Deception: An Alex Delaware Novel (23 page)

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."

Seventy minutes later, Chavez had been through every photo three times.

Same baleful head shake after each pass.

He tried to return the book to Milo.

"Again, Gilberto."

"I don lie," Chavez whined. "No in here."

"You ever wear glasses, Gilberto?"

"No way."

"Try again. And take your time."

Fourth pass, same result.

Chavez looked ready to cry. "I wanna go home but they no in here."

"Let's talk about them, Gilberto. What makes you think they were eighteen?"

"I dunno--they wasn't fifteen."

"How do you know?"

"In a car."

"What car?"

"Black Honda." Retrieving memories that had eluded him.

"Anything different about the Honda?"

"No."

Milo flipped to the front of the senior class. "These are eighteen-year-olds. Take another look."

"Mister, they no
in
here. These
white
girls."

"The girls who wanted ice weren't white."

"One white, yes. Other Mexicana."

"She speak Spanish to you?"

"English. But Mexicana."

"A white girl and a Latina," said Milo.

"Yeh."

"First time I asked what they looked like you said you couldn't remember."

"I couldn't."

"Now you remember one was white and one was Latina."

Chavez touched the side of his head, gave a dreamy smile. "I wake up, you know?"

Milo took the yearbook from him, held it at his side, like a bludgeon poised to bash. "Get more awake right now, Gilberto, and tell me exactly what they looked like."

"Nice."

"Pretty?"

"Yeh."

"Who was driving?"

"The Mexicana."

"You're walking, they pull up?"

"Yeh."

"Then what?"

"The white one she 'Hey, can you help us?'"

"Pretty girl."

Chavez grinned and outlined the jut of enormous breasts.

"Big girl."

"Big titties," said Chavez. "I say 'What?' She get out." Shaping bulbous hips. "Nice."

"What about the Mexicana?"

"
Flaca
but nice face."

"Skinny," said Milo. "So she got out of the car, too."

"Yeh. Laughing."

"Something funny was going on."

"I figure a joke."

"What were their names?"

"No say names."

"They didn't talk to each other and use names?"

"Never," said Chavez with surprising clarity. "First they say money for you help, then the Mexicana come out of the car with you know."

"I know what?"

"You kn--okay, okay, a bag. Say 'This better than money.' I say for what do, they say 'Go buy something.' Lots of laugh."

"They were having a good time."

"I think a party, ice is a party, no? I dint do
nothin'
bad."

"What were they wearing?"

"The white one, black on top, tight jeans." Shaping lush hips again, he blew out air. "Long hair." Reaching behind, he touched a spot below his waist.

"What color?"

"Black."

"What about the Mexicana?"

"Also black, but the blond here." Fingering the fringes of his own dense coiffure.

"Streaked," said Milo.

"Yeh."

"The Mexicana also had long hair?"

"Yeh. Red top--the tank. Tight jeans." Whistling appreciatively. "Sandals, also heels. White, yeh, white."

"You're doing good, Gilberto. What else?"

"I bring the ice to the Honda, they gimme the bag."

"Same bag I found in your pocket?"

"Yeh."

"Who else was in the Honda?"

"Nobody."

"You're sure?"

"I put the ice in the backseat, nobody else."

"Where'd they wait while you bought the ice?"

"A block, I had to carry."

"That didn't make you curious?"

"Whuh?"

"Them paying you to buy something they could buy themselves. Waiting a block away."

"No," said Chavez.

"No, what?"

"Two weeks I got no work. I don wonder about nothin'."

We left the station and walked up Butler Avenue.

Milo said, "Girls and not Prep students. Lord, hand me the Prozac."

I said, "Teenage girls like to please teenage boys."

"Getting ice for a young stud. One of them being Latin could mean she knows Martin from his former life in El Monte." Smiling. "God forbid I should racially profile."

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."

"Anything on the casts?"

"Nope, sorry. After the car had been moved we saw what looked like shoe prints, but they turned out to be twig marks. Maybe you'll pull up some latents from the vehicle. Only thing left behind was a hat and I made sure it got bagged and tagged for you."