Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 08

by Justice

  “Tell me about her friends.”

  “Wild like she was.” Her chin touched her chest. “Wild like I am. The fruit’s the same as the tree or somethin’ like that.”

  “Do you know her friends by name?”

  “Some. Lisa and Jo and Trish. Trashy girls. I think Lisa got caught shopliftin’. Jo was picked up once for turning tricks.”

  “Did Cheryl turn tricks?”

  “Wouldn’t put it past her. Anything for money. But if she did, she never got caught. Least she never had me bail ’er out.”

  “Tell me about boyfriends. Did Cheryl ever talk about her boyfriends?”

  “Oh, she had lots of boyfriends, Detective.”

  Decker wasn’t sure if he heard jealousy or disapproval in Janna’s voice. “Ever meet any of her boyfriends?”

  “A couple. I remember one of ’em. An ape of a guy with big tits. Not real tall but real pumped.”

  “Chris Whitman?”

  “No, I never heard that name before.”

  Decker took out his list. “Blake Adonetti, Steve Anderson—”

  “That’s the one. Stevie, she called him. She went with him for a while, but he wasn’t the only one.”

  A look of anger spread across her face.

  “She liked the boys, Officer. She saw something in pants that pleased her eye, she took it. Even if it belonged to her mother. First time, I forgave her. After I caught her with another one of my friends, I kicked her out.”

  The room became silent.

  “Course I’m not good at being mad. Truth was I missed her. So I said she could come back. And she did whenever she needed a place to crash.”

  Her mouth turned downward.

  “She was a very pretty little baby. And smart, too. Could do the ABCs forward and backward at three years old. Isn’t that something?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “So damn smart. Too smart for her own good.”

  Janna laid her head on Decker’s chest and wept openly. Decker enclosed her heaving body and patted her back gently. But that wasn’t enough comfort. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her chest deep into his.

  “Hold me,” she whispered as she sobbed. “Hold me, please.”

  Decker continued to pat her back. “Who can I call for you, Mrs. Gonzalez? You mentioned a boyfriend. Can I ring him up for you?”

  The woman kept him locked in a bear hug. “Hold me please…love me please.”

  As Janna raised her mouth, Decker jerked his head back and broke her hold. The rejection caused her to weep even harder. She sobbed into her hands, her shoulders bouncing with each intake of breath. Decker stood, trying to keep his posture relaxed, but inside he was a bundle of coiled nerves. “May I use the phone?”

  She didn’t answer. Decker took that as an affirmative. He called the station house and asked for a cruiser, requesting that one of the uniforms sent over be a female. Then he just waited it out. Five minutes later, Decker answered the loud, distinct police knock at Janna’s door—Linda Estrella and Tony Wilson. That was good because both had been to the hotel this morning. They had seen the body; hopefully, they could empathize with Janna’s misery.

  He whispered, “This morning’s victim was Cheryl Diggs. This is her mother, Mrs. Janna Gonzalez. I think she has a boyfriend, but hasn’t given me a phone number to call him. Let her compose herself, then if she’s up to it, take her down to the morgue for the definitive ID.”

  Linda said, “You don’t want to be there?”

  “Not necessary.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “We know the victim. Let’s get the perp.”

  Using the unmarked radio mike, Decker called the station house. Oliver was still manning Homicide.

  “I can’t believe you’re working this hard on Sunday,” Decker said. “Your old lady must really be pissed off.”

  “It ain’t easy living with a junkyard dog.”

  “You might try throwing her a bone now and then.”

  “You mean a boner.” Oliver laughed over the line. “Actually, she’s out of town. Just my fortune that my girlfriend’s down with a bad case of herpes. What’s a poor pussyhound to do?”

  “It’s a cruel world out there, Scotty. Did you get a chance to run Christopher Whitman through the computer?”

