Faye Kellerman

by Street Dreams

  “Got it.”

  “In the meantime,” Decker said, “you, Cindy, have not forgotten about poor Belinda. You witnessed the accident, and it still haunts you.”

  “Actually, that’s the truth.”

  “Then you don’t have to fake anything to convince Brill of your sincerity. You know you have DNA and a partial print as evidence but no one to connect it to. You remember Belinda’s brother saying that someone from the center was supposed to pick up Belinda and give her a ride back. Now, you checked out the center’s phone records, but of course nothing popped, nothing fit. And you know you can’t check personal phone records because that’s trampling on Fifth Amendment rights. But you’re slowly going down the list of people who might have had contact with her, starting with Klinghoffner.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I know you don’t think it’s him, but start with him. Do the exact thing with Klinghoffner that you’re going to do with Buck.”

  “Take him out for coffee.”

  “Exactly. That way, you don’t show prejudice. Then do Buck; then do anyone else who works there—start from the top dog, down to the lowly maintenance man, and you include the women because you haven’t any idea if this is a molestation or not. You can collect paper cups and use them as evidence without asking permission from the suspects because they gave you permission to throw them away, ceding the right of private ownership. The cups are now public property.”

  “Is the Department going to pay for all this DNA testing?”

  “A very valid question. The hit-and-run was gruesome and a baby died, so maybe.”

  Decker held up a finger. “The main thing is we have to set it up without bias. This way, Koby doesn’t know what you’re doing, and you don’t know what Sarah Sanders told him. It’s all timing— like an orchestra. Strings can’t come in too early, oboes can’t miss the beat, or you have a mess instead of music. They don’t call it conducting an investigation for nothing.”

  “You’re a genius.”

  “Be thankful that brains are inherited.”

  They had decided on an afternoon tea because tea was more casual than dinner.

  This was the menu.

  Tray one: assorted finger sandwiches—egg salad, lox, tuna, cucumber with tomatoes, and cheese.

  Tray two: finger food, including dainty bite-size potato knishes, miniature spinach quiches, vegetarian egg rolls, and fried pot stickers. Accompanying these edibles would be a soy sauce, a sweet-and-sour sauce, and ketchup.

  Trays three and four: assorted breads, including but not limited to croissants, brioches, seed rolls, minibagels, olive and basil bread, and a caraway-seed rye. There was also butter, margarine, clotted cream, and strawberry jam for sides.

  Trays five and six: the baked goods. Mini pecan pies, assorted mini fruit tarts, éclairs, petits fours, napoleons, cookies, muffins, scones, and cupcakes.

  Tray seven: fresh fruit dipped in white and dark chocolate.

  Tray eight was just plain fresh fruit.

  Somewhere in Magda’s dining room, there was also tea, coffee, and mineral water.

  Rina’s father was taking a nap, and the women were puttering around trying not to get on each other’s nerves. Decker had made himself comfortable in an armchair in the living room. He had dressed in a blue button-down shirt and tan slacks—no jacket— and loafers without socks. It was hot even in the city. He said, “I thought this was supposed to be informal.”

  “Just a little something.” Magda paced. “I don’t know why you do this to me, Ginny.”

  “Do what?” Rina asked.

  “Dig up bones.”

  “I got inspired after hearing you talk about your childhood.”

  “You talk about your childhood. I don’t invite your old friends to your house.”

  “Mama, I asked you first. You could have said no.”

  “Then I look bad.” Magda stopped pacing and focused her flaming blue eyes on her daughter. “It’s my life, Ginny! Before you talked to Marta, you should have come to me first!”

  “I should have, but I didn’t,” Rina answered calmly. “Again I apologize.”

  “It is too late for that, nu? Now I am stuck! All week I bake and bake and bake—”

  “I said I would do it for you, Mama.”

  “And let them think I can’t take care of a simple afternoon tea?” Magda glared at Rina. “I’m old, but I have pride.”

