Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 08

by Justice

  Whitman said, “Your warrant prohibits any demolition that compromises the structural integrity of the building.”

  “We’re talking about a closet, Chris.”

  “I’m talking about a closet wall!”

  Decker thought a moment. The secret compartment wouldn’t compromise the structural integrity of the building. But with enough pictures, a clever lawyer could aim the camera in such a way as to convince a judge that this was a wall. Decker didn’t want to take the chance of gathering evidence only to have it be thrown out.

  He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a pack of picks. “What I don’t do for my job. You want to hold the light for me while I do this?”

  Whitman’s face was flat. “Fuck you.”

  “You’re losing it, guy.”

  “I’m going to call my lawyer.”

  “A very good idea.”

  Decker tucked the flashlight under his chin. It was a hard lock to pick, taking him over a half hour. But eventually the lock gave way with a pop and the door opened. Decker reached inside and felt around.

  More papers. He stuck his hand inside and emptied the compartment of its contents. Five drawing tablets. He brought them into the light and flipped off the top cover. He began to leaf through them.

  They say every artist has a favorite model and Whitman was no exception. Dozens of pictures—all representational and all of the same girl. As the Bible stated, she was beautiful of face and form. She’d been posed clothed, in scant dress, partially nude, then completely nude, sitting on his bed, hunched over, arms around her knees.

  Decker faced Whitman. The kid looked stunned, and for a moment Decker almost felt sorry for him. Because there were feelings here. But then he thought about Cheryl Diggs. She deserved some feelings, too.

  “Who is she?”

  “Nobody,” he whispered.

  “Chris, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  Whitman was silent.

  “Chris?”

  “Nobody,” he said again. “Someone from my imagination.”

  “So…” Decker held up the picture of the girl. “So if I showed these drawings to some of your friends, they’d have no idea who she was.”

  Whitman swallowed hard, ran his hands through his hair, and said nothing.

  Decker flipped through a second tablet. More of the same. He picked up a third one. Midway through, he stopped abruptly, staring at the drawing in front of him.

  Same girl in very different pose, but not an unfamiliar one to Decker. The girl was lying on Whitman’s bed, wrists bound to the headboard, ankles tied together and bound to the footboard. He went on to the next drawing, then the next. Variation on the face, but not on the pose. The poor girl seemed very worn, but was showing a brave face. She looked anxious to please.

  Or maybe she just looked anxious. He showed the bound girl to Whitman. “Maybe I should pass this one around, starting with the morgue.”

  “She isn’t in the morgue.”

  “The pose looks very familiar and that’s too bad for you.” Decker pulled out the cuffs. “Turn around, Chris.”

  “Wait—”

  “Turn around and hit the wall, now!”

  Whitman did as told and Decker snapped on the cuffs. He then went to his briefcase and took out a portable tape recorder. He tested it, then, satisfied, turned it back to the beginning. “Christopher Sean Whitman, you are under arrest for the murder of Cheryl Diggs. You have the right to remain silent—”

  “Can I talk to—”

  “Anything you say can and may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney during questioning. If you can’t—”

  “Ser—”

  “If you can’t afford an attorney, the state will appoint you representation free of charge. Do you understand—”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Do you understand the charges read to you clearly and freely?”

  Whitman said, “Yes. Let me just say something—”

  “Do you wish to waive your right to an attorney?”

  Whitman paused, then said yes.

  “Do you understand that at any time, you may ask for your lawyer and I will stop questioning you?”

  “Can you cut the crap for just—”

  “Do you understand—”

  “Yes, I understand,” Whitman snapped. “Can I talk to you off the record for a moment?”

  “No.”

  Whitman paused. “Then I’ll just talk to you.”

  “Shoot,” Decker said.

  “Can you take off the cuffs?”

  “You bench-press two hundred pounds, Chris. I think I’ll leave the cuffs on.”

  Whitman wiped his face on his shoulder. He was showered in sweat. “I know…” He swallowed hard. “I know you’re just doing your job. And I can appreciate that. There’s nothing personal here.” The kid looked at the ceiling, then back at Decker. “These are just pictures…made up in my head, you know?”

  “Are you saying this girl is made up?”

  “Just hear me out, okay?”

  “Go.”

  Whitman took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No, the girl isn’t made up. But the poses are…were. She was my tutor for about…three months.” He swallowed again. “That’s all. We ran in completely different circles. I haven’t talked to her in months. But she was lovely. Her face stayed with me. We had a nice working relationship. I don’t want her to think of me as a sleaze.”

  “Well, that’s up to her, Chris—”

  “I realize…” Whitman interrupted loudly, then he stopped talking. He closed and opened his eyes. “I realize what you’re trying to do, why these pictures are…”

  Decker waited.

  Whitman shook his head. “I know why the pictures are incriminating. Cheryl was found bound; you find pictures by me of girls all tied up. But that isn’t proof of anything. Other than the fact that once I drew one girl tied up. You get my point?”

  “There’s more than one picture here.”

  “It was the same fantasy. That’s all it was. A fantasy.”

