Decker hit the photograph with the back of his hand. 'This is a start.' He turned to Pluto. 'When can you take them out to the ranch?'
Pluto said, 'I usually lead the fold in evening meditation.' He checked his watch. 'We're going to get a very late start.'
Giving someone a jump-start and a chance to riffle the files. Not a chance. 'Can't Bob lead the prayers?' Decker asked.
'It's not my job,' Bob answered.
'So let someone else fill in,' Decker said. "The ranch is what? About an hour... hour and a half away? If you start out now, you can probably make it back before ten. When's your prayer session?'
'Ten-thirty.'
'Then let's hustle,' Marge said.
Pluto growled, 'You're not leaving me any choice.'
Decker said, 'You're catching on.'
Marge swung her purse over her shoulder. To Decker she said, 'Call you when we get back?'
'Absolutely,' Decker said.
Venus said, 'And we'll be hearing from you if there's good news?'
Decker said, 'Madam, you'll be hearing from me no matter what.'
Beyond Pasadena and the Rose Parade, beyond Southwest University of Technology lay the dowager city of Santa Martina -an old-moneyed town of towering magnolias, canopied sycamores, manicured emerald lawns and two-storied manses. Wide, shaded streets quiet enough to host a stickball game if the neighborhood had had any children. Instead, it served golf-playing grandparents who took lunch at the club, garbed brightly colored polo shirts and pressed white trousers. The home of the Republican Party, Episcopal churches, martinis before dinner and cardigan sweaters. The enclave might have been considered exclusive except that bad topology had condemned it to a smog-ladened basin choked with ozones during the summer months. But that was okay with the residents. Hot weather meant donning cruise wear and sailing for cleaner pastures.
Farrander's address put Decker in front of a putty-colored hacienda set back on a rolling hill of kelly green. Two forty-foot weeping willows framed the house, and the front plantings included coral, red, and white azaleas, so resplendent with blooms as to be gaudy. He parked curbside, walked down a flagstone pathway up to an arched and recessed doorway. He rang the bell; deep chimes emanated from inside the house. A bubble-coif fed blonde woman in her late sixties or early seventies answered the door without asking who it was. She had a wide face with ironed skin that had been stretched over pronounced cheekbones, and ultra-thin lips painted rose-colored. Her brown eyes were rimmed with lifted bags. Her neck was the dead giveaway of her age; it held wattles set into cracks and creases. She wore knitted beige pants and a white cable-knit sweater. Her sockless feet were housed in brown leather loafers.
'Yes?'
'Cecile Farrander?' Decker asked.
'Yes. That's me.'
Decker took out his identification billfold. 'Lieutenant Peter Decker from the Los Angeles Police Department. May I talk to you for a minute?'
She checked her watch, although she didn't act as if she were in a hurry.
'Are you in the middle of something?' Decker asked. 'I could come back.'
'What is this about?'
'It concerns your granddaughter.'
Her mouth made an O shape. 'Which one?'
'Lyra.'
A blank stare.
'Lyra... Moriah's daughter...'
Another vacant look.
'Moriah?' Decker repeated.
'Mori...' The lightbulb went off. 'Oh, you mean Maureen.' She blushed from embarrassment. 'Is she all right?'
'She's fine,' Decker said. 'Actually, I'd like to talk to you about your granddaughter. May I come in?'
But the woman was tentative. 'My husband isn't home right now... maybe I shouldn't be saying that. You could be anyone. He always says I'm very naive.'
'I could come back,' Decker answered. 'When would be convenient?'
'How about Wednesday?'
'Today is Wednesday.'
'I meant Wednesday of next week.'
Putting off her grandchild's welfare for seven days. She certainly didn't appear like the obsessive, letter-writing, suit-threatening relative that the Order had made her out to be. Decker tapped his foot, trying to figure out his next step. From inside, he could make out the slow ticks of a grandfather clock. 'It would be better if we talked sooner.'
Again, the O-shaped mouth. 'Well, all right. Come in.' She hesitated. 'Maybe I should look at that billfold again?'
Decker handed it to her. She studied it at extended-arm's distance. 'Well, you certainly look like the man in the picture.' She nodded. 'A bit grayer.'
Decker smiled. 'That's true.'
'When was this picture taken?'
If she had anxiety about Lyra, she was hiding it very well. 'About two years ago.'
She looked at the picture, then scrutinized Decker. 'A hard two years, Lieutenant?'
'I've paid my dues,' Decker said. 'May I come in?'
Finally, she stepped aside.
Decker walked into a two-story entry hall, which housed the audible grandfather clock, then entered a living room filled with light and accumulated dust. Tall multi-paned windows, clouded with particles, had been cut into the textured stuccoed walls, providing Decker with a view from wherever he looked. Through the grime, he could make out the backyard - a parklike area of green bleeding into a copse of thicky planted specimen trees. The floors of the room had been constructed from thick oak planks stained coffee brown. The furniture must have been decades old - overstuffed couches and chairs upholstered in a faded pattern of green-leafed red roses weaving through a white trellis. The coffee and end tables - made from glass set into walnut frames - held year-old magazines and out-of-print art books.
