“Excellent, who better to pick some Spanish day laborer to do the heavy lifting. Hell, for all we know Mr. Anteater was directly involved with the killing.”
“Mr. Anteater bought dry ice in Van Nuys. Martin’s got no driver’s license but he somehow managed to get from El Monte to the heart of the Valley, then over to Elise’s place in Studio City?”
“Big deal, he borrowed wheels or stole ’em—or got someone to drive him. He calls himself an outcast but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t find another outcast. Can’t you see a couple of bitter adolescents hatching a weird ice scheme?”
His cell rang. “Für Elise” again. I said, “Got the joke,” but he was concentrating, didn’t hear.
“Afternoon, sir… no, I suppose not, sir… in all fairness, sir, it wasn’t a deliberate provoca… yes, sir. But still… yes, sir. I just felt… Stan Creighton came on a bit heavy… yes, sir… can I say one thing? Strictly speaking, if I’m off the job, I’m not actually obligated to… yes, sir… yes, sir… yes, sir, right now, sir.”
Snapping the phone shut, he rubbed his face.
I said, “Out of retirement?”
“Apparently I never was in retirement. Apparently decisions about my career aren’t mine to make. Apparently doing the job properly ‘has nothing to do with your fucking ego or your histrionic, grandstanding bullshit, Sturgis.’ I’m due at his office, A-sap. This time, you’re explicitly disinvited.”
“Aw shucks.”
“His exact wording was ‘Don’t even think about shlepping along your Ph.D. nursemaid. This shit you wipe on your own. And be thankful your fucking badge doesn’t end up in a bodily orifice.’”
“Maybe you can bring a peace offering,” I said.
“Like?”
“Special-order a double-sized burrito. Tell him it’s the Chief.”
“Oh, man,” he said. “There’ll be enough gas without that.”
I next heard from him at eight p.m.
Standing at my door holding a bouquet of flowers.
“For Robin,” he said. “Because I’m invading her privacy.”
He walked past me, stopped to pet Blanche, griping, as always, about a taller dog not killing his back. Blanche licked his hand and pressed her head against his shin. He muttered, “Yeah, you’re cute… where’s Robin?”
“Out for dinner with an old friend from San Luis.”
He handed me the flowers. “Put ’em in water, they’ll keep.”
“How’d it go downtown?”
He strode to the kitchen, searched the fridge, pulled nothing out.
“I arrive expecting to be disemboweled with garden shears, he’s all mellow, smoking a cigar, tie loosened, ‘Come right in, Sturgis.’ It’s like nothing ever happened, he just wants a progress report. It was only after I finished that he reverted to type. ‘I said progress, Sturgis, not a fucking exposition of the obvious. Why the hell haven’t you followed up on the Italian boyfriend, seeing as he’s a con and a loser? Work this one logically.’ Which translates to forget about the school.”
“He’d rather have you on supervised duty than freelancing. What does he think about Martin Mendoza?”
“Not impressed. Same for Trey Franck. ‘It’s always loved ones and lowlifes, Sturgis. The Italian guy is both.’”
He opened the fridge again, retrieved a loaf of bread, and snarfed a slice dry. Blanche looked up with customary fascination.
“So guess where I’m headed now? Reason I stopped here, first, is I’m not sure how to approach Fidella. He’s cooperated so far, what’s my reason for recontacting him without getting him antsy and pulling back into his shell?”
I said, “If he’s a con man he’ll be naturally suspicious, so I’m not sure you can avoid getting him wary. You could try telling him you’ve found some kids at the school who had conflict with Elise, figured if she confided in anyone it would be him.”
“Which leads to an interesting point: Elise told Trey Franck about Martin but if she mentioned it to Fidella, he didn’t pass that along. So either she felt closer to Franck or Fidella’s keeping his cards under the table. If it’s the latter, Fidella may be considering another extortion scheme.”
“All the more reason to tantalize him with a possible link to the school. You’re confirming his initial theory and making him feel like part of your team, as opposed to a suspect. He lets his guard down, you might learn something interesting.”
“And Santa’s on call twelve months a year.” Yanking the fridge open for the third time, he scored a second slice of bread, deliberated, added a third. Pulled out a jar of boysenberry jam topped by a gingham-wrapped lid.
“Looks homemade. You guys going slow-food?”
“Robin’s friend brought it.”
Slathering both slices, he chewed noisily. “I’d love to see Fidella’s spontaneous reaction to the mention of Franck’s name. He gives off a serious tell, I’ve got a clear pathway to your basic crime of passion. But I can’t risk showing my cards. Not that the odds like Uncle Milo. Unlike Sal, I never scored a jackpot.”
“If you had, you might’ve held on to the dough.”
“Well, look at that.” He pinged the vase of flowers with a fingernail. “For the price of some stems and petals, I get therapy.”
CHAPTER
23
The sky above Sal Fidella’s block was moonlit, particle-clogged, heavy with mist. Houses and shrubs and trees appeared partially erased.
No Corvette in the driveway, dim yellow porch light over the door but no illumination from within.
Milo got out and rang the bell anyway, was greeted by the expected silence. Someone called “’Scuse me?” from across the street.
A man gestured from the lawn of a neatly kept ranch house.
Big man in T-shirt and shorts. Big shaggy dog on a leash sitting obediently at his side.
The dog studied our approach, dark, bear-like, unmoving but for intelligent eyes that cut through the haze.
The man was in his early thirties, bullnecked and crew-cut with a fuzzy chin-beard and the top-heavy physique of a silverback gorilla. “You’re cops, right? I came out with Rufus and seen you.” He hooked a thumb at Fidella’s house. “What’d he do?”
Milo said, “What makes you think he did anything?”
“He didn’t?”
“What’s on your mind, sir?”
The man shifted his weight. The dog didn’t budge. “Tell the truth, Officer, none of us likes him living so close.”
“None of us being…”
“Me, my wife, also the Barretts—two houses down, they also got kids.”
“You’re worried about your kids?”
“Not yet,” said the man. “So far, he just bothered the wives.”
“Bothered them how?”
“Trying to sell ’em stuff they didn’t want. With my wife it was a guitar for my oldest. But Sean don’t play the guitar, Sean’s into sports, she told him that. He kept pushin’, telling Dara kids who played instruments were smarter than kids who didn’t play instruments, he had some good cheap guitars, Sean could pick his color. Dara said thanks but no thanks. He follows her all the way up to our door, finally she has to say, really, I’m not interested, and he’s still talking. Dara told me about it later, I said let me go over there, she said if he does it again, no sense making a scene. Later we were having a barbecue with Doug and Karen—the Barretts—and Dara found out he’d pulled the same stunt with Karen.”
“Trying to sell her a guitar.”
“Drums, their oldest plays the drums, you can hear it a mile away when he practices. One day he catches Karen as she’s driving up, tells her doesn’t sound like Ryan’s drum kit’s any good. She says it’s fine. He says it’s really not, he can get her a better one, cheap. Karen says no thanks, we’re fine, he gets pushy the same way he did with Dara. Karen’s tougher than Dara, she yells at him to back off.”