He wiped his mouth. “Meaning?”
“Another helpful witness. Winterthorn punted you to Hauer, Hauer to Fidella, now Franck gives you a twofer: Fidella and Martin Mendoza.”
He flicked the prong of the fork. “Let’s hear it for upright citizens doing their duty. Maybe two votes for Sal should put him square on my radar. If he did find out Elise was cutting him off sexually and financially, we’re talking big-time hurt feelings. Which puts me right back where I started: the so-called boyfriend.”
He poked noodles, wrapped up the bulk of the Thai food and bagged it.
“Not good?” I said.
“Good enough.”
He appeared to doze off, but a few miles later, without opening his eyes, he said, “As far as young Master Mendoza with the temper, he’s Latino, meaning he might know Spanish. Meaning he’d find it easy enough to pay Mr. Anteater for buying ice. On the other hand, murder’s a pretty strong reaction to being tutored against your will and according to Franck, Mendoza had stopped showing up at Elise’s place.”
I said, “For tutoring.”
His lids rose. “She was doing him, too?”
“Another younger man.”
“Oh, boy… but with a young offender, something sexual gone bad, I’d expect disorganization, overkill. This was just the opposite, Alex. Antiseptic, staged. It doesn’t feel right.”
“It doesn’t, unless Martin’s one of those long-simmering types.”
He called in an AutoTrack on Martin Mendoza. Plenty of registered drivers with that name but none in the age range. Same for a criminal record.
“Kid doesn’t even have a license. Must love watching rich kids zoom into the student parking lot. Okay, gotta find him.”
I said, “His father works at one of the country clubs. That narrows it down a bit.”
“Hell with that.” He bared teeth. “It’s back-to-school for Uncle Milo.”
CHAPTER
20
The Hotel Bel-Air sits on twelve of the most expensive acres on the planet, sharing precious dirt with eight-figure estates. No sidewalks in Old Bel Air discourages pedestrian riffraff. So do high walls and gates, closed-circuit cameras, guard dogs, and rent-a-cops.
Try building a hotel in Old Bel Air today and the Not-in-my-backyard roar will set off sonic booms. But when the foreign potentate who purchased the property several years ago proposed to convert the hotel to his private Xanadu, the avalanche of neighborly rage caused him to fly back home and become an absentee innkeeper.
Time can rot but it can also lay on patina, and people learn to love what they’re used to. That, it occurred to me, might explain the pride north-of-Sunset Brentwood takes in hosting Windsor Preparatory Academy’s sixteen-acre campus. A core belief in the value of education isn’t the reason; the merest suggestion of constructing a public school in the district can bring down a city councilman.
Prep occupies a remote pocket of Brentwood, at the end of a northern cul-de-sac. No signage advertises its presence. A thousand feet of two-way, cobbled drive heralded by fifteen-foot gateposts winds its way toward a guardhouse equipped with a yardarm. Beyond the barrier, a generous roundabout leads to baroque iron gates offering a glimpse of the rarefied world beyond.
Sixteen acres is ample space, per the school’s website, for a dozen buildings fashioned in classic Monterey Colonial style, an Olympic pool, an indoor gym complete with yoga room and full-court basketball, a regulation football field, ditto baseball diamond. The nine-hole golf course is a recent addition in response to student interest. Even with all that, when season and air quality permit, expansive lawns and drought-tolerant plantings provide the opportunity for outdoor seminars, or simply for gaining an appreciation of environmental integrity during moments of contemplation.
The Prep day begins at eight thirty a.m. By eight, Milo and I were watching the motor traffic that streamed in and out of the entry road. Long queue but well mannered, no one fussing. The slow pace gave us plenty of time to scan vehicles for the face that matched Martin Mendoza’s MySpace page.
It also allowed drivers and passengers to study us, but Milo didn’t seem to care.
Mendoza’s social networking seemed halfhearted: some underplayed baseball triumph, no list of friends, not a word on the career-killing injury. The few photos provided depicted a tall, husky, dark-eyed, crew-cut boy with muscular shoulders, thick eyebrows, and full, downturned lips. Even while posing with a middle school MVP trophy Martin Mendoza came across grim.
Milo read the printout for the third time, pocketed it just as a flame-red Infiniti slid past the gateposts. A silver Lincoln Navigator took its place. Teenage girl in the passenger seat. She rolled down her window, smiled saucily.
Milo smiled back.
The woman at the wheel said, “Close it, Lisa.” Fed the Navigator gas and lurched out of view.
I said, “Let me guess: After sleeping on it, you decided on a new phase in the investigation. To hell with the chief.”
He worked his tongue inside his cheek. “Me an insurgent? Perish.”
The next car was a white Jaguar. Hispanic kid in the passenger seat, but not Mendoza. Diplomatic plates. Uniformed driver.
Nearly all the older students drove themselves. The younger kids were chauffeured by attractive, sharp-jawed women and preoccupied men gabbing illegally on cell phones. Being driven appeared to turn them sullen.
One of the most morose riders looked closer to senior than freshman, a skinny, red-haired boy pressed to the passenger door of a bronze Lexus LX. Resting his chin on a bony fist and staring into nothingness.
Bubble-coiffed strawberry blonde at the wheel.
Noticing us shook the boy out of his torpor. He studied us. Kept staring until the Lexus rolled out of sight.
I said, “Carrot Top seemed to know you.”
“Don’t know him, but I do know his mommy.”
“Mrs. Chief and the vaunted Charlie.”
He sighed.
I said, “He looked a little down.”
“Would you want Him for your dad?”
“Touché.”
“Maybe he’ll be happier when he’s in New Haven warbling the Whiffenpoof Song.”
“How do you know about stuff like that?”
“Been reading up on the Ivy League. A little cultural anthropology never hurt.”
“What’d you learn?”
“That I’d never have gotten in.”
A navy Bentley Continental rolled up. Pretty black girl staring straight ahead and chewing gum energetically, gigantic dad at the wheel wearing a white tracksuit. Several seasons since he’d performed buzzer-beaters for the Lakers.
“Whole different world here,” said Milo, rubbing his face. “C’mon, Marty, show yourself.”
By eighty forty-two, the last car had passed through, with no sign of Martin Mendoza.
Milo said, “Onward,” and we continued on foot. The cobblestone was smooth under my shoes, as if someone had hand-polished every inch. Monumental Chinese elms flanked the drive, creating a shady allée. As we got closer, smidges of youthful vocalization filtered from behind the school’s façade, but the rustle of leaves in the breeze was louder.
Rounding a curve exposed the guardhouse. Two people walked toward us.
Woman in a black pantsuit speeding several steps in front of a large man in a khaki uniform.
Headmaster Mary Jane Rollins said, “Oh, it’s you,” in a flat voice. “I’ve just fielded a storm of complaints.”
The guard remained behind her, hands folded on his buckle. Midsixties, beefy and ruddy, with piercing blue cop eyes that transcended retirement. Flashlight and walkie-talkie on his belt, no gun. A brass name tag read Walkowicz. Rollins’s back to him gave him the courage to wink at us.