  “I did do that, Pete. The guy has no sheet locally or nationally. I’ve also checked with Narcotics in Devonshire and the other Valley divisions. They deny having a mole at Central West Valley.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  “Could be you’re right. You know how Narcotics can be. Codespeak. Getting info outta them is like using a foreign dictionary. You’re speaking the same words, but not talking the same language.”

  Decker opened his thermos and drank lukewarm coffee. “Whitman didn’t happen to call in by any chance?”

  “Nope. You need anything else, Rabbi?”

  “Got some time on your hands?”

  “What do you need?”

  “In the abstract, it would be nice if someone could pull Whitman’s tax forms—state and federal for the last two years. Kid’s an enigma. He’s hiding something. He’s got an apartment, he’s got to pay rent. I want to know where the money’s coming from.”

  Oliver paused. “I’d like to help. But we all know that hacking his papers on-line would be an invasion of Whitman’s privacy.”

  “Of course,” Decker said.

  “Still, if I were you, I’d check your mail in an hour. Never know what could show up unexpectedly.”

  Decker smiled to himself. “Today’s Sunday, Scott.”

  Another long pause. Then Oliver said, “There’s always special delivery.”

  13

  Running down the list of Cheryl’s friends, Decker underlined the name Steve Anderson, the ape of a guy with big tits whom, according to Mom, Cheryl had dated. He fit the description of a steroid popper, and anabolic users were notoriously unpredictable in their behavior.

  Unlike Decker’s old haunt of Foothill, the West Valley was a predominantly white middle-class area. Apartment streets like the one Whitman lived on weren’t unusual. Nor were blocks of sensible, one-story houses. But the eighties land boom had given the area a new face—gated housing developments composed of million-dollar estates meant to attract a more desirable—i.e., moneyed—population.

  Anderson lived in a two-story colonial set on a sweeping mound of rolling lawn. There were a Mercedes, a Jaguar, and a Ford Explorer stacked up in the long sloped driveway. Decker parked on the street and walked up the herringbone-brick pathway lined with white impatiens and pink begonias. The entrance was double-doored, the bell on the right. Decker pressed the button and deep chimes could be heard from inside the house. A female voice asked who was there. Decker identified himself.

  There was a pause. The woman said, “Just a minute.”

  Clacking sounds inside—heels reverberating against a hard surface. A moment later, the door opened, giving Decker a view of a man with a tanned face, dark, curly hair, and uncertain eyes. Behind his broad shoulders, Decker could make out a petite form with styled platinum hair. The missus had faded into the background.

  “You’re the police?” the man asked.

  Decker took out his badge and ID. “Detective Sergeant Peter Decker, Devonshire Homicide. Are you Mr. Anderson?”

  “Yes, I am. Did you say Homicide?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. May I come in?”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  Decker stared at him. “No, Mr. Anderson, I don’t have a warrant. Do I need one?”

  Anderson rubbed his hands together, his frame still blocking the doorway. He wore gray designer sweats and running shoes with no socks.

  Decker said, “I’d like to talk to your son, Steven.”

  The woman gasped. Anderson crossed his arms in front of his chest and rocked on his feet. “What about?”

  “Do you want to continue talking in the doorway, Mr. Anderson? Neighbors might think it’s kind of funny.”

&nbs
p; Slowly Anderson ceded space, allowing Decker entrance into the large marble hall, then leading him into the living room. It was as light and cold as vanilla ice cream. The carpeting was spotless. Decker checked the bottoms of his shoes. The missus caught it. She was neat and nondescript.

  “Don’t worry, Sergeant. The Berber is Scotch-garded.”

  “Susan, why don’t you bring in some coffee?” her husband suggested.

  “No thanks on the coffee.” Decker took a seat on a cream-colored modular sofa. “Is Steven home?”

  Anderson remained mulish. “What do you want with Steven?”

  “Bring him down,” Decker said. “You’ll find out.”

  Anderson kneaded his hands. “Is he going to need a lawyer?”

  “I can’t tell you that until I’ve talked to Steven.”

