Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 08

by Justice

  “Any other questions you might have, Sergeant, feel free to call me.” The doctor paused. “In the morning. Shall we get some sleep?”

  “Indeed,” Decker said.

  Sleep sounded like a dandy idea.

  17

  Arriving before sunrise, Decker had free access to the computer. He managed to enter all seventy-six names that had come up during his investigation of the Diggs case. The first list was arranged in alphabetical order. The second roster was fashioned in order of importance, Christopher Whitman at the top. Printouts in hand, he took the papers to his desk and proceeded to mark the race of each name known to him. Not surprisingly, all the knowns were white. But there were still fifty-odd unknowns—clerks, bellhops, restaurant personnel, and the other guests at the hotel.

  He started making phone calls. By eight-thirty in the morning, he had identified three blacks out of thirty-five names. Five minutes passed and Lieutenant Davidson walked inside the squad room, taking an empty seat next to Decker. He was big and broad, his scalp freshly mowed into his favored crew cut. He placed his beefy hands on the table and leaned back in the chair, nearly breaking it with his weight.

  “There’s another crew outside from the networks, Pete. Get rid of them.”

  Decker continued marking his papers. “Sure you don’t want to field it, Loo?” He grinned. “I heard you did a bang-up job yesterday with the media.”

  Davidson snarled. “Go.”

  “Can I just finish what I’m doing?”

  “What’s that?”

  Decker turned serious. “Jay Craine did a pubic comb on Diggs. Two different types of foreign hairs were found—one type was blond, corresponding to a white Anglo male—”

  “Whitman,” Davidson interrupted.

  “No doubt,” Decker agreed. “The other type corresponded to a black male. I’ve gone down the names and marked the black males on the list. As soon as I’ve got the entire list completed, I’ll call up all the blacks and ask them for a sample. See if we can’t come—”

  “You’re going to ask the black males on your list for a pubic hair sample?” Davidson interrupted.

  “Yes,” Decker said. “There are only three so far. It should be easy.”

  “And what if they don’t comply?”

  “Then that tells us something, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe.”

  Decker paused. “What do you mean?”

  “It may tell us that they have something to hide. Or it may tell us that they don’t want to cooperate with the honky white-ass police in crackerville valley.” Davidson faced him. “Are these blacks also friends of Cheryl Diggs?”

  Decker regarded the names. “No. One was a bellhop, one was a guest, the last one was—”

  “You can stop right there,” Davidson said. “Since they’re not friends of Diggs, you can’t single them out unless you’re planning to get a pubic sample of every male on your list. Otherwise, your investigation could be charged with racism.”

  Decker paused. “What?”

  “You’re asking for blacks, why not whites?”

  Decker said, “If I can’t get a match from the obvious white males—that is, Cheryl’s friends—I will go through all the whites on the list. I’m doing the easiest first.”

  Davidson rubbed his nose and dropped his voice. “Pete, there are intervening factors here. You start accusing blacks in what looks like a white murder, you don’t just have a homicide, you have a loaded situation.”

  He swiped a quick glance over his shoulder.

  “And after you-know-who, last thing the city wants or needs is another loaded situation. Look, Diggs had an orgy in her hotel room with a bunch of white male friends—all of them out of control. So I’m just suggesting you concentrate on them as suspects first, starting with the mafioso boyfriend.”

  Decker stared at Davidson.

  Davidson fidgeted. “Now, Whitman’s coming in today at five, armed with his lawyers, right?”

  “If he doesn’t jump, yes.”

  “So make sure he doesn’t jump. Put a tail on him.” Davidson shook a finger. “Because I think Whitman’s the guy. He’s the boyfriend, he won’t talk without lawyers, and let’s face it, scum breeds scum.” He sneered. “Donatti’s kid. What the hell is he doing out here anyway?”

  Decker shrugged.

  Davidson said, “You concentrate on him and forget about the black pubic hairs, which probably were lab error.”

  “Craine was positive—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. Labs never make mistakes, right?”