'You can sit anywhere,' the woman said.
Decker chose one side of the couch, Cecile chose the other. He said, 'Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mrs Farrander. I wouldn't impose except I do think this is import-'
'You can call me Ceese.'
Decker paused. 'Okay.' He took out his notebook. 'This concerns Lyra... your granddaughter.'
The woman clasped her hands and remained silent, waiting for him to continue.
'She's missing,' Decker said.
No response.
Decker said, 'Does that concern you?'
'Well, I don't know if it does,' Ceese said. 'I've never met Lyra. I haven't talked to Maureen in years.'
'Do you know where your daughter and granddaughter have been living?'
'Oh yes,' Ceese responded. 'In some hippie community in the West San Fernando Valley.' A sigh. 'She has been there for a while, hasn't she?'
'Around nine years.'
'I'm glad she's found some stability.' A pause. 'Has she had any more children?'
'Uh, no, I don't think so.'
'So the little black girl... that's the only one?'
'Lyra, yes. I believe so-'
And it's this little black girl who's missing?'
'Yes. Her name is Lyra. Any idea where she might be?'
'Me?' She shook her head. Her sprayed-stiff hair didn't move with the motion. 'Why would I have any idea?'
Decker cleared his throat. 'You haven't written to the commune asking for Lyra's custody?'
Ceese looked shocked. 'Now why would I do that?'
Why indeed. Decker said, 'For starters, she is your granddaughter.'
Ceese stared at him. 'Lieutenant, do you have children?'
'Yes.'
'More than one child?'
'Yes.'
'Then you know how children can vary.'
'Of course.'
'I've raised three daughters, Lieutenant. Mo was the youngest. From the day she was born, I couldn't control her. She was collicky, irritable, a raw bundle of random energy. As she grew older, she just grew worse - obstinate and sassy. She smoked, drank, she engaged in promiscuous behavior with black boys. She took drugs which ruined her brain. She turned very strange. Even so, I didn't abandon her, Lieutenant. I tried! I really tried!'
'I enrolled her in drug rehab, not once but twice!' Holding up two fingers. 'Twice! How did she react to my acts of kindness? By escaping responsibility, by calling up her father and me and screaming obscenities. Then, after all that, she had the nerve to show up here - at the house - asking for money, holding this black baby in an obvious play for sympathy. Well, she got nothing. She was filthy... smelled like garbage. I wouldn't let her in the house!'
Ceese made a face.
'When that hippie commune took her in, I was grateful even though my husband and I knew it was nothing but a scam to get her money-'
'Maureen has money?'
'She had money. I'm sure the hippie commune's got it all now. Thank God my father's dead. It would have killed him if he knew what had happened to the trust fund he gave her.'
'Maureen had a trust fund?'
'Yes, she did.'
'Can I ask how much?'
'A lot. At one time, it was over a hundred thousand dollars. I'm sure she spent most of it on drugs. But I bet there was a little left over for that hippie commune. Why else would they take her in? Those cults only want money so their leaders can buy Rolls-Royces.'
Decker rubbed his eyes. 'So you haven't been in contact with Maureen, Mrs Farrander?'
'Ceese, please! And no, I haven't been in contact with her. Neither with her nor with her child.'
The door opened. A stocky, elderly man shuffled into the room. He had stooped shoulders and a bent spine - probably Herbert Farrander. He had a bald pate that was ringed with gray. He wore a white polo shirt and blue serge pants. He regarded Decker with watery, smog-soaked eyes.
Ceese stood up. 'Herbert, this is Lieutenant Decker from LAPD-'
'LAPD?' Herbert's voice was shaky. 'What's LAPD doing out here?'
'It's in regard to your daughter, Maur-'
'Herbert made a face and waved Decker off. 'I don't even want to know.' He turned to his wife. 'You want to go out with the Harringtons for dinner?'
'Where?' Ceese asked. 'At the club?'
'They were thinking about the Grillway.'
'The Grillway sounds nice for a change.'
Herbert regarded Decker. 'Are you still here?'
'Herbert!' Ceese chastised. 'Be polite.'
'Not when it comes to Maureen.' He plopped down into one of the armchairs. 'What'd she do?'
Decker ran his tongue against his cheek. 'She didn't do anything. Her daughter is missing. Your granddaughter-'
'That black baby isn't any relative of mine,' Herbert pronounced. 'Not that I wish her any harm. Just don't get me involved.'
'Still, I'd like to ask you a few questions.'
'I suppose you would.' Herbert said, 'Ceese, how 'bout a gin and tonic?' He faced Decker. 'And for you, sir?'
