“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
“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.”
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.”
