"A man named Kenten."
"Edwin Kenten?" he said. "Another fucking layer of complication."
"Who is he?"
"A builder of cities, Doctor." Laughing bitterly. "A Titan among mere mortals. His game is partnering with municipalities, then evoking eminent domain to bulldoze private property. In place of which he nails up low-budget housing and big-box stores financed by taxpayer money. All in the name of the greater good."
His laugh was low, hoarse, ominous. "Ed Kenten served on the committee that recommended hiring me. We had an interview during which he led me to believe he supported me. When the time came to vote, he supported someone else because their dark skin mattered more to him than the ability to get the fucking job done." Another threatening snicker. "Yeah, can see him putting the Mexican kid in an awkward situation just so he could feel noble. Kid freaks out, gets violent, does Freeman, but that's not enough to quell his rage, so he bashes the Italian's brains."
He clucked. "Eddie's going to have to find himself another barrio darling. Meanwhile, he's playing his eighteen holes at Mountain Crest and getting chauffeured to Paradise Cove. Hell, the kid's daddy's probably still serving Ed his shrimp cocktail."
The cigar tip danced merrily.
I said, "Why does Kenten complicate matters?"
"Once the kid gets busted, Eddie being his mentor will come to light and first thing he'll assume is I'm out to make him look bad. So you be damn sure, Sturgis, that you've got rock-solid evidence before you stir up the cesspool."
A light went on in the big, low house. The chief shot a quick look back, faced us again.
"Okay, here's the deal, Sturgis: Concentrate on finding the Corvette. It shows up with the Mexican kid's prints in it, or if you get any kind of physical evidence from the house pointing to the kid, we'll be forced to deal with the consequences. You find squat in the car and the house, you leave the kid alone."
"And?" said Milo.
"And take a breather. Regroup. Put everything on ice until you've got evidence. Pun intended. And don't worry about getting bored. I just sat through a PowerPoint dog-and-pony from my math techies and they say West L.A.'s due for a fresh homicide in thirty to fifty days, most likely a gang shooting. Once in a while, even you can catch something easy."
Milo said, "Mendoza's never been in the system, AFIS won't have his prints."
"A nice, law-abiding nino," said the chief. "How uplifting. Maybe Eddie Kenten sensed that. On the other hand, maybe the kid's kind of cute."
The orange disk dipped. "Catch my meaning, Sturgis?"
"Kenten's gay?"
Laughter. "A married grandpa? Tsk-tsk, I don't rumor-mong. On the other hand, you tell me Mendoza's a strapping, muscular stud, I'm not going to gasp in shock."
"Sir, in terms of Martin Mendoza's prints not being in the-"
"No sense what-iffing, you don't even have the car. Find it, have the techies do their thing, who knows, you might luck out and get prints from someone who is in the system. I just saw the GTA stats for Van Nuys. Shameful, it's something we definitely need to work on. So the Italian could've gotten brained by a jack-happy Eastside punk just like the neighbor assumed and we can all go home, have a beer, fuck whoever it is we customarily fuck."
"That doesn't close Freeman, sir."
"Some of life's mysteries, Sturgis, are destined to remain enigmatic."
Milo didn't respond.
I said, "Convenient. Except for the moral dilemma."
The chief's head shot forward. Cigar sparks flew like miniature fireworks. "Whose dilemma might that be, Doctor."
"Charlie's."
His next words came out tight, as if extruded from a clogged machine. "You don't know Charlie."
"I know kids and from what you said last time, Charlie sounds like a thoughtful kid. The murder of a teacher would get any student curious. A serious young man with a moral compass and a direct link to law enforcement might take that curiosity to another level. It wouldn't surprise me if this is the first time he's expressed any interest in your work."
The cigar tip dipped suddenly.
I said, "If Elise Freeman's murder languishes in bureaucratic purgatory, Charlie will want to know why. You'll give him an explanation and he might even pretend to accept it. Alternatively, he'll be assertive and push you and you'll embroider. Either way, he's smart, nothing short of the truth is going to satisfy his curiosity. The kind of curiosity that could linger well past graduation from Yale."
"Yale," he said. "Boolah Boolah."
"Fight songs endure," I said. "Surrender songs don't."
The orange dot bobbled. Shaky hand. He tried to steady it. Failed. Dropping the cigar, he stomped hard. Embers scattered, glinted, vanished.
He sat there, bracing his hands on his knees. Shot upright like a switchblade flicking open. Turning his back on us, he trudged across the cement court, grew small. Entered his house and closed the door silently.
Lights off.
I said, "Sorry, Big Guy."
"For what?"
"Messing you up with the boss."
"Screw that," he said. "Quitting and getting roped back in gave me a whole new perspective." Staring at the house. "Never seen him retreat like that."
"He could be too mad to speak."
"Who cares? You got to him, Alex. Trust me, he's in there right now, brooding about Junior. And being a rank opportunist, I'm grabbing the white card."
"What white card?"
"Carte blanche, mon frere. Until he specifies otherwise, I'm gonna do whatever the hell I please on Freeman and Fidella."
"He already specified the plan," I said. "Half-assed search for Mendoza, Freeman goes cold."
"That was before you tweaked his psyche and he didn't fight back. Silence is acquiescence, amigo. The lion wimps out, the wildebeests proceed to the drinking hole."
CHAPTER 25
Carte blanche at two a.m. meant putting a BOLO out on Sal Fidella's Corvette as we sped east on the 101.
Milo said, "I get non-AFIS prints that aren't Fidella's, all the more reason to hunt for Marty Mendoza seriously. As in talking to every damn student and teacher at Prep who knew him, maybe flying out personally to San Antonio where I will enjoy tamales and carne asada and drive by his sister's apartment at frequent intervals, myself."
"I am detective, hear me roar."
"Beasts of burden make noise, too."
Nine hours later, he called me. "Top of the morning." Lightness in his voice.
"You found the car?"
"Nope, but I made a new friend."
I met him at noon at the Culver City jail on Duquesne, where a guard named Shirronne Bostic led us to a locked holding room.
Tapping a foot, she shuffled through a key ring.
Milo said, "When did he come in?"
"Last night around ten. Picked up in a hooker sting, pretended no hablo ingles then changed his tune when he got hauled in instead of just a ticket like the last time. Your card was in his pocket along with some bullshit I.D. You were his one call."
"Flattered."
"He for real, Lieutenant?"
"Depends on what he has to say."
"Guess he is real," said Bostic. "You're here."
Inside the holding cell, a middle-aged balding man with a droopy mustache sat on a metal bench, dusky skin jaundiced by cruel light. White stubble dotted his face, his eyes were defeated.
Jumpy eyes and unstable hands, same as when he'd been part of the day-laborer crowd waiting for pickup work near the ice joint. The one who'd claimed a fake address in Beverly Hills.
Officer Bostic said, "He claims to be Hector Ruiz but he also claims to live near movie stars."
"That's my name," said the man.
Milo said, "I'll take it from here, thanks," and Bostic left. "Mr. Ruiz, how're things in B.H.?"
Hector Ruiz said, "The guy in anteater shirt," in barely accented English.