Deception

“Now I do.”

I said, “Anyone in the office notices a meeting at this hour, it arouses suspicion and documents his meddling. Meaning where he lives, no one’ll notice. Last time, he met us in Calabasas. My guess is he’s got one of those secluded West Valley spreads.”

“Now you know why he likes you, Sherlock.”

The chief’s spread in Agoura backed up against horse farms, undeveloped pasture, the umber mass of the Santa Monica Mountains.

Getting close took us half an hour beyond the freeway, past the point where streets were identified by signs. Early on we’d sped past desperately cute strip malls, a Porsche dealership, a gas station charging ten percent more than in the city. Now we hurtled through dark, unfocused space.

Milo had trouble navigating the increasingly complex web of trails barely wide enough for a vehicle. Several wrong turns into frustration, he flipped on the dome light, read his own hand-scrawled directions while coasting. By the time we arrived at a small wooden sign he was sweating and cursing. Burned into rough plank:

SERENITY RANCH

I said, “Bit of a commute to Windsor Prep. Nothing like parental dedication.”

“Nothing like mommy dedication.”

We passed through an open swing gate—just a steel frame and a single diagonal cross-beam—and the Crown Vic labored up an asphalt ribbon worn to raw earth in spots, lumped unpleasantly in others. The car’s overtaxed suspension whined at every concussion.

The gate wasn’t much of a barrier. I said, “A lesser man might be concerned about intruders.”

“Apex predators don’t fret about that kind of thing.”

A half-acre motor court spread tight as a fitted sheet fronted a wide, shallow-roofed, one-story house. Parking for scores of cars but no vehicles in sight. Maybe the family wheels were buttoned up in the quadruple garage.

The court was unadorned concrete. Other than a couple of huge oaks listing dangerously, no greenery graced the house. The rear was clear, flat acreage, lots of it. The trees were probably the last surviving remnants of an ancient grove decimated for Top Cop’s lair. Too many wet years and they might topple vengefully.

The chief was waiting for us, rocking in a chair set at the front edge of the court, tastefully lit by a low-watt pole fixture resembling a gas lamp. The tip of his cigar created tiny orange curlicues. Wisps of smoke were ingested by the darkness.

Milo cruised to a halt, opened his window. “Sir.”

“Over there.” A stiff thumb jabbed to the left. Embers tumbled to the concrete, sparked, died.

We parked, got out. No other seating meant we stood like supplicants. The chief’s white hair gave off metallic glints when the cigar tip favored it with transitory light. Otherwise, he was a charcoal sketch.

“Two murders, Dr. Delaware,” he said, softly. “My diagnosis is ‘big fucking mess.’ What’s yours?”

“I’ll go with that.”

“Inconsiderate bastard, the Italian guy. I liked him better as an offender.” He clicked his tongue. “So we’re looking at the Mexican kid for the Italian.”

That made it sound like an international conspiracy. I suppressed the urge to say, With an American pool cue.

Milo said, “Like I said, a young man was spotted leaving the—”

“Exactly, you’ve said, let’s move on. In terms of Freeman, we’ve pretty much eliminated those teachers?”

Milo said, “There’s no evidence against them, but—”

“So we move on.”

Long silence, then the sound of a slow, sucking inhalation. The cigar tip expanded, a miniature orange planet. Smoke-rings floated upward like tiny UFOs. “Not that you’ve got anywhere to move, Sturgis.”

I said, “Hard to go anywhere when you’re stuck in Park.”

The orange disk bounced. “Meaning, Doctor?”

“Meaning this hasn’t been a conventional investigation.”

Throat clear. “You’re a social observer, Doctor?”

“A casual observer. More isn’t required.”

“Maybe we’d all be better off, Doctor, if we stuck to our areas of expertise. Yours being psychopathology. In terms of that, does the Mexican kid sound potentially violent to you?”

“He sounds frustrated,” I said. “His family’s from Uruguay.”

“Wherever he’s from, he sounds like a fucking ingrate. Senor Daddy tell you which alumnus got his nino into Prep?”

“A man named Kenten.”

“Edwin Kenten?” he said. “Another fucking layer of complication.”

“Who is he?”

“A builder of cities, Doctor.” Laughing bitterly. “A Titan among mere mortals. His game is partnering with municipalities, then evoking eminent domain to bulldoze private property. In place of which he nails up low-budget housing and big-box stores financed by taxpayer money. All in the name of the greater good.”

His laugh was low, hoarse, ominous. “Ed Kenten served on the committee that recommended hiring me. We had an interview during which he led me to believe he supported me. When the time came to vote, he supported someone else because their dark skin mattered more to him than the ability to get the fucking job done.” Another threatening snicker. “Yeah, can see him putting the Mexican kid in an awkward situation just so he could feel noble. Kid freaks out, gets violent, does Freeman, but that’s not enough to quell his rage, so he bashes the Italian’s brains.”

He clucked. “Eddie’s going to have to find himself another barrio darling. Meanwhile, he’s playing his eighteen holes at Mountain Crest and getting chauffeured to Paradise Cove. Hell, the kid’s daddy’s probably still serving Ed his shrimp cocktail.”

The cigar tip danced merrily.

I said, “Why does Kenten complicate matters?”

“Once the kid gets busted, Eddie being his mentor will come to light and first thing he’ll assume is I’m out to make him look bad. So you be damn sure, Sturgis, that you’ve got rock-solid evidence before you stir up the cesspool.”

A light went on in the big, low house. The chief shot a quick look back, faced us again.

“Okay, here’s the deal, Sturgis: Concentrate on finding the Corvette. It shows up with the Mexican kid’s prints in it, or if you get any kind of physical evidence from the house pointing to the kid, we’ll be forced to deal with the consequences. You find squat in the car and the house, you leave the kid alone.”

“And?” said Milo.

“And take a breather. Regroup. Put everything on ice until you’ve got evidence. Pun intended. And don’t worry about getting bored. I just sat through a PowerPoint dog-and-pony from my math techies and they say West L.A.’s due for a fresh homicide in thirty to fifty days, most likely a gang shooting. Once in a while, even you can catch something easy.”

Milo said, “Mendoza’s never been in the system, AFIS won’t have his prints.”

“A nice, law-abiding nino,” said the chief. “How uplifting. Maybe Eddie Kenten sensed that. On the other hand, maybe the kid’s kind of cute.”

The orange disk dipped. “Catch my meaning, Sturgis?”

“Kenten’s gay?”

Laughter. “A married grandpa? Tsk-tsk, I don’t rumor-mong. On the other hand, you tell me Mendoza’s a strapping, muscular stud, I’m not going to gasp in shock.”

“Sir, in terms of Martin Mendoza’s prints not being in the—”

“No sense what-iffing, you don’t even have the car. Find it, have the techies do their thing, who knows, you might luck out and get prints from someone who is in the system. I just saw the GTA stats for Van Nuys. Shameful, it’s something we definitely need to work on. So the Italian could’ve gotten brained by a jack-happy Eastside punk