Deception

just like the neighbor assumed and we can all go home, have a beer, fuck whoever it is we customarily fuck.”

“That doesn’t close Freeman, sir.”

“Some of life’s mysteries, Sturgis, are destined to remain enigmatic.”

Milo didn’t respond.

I said, “Convenient. Except for the moral dilemma.”

The chief’s head shot forward. Cigar sparks flew like miniature fireworks. “Whose dilemma might that be, Doctor.”

“Charlie’s.”

His next words came out tight, as if extruded from a clogged machine. “You don’t know Charlie.”

“I know kids and from what you said last time, Charlie sounds like a thoughtful kid. The murder of a teacher would get any student curious. A serious young man with a moral compass and a direct link to law enforcement might take that curiosity to another level. It wouldn’t surprise me if this is the first time he’s expressed any interest in your work.”

The cigar tip dipped suddenly.

I said, “If Elise Freeman’s murder languishes in bureaucratic purgatory, Charlie will want to know why. You’ll give him an explanation and he might even pretend to accept it. Alternatively, he’ll be assertive and push you and you’ll embroider. Either way, he’s smart, nothing short of the truth is going to satisfy his curiosity. The kind of curiosity that could linger well past graduation from Yale.”

“Yale,” he said. “Boolah Boolah.”

“Fight songs endure,” I said. “Surrender songs don’t.”

The orange dot bobbled. Shaky hand. He tried to steady it. Failed. Dropping the cigar, he stomped hard. Embers scattered, glinted, vanished.

He sat there, bracing his hands on his knees. Shot upright like a switchblade flicking open. Turning his back on us, he trudged across the cement court, grew small. Entered his house and closed the door silently.

Lights off.

I said, “Sorry, Big Guy.”

“For what?”

“Messing you up with the boss.”

“Screw that,” he said. “Quitting and getting roped back in gave me a whole new perspective.” Staring at the house. “Never seen him retreat like that.”

“He could be too mad to speak.”

“Who cares? You got to him, Alex. Trust me, he’s in there right now, brooding about Junior. And being a rank opportunist, I’m grabbing the white card.”

“What white card?”

“Carte blanche, mon frere. Until he specifies otherwise, I’m gonna do whatever the hell I please on Freeman and Fidella.”

“He already specified the plan,” I said. “Half-assed search for Mendoza, Freeman goes cold.”

“That was before you tweaked his psyche and he didn’t fight back. Silence is acquiescence, amigo. The lion wimps out, the wildebeests proceed to the drinking hole.”

CHAPTER

25

 Carte blanche at two a.m. meant putting a BOLO out on Sal Fidella’s Corvette as we sped east on the 101.

Milo said, “I get non-AFIS prints that aren’t Fidella’s, all the more reason to hunt for Marty Mendoza seriously. As in talking to every damn student and teacher at Prep who knew him, maybe flying out personally to San Antonio where I will enjoy tamales and carne asada and drive by his sister’s apartment at frequent intervals, myself.”

“I am detective, hear me roar.”

“Beasts of burden make noise, too.”

Nine hours later, he called me. “Top of the morning.” Lightness in his voice.

“You found the car?”

“Nope, but I made a new friend.”

¦

I met him at noon at the Culver City jail on Duquesne, where a guard named Shirronne Bostic led us to a locked holding room.

Tapping a foot, she shuffled through a key ring.

Milo said, “When did he come in?”

“Last night around ten. Picked up in a hooker sting, pretended no hablo ingles then changed his tune when he got hauled in instead of just a ticket like the last time. Your card was in his pocket along with some bullshit I.D. You were his one call.”

“Flattered.”

“He for real, Lieutenant?”

“Depends on what he has to say.”

“Guess he is real,” said Bostic. “You’re here.”

Inside the holding cell, a middle-aged balding man with a droopy mustache sat on a metal bench, dusky skin jaundiced by cruel light. White stubble dotted his face, his eyes were defeated.

Jumpy eyes and unstable hands, same as when he’d been part of the day-laborer crowd waiting for pickup work near the ice joint. The one who’d claimed a fake address in Beverly Hills.

Officer Bostic said, “He claims to be Hector Ruiz but he also claims to live near movie stars.”

“That’s my name,” said the man.

Milo said, “I’ll take it from here, thanks,” and Bostic left. “Mr. Ruiz, how’re things in B.H.?”

Hector Ruiz said, “The guy in anteater shirt,” in barely accented English.

“What about him?”

“I know him.” Ruiz rotated his wrists, tugged the side of his mouth into a grotesque demi-smile.

Milo said, “I’m waiting.”

“I need to get out.”

“Next time you get arrested, make sure it’s in L.A. and it’ll be a snap.”

“Please,” said Ruiz.

“Tell me about Anteater.”

“Please,” Ruiz repeated. “My wife coming from Juarez. She can’t know.”

“You got arrested for the same thing two weeks ago, Hector.”

“That was a ticket,” said Ruiz. “This time they take me in.”

“That’s called being a repeat offender.”

“Please. I got no bail money, they gonna keep me here, she coming two days.”

“Tough lady?”

Ruiz pressed a palm against a temple. “Oh, man.”

“I’m LAPD, Hector. Most I can do is talk to Culver City Vice.”

“Why just talk? Do,” said Ruiz. “You say you gran patron.”

“In L.A.”

“They lie to me, she was a cop.” Ruiz outlined female curves. “They give her the hot pants and the boots, she say I blow you for thirty.”

“The boots’ll do it every time,” said Milo.