  The man turned to his wife. “Get him down here.”

  She obeyed without question. A minute later, a compact boy entered the room. He wore a tank shirt and shorts, the muscles and veins of his arms and legs inflating the skin like stuffed sausages. He wasn’t bad-looking—dark curly hair like Dad, square face and a strong chin. But his complexion was bad, acne pitting his cheeks.

  “Sit down,” Anderson ordered his son.

  The boy rubbed his nose and sat.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Peter Decker—”

  “He’s from Homicide, Steven. What the hell is going on?”

  “Homi…” The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Dad, I…I…I…”

  Decker said, “Mr. Anderson, please sit down and let me ask the questions.”

  Reluctantly, Anderson sat down. Decker thought a moment, wondering how to play it. Straightforward came to mind. Eyes on Steven, he took out the Polaroids and spread them on the glass coffee table. The boy took a look, jerked his head back, and turned white. The missus gasped. The old man froze.

  Decker said, “Do you know this girl, Steve?”

  In the background, Decker heard a dry heave. Susan had run out of the room. Decker returned his attention to Steve. The boy had his massive arms wrapped around his barrel chest. “It’s…it’s…Cheryl, isn’t it?”

  “Cheryl who?”

  “Cheryl Diggs.”

  Decker regarded the boy. “Do you need a glass of water, Steve?”

  He nodded. Anderson screamed out, “Susan, Steve needs some water. Make it two.”

  She didn’t answer. No one seemed perturbed by her lack of response.

  Decker took out his notepad. “When was the last time you saw her, Steven?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Anderson interrupted.

  “Dad, I didn’t do any—”

  “Shut up!”

  “But I didn’t do—”

  “I said shut up!” He turned to Decker. “We want a lawyer.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer,” Steve protested. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Go to your room, Steven. Right now!”

  “But—”

  “NOW!” Anderson bellowed.

  The boy stood, walked a couple of paces, then turned around. “No.”

  Anderson stood up. “Steve, get out of here—”

  “No, Dad, you get out of here. You get out of here. What the hell do you know about me? Or my friends or my life, you goddamn prick—”

  “Steven—”

  “Don’t you Steven me! You were never around. Only around to put me down—”

  Anderson moved closer to the boy. “If you don’t shut up—”

  “You shut up! I’m over eighteen, Dad. I don’t need your permission to talk. So you shut up!”

  The boy gave his father a slight shove. Decker moved quickly between them and held out his arms. “BACK OFF NOW! BOTH OF YOU! BACK OFF!”

  The room fell quiet except for heavy breathing. Decker seized the moment. “I need your help, Steven.”

  The boy seemed suddenly deflated. He glanced at his father. That was all the room the senior Anderson needed to horn in. “You don’t have a warrant, Sergeant, I don’t want you in my house! Now, you do what you have to do, but my son isn’t talking until I’ve talked to him.”

  Decker gathered up the Polaroids. “Fine. I’ll cart him down to the station house and Steve can wait in jail while you contact a lawyer!”

  Steve screamed, “I’m not going to jail! I didn’t do a fucking thing!”

  A small, birdlike voice piped in, “Can everyone please be sensible—”

  “Susan, get out of here!” Anderson yelled.

  The woman put down a tray holding three glasses of water and scooted away. Decker said, “Come on, Steven—”

  “Wait!” Anderson interrupted. “Talk here. Steven, sit back down and let’s get this over with.”

  Decker wished he could isolate son from father. And since the boy was eighteen, Decker had the legal grounds to do it. But these days, lawyers entered weird pleas with kids charged with capital crimes if they were still living at home. Despite all the talk about personal responsibility, it seemed that whenever a problem arose, there was no such thing as adults anymore—only grown children.

  Decker said, “Have a seat, Steven. Please.” Slowly, the boy returned to the couch. Decker took out his notepad and said, “You saw Cheryl last night?”

