Kenten's sunburned face was a near-perfect sphere. Same for his torso and abdominal region, as if a trio of apples had been stacked carelessly. When he turned toward the door, each segment rolled with eerie independence. He appeared on the brink of falling apart and I felt myself tensing up to prevent disaster.

We followed him past a maze of plain-wrap cubicles. Twenty or so people worked quietly at phones and computers. Kenten waved to a few, smiled at everyone. Continuing toward the requisite corner office, he exuded gingery aftershave that hit us in gusts.

His personal space was predictably vast with blue-glass walls, but northern and western vistas were blocked by taller structures. To the east, the tops of Wilshire Corridor condos were barely visible. Only the southern view was free and clear: miles of houses and low-profile shopping sinking into the flight paths over Inglewood. Everything clouded by a milk-chocolate puff of smog.

A cheap-looking desk was heaped with papers where it wasn't crowded with framed snapshots. Some of the pictures were positioned for visitor viewing: a younger, thinner, crew-cut Kenten in formal army dress marrying a bony woman nearly a head taller, a slew of kids and grandkids in various stages of development.

A circular folding banquet table and plastic chairs served as the conference area. A plug-in kettle, tea bags strewn loosely, and more crumbling biscotti were the refreshments du jour.

Kenten said, "Can I pour for you fellows?"

"No, thanks, sir."

"You don't mind if I indulge, do you?" Ripping open a packet of Earl Grey, Kenten poured, steeped, pawed a biscotti, chewed noisily, unmindful of crumbs on his shirtfront.

Blowing into the teacup, he pursed his lips. "Nice and hot... thank you for coming."

"What can we do for you, Mr. Kenten?"

"Everyone calls me Eddie. I'll come right to the point: The Mendozas are worried you're looking into Marty as having something to do with the death of Ms. Elise Freeman. I'm here to tell you Marty had nothing to do with it."

"You know that because--"

"Because I know Marty, Lieutenant. I'm the one who brought him to Prep." Kenten put down his tea. "I thought I'd done him a favor."

"You feel differently now?"

"With the police chasing after him?" Challenging words, but twinkly eyes and grandfatherly cheer.

"We're not chasing him, Mr. Kenten. We'd like to talk to him."

"Why?"

"We can't get into that right now."

"Kind of a catch-22?" said Kenten.

"No, sir. Just the early stages of an investigation."

"A murder investigation." Head shake. "Never thought I'd be talking to the police about murder. Especially in regard to Marty. Trust me, Lieutenant, he had absolutely nothing to do with Ms. Freeman's death."

"He's told you that?"

Kenten put down his teacup. "No. I'm being logical."

"How well did you know Ms. Freeman?"

"I knew of her," said Kenten. "By reputation."

"What reputation was that, sir?"

"Sexually inappropriate."

"Marty told you that?"