Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 08

by Justice

“You talk to the girl, Deck?”

  “Yep.”

  “And?”

  Decker said, “The pictures aren’t from Whitman’s imagination. She posed for them at Whitman’s request.”

  “She admitted it?”

  “Yep.”

  “She actually told you that he had tied her up?”

  “Yep.”

  Oliver clapped his hands together. “Prosecution’s gonna tongue your ass. You got her to admit that Whitman tied her up, now Whitman’s got a history of bondage. Defense can’t say that Diggs was an impulsive first-time thing because Whitman was raging drunk. We got a good case for a calculated homicide.”

  “Yeah, he’s used binds before.”

  “And so much for Elaine and the polygraph.” Oliver did a raspberry. “No wonder the tests aren’t admissible.”

  “No, they’re not foolproof.” Decker paused. “But they are hard to beat. Whitman was good.”

  “Real good,” Oliver said. “Did she pose willingly?”

  “Yes and no. If I were the State, I could make a case that she was manipulated and psychologically coerced.”

  Oliver smiled. “Little Chrissie is up to his balls in quicksand. No wonder he wants to talk to you. Cut some sort of deal.”

  Decker said, “If he had deal in mind, his lawyer would be talking to the prosecution. He wouldn’t be asking for me.”

  “Ah, c’mon,” Oliver said. “You know how it works. They always try to cut deals with us first…like we got some magic power to kiss the boo-boo and make it go away. First we’re their worst enemy, then we become their best friend. We’ve seen it a hundred times before.”

  Decker shrugged.

  “The girl must be pissed at Whitman.”

  “Not really.” Decker scanned the sketch pad and winced. “Mostly, she’s embarrassed…really embarrassed.”

  “Nice girl?”

  “Yep.”

  “So what’s she doing posing like that?”

  “Nice girls can screw up.” Decker raised his brow. “He told her he loved her. He told her it was art…Jesus dying on the cross. Who the hell knows? Maybe in his own sick mind, it was the truth.”

  “Yeah, and I’m a horse’s ass.”

  Decker glanced at him and said nothing.

  Oliver let out a soft laugh. “I set myself up for that one.” He ran his hand over his forehead. “How old is she?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Was he violent with her?”

  “Nope.” Decker closed the top of the pad and gave it back to Oliver. “Not at all. But she knew something about him was kinky. She suggested he find another tutor after he tied her up. She told him she didn’t want to model anymore.”

  “In other words, she smelled a fart and didn’t call it perfume. Give the girl a point.” Oliver made an imaginary notch with his index finger in the air. “Her quivering antenna may be the reason she’s alive today.”

  “Still, she’s not out to fry him.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Oliver said. “She still loves him.”

  “That’s probably part of it,” Decker said. “But I think she honestly believes he didn’t do it.”

  “Christ! They just don’t learn! Why don’t you show her the postmortems of Cheryl Diggs. See how deep her affections run.”

  “It’s up to the prosecution now. I’ve done my job.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “I think the best way to approach this sketch versus Polaroid thing is by points of comparison, like doing a fingerprint match before we got the computers. Methodically go through the pad and photos and mark the similarities. Look at the angles, the hand position, the wrist position, head positions, the way the feet were bound, the crossing of the ankles, and so on and so on. Anybody else call me?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll see you later.” Decker started to walk away, but Oliver called him back.

  Decker turned around. “What?”

  Oliver said, “Deck, you’ve got the beautiful wife, you’ve got the perfect kids. Have a little patience with the less fortunate going through hard times.”

  Decker was quiet.

  Oliver made popping noises with his lips. “You know it’s gotta be bad if evidence makes me salivate.”

  Decker was careful with his words. “Anything at home to salvage?”

  “I thought so. But Patti has different ideas.” Oliver sliced air with the side of his palm. “She wants a clean break. I’m looking for a two-bedroom, but I’d take a large one-bedroom. You think Marge might have any rentals in her building?”

  “You can ask her when she gets back.”

  “Patti wanted me out by the weekend.”

