guy called twice in the last half hour, Loot, says it’s about Martin Mendoza. I tried your cell but it was off.”
Milo fumbled in his pocket, flipped the phone open. “Switched off by accident.” Glancing at me. “Unless Freud was right and there are no accidents.”
I said, “Freud was wrong about lots of things but this one I’ll leave up to you.”
“Huh.” He turned to Binchy. “What’d this guy have to say about Mendoza?”
“No details, just that he wants to talk to you.”
“How did he know to ask for me?”
“Beats me, Loot.” Binchy pulled out his pad. “Name’s Edwin Kenten, here’s the number.”
“Kenten phoned personally?”
“Yup. Why wouldn’t he?”
“What I’ve been told, he’s a guy gets people to do things for him.”
Edwin Kenten put the lie to that by answering his own phone. His voice was nasal, thin, softened by a musical accent—wetlands Florida, southern Georgia.
“Lieutenant Sturgis, thanks for calling back promptly.”
“No problem, Mr. Kenten. Who referred you to me?”
“Marty Mendoza’s family gave me your name and it’s Marty I’d like to talk to you about. I know you’re extremely busy, sir, but if there’s some way we could meet, I’d be grateful. We could have tea in my office. I’m in Westwood, Wilshire near Broxton.”
“What’s a good time, Mr. Kenten?”
“At your convenience, Lieutenant.”
“I can be there in twenty.”
“I’ll leave your name with my parking man.”
A gracious fourteen-story office building clad in limestone and brick and crowned by hand-carved moldings took up the southwest corner of Wilshire and Glendon.
Butting up against all that architecture was Edwin Kenten’s fifteen-story headquarters, an assertively ugly off-white rectangle striped with garish blue glass.
“The gift,” said Milo, “and the box it came in.”
KNT Enterprises took up the top floor of the shipping carton, accessible by a key-operated elevator marked
We stepped into a windowless, off-white waiting room carpeted in shag the color of a puppy’s accident. An unmarked door at the rear was painted matte gray. The amenities consisted of four folding chairs haphazardly positioned, a coffee table hosting a jar of crumbling biscotti, a few plastic bottles of generic water, and two leaning-tower heaps of old magazines.
The man waiting for us was sixty-five to seventy, pudgy and bald on top with gray curls tufting above leprechaun ears. A powder-blue silk shantung shirt billowed over pink linen pants and white patent loafers. The shirt matched the man’s curious eyes. The trousers color-coordinated with a diamond pinkie ring. The face of his wristwatch was larger than some cell phones.
He inspected both of us, guessed correctly. “Lieutenant? Eddie Kenten.”
“Good to meet you, sir. This is Alex Delaware.”
“Pleasure. You boys come in.”
Kenten’s sunburned face was a near-perfect sphere. Same for his torso and abdominal region, as if a trio of apples had been stacked carelessly. When he turned toward the door, each segment rolled with eerie independence. He appeared on the brink of falling apart and I felt myself tensing up to prevent disaster.
We followed him past a maze of plain-wrap cubicles. Twenty or so people worked quietly at phones and computers. Kenten waved to a few, smiled at everyone. Continuing toward the requisite corner office, he exuded gingery aftershave that hit us in gusts.
His personal space was predictably vast with blue-glass walls, but northern and western vistas were blocked by taller structures. To the east, the tops of Wilshire Corridor condos were barely visible. Only the southern view was free and clear: miles of houses and low-profile shopping sinking into the flight paths over Inglewood. Everything clouded by a milk-chocolate puff of smog.
A cheap-looking desk was heaped with papers where it wasn’t crowded with framed snapshots. Some of the pictures were positioned for visitor viewing: a younger, thinner, crew-cut Kenten in formal army dress marrying a bony woman nearly a head taller, a slew of kids and grandkids in various stages of development.
A circular folding banquet table and plastic chairs served as the conference area. A plug-in kettle, tea bags strewn loosely, and more crumbling biscotti were the refreshments du jour.
Kenten said, “Can I pour for you fellows?”
“No, thanks, sir.”
“You don’t mind if I indulge, do you?” Ripping open a packet of Earl Grey, Kenten poured, steeped, pawed a biscotti, chewed noisily, unmindful of crumbs on his shirtfront.
Blowing into the teacup, he pursed his lips. “Nice and hot… thank you for coming.”
“What can we do for you, Mr. Kenten?”
“Everyone calls me Eddie. I’ll come right to the point: The Mendozas are worried you’re looking into Marty as having something to do with the death of Ms. Elise Freeman. I’m here to tell you Marty had nothing to do with it.”
“You know that because—”
“Because I know Marty, Lieutenant. I’m the one who brought him to Prep.” Kenten put down his tea. “I thought I’d done him a favor.”
“You feel differently now?”
“With the police chasing after him?” Challenging words, but twinkly eyes and grandfatherly cheer.
“We’re not chasing him, Mr. Kenten. We’d like to talk to him.”
“Why?”
“We can’t get into that right now.”
“Kind of a catch-22?” said Kenten.
“No, sir. Just the early stages of an investigation.”
“A murder investigation.” Head shake. “Never thought I’d be talking to the police about murder. Especially in regard to Marty. Trust me, Lieutenant, he had absolutely nothing to do with Ms. Freeman’s death.”
“He’s told you that?”
Kenten put down his teacup. “No. I’m being logical.”
“How well did you know Ms. Freeman?”
“I knew of her,” said Kenten. “By reputation.”
“What reputation was that, sir?”
“Sexually inappropriate.”
“Marty told you that?”
Kenten lifted the cup. “She tutored many students, not just Marty.”
“You heard it from another kid at Prep?”
“At this point,” said Kenten, “I’d prefer not to get into
“I should be the judge of that, Mr. Kenten.”
“Lieutenant, I didn’t need to call you in the first place, so please don’t punish civic responsibility. Let’s just say that Ms. Freeman had acquired what you people would call a jacket—that is the correct term?”
Milo said, “A jacket is a criminal history, backed up by an official record.”
“Well, then, let’s say Ms. Freeman had acquired a… sweater. Something jacket-like—a cardigan.”
Kenten chuckled. Encountered two stoic faces.
“Please forgive me, I’m not making light of her death. Terrible, terrible thing, no one should die unnaturally. I’m just saying she trod on shaky grounds with some male students, so perhaps you should broaden your
