"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.