Deception

CHAPTER

21

L.A. County hosts scores of golf courses but exclusive enclaves for the big-rich number less than a dozen.

Milo began with the Westside, used his suddenly defunct rank to get through to human resource directors. Success on the third try: Emilio Mendoza was a waiter at Mountain Crest Country Club.

I’d been there a few years ago, as the lunch guest of a psychiatric entrepreneur wooing me to direct a nonprofit home for wayward children. Amiable meal, but the devil had messed up the details and I’d declined, despite a great steak. Soon after, the home closed down in a corruption scandal.

The club occupied lovely, rolling bluffs where Pacific Palisades abuts Malibu. By the sixth hole, ocean views distract. Stout fees and extensive vetting limit the membership to people of a certain type. That day at lunch the only dark faces had been those of the staff; I wondered if Emilio Mendoza had been the one to place a platter-sized rib eye before me as if it were a sacrament.

The HR woman on the phone said, “He’s at work, I’ll have him call you.”

Milo said, “It would be better if I talk to him now, ma’am.”

“May I ask what this is concerning?”

“A family matter,” said Milo.

“Emilio’s family?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The police—oh, dear. You’re not saying something terrible has happened?”

“Terrible things happen all the time, but Mr. Mendoza’s family is fine.”

“Then why—”

“If you’d prefer, I can drop by, talk to him in person. Maybe shoot a few holes.”

“Hold on, I’ll try to find him.”

A few minutes later, a soft, lightly accented male voice said, “This is Emilio.”

Milo misrepresented himself again as still active, but made no mention of homicide. “Sorry for bothering you, Mr. Mendoza, but I need to talk to Martin.”

“Martin?” Marteen, emphasis on the second syllable. “Why, sir?”

“It’s concerning his tutor, Elise Freeman.”

“Her,” said Mendoza. “She’s no longer his tutor.”

“She’s no longer anyone’s tutor, sir. She’s deceased.”

“You’re kidding—my God, that’s terrible. The police? She was hurt by someone? Why do you need to talk to Martin?”

“We’re talking to all her former students, Mr. Mendoza. Trying to learn everything we can about her.”

Long silence. “That’s the only reason?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“You don’t suspect Martin of something?”

“No, sir, we’d just like to talk to him. You can be there, or his mother can, I’m happy to come to your home, keep everything low-key.”

“Martin didn’t spend much time with her, sir. He took a few lessons, that’s all.”

“I know, sir, but we’ve got a list to go through. Routine, nothing to be worried about. Is Martin ill today?”

“Ill?”

“He wasn’t at school.”

“You went to the school?” Mendoza’s voice cracked on the last word.

“We did.”

“They told you he was ill?”

“No,” said Milo. “Just that he wasn’t there. Is he home?”

Silence.

“Sir?”

“No,” said Emilio Mendoza. “He is not at home.”

“Where is he, then?”

Silence.

“Mr. Mendoza.”

“I don’t know.”

“Martin ran away?”

“His mother and I came home from work, he was gone. He left his cell phone. He didn’t take anything that we can see. My wife is sick, she is throwing up.”

“How long ago did he leave?”

“Three days ago,” said Mendoza.

Shortly after the murder.

Milo said, “When you last saw him he was at home?”

“In bed, he said he was sick. We thought he looked okay, was just sick of school. We were tired of arguing, so we let him stay home.”

“Sick of school in general, or Prep in particular?”

“He didn’t like that place.” Emilio Mendoza’s voice faltered. “Three days. My wife is having a real hard time.”

“Have you called the police?”

“I was going to. Today. I kept hoping he’d come home. When you called I thought maybe you found him. Somewhere.”

Milo said, “Kids drop out for a few days all the time, I see it all the time.”

“Martin has left before,” said Mendoza. “Twice, he took the bus to his sister in Texas. This time, she says he’s not there.”

“You think she’d cover for Martin?”

“They’re close, but no, after Gisella heard how upset her mother was, she wouldn’t do that.”

“Let’s get together, Mr. Mendoza, I’m sure we can sort things out.”

“What could you do?”

“Tell me about Martin, maybe I can help find him. If a missing persons report is the way to go, I’ll see that yours gets full attention.”

“You want to talk about Ms. Freeman,” said Mendoza. “You don’t suspect Martin of anything?”

Milo nodded and mouthed Now I do. “Not at all, sir.”

“I don’t know,” said Mendoza.

“Brief chat, sir.”

“I’m working all day and then maybe I do a double shift if they need me.”

“Whenever you’re free,” said Milo.

“I don’t know,” Mendoza repeated. “Okay, enough of Anna throwing up, one way or the other we need to—in an hour, okay?”

“Perfect. Where, sir?”

