Loretta Moss considered this. "I ... I may have misspoken. It's been a tough day. We're like any other school. We want our students to do well."
It's interesting when people say they misspoke. They rarely do. Under stress, people sometimes reveal the unvarnished truth, and it's often inadvertent. According to Freud, there are no accidents, no slips of the tongue, just revelations that seep out. Stone Canyon was a brand all right. And a profit center. A student who makes the news for reasons other than athletic or academic achievement can adversely affect their business. And their brand.
With Lazar poking at her with more questions about Diego, Moss spoke glowingly about him. His fitting in, despite having a vastly different background from his classmates, was a testament to the school. After a few minutes of listening to this whitewash, I began to wonder if Loretta Moss should be running for political office herself; she seemed to know the drill. As she wound down her infomercial on how great a school Stone Canyon was, I decided to push on the other reason I was here.
"Tell me about Molly Palmer."