  Decker said, “Well, your lawyer can argue that point to a grand jury. I’m going to call up my station house now and arrange for transport—”

  “Wait!” Whitman hesitated, then said, “Suppose…I can get you better evidence.”

  Decker waited, hoping his astonishment wasn’t showing.

  “I’ll get you better evidence against me,” Whitman said. “Better evidence in exchange for these pictures.”

  Decker stared at the kid. What was the catch?

  Whitman said, “Sergeant, I never did anything with this girl. You question her, she won’t know what the hell you’re talking about. If you parade these drawings before a grand jury, all you’ll be doing is…ruining someone nice. She’s a straight A student, and last I heard, she was still a virgin. Why bring her down just because I have a wild imagination?”

  “Chris, that’s not up to me—”

  “I’ll get you names, Decker,” Whitman said, desperately. “Names of hookers I’ve actually tied up.”

  “You’ve tied up hookers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Live hookers, Chris?”

  “Yes, of course they’re alive. I’ll get you names of women I’ve tied up. I’ll get you names and you can go down and talk to them in person. I’m talking live witnesses, Decker. Hell of a lot better than a bunch of dead drawings. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Decker said, “You must really like this girl.”

  “Yes, I do. Now I understand that you’re not going to fork over the drawings just based on my word. But if I deliver you witnesses, do we have a deal?”

  “No, Chris, we do not have a deal. Unless you want to confess right now. That’d sure save your lady a lot of embarrassment.”

  “Christ!” Whitman exploded. “Don’t you goddamn understand what I’m offering you? I’m frying myself in exchange for the drawings.”

 
; “If you want to confess, I’m listening.”

  “I’m not going to confess, goddamn it! I didn’t do anything!”

  Decker said, “I’m going to call transport to take you down to the station house. You can call your law—”

  “Aren’t you goddamn listening?” Whitman kicked a chair across his living room. It smashed against the wall and splintered into several pieces. “I’m giving you something better! Open your fucking ears, for godsakes!”

  It was at this moment that Decker realized Whitman was a powder keg inching toward a lighted match. He was a big, strapping boy on the verge of a violent eruption. Decker spoke soothingly. “I’m listening to you, Christopher. I hear every word you’re saying. You deliver…and then we can talk. I’m not shutting you out. But I can’t promise you anything. Do you understand that?”

  Whitman was breathing hard. He suddenly looked very young. Decker said, “You deliver first, and then I’ll talk to you. We’ll all talk to you. But absolutely no promises. Understand?”

  The boy bit his lower lip, then nodded.

  “Chris, answer the question verbally. My tape recorder doesn’t pick up nods.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “No promises, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But first you’ve got to cooperate, Chris. Who’s the girl?”

  Whitman was silent.

  Decker said softly, “We both want to keep this as quiet as possible. If you tell me the name, I can be discreet. If not, I’ll start showing the pictures around—”

  “Don’t do that!”

  “So tell me the name.”

  Whitman’s knees buckled. He dropped to the floor. Decker knelt beside him. “I understand your protective attitude. She looks like a nice girl…very pretty.”

  “She’s the most…” His voice faded.

  “I’m sure I’ll understand when I meet her,” Decker said. “The name, son?”

  Whitman was silent.

  “Chris, you don’t want your friends to know, do you?”

  “No,” he whispered.

  “The name?”

  “Please be nice.”

  “I will.”

  “Tell her I’m…I’m very sorry.”

  “The name, Christopher?”

  “Teresa McLaughlin.”

  24

  She spoke behind a closed door. And even when she opened it to check Decker’s ID, she kept the chain on. A cautious girl, but in the end, she let him in. She kept her distance, eyes darting between the upstairs landing and the front door. Distrustful. And after what had happened to Cheryl Diggs, who could blame her?

  Decker stepped into Teresa McLaughlin’s living room.

  Whitman had done a good job of rendering her on paper, but had fallen short. Because she was truly a stunner—a breathtaking adolescent easing with grace into womanhood. An oval face held clear, amber eyes flecked with dark chocolate. Her complexion was cream-colored except for a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and a natural blush that outlined high cheekbones. Her hair was waist-length, thick and deep bronze, tied back and held in place with a plastic clip. She wore an oversized, long-sleeved T-shirt under a brocade vest and baggy, faded jeans.

  Studying her face, Decker bet she had trouble getting dates. Because something about her was unapproachable. Her eyes, though beautiful, were stop signs that said don’t touch…don’t even look. Her aloofness, combined with a distinct vulnerability, must have been one powerful aphrodisiac to a cocky kid like Whitman.

  Decker kept his hands in his pockets, glanced around the living room. Small and neat with conventional furniture. A six-foot sofa facing a couple of armchairs with a coffee table between them. A few nondescript floral still lifes hung on the walls. There was also a framed poster of Monet’s water lilies. The carpet was oatmeal hued, marred by a couple of large, faded, amoeba-shaped stains.

  “I just made some coffee for myself.” Her voice was soft and wary. “Would you like a cup?”

  “Black coffee would be great, thank you.” Decker smiled and she returned a small one of her own. “Where should I sit?”

  “How about the dining-room table?” She kneaded her hands. “My stepmom doesn’t like anyone drinking coffee in the living room. Too many accidents on the carpet.”

