The Beast

by Faye Kellerman

  “I know you didn’t. Glad you worked something out. Now you have to go about the business of a relationship. That’s the hard part. You know Sohala’s right when she says you’re both very young. You’ve got a lot of mistakes in your future. Try to make them small ones.”

  “I know all about mistakes. I’m the embodiment of my mother’s misfortune, and I wouldn’t make that mistake with Yasmine ever.”

  “Good to hear. Take the relationship back a couple of notches, Gabe. It’ll be good for both of you. You won’t be sorry.”

  Gabe’s shrug was noncommittal. With sex, it was impossible to put the toothpaste back in the tube, but at least Decker had said it out loud.

  The boy said, “I love her and she loves me. That’s a real nice feeling.”

  “You’re loved by many people, Gabe. Rina and me, your mother . . . even your father—as much as he can love anyone.”

  “Right-o.” Gabe shrugged again. “I know my mom has sacrificed a lot for me. I know she loves me. But feelings are abstract.”

  Decker gave the boy a brief hug. “They are indeed.”

  Gabe smiled. “If I convert, will you adopt me?”

  “You’re almost eighteen, so that would be silly. But if you want, I’ll call you son and you can call me Abba, like Hannah does. That way I won’t compete with your biological dad, who would get angry if he thought I was trying to take his place.”

  “He wouldn’t care.”

  “I will debate you on that one. The Chris Donatti I know never turns down an opportunity to be pissed off.”

  AFTER STOWING AWAY his dish in the cabinet, Decker dried his hands and gave his wife a weak smile. He said, “You want some tea?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

  “This sounds serious.”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Just have a seat.”

  Rina pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. “What’s going on?”

  “How wedded are you to Los Angeles?” Rina looked up at him and stared. “I know you have your parents here. But if they weren’t here, would you make L.A. your home?”

  Rina continued to stare at her husband. “What’s on your mind, Peter? Did something happen at work?”

  “No, nothing like that.” He took out two mugs. “I love my job, but I’m not sure that I love LAPD anymore: the bureaucracy, the red tape, the paramilitary structure. And I’m not sure that I love L.A. anymore . . . it’s very . . . crowded.”

  Silence.

  “Would you ever consider moving back east? You’d be physically closer to all the kids, including Gabriel.”

  “Sounds like you already have something in mind.”

  “I’ve been exploring some options in law enforcement. I wouldn’t do anything unless you were a hundred percent behind me, but I figured it doesn’t hurt to look.”

  “What kind of options?”

  “I’d like to remain in some kind of detective’s division. I’ve been looking at towns that are within three-hour driving distance to New York.”

  “Not NYPD.”

  “Not a chance. I’m way too old to start a career in the Big Apple, and that’s not what I want anyway. I want a smaller town with less crime and grime. It’s not that small towns don’t have crime; they do—burglary, car theft, drugs, drunk and disorderlies, domestics, and even CAPS and murder. It’s the proportion. I’ve been researching several college towns, places where there are Hillels or Chabads. I know you need Jewish life, but we don’t have kids living at home. We don’t need a Jewish day school or a peer group for them.”

  “So you’re looking at college towns?”

  “The one I like the best is Greenbury.”

  “The Five Colleges of Upstate.”

  “It’s about a three-hour drive into Manhattan.”

  “Without traffic.”

  “Yes, without traffic. But at least you’d be within driving distance of the kids.”

  “What about Cindy?”

  “Funny you should ask.”

  Rina stared at him. “She’s moving?”

  “Well, it seems that Koby has applied to medical school.”

  “Medical school?” Rina was shocked. “How long have you known about this?”

  “Several months. Cindy didn’t want to say anything in case he didn’t get in. But then she figured she should prepare me for a possible move. Last week she told me he got in to a few places in New York and Philadelphia on an NIH nursing grant that would help pay his way to medical school and a Ph.D. program in nursing, as long as he commits to community service for five years after he’s done. Cindy has been exploring NYPD or Philadelphia PD. She wants to live in a big city because the kids are biracial. New York or Philadelphia is good because they won’t stick out.”