  “Lieutenant, I don’t think the black hairs were a result of lab error.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “I can’t disregard evidence.”

  Davidson’s eyes were sheepish, but his tone was hostile. “Decker, I am not requesting you to disregard anything. But I am ordering you to prioritize. Get it?”

  “Oh, I get it, sir.”

  Davidson ignored the sarcasm. “Did you pull a warrant for Whitman’s apartment?”

  Again Decker paused. He still couldn’t get over Davidson. Tug was breaking a cardinal rule of Homicide investigation. The evidence should lead to the perpetrator, not the other way around. Finally he said, “I’ve asked for a warrant, yes. Both judges wanted me to specify what I’m looking for and why.”

  “And?”

  “I told them I wanted to confiscate Whitman’s tux for fiber analysis. See if it matches the bow tie found at the crime—the one that’d been used to bind Cheryl. Both benches said that since I haven’t talked to Whitman yet, they didn’t believe I had enough probable cause to justify a warrant at this time. They told me to try again after Whitman’s interview.”

  “Assholes,” Davidson yelled. “And in the meantime, Whitman could have destroyed the damn thing.”

  “He might have,” Decker said. “Except, at this point, he doesn’t know I’m looking for it.”

  “You haven’t asked him about it?”

  “I haven’t questioned him at all since he immediately asked for his lawyers.”

  Davidson drew his hand over his near-shaven head. “I’ll try to get us that warrant. Let’s meet by…ten. Go over the way you’re going to question the bastard.”

  “Fine,” Decker said. “Also, Whitman offered to take a polygraph. I’ve set one up with Reuter.”

  “Now, that’s good. Reuter’s the best in the business.” Davidson stood. “So we’ll meet at ten.”

  Decker paused. “How about around noon?”

  “Why?”

  “You’re wondering what Whitman’s doing in LA and so am I. I’d like to look into it. The kid’s a cipher—incomplete transcripts at his school, no real paper trail, no criminal record—”

  “Now, that don’t mean nothing. Donatti could have bought someone off.”

  “Possibly,” Decker said. “I’m just saying that since I’m going to question Whitman, I’d like to know something about him. If that’s not possible, maybe I can check up on Donatti’s activities out here since Whitman arrived.”

  “Donatti sent him west to set something up.” Davidson nodded. “I like it. Sure. Look into it. More you know about this scumbag’s family, better off we are. See you at noon.”

  Decker waited a beat. “And what should I do about the evidence staring me in the face, Loo?”

  Davidson gave Decker a long, hard look. “You’ve got a lot of evidence staring you in the face, Sergeant. Like I said before, there’s nothing wrong with prioritizing!”

  “For the record,” Decker said, “I’m doing your priorities, not mine.”

  “And for the record, I’m your superior. So you’re doing the right thing by doing it my way.”

  Decker looked straight into Davidson’s hard eyes. “For the time being.”

  Davidson gave him a mock smile. “You want to feel self-righteous, Pete, go ahead. In the meantime, go get rid of the media. We’ll deal with one cancer at a time.”

  After checking in with the Organized Crime Intelli
gence Division of the LAPD, Decker discovered that Donatti’s activities on the West Coast had been kept to a minimum. Most of the talk had been centered around his involvement in the film and recording industries—two areas known for wealth and excesses, the nutrients that fed Donatti’s voracious appetite. Beyond a few rumors in gossip columns and the occasional arrest of an underling, Donatti hadn’t been much of a headliner. Either he had kept his business private or hadn’t been deeply interested in the Big Orange.

  Decker thought a moment.

  It could have been that Whitman was sent out here to start something up for Donatti. But if that was true, Donatti’s influence should have increased since Whitman’s arrival. In fact, it had decreased.

  So what was Whitman doing out here?

  Decker checked his watch. Only ten-thirty. He was still doing okay on his time. He doodled as he thought.

