Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 08

by Justice

  “You didn’t lose it now, did you?” Decker said.

  “I can’t stop you from making a mess,” Whitman said. “But I don’t have to talk to you.”

  He was aware. Decker said, “Just thought you might want to help. Get me out of here quickly.”

  Whitman remained quiet.

  Decker knocked on the closet’s ceiling, banged and checked the floorboards. Solid. He sneaked a sidelong glance at Whitman. The kid’s face was flat, but his posture was stiff. He was tapping his foot, not out of impatience, but out of nervousness. His eyes kept going to the clothes piled on his bed. Had Decker missed something? Didn’t appear that way. Maybe Chris just liked things orderly. If that was so, he’d do well in prison.

  Decker decided to be neat and polite. If he made a mess, it might initially unnerve Whitman, but it would also make him angry and defiant. The kid probably performed well when he was mad. Rage wasn’t alien to him.

  “I’m done with the clothes. I’ll need to toss your bed.” Decker rolled his shoulders. “You want to hang up your things while I hunt through your drawers, be my guest.”

  Whitman started forward, then stopped himself. He wanted to put back his clothes, but he didn’t want to do what Decker—i.e., the police—had suggested.

  Decker smiled inwardly. He had put Chris in a classic double-bind. Whitman closed and opened his eyes. “Just toss the clothes on the floor. Do you want some coffee?”

  “I’d love some.”

  It wasn’t the answer he had expected. Now optionless, Chris hesitated, then left the room.

  “Black is fine,” Decker shouted aloud.

  He started on the drawers. Casual clothes—jeans, T-shirts, polo shirts, khakis, sweats, sweaters. Lots of clothes all folded and stowed army regulation perfect. He wondered if Whitman had ever attended military school. His pants were a thirty-four extra, extra long. Decker picked up a jacket off the bed—forty-two extra, extra long. Decker wore a forty-six on good days.

  Having rooted through his clothes, Decker moved on to the next bank of drawers. This one held bed linens. Decker smelled them. Freshly washed. That made sense. The stakeout had followed the kid early this morning, first to a restaurant, then to a Laundromat. Odd, though. The building had machines in the basement. It seemed to Decker as if Whitman was trying to draw out the tail.

  Decker plowed through more of Whitman’s drawers. One held school supplies, the other contained stereo equipment—wires, wire cutters, leads, heads, and an assemblage of doodads that Decker couldn’t identify. Two other drawers were filled with CD racks—one with classical, the other with rock. Kid had eclectic tastes. More school supplies—paper, pens, pencils, calculators, a dictionary, a thesaurus, markers, crayons…

  Decker stopped.

  Crayons?

  That’s right. Whitman was an artist. So where did he keep the bulk of his art supplies?

  More searching produced nothing of significance. Decker started in on the bed.

  Whitman came back with the coffee.

  “Thanks, just put it down anywhere.” Decker carefully folded back the covers and searched the bedding. Then he began a careful examination of the mattress, checking the seams for signs of tampering. Finding nothing, Decker reached into his briefcase and pulled out a pocketknife.

  Whitman said, “The warrant says you can’t destroy anything.”

  Decker said, “The warrant says I can’t break down walls, Chris.” Carefully he cut the mattress ticking, peeled back a flap, and exposed lumpy piles of stuffing.

  “Are you going to pay for that?” Whitman asked.

  “You’ll be compensated.” Decker sorted through the stuffing. Nothing. He repeated the procedure with the box spring. Again, it was devoid of anything valuable.

  Meaning he didn’t stuff his tux in his mattress.

  Decker opened each pillow and came up equally dry. Whitman watched it all, leaning against the doorframe, his face as expressionless as wood. Decker smiled. “Sorry about the mess.”

  Whitman didn’t answer.

  Decker moved on. He checked the floor under the box spring. He tapped the walls, the ceilings, and explored the floor on his hands and knees, looking for a trap door. Everything was intact and solid.

  Rising from his knees, Decker stretched, picked up his coffee, gulped it down, then handed the mug back to Whitman. “Thanks.”