  “What about their house?” Rina said. “They love their house.”

  “Back east, they could probably swap across the board for a very nice and much bigger house in the burbs. Even if they scaled down to a tiny two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, they’d save on car expenses and gas and could walk everywhere.”

  “But you don’t want to live in New York City.”

  “No way. I’m not asking you to move right away. Just . . . think about it.”

  “I know it would kill you to be so far away from the twins.”

  “It’s not only about me, it’s also about you. When Rachel and Sammy have a kid, are you going to want to be so far away?”

  “I have to consider my parents.”

  “I agree.”

  She thought about his words for a long time. “If I moved, I know my parents would move . . . probably to Florida.” She shrugged. “We can visit all the parents at the same time. You know how well your mom and my mom get along.”

  “They’ve reached that understanding that revolves around old age and food.”

  Rina smiled. “As long as they’re swapping recipes, all is well.”

  “Nothing is etched in stone, Rina. Just think about it.”

  She looked at her husband. “You’ve always lived in warm climates, Peter. How are you going to handle the winters?”

  He shrugged. “The same way that millions of other people have handled cold climates: warm jacket, gloves, and a hat.”

  OLIVER LOOKED OUT the side window, staring at a barren landscape in blacks and grays. This particular street featured characterless apartment buildings illuminated by an occasional flood of urine-colored lighting. At first glance, everything seemed quiet, but since Marge was driving exceptionally slow, Oliver could ascertain movement in the shadows.

  They’ve been riding around for several hours, racking up mileage on the cruiser, looking for girls in the trade, trying to get a bead on Shady Lady. They spoke to hookers in the West Valley, yakked with the ladies in the East Valley, gossiped with the gays in West Hollywood, and questioned the multitudes in Hollywood proper. They conversed with females dressed as males, males in drag, and even a few transgenders whose sex was impossible to determine without seeing the goods. They stopped at sleazy motels and dark, booze-soaked bars. They spoke with proprietors, patrons, and employees. They crisscrossed through back alleys and made contacts with streetwalkers. The work took time, it took patience, and it took luck. By two A.M., the detectives had run out of all three.

  As they mopped up the last of Hollywood, heading toward the 101, Marge saw a lone prostitute, sticking a wad of bills into the top of her fishnets—which fell way below her micromini. In the not-too-far distance, Marge spied two hooded men walking behind her. When the girl noticed them, she sped up.

  So did the men.

  When they were around ten yards away, the girl turned and started to run. Marge cranked up the siren. The men scattered, but the girl was still tearing down the sidewalk when Marge pulled over. “Slow down.”

  She kept running.

  Marge kept pace in the car. “C’mon, honey. If I go away, you know your buddies will do a one-eighty and come back to get what they saw.”
>
  The girl slowed down, clearly out of breath. Finally she stopped and stuck her head between her legs. She was white and very thin, her right arm enveloped in a half-sleeved tattoo. There were other ink marks on her legs, ankles, and behind her neck. She was young with short hair dyed ice blond. There were pockmarks on her cheek, but she did have all her fingers. She was panting.

  Marge said, “C’mon in. We’ll give you a ride.”

  “I’m . . . okay.”

  “We’re not arresting you.” Oliver got out and opened the door to the backseat. “It’s cold outside. Surely you don’t want to be another nasty statistic.”

  Reluctantly, the girl got in the backseat, completely spent. At the moment, even jail was a better alternative to being gang-raped and beaten. Marge pulled away and did a U-turn until she was driving west of Hollywood Boulevard.

  Oliver turned around and said, “Do you have ID?”

  The girl’s eyes darkened. She was still breathing hard. “I thought . . . you weren’t arresting me.”