  “The dining room is fine, Teresa.”

  “Terry, please.” She looked at the table. It was covered with school papers and texts. “I’ll clear it off in a minute.” Again a brief smile. Then she disappeared into the kitchen. Seconds later, a child around seven came scampering down the staircase. She stopped short when she saw Decker, keeping a safe distance between them.

  “Why, hello there,” Decker said. “Are you looking for Terry?”

  Nodding, the girl stuck her thumb in her mouth, then quickly pulled it out.

  “She’s in the kitchen. You can go see her if you want.”

  She didn’t answer. A moment later, Terry returned carrying two mugs of coffee. She saw the little girl, let go with a genuine smile, then placed the coffee cups on top of a calculus textbook. Once the mugs were on the table, the child raced to Terry and hugged her waist.

  “It’s okay, Melissa,” Terry explained. “He’s just a policeman—a detective with a real gold badge.”

  Melissa’s eyes grew wide. She muttered something. Terry bent down and the girl threw her arms around her neck. She whispered something in the older girl’s ear.

  “What?” Terry asked. “I can’t understand you.”

  Melissa whispered again.

  Aloud Terry said, “No, he’s not going to arrest me. But you’ve got to go back upstairs because I have to talk to him, okay?”

  Melissa looked scared.

  Terry stood up and faced Decker. “I usually make her a snack about this time. I was about to do that when you came. Would you mind waiting while I prepare her something?”

  “Not at all,” Decker said. “I’ll even show her my badge.”

  But Melissa wasn’t interested. She tagged after Terry, hanging on to the hem of her T-shirt, as the teen dragged her unwittingly into the kitchen. Decker could make out soft, cooing sounds but no words. A minute later, they came back, Terry holding a plate filled with fruit slices and chips.

  “I want to eat down here,” Melissa said.

  “I know, honey, but you can’t,” Terry said.

  “I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet.”

  “Missy, you don’t have to be quiet to be good. You’re good just because you’re good.” Again, Terry bent down. “I have to talk to the policeman in private. You wait for me upstairs. Hopefully, this won’t take too long.”

  The girl didn’t budge.

  “Come on.” Terry took her hand. “I’ll walk you up.”

  They were gone for about five minutes before Terry returned. Her expression was apologetic. “She doesn’t get out much. My stepmom keeps long hours. Melissa’s a little antsy around strangers. All these stories she hears at school.”

  “She’s your sister?”

  “Half sister.”

  A kitchen bell went off. Terry checked her watch. “That’s the washing machine. Would you mind if I threw a batch of clothes in the dryer?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Thank you.” She ran back to the kitchen, then returned and began tidying up her school papers. “Sorry about the mess. I like to spread out when I study.”

  “Nothing to apologize for,” Decker said. “Are you studying for finals?”

  “Yes…out of habit more than anything.” She began stacking her notes. “I’m a senior so it’s really all over for me. Short of a catastrophe, I should be entering UCLA in the fall as a freshman.”

  “Congratulations,” Decker said. “I hear it’s very hard to get into UCLA these days.”

  She shrugged. “The admissions thing is a bit overblown. It’s not that hard.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m running a little late. Can I put dinner in the oven? My stepmom usually goes to the health club after
work. She comes home ravenous and grumpy. It’ll only take a minute.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  Again she flew into the kitchen. When she came back, Decker said, “You’re a busy lady, aren’t you?”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “It’s nice that you help out your stepmom.”

  She shrugged, but her face was tense.

  Decker said, “Or do you have a choice?”

  Terry forced herself to smile. “S’right. My stepmom works hard. She’s an executive secretary at the regional offices of Filagree Drug Company. Lot of responsibilities.” Then she muttered, “Or so she says.”

  “What about your dad?”

  Terry paused. “My dad?”

  Decker was quiet. He knew he’d touched a nerve.

  Terry said, “Uh, sure, my dad works, too. Of course.”

  Lots of tension. Decker nodded passively.

  “He’s a maintenance engineer for several big downtown law buildings.” Terry waited a beat. “That’s a fancy title for a handyman.”

  “It’s honest labor,” Decker said. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “It’s better than flipping burgers. He did that for a while, too.” Terry bit her nail, then sat down. “You’re right. It is honest work. And I know my dad works very hard. I don’t mean to disparage him.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” Decker said. “You’ve just got your own problems, I bet.”

  “Who doesn’t?” She folded slender hands, placed them on the tabletop and kept her eyes on her clasped fingers. “Is the coffee okay?”

  Decker took a sip. “Terrific.” He spoke gently. “You do know why I’m here, don’t you?”

  “I’m assuming it’s about Chris Whitman. What are you doing? Interviewing everyone in the class?”

  “Only certain people,” Decker said. “You made the list.”

  “Lucky me.” Her voice was a whisper. She cleared her throat, then spoke louder. “How can I help you?”

  “Tell me about Chris.”

  “There’s not much to tell. I know him from school. We’re in the same grade.”

  “Is he in any of your classes?”

  “Just orchestra.”

  “Ah…” Decker took out a notepad. “And what instrument do you play, Terry?”