  Decker went into the second bedroom, Whitman his shadow. It had been set up as a music studio as well as a workout room. No exercise machines, but a rack held a dozen sets of freestanding weights. A couple of bar-bells lay against the walls.

  Decker toed one of them. “How much weight do you have on them?”

  “Don’t know what’s currently set up. I can bench-press around two hundred pounds. What about you?”

  Decker grinned. “Buddy, I’m an old man. I look at weights the wrong way, I throw my back out.”

  Whitman eyed him. “I think you’re putting me on.”

  “Chris, I never lie.” Decker’s eyes shifted to the cello resting on its side. Beside it was a closed case. Decker strolled over, knelt down, and examined the case. It was big, padded with a soft lining that looked to be in original condition. He took out a knife, opened a corner, and peeked inside.

  “That’s an antique case,” Whitman said.

  “I really am sorry.” Decker stuck his hands inside, pulled out a clump of horsehair. He sifted through it. No clothing fibers. He did it a couple of times and came up empty. “I’ll make sure it’s restored properly.” He walked over to Whitman’s cello. “Expensive?”

  “Very.”

  “How much?”

  “It’s not a Strad or a Guaneri, but it’s five figures.”

  “Then you pick it up for me. I want to look inside.” Whitman cooperated.

  Gently, Decker rapped his knuckles against the top of the wood, then against the back. Different sounds, one much more dampened than the other. He asked Whitman about the discrepancy.

  “It’s supposed to be like that,” Whitman answered. “That’s the way stringed instruments work.”

  “And how is that?” Decker said.

  “I’m not a cello maker,” Whitman said.

  “Do the best you can,” Decker said.

  Whitman hesitated. Without emotion, he said, “The tops of stringed instruments are usually carved from soft wood—mostly spruce, sometimes pine or cedar. They are constructed to vibrate and amplify the sound wave made by the bowed or plucked string. The backs are usually hard wood—for cellos and violins it’s almost always maple. They are not supposed to vibrate like the tops. They are made to support the structure of the instrument and reflect the sound wave back into the sound box. If you had two pieces of wood vibrating at different rates in one sound box, you’d have a mess.”

  Decker took a flashlight out of his briefcase and turned it on. “These S-shaped holes—”

  “F-holes.”

  “Yeah, I guess they do look like cursive fs. These allow the sound to come out?”

  “Exactly.”

  “They’re pretty big, aren’t they?”

  “Cello’s a big instrument.”

  “Turn the instrument toward me, Chris. I want to look inside.”

  “Can you wear gloves, Sergeant? The oils on your hands aren’t good for the wood.”

  Decker smiled. “I was only going to take a quick peek.”

  Whitman’s face was expressionless. “Just in case you decided to touch.”

  Decker slipped on a pair of gloves, then shone light inside the holes. It was hard to see inside—lots of shadows—but it looked empty except for some wood bracing along the back. He stuck his fingers in as best he could, felt along the top.

  Nothing.

  And that made sense. It would be hard to stuff a tuxedo inside holes meant to accommodate sound waves.

  But something seemed off. Decker didn’t want to let it go just yet. He looked inside the instrument again—more of the same. Again he tapped the front and t
he back. Decker had worked with wood before. Wood had a ring to it when knocked. The front side of his cello sounded flat. But damned if he could see a hint of any cloth inside.

  Casually, Whitman said, “You seem to be interested in acoustics. You want to hear what this one sounds like? It’s a real keeper.”

  Decker knew the kid was toying with him. But it seemed like a good idea to act dumb. “Sure. Play for me.”

  Whitman took the cello from Decker, took his bow, and brought his instrument over to his stool. He placed the bottom metal spike into a hole and eased the instrument between his knees. Flicking his wrist, he picked up the bow and started playing.

  In Whitman’s hands, the instrument was transformed into something animate and expressive. It was hard not to get swept away in its siren call. Though Decker didn’t recognize the piece, he recognized the virtuosity. With great effort, he blinked away the right side of his brain and went back to his left side, studying the kid as he made music.

