Deception

CHAPTER

22

Mendoza’s white Hyundai rolled down to PCH.

Milo said, “He started off protective but ended up giving up info. Way I see it, one of two things happened: Elise came on to Martin and it creeped him out. She got pissed at being rejected, he got pissed that she was pissed, it escalated and Martin bore a grudge. Or he succumbed to her charms but she made him feel inadequate. Or played around with him and rejected him later.”

“There’s a third possibility: He had nothing to do with killing her.”

“He rabbited, Alex. That’s his pattern, when the tension piles up, he leaves.”

“Like you said, a teen with a short fuse still doesn’t sync with the planning that went into the murder and nothing Martin’s father told us depicts Martin as a good planner. Just the opposite, he’s impulsive.”

“True, but I’ve got to listen to my victim, even a lying victim like Elise. Martin scared her, enough for her to tell Trey Franck about it. Time to find this kid.”

He found Gisella Mendoza’s number in his pad.

“Ms. Mendoza? This is Lieutenant Sturgis from the Los Angeles Police Department. Your parents are worried about your brother, Martin, and I’m checking his whereabouts… yes, your father told me he wasn’t but I was wondering if Martin’s shown up since then… yes, of course you’d call your parents and that’s still the first thing you should do. But if you don’t mind, please let me know, too, because once I close the file on Martin I can pay attention to other missing kids… yes, unfortunately, we’ve got lots… I’m sure you are… yes, I know it’s anxiety-provoking, though your dad does say Martin has left before and he always comes back quickly… yes, that was good of you, your parents really appreciated your convincing Martin to return. Let me ask you something, Gisella. The second time Martin showed up, your dad said he had issues with a teacher… right, a tutor. Did Martin mention anything about what bothered him about this tutor?… because maybe the same thing happened and it’ll help us find him… that’s it? Okay, thanks for your time—oh, yeah, could I have your address for the file?”

He clicked off. “Nice girl. I’m gonna ask San Antonio PD to do a drive-by at her place.”

“What did Martin tell her about Elise?”

“He felt she didn’t care about him. That could mean she blew him off sexually. Wonder if he’s fluent in Spanish—shoulda asked his dad about that.”

“Dr. Rollins might know,” I said.

“Like she’d tell me.”

I pulled out my phone, called Prep, asked for Rollins, got put on hold.

He said, “You’re kidding.”

“Nothing ventured.”

Four minutes later, I had the answer, provided by a borderline-hostile headmaster eager to get me off the line. When I thanked her, she said, “Please note: Once again, I’ve been fully cooperative. Repay the kindness by respecting Prep’s privacy?”

Milo said, “You gotta give me some charm lessons. So does he habla Español?”

“Well enough to pass out of the foreign-language requirement.”

“Excellent, who better to pick some Spanish day laborer to do the heavy lifting. Hell, for all we know Mr. Anteater was directly involved with the killing.”

“Mr. Anteater bought dry ice in Van Nuys. Martin’s got no driver’s license but he somehow managed to get from El Monte to the heart of the Valley, then over to Elise’s place in Studio City?”

“Big deal, he borrowed wheels or stole ’em—or got someone to drive him. He calls himself an outcast but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t find another outcast. Can’t you see a couple of bitter adolescents hatching a weird ice scheme?”

His cell rang. “Für Elise” again. I said, “Got the joke,” but he was concentrating, didn’t hear.

“Afternoon, sir… no, I suppose not, sir… in all fairness, sir, it wasn’t a deliberate provoca… yes, sir. But still… yes, sir. I just felt… Stan Creighton came on a bit heavy… yes, sir… can I say one thing? Strictly speaking, if I’m off the job, I’m not actually obligated to… yes, sir… yes, sir… yes, sir, right now, sir.”

Snapping the phone shut, he rubbed his face.

I said, “Out of retirement?”

“Apparently I never was in retirement. Apparently decisions about my career aren’t mine to make. Apparently doing the job properly ‘has nothing to do with your fucking ego or your histrionic, grandstanding bullshit, Sturgis.’ I’m due at his office, A-sap. This time, you’re explicitly disinvited.”

“Aw shucks.”

“His exact wording was ‘Don’t even think about shlepping along your Ph.D. nursemaid. This shit you wipe on your own. And be thankful your fucking badge doesn’t end up in a bodily orifice.’”

“Maybe you can bring a peace offering,” I said.

“Like?”

“Special-order a double-sized burrito. Tell him it’s the Chief.”

“Oh, man,” he said. “There’ll be enough gas without that.”

I next heard from him at eight p.m.

Standing at my door holding a bouquet of flowers.

“For Robin,” he said. “Because I’m invading her privacy.”

He walked past me, stopped to pet Blanche, griping, as always, about a taller dog not killing his back. Blanche licked his hand and pressed her head against his shin. He muttered, “Yeah, you’re cute… where’s Robin?”

“Out for dinner with an old friend from San Luis.”

He handed me the flowers. “Put ’em in water, they’ll keep.”

“How’d it go downtown?”

He strode to the kitchen, searched the fridge, pulled nothing out.

“I arrive expecting to be disemboweled with garden shears, he’s all mellow, smoking a cigar, tie loosened, ‘Come right in, Sturgis.’ It’s like nothing ever happened, he just wants a progress report. It was only after I finished that he reverted to type. ‘I said progress, Sturgis, not a fucking exposition of the obvious. Why the hell haven’t you followed up on the Italian boyfriend, seeing as he’s a con and a loser? Work this one logically.’ Which translates to forget about the school.”

“He’d rather have you on supervised duty than freelancing. What does he think about Martin Mendoza?”

“Not impressed. Same for Trey Franck. ‘It’s always loved ones and lowlifes, Sturgis. The Italian guy is both.’”

He opened the fridge again, retrieved a loaf of bread, and snarfed a slice dry. Blanche looked up with customary fascination.

“So guess where I’m headed now? Reason I stopped here, first, is I’m not sure how to approach Fidella. He’s cooperated so far, what’s my reason for recontacting him without getting him antsy and pulling back into his shell?”

I said, “If he’s a con man he’ll be naturally suspicious, so I’m not sure you can avoid getting him wary. You could try telling him you’ve found some kids at the school who had conflict with Elise, figured if she confided in anyone it would be him.”

“Which leads to an interesting point: Elise told Trey Franck about Martin but if she mentioned it to Fidella, he didn’t pass that along. So either she felt closer to Franck or Fidella’s keeping his cards under the table. If it’s the latter, Fidella may be considering another extortion scheme.”

“All the more reason to tantalize him with a possible link to the school. You’re confirming his initial theory and making him feel like part of your team, as opposed to a suspect. He lets his guard down, you might learn something interesting.”

“And Santa’s on call twelve months a year.” Yanking the fridge open for the third time, he scored a second slice of bread, deliberated, added a third. Pulled out a jar of boysenberry jam topped by a gingham-wrapped lid.

“Looks homemade. You guys going slow-food?”

“Robin’s friend brought it.”

Slathering both slices, he chewed noisily. “I’d love to see Fidella’s spontaneous reaction to the mention of Franck’s name. He gives off a serious tell, I’ve got a clear pathway to your basic crime of passion. But I can’t risk showing my cards. Not that the odds like Uncle Milo. Unlike Sal, I never scored a jackpot.”

“If you had, you might’ve held on to the dough.”

“Well, look at that.” He pinged the vase of flowers with a fingernail. “For the price of some stems and petals, I get therapy.”