Jonathan Kellerman - Deception

"You want to talk about Ms. Freeman," said Mendoza. "You don't suspect Martin of anything?"

Milo nodded and mouthed Now I do. "Not at all, sir."

"I don't know," said Mendoza.

"Brief chat, sir."

"I'm working all day and then maybe I do a double shift if they need me."

"Whenever you're free," said Milo.

"I don't know," Mendoza repeated. "Okay, enough of Anna throwing up, one way or the other we need to-in an hour, okay?"

"Perfect. Where, sir?"

"Not at the club, they won't let you in. Meet me on Pacific Coast Highway, around half a mile north of the club. Malibu Mike's, you're hungry, they're okay."

"See you there, sir. Thanks."

"I don't know what I'll even say to you."

Malibu Mike's was a flimsy white-frame lean-to set on a patch of land-side asphalt. A grinning, overly fanged shark cutout teetered atop the fraying roof. Picnic tables canted on the uneven pavement, some shaded by wind-scarred umbrellas. Behind the property, a hill of iceplant-encrusted soil formed a bright green curtain.

The chalkboard menu listed burgers, hot dogs, fish tacos, and something called a Captain's Burrito. Milo said, "I'm under-ranked."

You're no rank at all.

I said, "Order half and call it a Lieutenant."

"Let's eat something, I need to fuel up for serious lying."

A young chubby brunette girl worked the counter, a young, floppy-haired Asian boy, the grill. The ocean across the highway couldn't compete with blaring hip-hop from a speaker placed perilously close to the burners. Some millionaire gangsta bragging about having no conscience.

"Help you guys?"

I ordered a chili dog.

Milo said, "Two half-pound cheeseburgers, anything extra you want to put on is fine with me."

The girl said, "All we got extra is onion and pickles-I guess we could throw on chili, too, but I'll have to charge you."

"Go for it. How's that Captain's Burrito?"

The girl grimaced. "Guys order it but I don't like it. It's messy, you end up with most of it on the paper, then it sticks to the paper 'cause a the cheese, then it hardens you can't peel it off without peeling off the paper. Then afterward, your hands smell of sauce, cheese, it's gross."

"Captains can be like that."

"Huh?"

"All show, no substance."

No comprehension in young, brown eyes.

Milo said, "But the burger's okay?"

"I like it."

Milo finished his first half-pounder, unwrapped the second but didn't touch it. The ocean was calm. He wasn't.

"Kid runs away, right. Maybe Franck did me a favor."

He studied the water, got up. "I will not be influenced by the opinions of others, gonna try the damn burrito. Get it to go, Rick's on call, I can eat with my hands, no one's gonna squawk. Should reheat okay, don't you think?"

He returned with a greasy cardboard box that he placed in the trunk of the unmarked. The car's built as tight as a drunk's resolve, so the ride home would be fragrant. Just as he returned to the table, a white Hyundai drove into the lot and a smallish man got out. Round face, thinning dark hair combed straight back, pale complexion, crisp features.

"Lieutenant?"

Milo waved.

Emilio Mendoza seemed disappointed. He'd arrived ten minutes early, maybe wanting to rehearse his own script. But we'd beat him by fifteen.

He wore a white drip-dry shirt, pleated black pants, tiny black bow tie. No sign of the red waist-length jacket I remembered from my lunch.

Milo said, "Thanks for coming, sir. We'll wait while you order."

"I'm not eating," said Emilio Mendoza. "Even if I wanted to spend the money, my stomach's jumping all over the place." Patting the offending area. "I can't stay long, there's a big dinner crowd, a couple rookies need educating."

Milo said, "Speaking of education, how did Martin come to Prep?"

"You mean how could a waiter from Uruguay afford to send his kid to a place like that? I can't, they gave him a scholarship."

"Baseball."

Mendoza 's eyes narrowed. "You've already talked to the school?"

"I looked up Martin's MySpace. Only thing on there was baseball."

Mendoza looked at him, doubtful.

"That's why they call us detectives, Mr. Mendoza. So how'd Martin end up at Prep, rather than at another school?"

"You're talking to students? You don't think Martin did something?"

"Are you worried Martin did something?"

"Of course not." Emilio Mendoza's eyes watered. "Maybe I'll get a coffee."

After he sat down with a cardboard cup, Milo said, "Does Martin have a special friend? Someone he'd go to when he's upset?"

"Only his sister."

"Where in Texas is she?"

" San Antonio, she's a nurse at Bexar Hospital. Martin called her the day he left-after his mother and I went to work. Just to say hi, that bothered Gisella, it wasn't like Martin."

"Your son's not talkative?"

"He's a quiet boy."

"What was his mood with Gisella?"

"She said he sounded distracted. She couldn't say by what."

"Is Gisella Martin's only sibling?"

"Yes, it's only the two of them." As if he regretted that. "Gisella's seven years older but they're close."

Milo let him sip coffee, used the time to finish his second burger. "I'd still like to hear how you connected to Prep."

"Oh, that," said Mendoza. "A good man-a regular at the club, his kids and grandkids went to Prep, I was talking to him about Martin, how Martin was a smart boy, I wasn't happy with his education. We live in El Monte, Martin was happy with the public school but no way. Sure he liked it, everything was too easy for him, he didn't have to work. You go to college like that, you can't compete with kids who went to tough schools. The member, he's a rich man but a good man, treats everyone like a person-he said maybe there's a solution, Emilio. I say, what, sir? He just smiles. Next time he comes in, orders his tri-tip and his martini, gives me a brochure from Windsor Prep."

Mendoza 's laugh was more nose than mouth. "That is what I gave Mr. Kenten. A big laugh. Then I apologized for being rude, a fool. He says don't worry, Emilio, I know I caught you by surprise. If it's money you're worried about, maybe we can find a solution for that, too."

Mendoza placed the coffee on the table. "I felt even more the fool. Then he says, didn't you once say your boy was an excellent pitcher?"

Mendoza shrugged. "I don't remember saying it, we don't get personal with the members, but the nice ones… he always comes in by himself, I figure it's good for him someone pays attention. I say, sure, Martin's a great pitcher. Strong, like his mother's side." Pinching his own thin biceps. "His mother's father was a blacksmith, muscles out to here, his uncle Tito, his mother's brother, played basketball for Miramar -that's a big team in Uruguay -before he got hurt."

Frowning. "Martin also got hurt, maybe that's from her side, too."

"What was Martin's injury?"

Mendoza touched his left shoulder. "Rotator cuff, it can heal if he rests. Maybe surgery, maybe no. Either way, no baseball for a long time."

Mendoza slapped the table. "Perfect opportunity, like from God. They need a star pitcher, Martin needs a good education. At South El Monte, there was talk some professional scouts came to see him. But no one said anything to me so I think it was just talk."

"When did Martin transfer to Prep?"

"Last year, second half of eleventh grade."

"Middle of the year."

"I was worried about them being snobs but let me tell you, they rolled out the carpet. Big deal, he wasn't impressed."

"Martin didn't like the attention?"

"Martin didn't like anything. The kids, the teachers, the buildings, even the trees. Too many trees, Papi, they put dust in my hair. I say are you crazy, man? It's beautiful, a Garden of Eden, you want South El Monte after seeing this? He says yeah, that's what I want. I say you're out of your mind, boy. He turns his back on me, says I like what I like and it's my life."