'I'm fine-'
'How about a beer? You look like a beer drinker.'
Decker resisted the temptation to size up his gut. It was flat...
relatively. At least, his pants size was still the same size... although he had let his belt out a notch or two.
'No, I really am fine. I'd just like to ask a few questions about your daught-'
'Oh go ahead!'
Herbert was annoyed. Probably, he was annoyed whenever he didn't have a drink in his hand.
Decker said, 'Have you written to her since she's taken up residence in the Order of the Rings of God?'
'I haven't. Ceese hasn't. The lawyer has. She kept asking for more money... from her trust fund. Ceese tell you about the trust fund?'
'The one set up by your father in-law-'
'He was trying to avoid inheritance tax for his grandchildren. Well-meaning idea, but it backfired. Left behind a lot of lazy grandchildren.'
'Here you go,' Ceese said, handing him his gin and tonic. 'Are you speaking ill of the dead?'
'Just expounding on the evils of inherited money.' He sipped his drink. 'Me? I worked for every penny I ever owned. If Mo had done the same, she wouldn't have been in the straits she's in now. Not that I'm unsympathetic to the plight of the mentally ill. Didn't we attend that dinner for Orlando Hospital?'
'That we did-'
'Some people have problems... big problems. But you have to knuckle down and work. Maureen? She never knew the meaning of work.'
Decker said, 'So you never tried to contact her at the Order regarding her daughter, Lyra.'
'No,' Hebert answered. 'Never.'
Decker was suddenly tired. 'The Order said you've been writing threatening letters-'
'What?' Hebert took another sip, then a gulp. 'That's an outrage! Untrue! That Jupiter fellow has it all mixed up.'
'Herbert, didn't you read the papers a few days ago? That Jupiter fellow died-'
'No!'
'Honest to goodness-'
'I don't believe it! How old was he?'
'In his early seventies-'
'A young man-'
Decker broke in. 'Sir, what did Jupiter have all mixed up in regards to threatening letters?'
Herbert thought a moment. ' We never wrote any letters. The estate lawyer - what's his name, Ceese?'
'Anthony Ballard.'
'That's right. Anthony Ballard. He wrote to the Order. They kept trying to get hold of Maureen's money, threatening the trustees. Which didn't hold water because my father-in-law was smart enough to put spendthrift clauses into his grandchildren's trusts. Ballard got mad and wrote them up a cease and desist letter. It shut 'em up. The cult couldn't touch the trust money, but it still managed to raid Maureen's bank account. Which wasn't insignificant.'
'About how much was in her account?'
'Twenty, thirty grand.'
'So Maureen's flat broke now?'
'No, she still has her fund. She just can't get her hands on the money unless she proves herself to be competent mentally. Which so far hasn't been the case.'
'If Maureen should suddenly die, who'd get the money?'
'It should revert back to her siblings.' Herbert pointed a finger. 'But now that she has this daughter, the girl could make a legal claim. Not that it's any concern of mine. Let the vultures fight over it. I'm content with what I have.'
'How much is left in her fund?'
'I suppose around fifty, sixty grand.' He turned to his wife and held out an empty glass. 'How about one more?'
'You should be getting ready for dinner.'
'One more.'
'You're a terror!' But Ceese took the tumbler anyway.
Decker said, 'So you haven't been contacting the Order, threatening to take Lyra away from them?'
'How many times do you want me to answer the same question?' Herbert protested. 'The answer is no.' He took the refilled glass from his wife. To Decker he said, 'Sure you don't want a beer?'
'Positive.' Decker stood up, suppressing anger at the two of them that perhaps wasn't justified. Cold, smug and distant, the Farranders were a parental nightmare. Still, Maureen must have put them through hell. 'Thanks for your help.'
Ceese said, 'I do hope you find Lydia.'
'Lyra,' Decker corrected.
'How old is she now?'
'Thirteen. Would you like to see a picture of her?'
Ceese knitted her brow. 'Well, all right.'
Decker showed her the black-and-white snapshot. Ceese glanced at it, tried to look away, but the photograph held the old woman's gaze. She sighed. 'Oh dear. I'm getting a little misty.' She averted her eyes. 'Thirteen's a difficult age. Maybe she ran away. Have you considered that?'
'Yes, ma'am-'
'Ceese!' She wagged a finger at him. 'I'm not that old.'
Herbert began to chortle, his face turning deep purple. 'Depends on who you're looking at.'
'You're awful!' Ceese said. 'I'm getting dressed.' She turned to Decker, her eyes still watery. 'You can see yourself out?'
'No problem.'
Herbert hoisted himself from the chair. 'Better start sprucing up.' He stopped, coughed up something into a handkerchief. Then
he faced Decker. 'If you see Maureen, tell her... tell her, if she calls, I won't hang up.'
Faye Kellerman - Decker 11 - Jupiter's Bones Page 17