Sixteen acres is ample space, per the school's website, for a dozen buildings fashioned in classic Monterey Colonial style, an Olympic pool, an indoor gym complete with yoga room and full-court basketball, a regulation football field, ditto baseball diamond. The nine-hole golf course is a recent addition in response to student interest. Even with all that, when season and air quality permit, expansive lawns and drought-tolerant plantings provide the opportunity for outdoor seminars, or simply for gaining an appreciation of environmental integrity during moments of contemplation.

The Prep day begins at eight thirty a.m. By eight, Milo and I were watching the motor traffic that streamed in and out of the entry road. Long queue but well mannered, no one fussing. The slow pace gave us plenty of time to scan vehicles for the face that matched Martin Mendoza's MySpace page.

It also allowed drivers and passengers to study us, but Milo didn't seem to care.

Mendoza's social networking seemed halfhearted: some underplayed baseball triumph, no list of friends, not a word on the career-killing injury. The few photos provided depicted a tall, husky, dark-eyed, crew-cut boy with muscular shoulders, thick eyebrows, and full, downturned lips. Even while posing with a middle school MVP trophy Martin Mendoza came across grim.

Milo read the printout for the third time, pocketed it just as a flame-red Infiniti slid past the gateposts. A silver Lincoln Navigator took its place. Teenage girl in the passenger seat. She rolled down her window, smiled saucily.

Milo smiled back.

The woman at the wheel said, "Close it, Lisa." Fed the Navigator gas and lurched out of view.

I said, "Let me guess: After sleeping on it, you decided on a new phase in the investigation. To hell with the chief."

He worked his tongue inside his cheek. "Me an insurgent? Perish."

The next car was a white Jaguar. Hispanic kid in the passenger seat, but not Mendoza. Diplomatic plates. Uniformed driver.

Nearly all the older students drove themselves. The younger kids were chauffeured by attractive, sharp-jawed women and preoccupied men gabbing illegally on cell phones. Being driven appeared to turn them sullen.

One of the most morose riders looked closer to senior than freshman, a skinny, red-haired boy pressed to the passenger door of a bronze Lexus LX. Resting his chin on a bony fist and staring into nothingness.

Bubble-coiffed strawberry blonde at the wheel.

Noticing us shook the boy out of his torpor. He studied us. Kept staring until the Lexus rolled out of sight.

I said, "Carrot Top seemed to know you."

"Don't know him, but I do know his mommy."

"Mrs. Chief and the vaunted Charlie."

He sighed.

I said, "He looked a little down."

"Would you want Him for your dad?"

"Touche."

"Maybe he'll be happier when he's in New Haven warbling the Whiffenpoof Song."

"How do you know about stuff like that?"

"Been reading up on the Ivy League. A little cultural anthropology never hurt."

"What'd you learn?"