  “What about your girlfriend temporarily?”

  “No A-effing way I’m moving in with her. I don’t want to give her any ideas.”

  “How about friends?”

  “I’ll find someone.”

  No one spoke for a moment.

  Decker said, “It’ll get better, Scott.”

  “Not in the short run.” He rubbed his eyes. “You ever meet my oldest kid before he left home?”

  “Your son? No.”

  “Yeah, he cut out about six months ago. I think that was the final blow. I kept trying to tell Patti that it was no big deal. Kids have to find themselves. But she didn’t want to hear it. Easier to blame me.”

  Decker was quiet.

  “He’s doing okay,” Oliver said. “He’s hoping to get a contractor’s license in about six months.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah, I think it’s fine, too. Patti’s disappointed. She wanted him to go to college. Of course that’s my fault, too.”

  Decker didn’t answer.

  Oliver said, “He’s a great-looking kid, Deck. Real popular with the girls. Occasionally he brought a few home for us to meet…little cutie-pie nymphets…” He looked up and laughed. “They’d call me sir. Man, do I feel old! Worse, I can’t seem to grow old gracefully. How do you do it?”

  “Scott, my wife is twelve years younger than I am.”

  Oliver smiled, then laughed out loud. “Son of a bitch, you’re just as bad as I am.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far—”

  “Twelve years younger!” Oliver clapped his hands. “You big, horny bastard.”

  “Now that you’ve reduced me to a typical middle-aged dick, do you feel better?”

  “Yeah.” Oliver took out the Diggs Polaroids and opened up Whitman’s sketch pad. “Sure, I feel better.” He took out two sheets of paper, labeled one POLAROIDS, the other SKETCHES. “I feel a hell of a lot better.”

  After depositing his gun in the weapons dropoff and filling out the required forms, Decker was led to Whitman’s cell by Ramirez the jailer. Whitman had been stuffed in a cell usually reserved for high-profile criminals or violents. The detention chamber was hermetically sealed, had no windows except for a wire mesh, double-thick glass pane cut into the door. Inside, the space was padded and painted yellow, the only article of furniture being a bunk chained to the wall.

  When Ramirez opened the door, Whitman was quietly lying on the flat board, hands behind his head, long legs crossed at the ankles and falling over the bed. He turned and sat up when he saw it was Decker.

  Ramirez said, “Stand up, face the wall, put your hands on your head.”

  Whitman moved quickly. From behind, Ramirez brought down Whitman’s left hand behind his back, slapped on the handcuffs. He brought down Whitman’s right, then cuffed the hands together. He said, “He’s a big guy. You want me to link him to the bunk?”

  Decker said, “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  Ramirez wasn’t fully convinced. But he left anyway, closing the sealed door. The chambers were eerily quiet.

  Decker said, “You can turn around now, Whitman, but keep your back to the wall. Slide down until you’re sitting on your butt, legs crossed, spine plastered to the wall.”

  Whitman did as told.

  Decker studied the boy. He actually looked heal
thier than when Decker had arrested him. His eyes were clearer, his skin looked less mottled. Sometimes perps were like that. At peace, because they had finally gotten what they deserved. He shifted his position and grimaced.

  Decker said, “Cuffs too tight?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “I’m done with you, Chris,” Decker said. “Any deal you want to cut should come from your lawyer to the State.”

  Whitman maintained eye contact. “Did you talk to her?”

  Decker didn’t answer.

  Whitman looked at the ceiling, then back at Decker. “You remember what we talked about when you arrested me?”

  “I think you should be talking to your lawyer, Chris.”

  “Look, do you want this collar or what?”

  “I’ve got this collar.”

  “You want to make it stick, don’t you?”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  Whitman threw his head back and whispered, “Terry, Terry, Terry.” He shook his head. “The girl couldn’t lie to save her soul.”

  “Looks like she ain’t gonna save yours, either.”

  “She has no idea what she’s in for…so damn innocent.” Whitman blew out air. “I’ll give you those hookers now. I remember four specifically, but I know there were more.”

