Creighton said, "Don't make me ask you again."

Milo said, "Can I check first to see if I've got rope in my car?"

"Rope? For-"

"So you can tie one of my legs back so I can't walk without falling on my ass, then you can bind both of my arms to my side and oh yeah, maybe I've got some rags in the trunk so you can gag me if God forbid I should talk to a goddamn witness without seeking permission, then you can use some other rags for the blindfold so I walk into fucking walls. After that's done, Stanley, you can tell me how to do the job."

Creighton's neck veins bulged. His fists were the size of cabbage heads.

Rapid pulse in the veins. Audible breathing.

Suddenly he laughed, forced himself into a relaxed posture. "Oh, man, you are really fucking up the job."

"I can only fuck up the job if I've got a job."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think it means, Stan?"

Creighton snickered. "Right, like you'd quit."

"Like I do, Stan," said Milo, tossing his badge to the ground. "Life's too short, send my regards to the Emperor. If the brain-dead battalion surrounding him grants you access."

Turning heel, he marched away. I followed, catching my breath.

Creighton said, "Yeah, right."

Neither of us spoke until he drove away. Keeping a light touch on the gas. Humming a weird minor-key tune-maybe some old Druid chant buried in his Celtic consciousness.

"Did I mean it? Hell, yes. Or no. Or maybe. Goddammit. Will I regret it? Probably. Okay, let's find Martin Mendoza."

"Off the job but on the job," I said.

"As an independent citizen."

"How're you going to approach him?"

"With my usual tact and sensitivity."

"I meant under what authority?"

"Hmm," he said. "How about power to the people?"

CHAPTER 21

L.A. County hosts scores of golf courses but exclusive enclaves for the big-rich number less than a dozen.

Milo began with the Westside, used his suddenly defunct rank to get through to human resource directors. Success on the third try: Emilio Mendoza was a waiter at Mountain Crest Country Club.

I'd been there a few years ago, as the lunch guest of a psychiatric entrepreneur wooing me to direct a nonprofit home for wayward children. Amiable meal, but the devil had messed up the details and I'd declined, despite a great steak. Soon after, the home closed down in a corruption scandal.

The club occupied lovely, rolling bluffs where Pacific Palisades abuts Malibu. By the sixth hole, ocean views distract. Stout fees and extensive vetting limit the membership to people of a certain type. That day at lunch the only dark faces had been those of the staff; I wondered if Emilio Mendoza had been the one to place a platter-sized rib eye before me as if it were a sacrament.

The HR woman on the phone said, "He's at work, I'll have him call you."

Milo said, "It would be better if I talk to him now, ma'am."

"May I ask what this is concerning?"

"A family matter," said Milo.

"Emilio's family?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"The police-oh, dear. You're not saying something terrible has happened?"

"Terrible things happen all the time, but Mr. Mendoza's family is fine."

"Then why-"

"If you'd prefer, I can drop by, talk to him in person. Maybe shoot a few holes."

"Hold on, I'll try to find him."

A few minutes later, a soft, lightly accented male voice said, "This is Emilio."

Milo misrepresented himself again as still active, but made no mention of homicide. "Sorry for bothering you, Mr. Mendoza, but I need to talk to Martin."

"Martin?" Marteen, emphasis on the second syllable. "Why, sir?"

"It's concerning his tutor, Elise Freeman."

"Her," said Mendoza. "She's no longer his tutor."

"She's no longer anyone's tutor, sir. She's deceased."

"You're kidding-my God, that's terrible. The police? She was hurt by someone? Why do you need to talk to Martin?"

"We're talking to all her former students, Mr. Mendoza. Trying to learn everything we can about her."

Long silence. "That's the only reason?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"You don't suspect Martin of something?"

"No, sir, we'd just like to talk to him. You can be there, or his mother can, I'm happy to come to your home, keep everything low-key."

"Martin didn't spend much time with her, sir. He took a few lessons, that's all."

"I know, sir, but we've got a list to go through. Routine, nothing to be worried about. Is Martin ill today?"

" Ill?"

"He wasn't at school."

"You went to the school?" Mendoza 's voice cracked on the last word.

"We did."

"They told you he was ill?"

"No," said Milo. "Just that he wasn't there. Is he home?"

Silence.

"Sir?"

"No," said Emilio Mendoza. "He is not at home."

"Where is he, then?"

Silence.

"Mr. Mendoza."

"I don't know."

"Martin ran away?"

"His mother and I came home from work, he was gone. He left his cell phone. He didn't take anything that we can see. My wife is sick, she is throwing up."

"How long ago did he leave?"

"Three days ago," said Mendoza.

Shortly after the murder.

Milo said, "When you last saw him he was at home?"

"In bed, he said he was sick. We thought he looked okay, was just sick of school. We were tired of arguing, so we let him stay home."

"Sick of school in general, or Prep in particular?"

"He didn't like that place." Emilio Mendoza's voice faltered. "Three days. My wife is having a real hard time."

"Have you called the police?"

"I was going to. Today. I kept hoping he'd come home. When you called I thought maybe you found him. Somewhere."

Milo said, "Kids drop out for a few days all the time, I see it all the time."

"Martin has left before," said Mendoza. "Twice, he took the bus to his sister in Texas. This time, she says he's not there."

"You think she'd cover for Martin?"

"They're close, but no, after Gisella heard how upset her mother was, she wouldn't do that."

"Let's get together, Mr. Mendoza, I'm sure we can sort things out."

"What could you do?"

"Tell me about Martin, maybe I can help find him. If a missing persons report is the way to go, I'll see that yours gets full attention."

"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.