hiding Martin Mendoza since shortly after Elise Freeman’s murder. Technically, when Marty was a fugitive, that was illegal. But given how things have unfolded, I’m sure you recognize the need for discretion.”
“Of course,” I said. To the trio: “Good work, guys.”
“No big deal,” said Garret Kenten.
Marty Mendoza said, “To me it was, dude.”
“The fugitive,” said Garret. “We should’ve filmed it.”
Charlie hadn’t taken his eyes off me. “It was a clear matter of right and wrong, unsullied by those inane moral dilemmas they keep tossing at us so they can feel good about themselves. As if theoretical situations are relevant.”
Garret Kenten said, “What matters to me is my grandfather doesn’t get hassled.” Talking to me but looking sidelong at the chief.
The chief said, “That’ll be no problem.”
“I know you can’t stand him, sir, but you need to forget about that.”
“Your grandfather and I—we’ve had our differences. He’s obviously a good man but there are… differences.”
“I don’t care about that, sir. I just don’t want you to hassle him.”
“No problem.”
Charlie said, “No reason for there to be, Dad.”
His father glared. Pulled at his mustache. “Not a single hair on your grampa’s head will be touched.”
Garret grinned. “Good, he doesn’t have too many left.”
Marty laughed. Charlie remained serious.
“We had to do it,” he said. “We don’t deserve credit because there was no other logical choice. They made explicit threats against him.”
The chief said, “Son, there’s no need to get into—”
“They hated Marty because they’re insubstantial posers and his abilities threatened them. It was a matter of life and death.”
Marty said, “Maybe not that bad. At least I got to learn surfing.”
Garret said, “You learned to flop on your ass.”
I said, “So you stayed in Malibu.”
“Yes, but not at my grandfather’s estate because we knew… we just figured it wasn’t a good idea. My grandfather rents me my own place in Trancas, I’m taking a couple of years off to do a documentary on surfing. Probably come to nothing, but I’ll give it a try then maybe head to UC Santa Cruz.” To Marty: “At least you’re neat, dude.”
“Like you’d know the difference.”
I said, “Nice setup. You even got him his own surfboard.”
All three boys stared.
“Your grandfather’s house was under surveillance, Garret. You were seen bringing a board out and the following day you left with a guy in a beige cap.”
Garret Kenten said, “Whoa.”
Charlie shrugged.
The chief said, “Okay, everyone got to share feelings, now go inside, guys, I need to talk to the doctor alone.”
Martin Mendoza stood but the other two hesitated.
“Don’t push it,” said the chief.
Garret and Charlie flanked Marty. As they turned to leave, I walked up to him. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
He said, “History class there was all that talk about good Germans saving Jews. I wasn’t sure I believed it.”
The three of them trudged to the house.
The chief said, “You know what I’m going to ask you now.”
“Not really.”
“This mess, every single application from Prep is being looked at like a slice of freeze-dried dogshit. Charlie earned his way into Yale. I want you to write him a letter of recommendation and make it good.”
“How does he feel about that?”
“Look, Doctor, anything from his teachers and that asshole Helfgott’s gonna be poison. You, on the other hand, still stand for truth, justice, and all that good stuff. And you’ve got that professorship at the med school, they like that kind of thing.”
“Be happy to do it,” I said. “After I talk to Charlie.”
“About what?”
“For me to write a good letter, I need to know him.”
“I’ll tell you what you need to know: 4.0 GPA and he takes the hardest classes—honors, APs. His extracurricular activities are off the chart, I’m talking a broad range of—”
“Not that,” I said.
“Then what?” he barked.
“I want to know
CHAPTER
41
Charlie slouched out of the house with the look of every other teenager pushed into doing something he despised.
I said, “Let’s walk.”
“Why?”
“I feel like it and you’re too young to have sore feet.”
“Whatever.”
We began circling the motor court. He jammed spidery hands into his pockets, stared at the ground.
“You know what your dad wants.”
“Emphasis on ‘your dad.’ As opposed to what I want.”
“That’s why I’m talking to you.”
“He’s utterly obsessed.”
“With you?”
“With me getting into some weenie emporium.”
“He said you chose Yale.”
“That’s like saying I hate cheese and someone says your choice is Gruyere or Cheddar.”
“You couldn’t care less.”
“No,” he said, “if I said that, I’d be just another phony cretin. Sure, I care. I’ve been conditioned to care.”
Two steps. “Sometimes I think about going to junior college. Just to show them how stupid the whole thing is.”
“That would be something,” I said.
“Where’d you go to school?”
“The U.”
“No pressure from your parents?”
“The Ivies weren’t in my universe. I was just glad to get the hell away from Missouri.”
“What’s wrong with Missouri?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
He stared at me. “Oh. Anyway, don’t feel you have to do anything that contradicts your principles.”
“Writing a letter for you doesn’t,” I said. “On the contrary.”