“Not at the club, they won’t let you in. Meet me on Pacific Coast Highway, around half a mile north of the club. Malibu Mike’s, you’re hungry, they’re okay.”

“See you there, sir. Thanks.”

“I don’t know what I’ll even say to you.”

Malibu Mike’s was a flimsy white-frame lean-to set on a patch of land-side asphalt. A grinning, overly fanged shark cutout teetered atop the fraying roof. Picnic tables canted on the uneven pavement, some shaded by wind-scarred umbrellas. Behind the property, a hill of iceplant-encrusted soil formed a bright green curtain.

The chalkboard menu listed burgers, hot dogs, fish tacos, and something called a Captain’s Burrito. Milo said, “I’m under-ranked.”

You’re no rank at all.

I said, “Order half and call it a Lieutenant.”

“Let’s eat something, I need to fuel up for serious lying.”

A young chubby brunette girl worked the counter, a young, floppy-haired Asian boy, the grill. The ocean across the highway couldn’t compete with blaring hip-hop from a speaker placed perilously close to the burners. Some millionaire gangsta bragging about having no conscience.

“Help you guys?”

I ordered a chili dog.

Milo said, “Two half-pound cheeseburgers, anything extra you want to put on is fine with me.”

The girl said, “All we got extra is onion and pickles—I guess we could throw on chili, too, but I’ll have to charge you.”

“Go for it. How’s that Captain’s Burrito?”

The girl grimaced. “Guys order it but I don’t like it. It’s messy, you end up with most of it on the paper, then it sticks to the paper ’cause a the cheese, then it hardens you can’t peel it off without peeling off the paper. Then afterward, your hands smell of sauce, cheese, it’s gross.”

“Captains can be like that.”

“Huh?”

“All show, no substance.”

No comprehension in young, brown eyes.

Milo said, “But the burger’s okay?”

“I like it.”

Milo finished his first half-pounder, unwrapped the second but didn’t touch it. The ocean was calm. He wasn’t.

“Kid runs away, right. Maybe Franck did me a favor.”

He studied the water, got up. “I will not be influenced by the opinions of others, gonna try the damn burrito. Get it to go, Rick’s on call, I can eat with my hands, no one’s gonna squawk. Should reheat okay, don’t you think?”

He returned with a greasy cardboard box that he placed in the trunk of the unmarked. The car’s built as tight as a drunk’s resolve, so the ride home would be fragrant. Just as he returned to the table, a white Hyundai drove into the lot and a smallish man got out. Round face, thinning dark hair combed straight back, pale complexion, crisp features.

“Lieutenant?”

Milo waved.

Emilio Mendoza seemed disappointed. He’d arrived ten minutes early, maybe wanting to rehearse his own script. But we’d beat him by fifteen.

He wore a white drip-dry shirt, pleated black pants, tiny black bow tie. No sign of the red waist-length jacket I remembered from my lunch.

Milo said, “Thanks for coming, sir. We’ll wait while you order.”

“I’m not eating,” said Emilio Mendoza. “Even if I wanted to spend the money, my stomach’s jumping all over the place.” Patting the offending area. “I can’t stay long, there’s a big dinner crowd, a couple rookies need educating.”

Milo said, “Speaking of education, how did Martin come to Prep?”

“You mean how could a waiter from Uruguay afford to send his kid to a place like that? I can’t, they gave him a scholarship.”

“Baseball.”

Mendoza’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve already talked to the school?”

“I looked up Martin’s MySpace. Only thing on there was baseball.”

Mendoza looked at him, doubtful.

“That’s why they call us detectives, Mr. Mendoza. So how’d Martin end up at Prep, rather than at another school?”

“You’re talking to students? You don’t think Martin did something?”

“Are you worried Martin did something?”

“Of course not.” Emilio Mendoza’s eyes watered. “Maybe I’ll get a coffee.”

After he sat down with a cardboard cup, Milo said, “Does Martin have a special friend? Someone he’d go to when he’s upset?”

“Only his sister.”

“Where in Texas is she?”

“San Antonio, she’s a nurse at Bexar Hospital. Martin called her the day he left—after his mother and I went to work. Just to say hi, that bothered Gisella, it wasn’t like Martin.”

“Your son’s not talkative?”

“He’s a quiet boy.”

“What was his mood with Gisella?”

“She said he sounded distracted. She couldn’t say by what.”

“Is Gisella Martin’s only sibling?”

“Yes, it’s only the two of them.” As if he regretted that. “Gisella’s seven years older but they’re close.”

Milo let him sip coffee, used the time to finish his second burger. “I’d still like to hear how you connected to Prep.”

