He called the lab about Fidella. Listened, turned serious. Hung up. “One palm print showed up on a gutter that runs down a corner of the garage. The sneaker impressions are probably Nikes, a common model, but too shallow to have evidentiary value. All the blood’s Sal’s and wherever there was no blood, the house was clean—definitely a wipe-down, same as with Elise. That and the computer theft tells me we’re dealing with the same guy. In terms of the palm print, the garage is near where the body got dumped so maybe a glove slipped while it got dragged past. Nothing shows up on AFIS but palms haven’t been cataloged long enough to make that meaningful. I get a suspect, it’s sufficient for a match.”
He phoned Martin Mendoza’s house, got the boy’s mother, listened for a long time with what sounded like sympathy.
But when he hung up, he said, “She said all the right things, but her tone wasn’t right, Alex. Too… composed. Like she was reading a script. This after her husband said she’d been throwing up nonstop.”
I said, “Not enough anxiety because she knows he’s safe.”
“Safe,” he said, “is a relative concept.”
Hitching his trousers, he growled. “Time to hunt.”
CHAPTER
26
San Antonio PD agreed to two daily drive-bys of Gisella Mendoza’s apartment for the next three days.
The shift supervisor said, “You got a serious fugitive, call the marshals.”
Milo phoned Gisella again, reached her at work at Bexar Hospital.
“Too damn polite and she worked hard at telling me nothing. Time to get some pix of the South El Monte student body, maybe Gilberto can pick out our enterprising twosome.”
No yearbooks available on a site that trafficked in academic nostalgia but the high school’s website linked to its store where Eagle Pride DVDs sold for ten dollars.
Milo tried to placed a rush order, was told by an administrative assistant named Jane Virgilio that he had to purchase online and shipping would take at least ten working days.
“Even for the police?”
“Why would the police want our DVD?”
“It’s related to a former student, ma’am. Martin Mendoza.”
“Martin? Why in the world?”
“You know him?”
“He was one of our stars, everyone said he’d go to the major leagues, then that prep school stole him away. He’s in trouble?”
“He’s gone missing so knowing who his friends are might help locate him. Any idea who he hung out with?”
“Missing?” said Virgilio. “For how long?”
“Several days,” said Milo.
“His parents must be frantic.”
“They are, Ms. Virgilio. Who were his closest friends?”
“I can’t really pinpoint any.”
“No one?”
“Actually, Martin was kind of a loner.”
“Team player but not a team player?”
“I—oh, I see what you mean. Guess that’s true. Martin practiced pitching all the time, maybe he didn’t have time to socialize.”
“Any girlfriend?”
“I have no idea. The family didn’t say?”
“They’re not aware of any special girl in his life, ma’am.”
“Then I guess there isn’t one. I knew Martin more by reputation than personally.”
“Athletic star.”
“All he had to do was throw that ball straight and fast and the game was ours. When you say missing, do you mean he might be hurt?”
“Sure hope not, ma’am,” said Milo. “Tell you what, I’ll come by and pick up that DVD right now.”
“Um, okay, I think we have some in stock—if you’re moving this fast, it sure doesn’t sound good. Those poor parents. Mrs. Mendoza volunteered for every bake sale and Cinco de Mayo celebration and Mr. Mendoza didn’t mind serving food to hundreds of people. I should call them.”
“Not a good time, ma’am. They’re sequestered.”
“Oh.”
“Anything else you can tell me about Martin?”
“Hmm,” she said. “Terrific kid, that’s all.”
We were just out the door when the phone rang.
Sierra Madre PD: Sal Fidella’s Corvette had been found early this morning, abandoned and partially burned in a ravine along the northern edge of that pretty city.
Milo checked a map. “Ten miles north of El Monte. Forget Texas, the kid’s sticking close to home.”
The high school was on the way, so we stopped there first. Clean and well maintained, but your basic institutional architecture and no evidence of a golf course. Jane Virgilio wasn’t in but her assistant handed us the disc.
Another check of the Thomas Guide: The Mendoza residence was five blocks away and we headed there. I thought of Martin getting up early for the commute to Brentwood, rewarded for the trek with frustration.
Emilio and Anna Mendoza’s residence was small, white, nondescript. Drapes blocked every spotless window. No answer to Milo’s ring.
A vest-pocket backyard shaded by an umbrella-like agonis tree was overstuffed with bromeliads, ferns, palms, coleus. A bulk-rate sack of plant food was propped against a trellis wall and the grass had been watered to emerald. A knock on the rear door evoked the same silence.
Milo put his ear to the panel. “Can’t hear anything but they could be holed up.”
He phoned the house, got no answer.
I said, “Maybe they’ve all packed up to Texas.”
“After the car was dumped? Family that flees together? Yeah, why not?”
That theory was shattered when a call to Mountain Crest Country Club revealed that Emilio Mendoza was on shift.
“May I speak with him please?”
“I’ll see.” Moments later: “Sorry, he’s tied up.”
Click.
A quick ride through Pasadena took us into the northeast corner of Sierra Madre. Houses were long gone and brown hills rolled lazily.
No police presence announced itself in advance of the dump spot. We drove right to the rim of a shallow depression, far short of being a ravine. A female uniform stood next to a black-and-white, talking on a cell phone. Forty, dark hair drawn into a ponytail, smile on her face as she chatted.
She waved languidly.
No tape cordon, no evidence markers, nothing to say this was a crime scene. Nothing to guard, the Corvette was gone.
The site was a forty-foot beige soup bowl, sides eroded and bearded by serpentine roots and the stumps of long-dead trees. At the bottom, nothing but flat dry space. Scorch marks scarred the first few feet of drop along the southern wall. The Corvette hadn’t rolled to the bottom.
A large clump of petrified root boll beneath the burned area seemed a likely culprit. White flecks said someone had tried to cast prints.
The cop pocketed her phone. Two stripes on her sleeve. E. Pappas. “L.A.? All yours, I was just on my way out.”
Milo handed her a card. “No debate on my place or yours?”
“My chief isn’t much for jurisdictional quibbles, Lieutenant. Car got towed to your auto lab.”
“Good riddance, huh?”
“You bet,” she said, without a trace of regret. “We’re a force of twenty-one people, I’m the only corporal, and in six years I can remember exactly one homicide and that was an open-shut domestic. Arson’s another story, we get the usual pyros during dry season, our FD has its hands full. Thank God this one didn’t spread. It won’t even appear on our stats.”
“Did you see the initial scene?”
“First to arrive.”
“Who called it in?”
“Elementary school chaperone—a parent with some little kids on a field trip. I’m no arson detective but it looked like an amateur job. Gasoline got poured on the passenger seat but the windows were left closed so the fire got starved out quickly. Your offender wasn’t any wizard at hiding evidence, either. Tried to roll the darn thing down to the bottom but it got caught on that chunk of root. Even if it had made it to the bottom, it still would’ve been in plain view. You want to conceal something, I’ll show you gullies ten minutes from here so overgrown you could hide stuff forever.”