  “I’m checking your age.” Then the girl handed Oliver her driver’s license. Mindy Martin—age nineteen. “Current address?” She didn’t answer. “Move around a lot?” Nothing. “Where does your pimp live?”

  “No pimp . . .” Breath, breath.

  Oliver said, “Where does your boyfriend live?”

  “I’m supposed to meet him at . . . The Snake Pit.”

  “That’s six miles west of here.”

  “I know.” A pause. “You know, I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “We’re not from vice,” Marge said. “We’re from homicide.”

  “Ho-mi-cide?” Pronouncing each syllable as if she were learning it for the first time. “Like murder?”

  “Exactly like murder. We’re looking for a woman who calls herself Shady Lady. She’s probably around thirty and she wears gloves. She might be missing a finger.”

  “Yuck!”

  “You know anybody like that?”

  “No,” Mindy said. “I keep to myself. Both me and my boyfriend like it that way.”

  Marge said, “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

  “Nathaniel.”

  “Nathaniel what?”

  “Nathaniel Horchow, if you must know.”

  “He doesn’t mind you . . . doing what you’re doing out here?” Oliver let the sentence hang in the air.

  “Yeah, he minds. He didn’t want me to do it, you know. But this is a very expensive city. I’m just doing it a little longer . . . until he breaks in.” She pinched off a tiny bit of space between her thumb and forefinger. “He’s sooooo close. Not everyone can get into The Snake Pit, you know. You need connections.”

  “Break in doing what?”

  “Acting.”

  Marge looked in the rearview mirror. “Let me tell you your story, Mindy Martin. Are you listening?” No answer. “Okay, here goes. You’re from the Midwest. Wisconsin, Iowa, or maybe Minnesota. You and Nathaniel grew up together, maybe even did a little acting in the high school play. Nathaniel’s a good-looking guy in your little hometown. He’s popular, athletic . . . a lady’s man, so you were honored he chose you. Plus, he’s got an artistic soul that only you understand. Certainly, his parents don’t understand him. Nathaniel has dreams that don’t include hanging around his hometown. First, he wanted to leave as soon as he hit sixteen and could drive away. But you . . . not so much. You told him at least to wait until you graduated. Then you both took off for Hollywood.” A pause. “How am I doing so far?”

  No answer.

  Marge said, “It’s been slow going for the career because Nathaniel’s pretty face in Wisconsin—”

  “Minnesota.”

  “My apologies,” Marge said. “There are thousands of pretty boys out here in L.A. doing the same thing. Some of them are gay. As a matter of fact, I bet Nathaniel’s been offered some gay porn, but you put your foot down at that. Still, you have no idea what he does when you’re not around. And he’s been hanging around some edgy-looking people. You two have been here about . . . two years maybe.”

  Silence.

  “How far off am I?”

  “How’d ya know we’ve been here for two years?”

  “Because you’re hooking in the field and you’re not a hundred percent jaded. Another year or so, you’ll go back home. Nathaniel will stay here. He’ll survive by doing something. Maybe he’ll get a legit job. More than likely he’ll augment the income by selling some weed or meth, or giving BJs to rich men who are on the down-low. Eventually, he’ll get arrested and do time. But unless he’s hard-core, sitting in jail will give him time to think. Maybe he’ll even come back to you. So if you want some advice, just pack up and go back home and wait a year or so. If he doesn’t materialize, it’s one of the three things: he never really wanted you, he’s in jail, or he’s dead.”

  “You don’t know me.” Her cheeks were red with tears. “He loves me.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Marge said.

  “Drop me off here,” Mindy said. “I can walk.”

  “I’ll take you all the way. The streets are deserted except for the goblins.”

  They rode in silence, the lights shimmering in the night fog. Finally she said, “Who got killed?”

  “An old man,” Oliver said. “We think he might have been involved with prostitutes. Ever work in the San Fernando Valley?”

  “No. Don’t have a car.”

  Marge said, “So Nathaniel drives you where you need to go?”