  “Busy guy, were you?”

  Whitman bit his lower lip. “In my community, you take a wife for your family, a girlfriend for regular sex, and hookers fill in the blanks. It’s just the way I’ve been brought up.”

  “You’re starting young.”

  “Engaged at seventeen, I’ll say.” Whitman paused. “Maybe I bought it a dozen times this year. Not exactly a world’s record. Anyway, they’ll tell you shit, Decker. Much more interesting shit than Terry. All I want in exchange is suppression of the sketches as evidence…if it pans out like it should.”

  “Talk to your lawyer, Chris.”

  “Decker, why do you want to bring her down, when you can get the same evidence against me without her? C’mon, you know the deal. Prosecution and press’ll turn her into hamburger. She doesn’t deserve that when her only crime was trusting an asshole like me.”

  “Nobility wears well on you, kid.”

  Whitman’s cheeks pinkened. “In another world, I was a knight. Look, these cuffs are cutting the hell out of me. Talk to me, Decker. I’m serving you my head on a platter.”

  “So why not go all the way and confess?”

  “Because I didn’t do it.” Whitman lowered his voice. “I didn’t do it, Sergeant. Yes, I have kinks in my circuitry, but that doesn’t make me a homicidal maniac.”

  “Your kinks sure as hell make you a liar,” Decker said. “Because you lied during the polygraph. You told us under oath that you never tied anyone up.”

  “I lied because I knew what admitting it would mean. I was real surprised I beat it.”

  “Looks like you’re an excellent liar.”

  “Being an excellent liar doesn’t make you a murderer. If that was true, all politicians would be behind bars.” Whitman swore under his breath. “I’m not going to screw myself unless I have your…promise for lack of a better word…that you’ll follow up on this. Do you want the names or not?”

  Decker said, “Whitman, you can give, but I’m not promising you anything. It’s your call.”

  Whitman paused. “Looks like I’ll take my chances.”

  Decker pulled out a pad. “Shoot.”

  “First one’s black, around eighteen, about five four, one-fifteen, maybe one-twenty—”

  “Does she have a name?”

  “I’m sure she does, but it was a kind of a ‘hey you, brown sugar,’ type thing. But I used her twice, maybe even three times. If you find her, she’ll remember me. I’m big with and without clothes. Let’s see…she was one-fifteen, one-twenty. Big floppy tits. She wears leggings, a low-cut tank top and fuck-me backless shoes. Lots of makeup and jewelry, hangs out on Sunset—”

  “Well, that narrows it down.”

  “I’m doing the best I can,” Whitman said tensely. “Next one I think went by the name Pearl. She was Asian, long straight black hair, smaller…about five if that. Enormous tits—real firm, probably implants. Around eighteen, maybe even younger. Also lots of makeup and jewelry. I found her on hookers’ row on Sepulveda. Next girl I remember was also black, eighteen years old, around one-fifteen—”

  “Sounds like the first one.” Abruptly, Decker stopped writing. “Chris, I don’t have the time or inclination to start checking out hookers that all sound alike.”

  Whitman banged the back of his head against the wall. “What the hell do you want from me? I’m describing them the best I can.”

  “Sorry, buddy. It’s not good enough. Get me a name.”

  Whitman suddenly straightened his spine. “Free up my hands and give me your pen. I’ll draw them for you.”

  Decker looked at him. “You can draw them from memory?”

  “In a snap.”

  Decker thought a moment, then knocked for the jailer. Ramirez opened the door. “Had enough, Sergeant?”

  “Not yet. Cuff him in front for me. I want him to be able to write something.”

  Ramirez grudgingly did as requested. After the jailer left and Whitman was immobilized, Decker slid his pen and pad over to the teenager.

  “Don’t shit around with me,” Decker said.

  “Pissing you off is the last thing on my mind.” Whitman sat, legs bent at the knees, feet on the ground. He placed Decker’s pad on his legs, using his thighs for an easel. He picked up the pen and began to make strokes. “God, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I didn’t even bust her cherry.”

