"It's about dry ice."
"What the problem?"
"No problem, just tell me about the kids."
"Girls."
"The kids were girls?"
"Oh, yeh, nice," said Chavez. "Very nice."
"How many?"
"Two."
"How old?"
"I dunno."
"Guess."
"Huh?"
"How old?"
"Eighteen?"
"Why'd they want dry ice?"
"I dunno."
"How much weed they give you?"
Silence.
Milo dug up a business card and flashed it in front of Chavez's bloodshot orbs. "See what it says here? Homicide. I don't care about dope."
Chavez's blank look said he wasn't processing. Illiteracy or too much THC.
"Homicide, Gilberto. Know what that is?"
"Someone get kill?"
"Yes, Gilberto."
"So?"
"So the ice you bought was involved in someone being killed."
Chavez's mouth dropped open. Anxiety burned through some of his high and his eyes sharpened. "Oh, no. No no, no, no, no!"
"Yes, yes, yes. Tell me about the two girls."
"I dint do nothin'."
"Then you have nothing to worry about."
"I dint do nothin'."
"Okay. Now tell me about the girls."
"I dint do nothin'."
We drove Chavez to West L.A. station where a claustrophobic solo cell was available because no psychotics were in residence in the holding jail. Milo's repeated attempts to open Chavez up failed. He seemed to drop in and out of lucidity.
We left him curled on the floor, snoring, and climbed to Milo's office on the second floor. He shuffled through messages, tossed everything.
"There's enough product in that bag to keep him here on a possession with intent. Maybe jail food'll convince him to look at pictures of those girls."
"You think they're in a mug book?"
"I think they're in another book. Let's get outta here."
This time we drove straight up to the Windsor Prep guardhouse. Herb Walkowicz emerged, khakis pressed, an old-fashioned visor cap jaunty on his head. "Hey, guys, gonna get me in trouble again?"
"We'll do our best," said Milo. "Dr. Rollins in?"
"Since eight a.m." Eye roll. "Unless she climbed over a back fence or something without snagging her designer pantsuit. She in trouble?"
"I just need to talk to her."
Walkowicz looked disappointed. "I'd like to see that one in an interview room without her damn BlackBerry."
"Not a pleasant gal, Herb?"
"You could say that." Wink wink. "You could also say she's a tight-assed, snobby bitch. But you never heard that from me."
"What about her boss?"
"Dr. Helfgott? He's okay, not around much. Day to day, Rollins runs the place."
"Know any of the teachers?"
"Know 'em by sight, that's all," said Walkowicz. "Everyone goes in and out, I'm in my cage watching. The invisible man. Take my advice: Don't retire, just die on the job."
"I'm working on that, Herb."
Walkowicz laughed. "So you want to go in? I got a key to that big front gate. Only problem is, I have to let the office know before I let anyone through and when Rollins finds out it's you she's for sure gonna make a stink. Last time she told me not to let you get within twenty feet."
"Call her and tell her we're being obnoxious, then put me on the line."
"Yeah," said the guard. "That would be better."
Ten minutes later, Mary Jane Rollins emerged swinging a royal-blue book bag marked with the school's crest. She wore a charcoal pin-striped pantsuit, red flats, a withering frown.
"Here." Thrusting the bag. "I'm sure you could've gotten one on eBay."
"Nothing like straight from the source," said Milo. "How much is it gonna cost me?"
"Oh, please. What I don't see is why you need it to identify Martin. You already know what he looks like."
"It's called careful documentation, Doctor."
"Of what?"
"Everything associated with a case."
"So Martin is… we still haven't seen him. Not for days."
Matter-of-fact, not the least bit upset.
I said, "What's he like, Dr. Rollins?"
"In what sense?"
"What kind of kid is he, personality-wise?"
"I have no idea."
"While he was here you didn't have much contact with him?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary."
"No special attention," I said, "despite his circumstances."
"We were acutely aware of his circumstances. That's why we paid to hire a tutor for him. Obviously that didn't work out."
Irritation, not a trace of horror.
"So he got no other help besides tutoring?"
"Such as?"
"Counseling, maybe from someone on the faculty who knew him well."
"Sir," she said, "we have two hundred and ninety-three students preselected for intelligence, character, and the ability to reason independently. That means minimal need for babysitting."
"Other than academic tutoring."
"That is a matter among students, their families, and their tutors. Our paying was an additional courtesy we extended Martin. Obviously, it didn't work out as we'd hoped. Now, in the future, if you people believe there's something you absolutely must have immediately, use the phone." Crooked smile. "During these days of fiscal austerity, I'd think city agencies would prefer to save on gasoline."
Milo said, "We like the personal touch."
"Good day, gentlemen."
"Thanks for your cooperation, Doctor."
"I'm not cooperating," said Rollins. "I'm acquiescing."
When she was back behind the gates, Herb Walkowicz whistled softly through his teeth. "Welcome to my world."
"Working with Stan Creighton was better, Herb?"
"Let me tell you something about Stan. He used to be a good guy before he got involved."
"Involved with what?"
"Suits and weenies and other assorted bullshit artists," said Walkowicz. His mouth tightened. "Kinda people send their kids to a place like this."
As we headed to the car, Milo reached into the blue bag and drew out last year's Windsor Prep yearbook.
Three-hundred-plus gilt-edged pages bound in royal-blue calfskin. Each student's headshot in full, high-def color.
I said, "Nice production values."
"Only the best for show-pooches." He inspected a few photos. "Some of them even look happy."
Gilberto Chavez remained curled on the floor of his cell.
"He been that way all this time?" Milo asked the uniform on duty.
"For the most part. He peed once, we made him clean it up. Hey, Dr. Delaware, how come the deceptive ones always sleep like babies?"
I said, "Minimal or no conscience."
Milo said, "Pop the lock on Rip Van Winkle."
The uniform opened the cell, made sure the door clanged loud. Chavez stirred but but didn't awaken. When Milo called out his name, he opened his eyes briefly before clamping them shut.
Milo toed his shoulder. "Sit up. Now."
Chavez groaned, struggled to his elbows, finally complied with theatrical sluggishness. Milo took him by the shoulder, propped him up, slid him to the edge of the bench. Flipping the yearbook to the freshman page, he placed it on Chavez's lap.
"Start looking."
"Uh-uh."
"Uh-uh, what?"
"I dint do nothin'."
"I know you didn't. But those two girls you got weed from were involved in something bad so unless you want to take all the heat and go up for murder, you'll show me who they are."
"I dint-"
"Show me who they are, Gilberto, and we're finished. Don't cooperate and you're never getting out of here."
"I dint-"
"Shut the fuck up," said Milo, softly. "Now start looking."