  “I know, Mama. And it’s good you baked. You’re a much better baker than I am.”

  “Ach … nonsense!” She waved her hand in the air. “You are an excellent baker!”

  “Yes, I am, but I’m still not as good as you.”

  Decker smiled inwardly. His wife was saying all the right things. He decided to help her out. “I really like what you’re wearing, Magda.”

  She looked at Decker and brushed her hand over a St. John Knits blue suit with white trim. “This old thing?”

  “It’s very complimentary to your figure,” Decker told her. “Plus, the color enhances your eyes. You should take your daughter shopping.”

  That got a smile.

  “You wouldn’t say that if you saw the price tag,” Rina told him.

  “You look lovely as well,” Decker said. “I like you in red.”

  Rina laughed. “Aren’t you full of lightness and cheer. Thank you, darling, I’m glad you like the way I look.”

  “The dress is too long on you, Ginny.”

  “Don’t start, Mama.”

  “Let her start,” Decker piped in. “Bugging you is taking her mind off her anxiety.”

  Both women laughed.

  “I’ll get you some tea, Akiva?”

  It was a good sign when Magda used his Hebrew name. Decker answered, “That would be great.”

  “And a little sandwich, too?”

  “No, I’d rather not mess up your artistic presentation.”

  “I have extra in the kitchen.”

  “That I’ll take. I have a quick question for you.”

  “What?” Magda asked.

  “You are playing host to two women in their eighties, two very skinny women. What in the world are you going to do with all the leftover food?”

  “A little they’ll take home, some you take home. The boys will eat it all in one sitting.”

  That was true.

  Magda fussed with her clothes. “I get you tea and sandwiches. What kind?”

  “Egg is fine.”

  “Maybe a little tuna? I give you a little of this and that.”

  “Perfect, Magda.”

  She went into the kitchen.

  Rina said, “Since when did you become the charmer?”

  “She’s right. We should have gone to her first. We did put her in a bind.”

  “She could have said no.”

  “No, not really. It would have made her seem bitter or unfriendly or scared. You know your mother. Image is all.” Decker smiled. “I do like the red dress. I was being honest.”

  “Thank you.” She ran her hands down the sides. “You think it’s too long?”

  “I didn’t say it in front of her. But as long as you asked, you could easily take it up a couple of inches and still be fine.”

  Rina crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine. I’ll take it up.”

  “I’m not saying you have to take it up—”

  “Why are we having this inane conversation?”

  “Because you’re nervous? To pass the time until the ladies get here? To fill in dead space?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Rina, this whole thing was your idea. Don’t drag me into an argument.”

  “I did it for my mother.”

  Decker didn’t answer.

  “I really did,” she said with emphasis.

  “I’m not arguing with you.”

  “I just wanted some … some piece of her childhood that wasn’t marred by tragedy and death! Some closure for her.”

  “I know that your heart was in the rig
ht place. But you know what they say about the road to hell.”

  “I really don’t need to hear this! I think I’ll wait outside.”

  “Rina—”

  “No, I really think I need to wait outside!”

  “Fine. See you later.”

  In a huff, Rina left and Decker sat in a room devoid of female chatter. He loved women, but sometimes he needed to hear voices in the baritone range.

  Or better still, no voices at all.

  Magda returned, carrying a dessert plate that had a special indentation to hold a teacup. She served him the dish along with a cloth napkin. “Where is Ginny?”

  “Outside.”

  “They’re here?”

  “No, I think she’s just—”

  “Why does she wait outside? It makes me look like I’m too anxious.”

  “I think she’s a little anxious, too.”

  Magda made a face. “What does she have to be anxious about? It isn’t her life.”

  “No, that’s true,” Decker said. “But you are her mother and she wants it to go right for you.”

  Magda exhaled. “Then she should have come to me first!”

  “You’re right.”

  Again the old woman exhaled. “I am still her mother. She is still my daughter. I go out and calm her down.”

  “You’re a good woman,” Decker said.