  Maybe the boy hadn’t been sent here to do something. Could be the other way around, that Whitman did something bad back east, requiring Donatti to ship him out west. Going on that assumption, Decker needed to look into Donatti’s and Whitman’s activities prior to Whitman’s arrival in LA.

  So a trip to the library was in order.

  By eleven, Decker was at the computer, using the Astrolab Database information system, asking it for old New York Times articles containing Donatti’s name. It spit back twenty-seven pieces, the majority of them having to do with Donatti’s murder trial around four years ago. He’d been accused of setting up a hit-and-run of a high-powered Grocers’ Union leader who’d been talking about reforms. After Donatti’s acquittal, there were several columns covering his subsequent return to private “business.” Donatti’s occupation had been listed as “local entrepreneur.”

  One of the articles showed a picture of Donatti’s house in upstate New York, describing it as a Federal-style thirty-room brick manse that sat on ten manicured acres surrounded by thirty-five acres of forest. The house was reported to be filled with antique furniture and original works of art, his collection considered to be top-notch.

  Decker sat back in his chair.

  Forty-five acres and a top-notch art collection.

  Where was the friggin justice here?

  Don’t even try to figure it out. All it will do is aggravate the hell out of you.

  He moved on to Whitman. When he asked the Astrolab system for articles containing Whitman’s name, it gave but one and from the society page of all things. It had nothing to do with any nefarious activities back east. But Decker suspected it might have much to do with nefarious activities out here. He asked for a printout of the entire article, then stuffed it into his briefcase.

  18

  School let out at two-thirty today, ostensibly to give us time to study for finals. But everyone knew the real reason. Nobody could concentrate on anything except the news. Rumors circulated and everyone had a different opinion. As for me, I spoke little and revealed nothing. When the dismissal bell rang, I gathered my books and left the campus without joining the fracas of the spin doctors.

  Melissa was at a friend’s house so I went straight home. The place was eerily quiet. Maybe it was in contrast to the buzz of the school. My ears were ringing, my head was throbbing. I scooped up a handful of textbooks from my backpack and went up to my room.

  Chris was on my bed.

  Immediately, I retreated, taking several giant steps backward until I banged into the corner of my desk, dropping several of the textbooks I’d been clutching. They fell with a crash on my hardwood floor, one bouncing off my toe. I felt pain but didn’t react. Because I couldn’t move.

  “You’ve got a good deadbolt on your back door,” he said. “Actually took me some work. I just picked it. I didn’t break it.”

  I was silent.

  Slowly he stood up, appearing massive to my eye. He looked around the area, never having been up in my bedroom before. It was tiny—a shelving unit with a built-in desk, a bed, a nightstand, and no space for anything else. I’d tried to spiff it up with homemade lace curtains and lots of fresh potpourri. Right now the sweet smell was making me sick.

  He studied my books as he spoke, his voice calm and low. “Where’s Melissa?”

  I thought about lying, but what purpose would it have served? It took me awhile to find my voice.

  “She’s…” I realized I was still hugging my lone math textbook. I clung to it like a life preserver. “We’re alone.”

  He looked at me, his eyes unreadable. Then he reached in his pocket, pulled out something thick and folded.

  “Your tutoring money,” he said. “I closed the account this morning. It was something like eight hundred and eighty-six dollars and change. I made it an even thou.” He proffered me the wad of bills.

  I remained rooted to my spot.

  He kept his arm extended for a moment, then threw the money on my bed. “Here are also some letters from your grandparents.” Three envelopes were dropped on top of the money. “I’ve had them for a while. Sorry about that.”

  He slipped his hands into his pants pocket. His eyes never left mine.

  “You’re spooked, aren’t you?”

  I shook my head no, but my stance told him differently.

  He continued to study me. “Yeah, you are. I know it’s natural…but it hurts.” He shut my door, then said, “Go ahead and ask me, Terry.”

  I said nothing.

  He bit his lower lip. “It’s what you want to know. It’s what everybody wants to know. So I’ll give you an exclusive.”

