Deception

CHAPTER

40

A week after Tristram Wydette and Quinn Glover bargained for their lives, the police chief gave a press conference describing the arrest as “the product of meticulous investigation and precisely the type of corruption I’m committed to eradicating.”

Among the cadre of suits surrounding him was Captain Stanley Creighton. Milo was nowhere to be seen.

I called and asked him about it.

“If I wanted to be an actor, I would’ve learned to wait tables.”

The following morning, at eight a.m., an aide to the chief got through to my private line and asked me to “confer” with her boss in three hours.

“At his house, Dr. Delaware, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Great, I’ll give you the address.”

I already had it, but no sense editing her script.

When she hung up, I gave Milo another call.

He said, “Rick and I are going over travel stuff. We were thinking Hawaii, but maybe the Atlantic deserves us. Ever been to the Bahamas?”

“Never. My travel plans extend to Agoura. Want to drive together?”

“I would if I was invited, Alex.”

“Oh.”

“Guess I’m the lucky one.”

“I wonder what he wants.”

“Maybe he’ll sweeten the job offer.”

“There ain’t enough sugar in Hawaii,” I said. “Same goes for whatever they grow in the Bahamas. Okay, keep you posted.”

“Here’s my post: John says Tristram’s lawyers are panicking for a quick transfer to Corcoran.”

“That’s a tough place. County Jail décor doesn’t cut it?”

“Getting the shit beat out of you by some resident County gangbangers doesn’t fit young T’s lifestyle. The fervent hope is isolation with the snitches and the child molesters and the white-collar mopes will help.”

“There you go,” I said. “Everything’s about connections.”

In the daylight, the chief’s spread was scragglier but more appealing. Like the set of an old western movie.

Hot day in Agoura, despite impending autumn. He sat in the same rocker, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and red tie that had to be cooking him. The three metal folding chairs to his left soaked up full, punishing sun.

Three young men occupied the chairs: a husky Latino kid with his arm in a sling wearing a South El Monte High letterman’s jacket, a smallish but muscular guy, slightly older, in cutoffs and a Zuma Jay T-shirt, and a beanpole with a humongous Adam’s apple, awkward mannerisms, and fuzzy red hair protruding from a beige Huntington Gardens cap.

I bypassed the chief and walked up to Cutoff. “You’re Garret Kenten?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good to meet you.”

“Same here.”

“Impressive and entertaining, Doctor,” said the chief. “One day you can take the show to Vegas.”

Charlie removed his cap. “Da-ad.”

“Sorry, son.” Different voice. Subdued, embarrassed, unsure. I’d heard it from countless parents of adolescents.

“Forgive me, Dr. Delaware. As you can imagine, it’s been a bit challenging around here.”

“Shouldn’t be, Dad,” said Charlie. “Seeing as we did the allegedly right thing.”

Garret Kenten high-fived him.

Martin Mendoza smiled.

I shook his left hand, continued to Charlie.

The chief said, “Please sit down, Dr. Delaware. No sense drawing this out. Garret and Charlie have been hiding Martin Mendoza since shortly after Elise Freeman’s murder. Technically, when Marty was a fugitive, that was illegal. But given how things have unfolded, I’m sure you recognize the need for discretion.”

“Of course,” I said. To the trio: “Good work, guys.”

“No big deal,” said Garret Kenten.

Marty Mendoza said, “To me it was, dude.”

“The fugitive,” said Garret. “We should’ve filmed it.”

Charlie hadn’t taken his eyes off me. “It was a clear matter of right and wrong, unsullied by those inane moral dilemmas they keep tossing at us so they can feel good about themselves. As if theoretical situations are relevant.”

Garret Kenten said, “What matters to me is my grandfather doesn’t get hassled.” Talking to me but looking sidelong at the chief.

The chief said, “That’ll be no problem.”

“I know you can’t stand him, sir, but you need to forget about that.”

“Your grandfather and I—we’ve had our differences. He’s obviously a good man but there are… differences.”

“I don’t care about that, sir. I just don’t want you to hassle him.”

“No problem.”

Charlie said, “No reason for there to be, Dad.”

His father glared. Pulled at his mustache. “Not a single hair on your grampa’s head will be touched.”

Garret grinned. “Good, he doesn’t have too many left.”

Marty laughed. Charlie remained serious.

“We had to do it,” he said. “We don’t deserve credit because there was no other logical choice. They made explicit threats against him.”

The chief said, “Son, there’s no need to get into—”

“They hated Marty because they’re insubstantial posers and his abilities threatened them. It was a matter of life and death.”

Marty said, “Maybe not that bad. At least I got to learn surfing.”

Garret said, “You learned to flop on your ass.”

I said, “So you stayed in Malibu.”

“Yes, but not at my grandfather’s estate because we knew… we just figured it wasn’t a good idea. My grandfather rents me my own place in Trancas, I’m taking a couple of years off to do a documentary on surfing. Probably come to nothing, but I’ll give it a try then maybe head to UC Santa Cruz.” To Marty: “At least you’re neat, dude.”

“Like you’d know the difference.”

I said, “Nice setup. You even got him his own surfboard.”

All three boys stared.

“Your grandfather’s house was under surveillance, Garret. You were seen bringing a board out and the following day you left with a guy in a beige cap.”

Garret Kenten said, “Whoa.”

Charlie shrugged.

The chief said, “Okay, everyone got to share feelings, now go inside, guys, I need to talk to the doctor alone.”

Martin Mendoza stood but the other two hesitated.

“Don’t push it,” said the chief.

Garret and Charlie flanked Marty. As they turned to leave, I walked up to him. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He said, “History class there was all that talk about good Germans saving Jews. I wasn’t sure I believed it.”

The three of them trudged to the house.

The chief said, “You know what I’m going to ask you now.”

“Not really.”

“This mess, every single application from Prep is being looked at like a slice of freeze-dried dogshit. Charlie earned his way into Yale. I want you to write him a letter of recommendation and make it good.”

“How does he feel about that?”

“Look, Doctor, anything from his teachers and that asshole Helfgott’s gonna be poison. You, on the other hand, still stand for truth, justice, and all that good stuff. And you’ve got that professorship at the med school, they like that kind of thing.”

“Be happy to do it,” I said. “After I talk to Charlie.”

“About what?”

“For me to write a good letter, I need to know him.”

“I’ll tell you what you need to know: 4.0 GPA and he takes the hardest classes—honors, APs. His extracurricular activities are off the chart, I’m talking a broad range of—”

“Not that,” I said.

“Then what?” he barked.

“I want to know him. Not his circus tricks.”