  “If you say that after this tea, then I believe you.”

  Magda went outside.

  Again Decker reveled in silence. He felt his eyes close, his mind turning slow and fuzzy. He had almost drifted off to sleep when a slamming car door made him snap to. Still sleepy, he almost stood up, nearly knocking his sandwich plate off his lap. But he remembered at the last moment and recovered the food before it became abstract art on Magda’s Aubusson rug. He placed the plate on one of the end tables and peeked out the window.

  The driver was opening the door.

  Anika came out first, dressed in a white blouse and green linen A-line skirt. Marta followed wearing a yellow cotton suit. Both of the women had donned jaunty little summer hats over their gray locks. Decker couldn’t hear words, but he certainly heard the screams.

  Magda and Marta fell into an unplanned, unrehearsed embrace, both of them falling on one another’s shoulders and sobbing their little eighty-plus-year-old hearts out. In a speck of time, a lifetime of intervening memories flew out the window as two little schoolgirls hugged and laughed and cried and strolled arm in arm up the walk-way to the house. Rina had placed her arm around Anika, who looked a bit uncomfortable with her sister’s display of emotion.

  They came through the door like chirping magpies.

  “Ach, this is beautiful, Marta,” Marta Wallek told Magda. “Sehr schön!”

  Rina said, “Ladies, you remember my husband, Lieutenant Decker?”

  “Bestimmt … certainly. It is a pleasure to see you once again.” Marta smiled, still holding Magda’s arm. “Oh, this is so lovely! You were always such the künstlerin … the artist.”

  “Me?”

  “Don’t you remember how you draw pictures for everyone in the schule? ‘Die modedesignerin.’” Marta turned to Rina. “We call her ‘the Dress Designer.’ In art time, she draws amazing dresses.”

  “Oh, that!” Magda waved her hand. “That is because of my mother. She designed beautiful dresses.”

  “And you draw them all!” Marta said, laughing.

  Magda beamed. “Come. You must be hungry.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” Anika piped in. “It was a long ride.”

  “Not so long,” Marta argued.

  “Not so bad until the freeway. Then it was very long.”

  “Rush-hour traffic,” Rina said.

  “Ach,” Magda exclaimed. “I should have thought of that.”

  “It was nothing,” Marta answered. “We rode in an air-conditioned car.” To her sister: “You were sleeping.”

  “Just thinking with my closed eyes.”

  “You were sleeping. I hear you snore.”

  Decker interjected, “You know, I’m flagging a bit. Let’s eat.”

  “This way,” Magda said. She glanced over her shoulder and caught Ginny’s joyous face, an expression that bespoke gratitude that things were going well for her mother. Despite her misgivings, Magda knew that Ginny had accomplished something extraordinary, giving Magda a tiny bit of solace from a time when fear and evil had been her constant companions. With wet eyes, she smiled at her daughter and mouthed the words “Thank you.”

  45

  There was ample technology out there for an affordable videophone, but we humans with our frailties and our fears and our bad hair days just weren’t ready for it. Case in point was my phone chat with Buck. The conversation went surprisingly well, mainly because he couldn’t see my pacing and my sweating and my clammy hands. He only heard my dead-pan ripostes to his sarcastic comments, making me appear witty and in control. He suggested a café; I mentioned Star$s; we settled on Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, on the Strip in West Hollywood.

  As per my father’s request I had had a run-through using Kling-hoffner and a few others as my guinea pigs, and we discovered that a multitude of things could go wrong. Since the meeting with Buck wasn’t until Sunday at eleven, there was time to fine-tune. Still, as the hour approached, I felt butterflies in my stomach. The last time I felt this nervous was when I was in tenth grade about to make my entrance onstage in Guys and Dolls as a stand-in Adelaide for Helen Karp, who had come down with the flu. I had pulled that off. There was no reason I couldn’t pull this off as well.