  I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

  “What?” He took a step toward me and immediately I backed away. But my desk served as an immobile barrier. Pressed against the hard wood, there was no more room to retreat. He moved close to me. I could hear his breathing, could see the beads of sweat on his forehead.

  “You want to know if I did it? Just ask me, Terry.”

  I stumbled over my words, then finally got out a sentence. “I waited and…waited for you to call me. Why didn’t you?”

  His face registered surprise. It wasn’t the question he had expected. He inched backward until he hit my wall. Spine pressed against the plaster, he slowly slid to the floor, dropping his head between his knees, his hands cradling his temples. He sat rocking himself for a long time. Finally, he ran his hand over his face and looked up at my ceiling.

  “Because Cheryl told me she was pregnant.”

  He waited for me to react. I had already heard rumors, but there was nothing like words from the source. I thought I was too numb to feel pain. But I was wrong.

  He spoke haltingly. “Rationally…I knew it wasn’t mine. I always used protection. But when you hear the word pregnant…you don’t think rationally. An adrenaline rush just takes over.” He looked at me. “I couldn’t leave and ride off to Neverland with you until I found out her story.”

  He rubbed his neck.

  “Cheryl knew it was over between us a long time ago, but she chose to play charades because she liked me. Prom night, when I told her we were a done deal, she got real upset. So she said the one thing she knew would get my attention.”

  He scratched his head.

  “And it got my attention. I kept trying to get her alone. But she kept dragging me to parties afterward. After all, she was the prom queen.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Papers have her framed like she was the celestial virgin. You know how she got the title, don’t you?”

  There had been talk about Cheryl and Mr. Gobles, the English Lit teacher. Mr. Gobles had headed the committee that selected the prom’s queen and her court.

  “Anyway, Ms. Virgin Queen had been doping like crazy,” Chris continued. “Flying in the stratosphere. Anything to drown me out. Because she really didn’t want to talk about it. I decided to just wait her out. I was going to call you, but I didn’t know what to say. I figured the best thing to do was to get Cheryl squared away first and deal with you later.

  “We eventually reached the hotel…and I thought, ‘Great. I
finally got her alone.’ Wrong! Suddenly Bull and Trish popped in with a bunch of porno flicks. Then came the rest of the gang. Suddenly, everyone was raging all over again. By then we were all strung out. You know how the parties can be.”

  He rubbed his neck again.

  “I’d been drinking all night just to pass the time. So by then I was pretty buzzed. I should have just walked away. Should have walked away a long time ago.”

  He bit his lip.

  “It’s not that I minded Cheryl. I just didn’t have any…use for her anymore. See, when you blew me off, Terry, I blew her off. Basically, I stopped sleeping with her. Cheryl was my weapon against you. And when she couldn’t make you jealous, I didn’t want her anymore.”

  I said, “What do you mean you basically stopped sleeping with her?”

  “It’s gonna come out anyway.” He blew out air. “Terry, I slept with Cheryl…that night. Actually, I did it twice.”

  I stared at him, feeling something between disgust and horror. “After what you said to me, after what we said to each other…you had sex with her?” I felt my eyes get wet. “You’re a much better liar than I gave you credit for.”

  “I’m a pathological liar, but I wasn’t lying that night. I meant everything I said—”

  “God, stop insulting my intelligence!”

  He looked up and caught my rage. Something eerie set into his eyes. I suddenly became frightened and tried to curl inward. His voice became soft and soothing.

  “I know you’re scared of me, Terry. Like I said before, it’s natural. But please don’t be. You can tell me anything. I would never hurt you. Okay?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You want to know why I slept with Cheryl?” Chris spoke softly. “I did it because I’m self-serving and spineless. Whatever feels good, that’s my motto.” He bit his nail. “I don’t have any character. Never interested me to develop any. Cheryl wanted me. I was aroused…so why not?”

  I looked at the Brontë novels resting in my bookshelf. “You certainly never had any trouble controlling yourself with me. Or was I the Madonna and poor Cheryl the whore? Lord, spare me from Catholic boys.”