Jonathan Kellerman - Deception

"'Everyone already knows.'"

"I took that to mean at the school, Loo. It's like those school shootings, right, Doc? Kids brag."

I nodded.

Milo said, "Nothing like being outside the goddamn loop. Okay, get the copy to John, you might still be able to catch him in the lot. Then stay on call."

Reed rotated his neck. "It's happening."

"Something is, Moses."

The chief listened.

Milo finished.

The chief said nothing.

"Sir?"

"Do you feel physically confident, Sturgis? You're not exactly a gym rat."

"Confident of-"

"Your ability to kick two young bucks' asses if necessary?"

"Depends on-"

"What I'm getting at, Sturgis, is do you feel secure enough to go in there without a fucking army? I'd like to avoid some three-penny SWAT opera."

"If the school cooperates and doesn't alert them I think I can handle that."

"The school won't alert anyone because the school won't know."

"You want me to go in cold."

"Interesting choice of words."

"Yes, sir, it is."

"This has been a tough one, Sturgis. Lingered in all our minds."

"It has, sir."

"Fuck it," said the chief. "Just do what you need to do, but if there's a way to minimize disruption, that would be preferable."

"Thank you, sir."

"Just get it over with."

We sped past the allee of Chinese elms. Herb Walkowicz was out of his booth before we rolled to a stop.

He tipped his hat. "Now what, guys?"

Milo showed him the warrants.

"Whoa, and here I was gonna give you the song and dance about calling Rollins before I can unlock the gates."

Laughing, he fetched his key from the booth.

The first of Windsor Prep's sixteen acres was an immaculate concrete-and-brick lot stack-parked with gleaming vehicles. Milo and I searched for Tristram Wydette's Jaguar and Quinn Glover's Hummer, found neither.

"Means nothing," he said. "Kids like that can have access to all kinds of wheels." But he called Reed and Binchy, anyway, to make sure they stayed close to the Wydette estate on Bellagio Drive and the even larger Glover spread, a few blocks away on Nimes Road.

Reed said, "There's a guardhouse in front. First I thought it was a dummy inside, guy was so still. Then he moved his head. Once in ninety minutes. Talk about a fascinating job."

"I don't like surveillance, either, Moses."

"Pardon-no, I don't mind it."

"Then keep enjoying."

Beyond the parking area, a cluster of dun-colored, red-roofed Monterey Colonial buildings stood like chess pieces on a board of precision-mowed bluegrass. Monumental, perfectly positioned pines, floss trees, liquidambars, and redwoods were sculpted to symmetry. An adult female passed from one building to another. Then a male teacher in a tweed coat and khakis. A scatter of students studied on the lawn. No sound beyond breeze kissing leaves.

Off to the left, flags stood in barbered turf ringed by low white fencing. The nine-hole golf course.

"Poor darlings," said Milo. "They go to college, it's a step down."

All the buildings bore brass plaques. The largest was fronted by a cool, dim loggia and merited a double-wide slab: Administration.

Dr. Mary Jane Rollins's office was the prize beyond a hushed, green-carpeted, oak-paneled reception room overseen by a black woman in a red silk dress. Sheila McBough was stamped on her personal chunk of brass. The foundry loved this place.

Milo's card didn't impress her. "You don't have an appointment."

He said, "We have something better," and held out the warrant.

Before she finished scanning, he continued past her desk.

"You can't do that."

"That, madam, is an obvious misstatement."

Mary Jane Rollins's personal space was her secretary's office on steroids. The same honey-colored oak, green carpeting, enough carving and moldings to spell out Authority.

She was on the phone, said, "I'll have to call you back," and slammed down the receiver. "Now what?"

Milo told her.

Her initial reaction was the expected panic. Then she smirked. "Well, unfortunately for you, they're not here."

"Doctor-"

"It's a senior cut-day, Lieutenant. We have several, throughout the semester, prefer to bleed off tension on a regular basis rather than-"

"Where are their lockers, Doctor?"

"In the locker area."

"Show me. And bring your master key."

"What makes you think I have one?"

"You don't?"

"Your warrant says I need to answer personal questions?"

He showed her his badge. "This says if you don't cooperate, I'll cuff you and haul your educated but morally unschooled derriere off to jail."

She blanched. "I never-"

"Neither have I. Show me their lockers. Now."

"This will not go unreported."

"Mercy me, pass the defibrillator."

As we left, Rollins told McBough, "Sheila, phone Dr. Helfgott immediately. There's a situation."

Milo said, "Sheila, don't phone anyone. There's a situation."

The lockers lined two walls of a cavernous building labeled Repository. Oak, brass-fitted.

Milo said, "Open Wydette's and Glover's."

Rollins sniffed as she checked a list. "Calling me morally unschooled was unnecessary."

"I'm looking for two vicious murderers and all you care about is semantics."

"Not semantics," said Rollins. "I'm a good person. One day you may find yourself in special circumstances and react in a way that surprises you."

"Gee," he said. "That could never happen to me."

Both lockers were empty.

Rollins said, "So much for your evidence."

"Do you have any idea where I can find Tristram Wydette and Quinn Glover?"

Silence.

"Doctor, if you know where they are and you withhold that information, you'll go to jail on obstruction charges right now."

"I may go, but I won't stay long."

"Trust me, Dr. Rollins, you won't enjoy a single minute behind bars."

Her lips pursed.

Milo said, "A job's that important?"

"It's not a job, it's a calling."

"So was the Nazi SS."

"That is outrageous-oh, all right, seeing as cut-day leads into the weekend, they're where you'd expect them to be: embarking on a family holiday."

Her voice rose as the Briticism rolled off her tongue. Creepy ebullience.

"Both families?"

"I believe so."

"Where are they going?"

"I don't know."

"How do you know the families are traveling together?"

"I chitchatted with the boys yesterday. They were in excellent spirits and I find it difficult to believe-"

"What exactly did they tell you?"

"Tristram told me. They were going to use the plane. That it would be… wonderful. I believe his term was 'awesome.'"

"The plane."

"Mr. Wydette's Gulfstream Five," she said. "It's a marvel."

As I sped to Santa Monica Airport, Milo celled Reed.

"Nothing, Loo."

"That's 'cause we may be too late, both families are scheduled to leave for the weekend. Check with the mannequin in the booth and don't take any bullshit. Tell Sean to find out what's happening at Wydette's place. If everyone's gone, we'll go ahead and search the houses and given the size, I'll need a small army, so get in touch with the lab and the duty sergeant and start recruiting."

Moments later Reed phoned back. "Mannequin's cooperative, ex-Rampart Division, hates the family 'cause they treat him like dirt. He's absolutely certain no one left today except Tristram, after Quinn Glover picked him up in his Hummer. That was an hour and a quarter ago, right before I arrived. They took luggage, Loo. A lot of it."

The search warrant was extended to the Gulfstream by the time I reached Bundy Drive, takeoff to Aspen aborted by the tower at LAX as I turned onto Ocean Park. As far as the crew was aware, "unanticipated air-traffic buildup" was the reason.