  At first, Whitman was hard and stiff, the instrument a foe to be conquered. The boy seemed to attack the strings, raping it to produce sounds. But as the music evolved into something pyrotechnical, his face and posture relaxed. His wrist broke, his muscles went slack, his body almost drooped, long limbs enveloping his cello as if it were a lover. The end was lightspeed, a dazzling display of finger work that produced a crescendoed climax. When he was done, the room took on an eerie silence. Whitman’s face had once again gone flat.

  Decker held out his hand, asking for the instrument. “One more time?”

  Whitman paused, then handed him the cello. “Be careful.”

  Decker ran gloved hands over the wood. “How do you do repairs on this?”

  “Repairs?”

  “If you drop it, for instance. How does the repairman get inside to fix it?”

  Whitman smiled. “I don’t know. I’ve never dropped it.”

  Decker tried to read Whitman’s face. Nothing. Reluctantly, he handed back the instrument.

  Whitman said, “What’d you think?”

  “Thanks for the concert.”

  Whitman’s mouth turned into a mocking grin. “That’s it? I overwhelm you with my prodigious talent and all you say is thanks?”

  Decker locked eyes with the kid. “You know something, Chris? You’re very good.”

  “Bet that’s high praise from you.”

  “Excuse me.” Decker sidestepped around Whitman, into the room’s closet. This one was filled with file cases containing sheet music. The pieces were alphabetized by composer. Tucked into the corner was another cello case. Heavy. Decker took it out. “What’s in here?”

  “My traveling cello. Would you like me to open it for you?”

  “Yep.”

  Whitman took the case and opened it. “It’s the same as the other, only cheaper.”

  Whitman handed it to Decker, who inspected it closely. Decker gave it back.

  Whitman said, “I can put it away?”

  “Sure.”

  “You know, Sergeant, I’m kind of enjoying this.”

  “Yeah, you look a little looser.” Decker rummaged through another one of Whitman’s files. “I think music’s good for your soul, Chris.”

  “You want more coffee?”

  The kid had turned cocky. Decker declined the coffee, wanting to go back and examine the cellos. But since he couldn’t bust them open, he knew he’d only see the same lights and shadows. Silly to beat a dead horse.

  Decker finished the second bedroom and moved on to the bathroom, then the living room. He went through the sofa, the chairs, patted down the carpeting, moved furniture, tapped ceilings and floors. He even looked behind the paintings.

  Nothing unusual.

  On to the kitchen. Here, once again, Decker noticed Whitman’s compulsiveness. Knives, forks, and spoons neatly lay in divided cutlery drawers. All cutting knives accounted for and resting in a block. He checked the kitchen cupboards and cabinets. All the dishes had been stacked; even the towels were clean. Searched the broom closet, looked under the sinks, in the refrigerator, in the oven and broiler for signs of recent burning or charring.

  Not a thing unusual.

  Again he started knocking walls and ceilings, checked the floors for trap doors and squeaks.

  Nothing but nothing. Or as Rina would say: Gornish met gornish.

  Decker said, “Chris, I’m still very curious about your tuxedo. Any idea where it might be?”

  Whitman held out his hands and shook his head.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about it.”

  “Sorry, Sergeant,” Whitman said. “My lawyers hate it when you ask me questions and they’re not around.”

  “I could take you in again.”

  “You could.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that.”

  “Up to you.”

  “Let me just go through your hall closet,” Decker said. “Then we’ll go down to the station house.”

  “I should call up my lawyers then?”

  “It would be a good idea.”

  Whitman went over to his kitchen counter and picked up the phone. Decker opened the door to Whitman’s hall closet. It was cedar paneled and held a row of jackets hanging from a high top bar as well as a blocky piece of furniture tucked underneath the coats.

  “Ah-ha,” Decker said.

  Whitman hung up the phone and walked over. “What?”

  Decker smiled. “Didn’t mean to make you nervous. I found your flat file and easel, that’s all.”

  Whitman looked at him. “You were looking for my flat file and easel?”