  Decker said, “So why are you doing it?”

  “’Cause I’m crazy.” Whitman studied the drawing and spoke in a mock Viennese accent. “Ker-razy in de head.” He sketched furiously, then flipped the paper. “One down, three to go.”

  “You’re fast.”

  “I’ve got a good eye.”

  Decker said, “A good eye like that. Yet you can’t remember seeing anyone when you left the Grenada West End.”

  “It was like three-thirty in the morning, Decker. The lobby wasn’t teeming with bodies.” Whitman paused. “You know, I did see the night clerk when I left. But he didn’t see me.”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s nothing else to tell.” Whitman turned to a fresh page. “Two down. I saw him at a distance. He was in the back room.”

  “You said you’ve got a good eye. Would you recognize the clerk if you saw him again?”

  “I knew the clerk,” Whitman said. “One of Cheryl’s numbers. Henry Trupp.”

  Decker said, “What do you mean, one of Cheryl’s numbers?”

  “She had an adult fan club, if you know what I mean. She didn’t exactly hook…more like bartered for favors…a certain male teacher who gave her As when she deserved Fs…the car mechanic…the Korean papa for groceries. A cop when she got busted for drugs—”

  “A cop?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mentioned a name.”

  Decker had heard that one before. Seems like every hooker in the world boasted a cop in her pocket. Rarely did it pan out. “Did Cheryl have an honesty problem?”

  “Yeah, she lied a lot. But I know she did Trupp when she needed a place to crash…whenever she ran away from her alcoholic mother…which was often. We were all comped rooms prom night because Cheryl visited Trupp the day before.”

  “You told me you and Cheryl never talked.”

  “She talked. Sometimes I even listened.”

  “What does Trupp look like?”

  Whitman paused. “You never grilled the guy?”

  Trupp still hadn’t been located. But Decker couldn’t tell Whitman that. So he said nothing.

  Whitman raised his brow. “Middle-aged, bald white guy with a paunch. You want me to draw him, too?”

  White guy. Decker said, “Sure, draw him
for me. Could you see what Trupp was doing in the back room?”

  “Watching TV…teevees actually. Guy had two, three sets going at the same time.”

  “Could you see what was playing? Get a time frame for yourself?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention. I just wanted to go home and start a new day.” Another flip. “Three down. You’re gonna be amazed by how good I am at rendering.”

  “I saw your sketches of Terry.”

  “Those were garbage,” Whitman announced. “I couldn’t get her right. Too beautiful to capture on paper. How’d the interview go with her?”

  Decker was silent.

  “Ah, the inscrutable detective.” Whitman grinned, then turned serious. “She hates me, doesn’t she?”

  Decker remained quiet.

  Whitman looked miserable. “I’m writing brief descriptions at the top. You are going to check this out?”

  “No promises, no guarantees.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Whitman said. “I’m finished with the whores. I’ll give you Trupp now.” He sketched a few moments. “Too bad I’m so messed, because I got so much raw talent.”

  “The world bleeds heavily, Chris.”

  Whitman sighed, drew a few moments more, then closed the pad. He slid it and the pen back to Decker. “Take a look.”

  Decker picked up his pad and nodded.

  Whitman said, “The blacks worked Sunset. Pearl and the other one—the white girl who called herself Luscious—worked Sepulveda. You may want to check them out first because they’re closer.”

  “I told you, Chris. No promises, no guarantees.”

  Whitman said, “You’re going to check it out. Not because of me, and not because of Terry, but because I know you’ll do it. You’re just like me.”

  “Son, I’m nothing like you.”

  “Yeah, you are. You don’t like loose ends.” Whitman pointed to the pad. “You know what those are, Decker? Those are loose ends.”

  27

  The bail was set at a half million on a 10 percent bond. A fifty-thousand-dollar check graced by Moody’s sweeping signature, and an hour later, Whitman was a free bird. Daddy Donatti had come through with the requisite pocket change. Decker passed it off with a shrug. Onward and upward.