  I was early, but he was earlier. The place was decent in size for the typical coffee bar, and the table he had chosen was not the best for our purposes. But since it wasn’t that bad, I decided it was more prudent to stay put than to explain why I wanted to move. Buck was as thin as ever, but his complexion had improved from judicious sunbathing. There were still some remnants of acne, but his cheeks were much smoother. His dark hair was almost shorn, his brown eyes feigning indifference when he saw me. He wore jeans and a black muscle shirt, showing off thin arms with some sinewy muscles. He was reading the Sunday Times and had ordered an Ice-Blended, his cheeks hollowed as he sucked on a straw, wrapping his thick lips around the plastic, pressing down with force. It was so wonderful when I thought about all that glorious DNA.

  I sat next to him. “You’re here early.”

  He didn’t bother to put down the paper. “Am I?” A careless look at his watch. “I suppose I am. I’m hungry. You can get me a bagel.”

  “You can also get one yourself.”

  He gave me a bored look. “You asked me. That means you pay. Besides, you’re not going to pay. LAPD is going to pay. So let’s stop the pretense and just get on with it.”

  I let out a chuckle. “Plain or cinnamon?”

  “I get a choice?”

  “I’m full service, guy.”

  For the first time, I saw that he was actually registering my presence, his eyes skimming up and down my body. I was wearing a sleeveless sundress that showed some cleavage and lots of leg. His cheeks took on a rosy glow. He hid his face with the front page of the newspaper.

  “Plain’s fine. Two cream cheese.” He finished his Ice-Blended. “And something else to drink.” He held up the empty cup. “I’m dehydrated from my workout.”

  I couldn’t believe my luck. “What else?”

  “Oh … I don’t know. How about a decaf soy latte?”

  “How about it?” I stood, looped my purse around my shoulder, and picked up his cup. “I’ll take care of this for you. Be back in a sec.”

  I went to the trash can, opened the swing door, but placed his cup in the evidence bag that was hanging off the back of Justice Brill’s chair, hiding the drop with my body. I had been practicing this step with Brill and had become smooth at the hidden maneuver. In this case, I didn’t have to bother. Buck was intentionally ignoring me.

  I went up to the counter and ordered. Ten minutes later, I w
as carrying a paper tray with two bagels, four cream cheeses, a soy latte for him, and a regular latte for me. He made no effort to help me, still buried in the paper. I sat back down and distributed the food. He picked up his latte and continued to read as he sipped coffee. “Cream cheese my bagel for me, will you?”

  “No way,” I told him.

  He peered out over the top. “That was rude.”

  “So is asking me to cream cheese your bagel.” I sipped my own latte. “Anything I cream cheese, I eat myself.”

  Lazily, he turned the paper. “How about you cream cheese the bagel and I’ll give you a bite?”

  I knocked the paper out of his hands. “How about if you cream cheese your own bagel and look at me when I talk to you?”

  Buck folded the paper. “Now I remember you, the one with the nasty temper.”

  “Well, Buck, people don’t change that much in three months.”

  “Has it been that long? I wish it were six.”

  “You know, you could have said no when I asked you to meet me.”

  “And miss out on the wit and wisdom of LAPD’s finest? Tell me, Officer, just what little ditties do our public servants in blue have up their sleeves?”

  “Meaning?”

  “You didn’t ask me out for my charming company. So what gives?”

  “Ah, Buck, you cut me to the quick.” I smeared cream cheese on my bagel and took a bite. “Good stuff.”

  Buck lavished on the topping, took a big bite, swallowed, then drank coffee. “We can play games, Officer. I don’t mind looking at you while you eat.”

  “Oh my!” I smiled. “Was that a compliment?”

  Again he reddened. “Statement of fact.”

  This was the time for the sincere smile. “Thank you.”

  Buck took another bite and stared at me.

  I stared back. “Okay, I confess. I do have a motive.”

  He waited.

  “We were cleaning out some open files, trying to breathe some life into the dead cases. Belinda Syracuse came up. I was asked to run through the sprinklers one more time.”