  Again, she went mute. Ten minutes later they were five blocks away from The Snake Pit. Mindy’s voice was quiet. “Let me off here. Don’t want to show up at The Snake Pit in a cop car. Boo that.”

  Marge pulled over to the curb. Mindy immediately tried to open the back door but couldn’t. Marge got out of the cruiser and opened Mindy’s door, but blocked her access to freedom. “You hear anything about someone missing fingers, you call me, Mindy. I depend on people like you, okay?”

  “Why? So you can insult them?”

  “I’m just trying to point you in the right direction. Up to you if you want to walk that way or not. But do call if you hear anything. There’s money in it for you if you give me a legit lead.”

  Her mood perked up. “Like I’m a confidence informer?”

  Marge handed her a business card. “There’s my number. Don’t be afraid to use it.”

  “How much money?”

  “You’ll find out after you do me a service. If you found my lady with missing fingers and you told me about it . . . see, that would be a service. And that would mean money.”

  “Okay.” A shrug. “I’ll keep my ears open.”

  “Good. Because right now the score is one/zero in our favor because we pulled you out of a jam.” Marge stepped out of the way so Mindy could pass. “Pay off your debt soon, girl. It’s what keeps the economy humming.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  DECKER HEARD HIS cell vibrate under his pillow and glanced at the clock. Since it was two-thirty in the morning, it was either a drunk or him. When Decker depressed the green button, he whispered, “Hold on.” Grabbing a robe, he tiptoed from the bedroom and into the living room. He turned on a table lamp.

  “Hey, Chris,” he croaked out and then cleared his throat. “How’s my son?”

  “He had a good day. He and his girlfriend are now allowed to talk to each other.”

  “He’s too young for a relationship. Lemme talk to him.”

  Decker smiled. “Chris, he’s sleeping.”

  “So?”

  “You’ve got his cell number. I’m not going to wake him up.”

  Donatti laughed. “Okay. Let the little bastard sleep. That is what most people do at two-thirty in the morning. Me? I’ve worked the night shift my entire life. Right now I’m stuck at the tables in Vegas, watching several of my high-roller clients, ensuring a good time is had by all.”

  “How’s lady luck treating you?”

  “I’m a bystander, but my clients are h
appy. That’s good for me, because they’re repeaters. Every businessman will tell you that return customers are his bread and butter.”

  “You are nothing if not savvy in the world of money.”

  “So you should appreciate this freebie.”

  “Freebie?” Decker was astonished. “More like payback for raising your son.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? I send you money.”

  “I give it to your son.”

  “Well, then you’re stupid, because I already give him more than he needs.”

  Decker felt blood rush to his brain as immediate anger welled up in his body. He forced himself to talk slowly. “I don’t want your money, Donatti. I’ve never wanted your money. When I need help, I’m not shy to ask anyone. You have means that are unavailable to me and I know my limitations. But let’s get one thing straight, buddy. You don’t ever call me stupid. I treat you civilly. I demand the same treatment back.”

  Silence over the line. Decker expected it to disconnect at any moment. Instead Donatti’s voice dropped a couple of notches. It was ice cold. “You know those pictures you e-mailed me.”

  Decker sat up. “You found the girls?”

  “Not the girls, the guy . . . Bruce Havert. I’m looking at him as we speak.”

  “You’re sure it’s him?”

  “Not positive. But I have a good eye for faces.”

  “That’s right. You can draw.”

  “One of my many talents. He’s dealing blackjack, standing about a hundred feet from where I am. His name tag says BYRON.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At Havana! I’ve gotta go.”

  “Wait a moment.” A pause. “Please, just give me a minute to think.” Decker began to pace. Havert wasn’t wanted, so police couldn’t bring him in. There had to be another approach. “Chris, is there any way you can get his assumed last name without looking obvious?”

  “I don’t do obvious, Decker. You want personal info, ask the casino’s HR department.”