“Oh, that,” said Mendoza. “A good man—a regular at the club, his kids and grandkids went to Prep, I was talking to him about Martin, how Martin was a smart boy, I wasn’t happy with his education. We live in El Monte, Martin was happy with the public school but no way. Sure he liked it, everything was too easy for him, he didn’t have to work. You go to college like that, you can’t compete with kids who went to tough schools. The member, he’s a rich man but a good man, treats everyone like a person—he said maybe there’s a solution, Emilio. I say, what, sir? He just smiles. Next time he comes in, orders his tri-tip and his martini, gives me a brochure from Windsor Prep.”

Mendoza’s laugh was more nose than mouth. “That is what I gave Mr. Kenten. A big laugh. Then I apologized for being rude, a fool. He says don’t worry, Emilio, I know I caught you by surprise. If it’s money you’re worried about, maybe we can find a solution for that, too.”

Mendoza placed the coffee on the table. “I felt even more the fool. Then he says, didn’t you once say your boy was an excellent pitcher?”

Mendoza shrugged. “I don’t remember saying it, we don’t get personal with the members, but the nice ones… he always comes in by himself, I figure it’s good for him someone pays attention. I say, sure, Martin’s a great pitcher. Strong, like his mother’s side.” Pinching his own thin biceps. “His mother’s father was a blacksmith, muscles out to here, his uncle Tito, his mother’s brother, played basketball for Miramar—that’s a big team in Uruguay—before he got hurt.”

Frowning. “Martin also got hurt, maybe that’s from her side, too.”

“What was Martin’s injury?”

Mendoza touched his left shoulder. “Rotator cuff, it can heal if he rests. Maybe surgery, maybe no. Either way, no baseball for a long time.”

Mendoza slapped the table. “Perfect opportunity, like from God. They need a star pitcher, Martin needs a good education. At South El Monte, there was talk some professional scouts came to see him. But no one said anything to me so I think it was just talk.”

“When did Martin transfer to Prep?”

“Last year, second half of eleventh grade.”

“Middle of the year.”

“I was worried about them being snobs but let me tell you, they rolled out the carpet. Big deal, he wasn’t impressed.”

“Martin didn’t like the attention?”

“Martin didn’t like anything. The kids, the teachers, the buildings, even the trees. Too many trees, Papi, they put dust in my hair. I say are you crazy, man? It’s beautiful, a Garden of Eden, you want South El Monte after seeing this? He says yeah, that’s what I want. I say you’re out of your mind, boy. He turns his back on me, says I like what I like and it’s my life.”

Head shake. “Stubborn, like his mother. Maybe it helps with baseball. Saturdays he went to the U-pitch. Throwing all day. One time he came home with the arm all black under the skin, he threw so much the muscles were bleeding under the skin. It looked like a disease, his mother screamed, I called his coach—this was middle school, he was twelve, thirteen, say talk to Martin, no more bleeding. He tells me Martin’s gifted, maybe he overdoes a little but that’s better than being lazy. Stupid man, I hang up, talk to Martin myself. Martin says Sandy Koufax used to pitch with black arms. I say who’s Sandy Koufax? Martin laughs and walks away. Later, I look up Sandy Koufax, he’s the greatest pitcher ever lived, fine, good for him, I still don’t like my son with a black arm.”

Another look at his watch. “I go to Martin’s games, he says don’t embarrass me by screaming and going crazy like the other fathers, just sit there. That’s all I can tell you, I need to get back to work.”

I said, “How did Martin adjust to the tougher curriculum at Prep?”

“Did he feel stupid?” said Mendoza. “Oh, yeah, and he let me know all the time I made him feel stupid by moving him.”

“Did his grades suffer?”

“Sure, this was a real school. No more easy A’s, now it’s B’s if he’s lucky. I tell him a B from Prep is worth more than a public school A. He walks away.”

Mendoza threw up his hands.

“That’s when Elise Freeman stepped into the picture.”

“She was their idea—the school’s. What happened was Martin wrote a composition—a term paper, it was no good, sloppy, he can do better, I’ve seen him do better. Maybe he did it on purpose, you know?”

“To prove a point,” I said.

“Exactly. Making himself look stupid so the school say bye-bye. I tell him instead of making a scheme, study hard, you’re a smart boy, now with no baseball, you got extra time. He hands the paper in anyway. Got a D.”

As if announcing a terminal diagnosis. “Never, ever before did he get a D, not him or his sister, never did I see a D anywhere in my house. I was ready to… I got angry, okay, I admit it. There was loud yelling. That’s the first time Martin took the bus to his sister.”

“How long did he stay away?”

“Just the weekend. Gisella convinced him to go home, she bought him an airline ticket. I paid her back every penny.”

“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.”