“Meaning farewell and good luck.”
“If that’s your preference,” said Fishell.
“Because you’re a pal.”
Fishell looked as if he’d been slapped. “I’m not dumping, I don’t want to get in your way is all.”
“No prob.”
“Look, whatever you want, Lieutenant. I been working like a dog, supposedly I’m off. The plan was to spend time with my granddaughter. She lives in San Mateo, I don’t get to see her often enough.”
“Go home, then.”
“Naw, it’s okay, I’m here already.”
“Forget it,” said Milo. “This is definitely gonna hook into mine.”
“You have an idea who killed him?”
“Probably the same person who killed my vic.”
Fishell waited.
Milo said, “That’s as far as it’s gotten. Go home and enjoy the granddaughter. How old is she?”
“Five.”
“Great age.”
“You bet. We were watching Dora the Explorer,” said Fishell. “That’s a cartoon show—you got kids?”
“Nope.”
“Oh,” said Fishell. “Well, thanks, I get back now I can finish Dora.”
We waited around longer, in case the crime scene crew came up with anything dramatic.
No signs of forced entry. Fidella’s slippers and three empty beer bottles with Fidella’s prints were found in the living room.
No prints on the pool cue, probably wiped clean. Same for a bloodstained leather case. Screening the house for physical evidence would stretch until morning. No sign of any computers, but clear space on a bedroom desk and an old laser printer in the closet suggested a linkup had once existed.
Fidella’s cell phone lay on the bed. Milo checked recent calls. Nothing since morning. He returned the phone to a tech admiring the murder weapon.
“Look at this, Lieutenant. Ivory handle, probably genuine. And this is real cute.” Eyeing a middle section of rosewood imprinted with silver hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds.
“This cost some serious bucks, Lieutenant. No table in the house so he probably took it with him to bars, pool halls, whatever.”
“Or the killer brought the cue with him.”
“And risk damaging something so cool?” said the tech.
“Depends on the payoff.”
“For what?”
“Bashing in Mr. Fidella’s skull.”
“Oh. I guess, maybe.”
We left the scene.
Roland Staubach observed, accompanied by Rufus and a fair-haired woman also in shorts and a tee. Neighbors drifted out of their homes and stayed to watch.
Milo waved.
Staubach returned the gesture woodenly before looking away.
Milo drove on. “All of a sudden it’s a block doesn’t want to know too much.”
Midway up Beverly Glen, he said, “Martin Mendoza’s looking better and better. Bashing Fidella’s skull then stealing the car is exactly the kind of poor-impulse crap a kid like him would do.”
“What’s the motive?” I said.
He had no answer for that and ignorance didn’t sit well with him. Hunching over the wheel, he switched on the police radio, pretended to be interested in misdemeanors and traffic violations. By the time he dropped me at my house we hadn’t spoken for ten minutes.
“Night,” I said.
“Guess who I’m calling soon as you’re out of the car?” Cursing under his breath. “Don’t suppose he’ll take the news well, seeing as he just lost his favorite suspect and this puts it right back at the school… why would Martin go after Fidella?”
“Don’t know.”
“Hey,” he said, “that’s my mantra. Be sure to tell Robin where the flores came from, I forgot a card.”
He drove off as I climbed the stairs to my front door. Moments after I was inside, settled next to Robin, a familiar knock sounded at the front door.
Milo stood there, looking like a shy kid at the prom.
Robin stood on tiptoes and bussed his cheek. “Thanks for the bouquet, darling. What have you brought me now?”
“I should bring you something. Same reason, abuse of privacy.”
“C’mon in, darling.”
“Love to, but I’ve been summoned by the boss. As in now. Unfortunately, so has Alex. If you can spare him, I’ll send you three dozen roses tomorrow.”
“He’s worth more than vegetative matter, but sure.”
I said, “I’m re-invited?”
“Better. You’re the guest of honor.”
CHAPTER
24
The freeway at one a.m. was slick black tape.
I said, “Chief’s in his office this late?”
“He’s home.”
“You do house calls?”
“Now I do.”
I said, “Anyone in the office notices a meeting at this hour, it arouses suspicion and documents his meddling. Meaning where he lives, no one’ll notice. Last time, he met us in Calabasas. My guess is he’s got one of those secluded West Valley spreads.”
“Now you know why he likes you, Sherlock.”
The chief’s spread in Agoura backed up against horse farms, undeveloped pasture, the umber mass of the Santa Monica Mountains.
Getting close took us half an hour beyond the freeway, past the point where streets were identified by signs. Early on we’d sped past desperately cute strip malls, a Porsche dealership, a gas station charging ten percent more than in the city. Now we hurtled through dark, unfocused space.
Milo had trouble navigating the increasingly complex web of trails barely wide enough for a vehicle. Several wrong turns into frustration, he flipped on the dome light, read his own hand-scrawled directions while coasting. By the time we arrived at a small wooden sign he was sweating and cursing. Burned into rough plank:
SERENITY RANCH
I said, “Bit of a commute to Windsor Prep. Nothing like parental dedication.”
“Nothing like mommy dedication.”
We passed through an open swing gate—just a steel frame and a single diagonal cross-beam—and the Crown Vic labored up an asphalt ribbon worn to raw earth in spots, lumped unpleasantly in others. The car’s overtaxed suspension whined at every concussion.
The gate wasn’t much of a barrier. I said, “A lesser man might be concerned about intruders.”
“Apex predators don’t fret about that kind of thing.”
A half-acre motor court spread tight as a fitted sheet fronted a wide, shallow-roofed, one-story house. Parking for scores of cars but no vehicles in sight. Maybe the family wheels were buttoned up in the quadruple garage.
The court was unadorned concrete. Other than a couple of huge oaks listing dangerously, no greenery graced the house. The rear was clear, flat acreage, lots of it. The trees were probably the last surviving remnants of an ancient grove decimated for Top Cop’s lair. Too many wet years and they might topple vengefully.
The chief was waiting for us, rocking in a chair set at the front edge of the court, tastefully lit by a low-watt pole fixture resembling a gas lamp. The tip of his cigar created tiny orange curlicues. Wisps of smoke were ingested by the darkness.
Milo cruised to a halt, opened his window. “Sir.”
“Over there.” A stiff thumb jabbed to the left. Embers tumbled to the concrete, sparked, died.
We parked, got out. No other seating meant we stood like supplicants. The chief’s white hair gave off metallic glints when the cigar tip favored it with transitory light. Otherwise, he was a charcoal sketch.