Midway up Beverly Glen, he said, "Martin Mendoza's looking better and better. Bashing Fidella's skull then stealing the car is exactly the kind of poor-impulse crap a kid like him would do."

"What's the motive?" I said.

He had no answer for that and ignorance didn't sit well with him. Hunching over the wheel, he switched on the police radio, pretended to be interested in misdemeanors and traffic violations. By the time he dropped me at my house we hadn't spoken for ten minutes.

"Night," I said.

"Guess who I'm calling soon as you're out of the car?" Cursing under his breath. "Don't suppose he'll take the news well, seeing as he just lost his favorite suspect and this puts it right back at the school... why would Martin go after Fidella?"

"Don't know."

"Hey," he said, "that's my mantra. Be sure to tell Robin where the flores came from, I forgot a card."

He drove off as I climbed the stairs to my front door. Moments after I was inside, settled next to Robin, a familiar knock sounded at the front door.

Milo stood there, looking like a shy kid at the prom.

Robin stood on tiptoes and bussed his cheek. "Thanks for the bouquet, darling. What have you brought me now?"

"I should bring you something. Same reason, abuse of privacy."

"C'mon in, darling."

"Love to, but I've been summoned by the boss. As in now. Unfortunately, so has Alex. If you can spare him, I'll send you three dozen roses tomorrow."

"He's worth more than vegetative matter, but sure."

I said, "I'm re-invited?"

"Better. You're the guest of honor."

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER
24

The freeway at one a.m. was slick black tape.

I said, "Chief's in his office this late?"

"He's home."

"You do house calls?"

"Now I do."

I said, "Anyone in the office notices a meeting at this hour, it arouses suspicion and documents his meddling. Meaning where he lives, no one'll notice. Last time, he met us in Calabasas. My guess is he's got one of those secluded West Valley spreads."

"Now you know why he likes you, Sherlock."

The chief's spread in Agoura backed up against horse farms, undeveloped pasture, the umber mass of the Santa Monica Mountains.

Getting close took us half an hour beyond the freeway, past the point where streets were identified by signs. Early on we'd sped past desperately cute strip malls, a Porsche dealership, a gas station charging ten percent more than in the city. Now we hurtled through dark, unfocused space.

Milo had trouble navigating the increasingly complex web of trails barely wide enough for a vehicle. Several wrong turns into frustration, he flipped on the dome light, read his own hand-scrawled directions while coasting. By the time we arrived at a small wooden sign he was sweating and cursing. Burned into rough plank:

SERENITY RANCH

I said, "Bit of a commute to Windsor Prep. Nothing like parental dedication."

"Nothing like mommy dedication."