Deception

Stan Creighton said, “He was one of my training officers at Central. Then he transferred to Glendale PD and we lost—” His eyes hardened. “What the hell were you thinking, coming up here with no authorization?”

“Working on my improv skills, Stan.”

“Cut the shit, man, this is a major problem. What possessed you?”

“A problem for who?”

“Don’t play with me,” said Creighton. “What was going through your head?”

“I need to talk to a student, I figure school’s the logical place to find a student.”

“What student?”

“Kid named Martin Mendoza.” Milo offered a sketchy summary.

Creighton said, “Kid’s got a temper so he’s a suspect?”

“I’m open to suggestions, Stan.”

“Whatever. The point is even with a student the school’s not the logical place because the rules were made clear to you. Kids have homes, start there. Now get the hell out of here.”

“And here I was thinking a stroll on campus would be educational for all concerned.”

“You really have a death wish, don’t you?”

Milo smiled. “I’m assuming you’re talking metaphor, Stan.”

Creighton’s pupils were pinpoints. His right eye ticced. “Go. Now.”

The elms rustled. From the distance, a girl’s laughter sweetened the air.

“You’re defying a direct order?”

“Just looking for a shovel so I can dig that grave.”

Creighton’s nostrils flared.

Milo’s jaw worked.

I thought of a trip Robin and I had taken to Wyoming. Herds of bison, face-offs between pairs of massive bulls until someone limped away.

Creighton said, “Don’t make me ask you again.”

Milo said, “Can I check first to see if I’ve got rope in my car?”

“Rope? For—”

“So you can tie one of my legs back so I can’t walk without falling on my ass, then you can bind both of my arms to my side and oh yeah, maybe I’ve got some rags in the trunk so you can gag me if God forbid I should talk to a goddamn witness without seeking permission, then you can use some other rags for the blindfold so I walk into fucking walls. After that’s done, Stanley, you can tell me how to do the job.”

Creighton’s neck veins bulged. His fists were the size of cabbage heads.

Rapid pulse in the veins. Audible breathing.

Suddenly he laughed, forced himself into a relaxed posture. “Oh, man, you are really fucking up the job.”

“I can only fuck up the job if I’ve got a job.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means, Stan?”

Creighton snickered. “Right, like you’d quit.”

“Like I do, Stan,” said Milo, tossing his badge to the ground. “Life’s too short, send my regards to the Emperor. If the brain-dead battalion surrounding him grants you access.”

Turning heel, he marched away. I followed, catching my breath.

Creighton said, “Yeah, right.”

Neither of us spoke until he drove away. Keeping a light touch on the gas. Humming a weird minor-key tune —maybe some old Druid chant buried in his Celtic consciousness.

“Did I mean it? Hell, yes. Or no. Or maybe. Goddammit. Will I regret it? Probably. Okay, let’s find Martin Mendoza.”

“Off the job but on the job,” I said.

“As an independent citizen.”

“How’re you going to approach him?”

“With my usual tact and sensitivity.”

“I meant under what authority?”

“Hmm,” he said. “How about power to the people?”

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?”