  Steve nodded.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Anderson broke in.

  “Mr. Anderson, if you don’t stop interrupting, I’m going to hit you with an obstruction of justice—”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Watch me, sir.” To Steven, Decker said, “When was the last time you saw Cheryl Diggs, Steve?”

  “I…don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Not…really, no. I can’t believe…this is like surreal!”

  “Have some water, Steve.”

  The kid gulped down the cool liquid. Decker said, “Okay, let’s back it up a moment, Steve. When do you first remember seeing Cheryl last night?”

  “Somewhere at the prom. The Central West Valley’s senior prom.”

  “Was she your date?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Who was your date?”

  “Trish…Patricia Manning.”

  “Do you know if Cheryl had a date?”

  “Yes, sir. Christopher Whitman.”

  “She went to the prom with Christopher Whitman?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What time did you leave the prom, Steve?”

  The boy blew out air. “Around…” He covered his face and looked up. “Oh, God, I’m afraid I’m gonna make a mistake.”

  Decker said, “Just answer me as best you can, Steven. When did you leave the prom?”

  The boy looked sick. “A little after midnight maybe.”

  “What did you do after that?”

  “Hopped around.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We went to a couple of parties.”

  “How many parties?”

  He looked at his dad. “Maybe two…yeah…two.”

  “Was Cheryl at these parties?”

  “Yes.”

  “You saw her at both parties?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she with her date?”

  “She was with Chris, yes.”

  “What time did you leave the last party?”

  Again, Steve looked at his father. He closed his eyes. “Maybe one-thirty, two.”

  “Did you go straight home?”

  His voice fell to nothing. “No.”

  “Where did you go, Steve?”

  The room fell quiet.

  Decker said, “Where did—”

  “I heard you.” Steve scratched his face. “A group of us went to a hotel—”

  “Jesus!” Anderson stood on his feet, flushing and sweating. “You what!”

  Decker said, “Take some water, Mr. Anderson.”

  He did. It seemed to cool him off. Decker asked, “Which hotel did you go to, Steve?”<
br />
  “Grenada West End.”

  “You rented rooms there?”

  “Sort of. I didn’t exactly rent a room. We had rooms, though. I think Cheryl got us all comped. She knew the night clerk. I think she got a special deal from him because she had done him some favors.”

  “Favors?”

  “I think she…” He moved his hand up and down.

  “She had relations with the night clerk?”

  “Something like that. Cheryl got around.”

  “Do you remember the night clerk’s name?”

  “Henry Tripp or Trupp. Something like that.”

  Decker wrote DIGGS AND TRUPP? Again, he made a mental note to call Trupp. “And you saw Cheryl at the Grenada West End.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you recall the last time you saw Cheryl?”

  The boy shook his head, then covered his face. “Man, this is a fucking nightmare!”

  Anderson was about to speak, but Decker held up the palm of his hand. “Steve, do you remember the last time you saw Cheryl?”

  “Trish and I—”

  “Uncover your mouth,” Decker said. “I can’t understand you.”

  Steve started again. “There were a lot of us in this room—in Cheryl’s room.”

  “Who was in Cheryl’s room?” Decker asked.

  He started ticking off his fingers. “Trish, Cheryl, Jo Benderhoff, Lisa Chapman, me, Blake Adonetti, Tom Baylor, and Chris were all in Cheryl’s room.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I guess right after we got there—around two.”

  “You remember seeing Cheryl alive at around two?”

  “To the best of my recollection, yes.”

  “What were you doing in the room, Steve?”

  “We were drinking a little.”

  “Meaning they were guzzling from the bottle,” Anderson muttered.

  Decker pushed on. “You were drinking, Steven. What else?”

  “Doping a little, maybe.”

  “Maybe,” grunted Anderson.

  “What else were you doing, Steve?” Decker pressed.

  He looked down. “Fooling around.”

  Anderson blurted out, “I work my ass off so you can go out and have an orgy—”