Jonathan Kellerman - Deception

Prep occupies a remote pocket of Brentwood, at the end of a northern cul-de-sac. No signage advertises its presence. A thousand feet of two-way, cobbled drive heralded by fifteen-foot gateposts winds its way toward a guardhouse equipped with a yardarm. Beyond the barrier, a generous roundabout leads to baroque iron gates offering a glimpse of the rarefied world beyond.

Sixteen acres is ample space, per the school's website, for a dozen buildings fashioned in classic Monterey Colonial style, an Olympic pool, an indoor gym complete with yoga room and full-court basketball, a regulation football field, ditto baseball diamond. The nine-hole golf course is a recent addition in response to student interest. Even with all that, when season and air quality permit, expansive lawns and drought-tolerant plantings provide the opportunity for outdoor seminars, or simply for gaining an appreciation of environmental integrity during moments of contemplation.

The Prep day begins at eight thirty a.m. By eight, Milo and I were watching the motor traffic that streamed in and out of the entry road. Long queue but well mannered, no one fussing. The slow pace gave us plenty of time to scan vehicles for the face that matched Martin Mendoza's MySpace page.

It also allowed drivers and passengers to study us, but Milo didn't seem to care.

Mendoza 's social networking seemed halfhearted: some underplayed baseball triumph, no list of friends, not a word on the career-killing injury. The few photos provided depicted a tall, husky, dark-eyed, crew-cut boy with muscular shoulders, thick eyebrows, and full, downturned lips. Even while posing with a middle school MVP trophy Martin Mendoza came across grim.

Milo read the printout for the third time, pocketed it just as a flame-red Infiniti slid past the gateposts. A silver Lincoln Navigator took its place. Teenage girl in the passenger seat. She rolled down her window, smiled saucily.

Milo smiled back.

The woman at the wheel said, "Close it, Lisa." Fed the Navigator gas and lurched out of view.

I said, "Let me guess: After sleeping on it, you decided on a new phase in the investigation. To hell with the chief."

He worked his tongue inside his cheek. "Me an insurgent? Perish."

The next car was a white Jaguar. Hispanic kid in the passenger seat, but not Mendoza. Diplomatic plates. Uniformed driver.

Nearly all the older students drove themselves. The younger kids were chauffeured by attractive, sharp-jawed women and preoccupied men gabbing illegally on cell phones. Being driven appeared to turn them sullen.

One of the most morose riders looked closer to senior than freshman, a skinny, red-haired boy pressed to the passenger door of a bronze Lexus LX. Resting his chin on a bony fist and staring into nothingness.

Bubble-coiffed strawberry blonde at the wheel.

Noticing us shook the boy out of his torpor. He studied us. Kept staring until the Lexus rolled out of sight.

I said, "Carrot Top seemed to know you."

"Don't know him, but I do know his mommy."

"Mrs. Chief and the vaunted Charlie."

He sighed.

I said, "He looked a little down."

"Would you want Him for your dad?"

"Touche."

"Maybe he'll be happier when he's in New Haven warbling the Whiffenpoof Song."

"How do you know about stuff like that?"

"Been reading up on the Ivy League. A little cultural anthropology never hurt."

"What'd you learn?"

"That I'd never have gotten in."

A navy Bentley Continental rolled up. Pretty black girl staring straight ahead and chewing gum energetically, gigantic dad at the wheel wearing a white tracksuit. Several seasons since he'd performed buzzer-beaters for the Lakers.

"Whole different world here," said Milo, rubbing his face. "C'mon, Marty, show yourself."

By eighty forty-two, the last car had passed through, with no sign of Martin Mendoza.

Milo said, "Onward," and we continued on foot. The cobblestone was smooth under my shoes, as if someone had hand-polished every inch. Monumental Chinese elms flanked the drive, creating a shady allee. As we got closer, smidges of youthful vocalization filtered from behind the school's facade, but the rustle of leaves in the breeze was louder.

Rounding a curve exposed the guardhouse. Two people walked toward us.

Woman in a black pantsuit speeding several steps in front of a large man in a khaki uniform.

Headmaster Mary Jane Rollins said, "Oh, it's you," in a flat voice. "I've just fielded a storm of complaints."

The guard remained behind her, hands folded on his buckle. Midsixties, beefy and ruddy, with piercing blue cop eyes that transcended retirement. Flashlight and walkie-talkie on his belt, no gun. A brass name tag read Walkowicz. Rollins's back to him gave him the courage to wink at us.

Milo said, "Complaints about what, Doctor?"

"Two men lurking at the entrance," said Rollins. "Needless to say, parents were alarmed."

"Never been called a lurker, Doctor."

"I fail to find humor in the situation, Lieutenant."

"Sorry about the inconvenience, Doctor. Luckily for everyone concerned, we're here to protect and serve."

Walkowicz grinned.

Mary Jane Rollins said, "Given the tense world we live in-now exacerbated by Ms. Freeman's death-upsetting our students is the last thing we needed this morning. They've barely achieved closure."

"About Ms. Freeman's death?"

"We've held two Town Halls as well as a voluntary grief counseling seminar for anyone interested. It's been an emotional experience."

I said, "How was the turnout for the seminar?"

"What difference does that make?"

"Just wondering about student interest."

"Why? So you can interrogate them? Turnout was fine, our people are doing well. All things considered. Or they were until two men were spotted-"

"Lurking implies underhanded," said Milo. "We stood right out in the open and to my eye none of the kids seemed bothered."

Mary Jane Rollins fingered eyeglasses hanging from a chain. "With all due respect to the acuity of your eye, Lieutenant, you created stress and bother. Now, if there's nothing more-"

"You're not curious why we're here, Dr. Rollins?"

"I've too many things on my plate for idle curiosity."

Walkowicz rolled his eyes. Rollins sensed something and pivoted toward him. By the time their gazes met, the guard had returned to stoic immobility. But when Rollins faced us again, his mouth flirted with mirth.

Milo said, "We need to talk to one of your students. The intention was to find him before he entered the school grounds. To minimize disruption."

"A student? Who?"

"Martin Mendoza."

Silence.

"He is a student here, Doctor?"

"Why do you want to talk to him?"

"We didn't see him enter. Did he arrive extra-early?"

Rollins's eyes moved past us. Engine noise huffed from the mouth of the drive. Seconds later, a gray Crown Victoria rolled into view, picked up speed, came to an abrupt, tire-squeaking stop. Captain Stanley Creighton got out. Brown suit in place of the cream getup he'd worn at the crime scene.

"Morning, Dr. Rollins, I'll take it from here."

"Thank you, Captain."

She turned to leave. Walkowicz remained in place. Staring at Creighton, a bushy gray eyebrow arced.

Rollins said, "Return to your post, Herb."

"Yes, ma'am." To Creighton: "Captain, ay? Congrats."

Creighton squinted. Nodded. "Herb."

Rollins said, "You know each other?"

Walkowicz said, "Sure, we go back. Right, Stan?"

Before Creighton could answer, Rollins got between them. "How wonderful for you, Officer Walkowicz. Now let's put aside auld lang syne and get back to our respective jobs."

"Yes, ma'am." Saluting conspicuously, Walkowicz followed Rollins as she race-walked up the drive, veered to his booth, and closed the door hard. Putting a little hip-roll into his stride, the cop-waddle that came from a Sam Browne laden with gear.