Milo said, “Complaints about what, Doctor?”
“Two men lurking at the entrance,” said Rollins. “Needless to say, parents were alarmed.”
“Never been called a lurker, Doctor.”
“I fail to find humor in the situation, Lieutenant.”
“Sorry about the inconvenience, Doctor. Luckily for everyone concerned, we’re here to protect and serve.”
Walkowicz grinned.
Mary Jane Rollins said, “Given the tense world we live in—now exacerbated by Ms. Freeman’s death—upsetting our students is the last thing we needed this morning. They’ve barely achieved closure.”
“About Ms. Freeman’s death?”
“We’ve held two Town Halls as well as a voluntary grief counseling seminar for anyone interested. It’s been an emotional experience.”
I said, “How was the turnout for the seminar?”
“What difference does that make?”
“Just wondering about student interest.”
“Why? So you can interrogate them? Turnout was fine, our people are doing well. All things considered. Or they were until two men were spotted—”
“Lurking implies underhanded,” said Milo. “We stood right out in the open and to my eye none of the kids seemed bothered.”
Mary Jane Rollins fingered eyeglasses hanging from a chain. “With all due respect to the acuity of your eye, Lieutenant, you created stress and bother. Now, if there’s nothing more—”
“You’re not curious why we’re here, Dr. Rollins?”
“I’ve too many things on my plate for idle curiosity.”
Walkowicz rolled his eyes. Rollins sensed something and pivoted toward him. By the time their gazes met, the guard had returned to stoic immobility. But when Rollins faced us again, his mouth flirted with mirth.
Milo said, “We need to talk to one of your students. The intention was to find him before he entered the school grounds. To minimize disruption.”
“A student? Who?”
“Martin Mendoza.”
Silence.
“He is a student here, Doctor?”
“Why do you want to talk to him?”
“We didn’t see him enter. Did he arrive extra-early?”
Rollins’s eyes moved past us. Engine noise huffed from the mouth of the drive. Seconds later, a gray Crown Victoria rolled into view, picked up speed, came to an abrupt, tire-squeaking stop. Captain Stanley Creighton got out. Brown suit in place of the cream getup he’d worn at the crime scene.
“Morning, Dr. Rollins, I’ll take it from here.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
She turned to leave. Walkowicz remained in place. Staring at Creighton, a bushy gray eyebrow arced.
Rollins said, “Return to your post, Herb.”
“Yes, ma’am.” To Creighton: “Captain, ay? Congrats.”
Creighton squinted. Nodded. “Herb.”
Rollins said, “You know each other?”
Walkowicz said, “Sure, we go back. Right, Stan?”
Before Creighton could answer, Rollins got between them. “How wonderful for you, Officer Walkowicz. Now let’s put aside auld lang syne and get back to our respective jobs.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Saluting conspicuously, Walkowicz followed Rollins as she race-walked up the drive, veered to his booth, and closed the door hard. Putting a little hip-roll into his stride, the cop-waddle that came from a Sam Browne laden with gear.
Milo said, “Old officers don’t die, they just sit on their asses and pretend to be useful.”
Stan Creighton said, “He was one of my training officers at Central. Then he transferred to Glendale PD and we lost—” His eyes hardened. “What the hell were you thinking, coming up here with no authorization?”
“Working on my improv skills, Stan.”
“Cut the shit, man, this is a major problem. What possessed you?”
“A problem for who?”
“Don’t play with me,” said Creighton. “What was going through your head?”
“I need to talk to a student, I figure school’s the logical place to find a student.”
“What student?”
“Kid named Martin Mendoza.” Milo offered a sketchy summary.
Creighton said, “Kid’s got a temper so he’s a suspect?”
“I’m open to suggestions, Stan.”
“Whatever. The point is even with a student the school’s not the logical place because the rules were made clear to you. Kids have homes, start there. Now get the hell out of here.”
“And here I was thinking a stroll on campus would be educational for all concerned.”
“You really have a death wish, don’t you?”
Milo smiled. “I’m assuming you’re talking metaphor, Stan.”
Creighton’s pupils were pinpoints. His right eye ticced. “Go. Now.”
The elms rustled. From the distance, a girl’s laughter sweetened the air.
“You’re defying a direct order?”
“Just looking for a shovel so I can dig that grave.”
Creighton’s nostrils flared.
Milo’s jaw worked.
I thought of a trip Robin and I had taken to Wyoming. Herds of bison, face-offs between pairs of massive bulls until someone limped away.
Creighton said, “Don’t make me ask you again.”
Milo said, “Can I check first to see if I’ve got rope in my car?”
“Rope? For—”
“So you can tie one of my legs back so I can’t walk without falling on my ass, then you can bind both of my arms to my side and oh yeah, maybe I’ve got some rags in the trunk so you can gag me if God forbid I should talk to a goddamn witness without seeking permission, then you can use some other rags for the blindfold so I walk into fucking walls. After that’s done, Stanley, you can tell me how to do the job.”
Creighton’s neck veins bulged. His fists were the size of cabbage heads.
Rapid pulse in the veins. Audible breathing.
Suddenly he laughed, forced himself into a relaxed posture. “Oh, man, you are really fucking up the job.”
“I can only fuck up the job if I’ve got a job.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think it means, Stan?”
Creighton snickered. “Right, like you’d quit.”
“Like I do, Stan,” said Milo, tossing his badge to the ground. “Life’s too short, send my regards to the Emperor. If the brain-dead battalion surrounding him grants you access.”
Turning heel, he marched away. I followed, catching my breath.
Creighton said, “Yeah, right.”
Neither of us spoke until he drove away. Keeping a light touch on the gas. Humming a weird minor-key tune—maybe some old Druid chant buried in his Celtic consciousness.
“Did I mean it? Hell, yes. Or no. Or maybe. Goddammit. Will I regret it? Probably. Okay, let’s find Martin Mendoza.”
“Off the job but on the job,” I said.
“As an independent citizen.”
“How’re you going to approach him?”
“With my usual tact and sensitivity.”
“I meant under what authority?”
“Hmm,” he said. “How about power to the people?”
CHAPTER
21
L.A. County hosts scores of golf courses but exclusive enclaves for the big-rich number less than a dozen.
Milo began with the Westside, used his suddenly defunct rank to get through to human resource directors. Success on the third try: Emilio Mendoza was a waiter at Mountain Crest Country Club.
I’d been there a few years ago, as the lunch guest of a psychiatric entrepreneur wooing me to direct a nonprofit home for wayward children. Amiable meal, but the devil had messed up the details and I’d declined, despite a great steak. Soon after, the home closed down in a corruption scandal.