  Decker ran his hand over the flat file. “Last time I was over here, we talked about art. Rather, I talked about art; you were rather quiet. But you did tell me you were an artist. I was wondering where you kept your supplies.”

  “So now you’ve found them.”

  Decker opened the top drawer. It was taken up by twenty to thirty tubes of paint. The second drawer contained brushes—small, large, fan brushes but most of them unused. It also held a set of pastels, a box of charcoals, a set of pencils, rapidograph pens, and a stack of disposable palettes.

  The third drawer contained his artworks. Sixteen-by-twenty drawings stacked into piles. Decker pulled one cluster and sorted through them. All of them pencil and charcoal Matisse-like figures. “Not too shabby, Chris. You’re one hell of a creative person.”

  Whitman was quiet.

  Decker took out another group of drawings. “You like Matisse?”

  Whitman didn’t answer.

  Decker sorted and said, “Going quiet on me, Chris? I must have touched a sensitive spot.”

  “You’re getting on my nerves.”

  Decker jerked his head up and looked at the kid. Whitman closed and opened his eyes, but said nothing.

  “You call your lawyer yet, Chris?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Might be a good idea if you do it now,” Decker said.

  Whitman didn’t move.

  “I’d like to go through your work,” Decker said. “You don’t mind that, do you?”

  “Actually I do.”

  Decker said, “See, I think it’s even better than your music, Chris. Though you play masterfully…and I’m sure you have your own unique interpretation to everything you touch…you’re still playing someone else’s compositions. But your drawings are your own. You learn a lot about a person by what he creates.”

  Whitman said nothing.

  Decker peered into Chris’s blues—as murky as a muddy pond. “You don’t like me looking at your stuff, do you?”

  Whitman’s eyes flashed fire, which instantly deadened into snuffed flames. “You know, your warrant gives you the right to look around for evidence against me. It doesn’t give you the right to invade my privacy.”

  Decker stopped searching. “In fact, Chris, the warrant gives me exactly that right.”

  Whitman didn’t speak. Decker kept his eyes on the boy’s face. He knew he’d hit upon
something, but he didn’t know what. He went back to his hunting.

  On to the fourth drawer. More sketches, this time crouching and hunching figures of despair with distorted faces à la Francis Bacon. These were on heavy eleven-by-eight drawing paper. All of them undefined heads on nude, curled-up, damaged bodies. “You were depressed?”

  Whitman was silent.

  “You like drawing the human body, don’t you?”

  Again Whitman was quiet.

  “Guess you’re not one for talking about your art.” Decker sorted through the sketches, slowly and deliberately, gauging Whitman’s reaction.

  It was the wrong thing to do. As the time passed, Whitman’s posture grew more relaxed.

  It wasn’t the drawing, Decker told himself. It was something else. Something in that damn closet.

  The last drawer.

  Small bits of paper—lots of sketches and all of them abstract. Decker looked through every single sheet of paper, then closed that last drawer. He pulled out the flat file and easel.

  Rudimentary taps on the ceiling, another check on the floor for loose boards or a trap door. Then the walls, just to complete the picture. Decker started at the bottom on the baseboard and moved toward the ceiling, his fingers rapping against the back wall, looking for unusual hollow sounds. Repeated the procedure on the right wall and then the left.

  And then he felt something. Too high to be felt by a man of average height.

  But Decker, like Whitman, wasn’t a man of average height.

  A seam. Immediately, Decker took out a flashlight and shone the beam on the top left corner of the closet. Without turning around, he said, “Did you know that there’s a narrow little door up there cut into the paneling?”

  Whitman didn’t answer. Decker stretched onto his toes and examined the seam. “Skinny sucker. Any ideas what it could be used for?”

  He turned and regarded Whitman’s face—expressionless, but his posture gave him away. If Chris was any stiffer, he would have been a bronze. Again Decker shone the light on the seam. “There’s a lock way on top. Do you have the key?”

  Whitman was quiet.

  Decker said, “You know, Chris, it would be a lot easier for you to open it than for me to pry it loose.”