Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 08

by Justice

  Sepulveda Boulevard had never been known for designer architecture. But the shift from basic thoroughfare to hookers’ row had been sudden. A ballooning population in the San Fernando Valley required lots of new goods and services. Sepulveda was well trafficked and had several rows of cheap motels. The ladies were pragmatic. Why travel to Sunset when there were accommodations in the backyard?

  The girls came out at twilight. Armed with Whitman’s sketches, Decker began his hunt. He was a cop and made no attempt to hide it, so the girls made him in an eye blink. But his profession didn’t stop their strutting. A UN’s worth of trollops boogied over to him, all of them way too young for their work, way too old for their years. Within minutes, he was surrounded by two Asians, four blacks, and four whites. The guys who had been cruising the boulevard must have thought Decker some awesome stud.

  He showed them Whitman’s drawings. The girls giggled and shook their heads no. Some seemed more truthful than others. Decker studied them, one face at a time, his attention slowly shifting to an Asian girl. He shooed the others away and took her aside. Maybe she was eighteen, but probably not. Her ID told Decker her name was Mae. He showed her one of Whitman’s sketches. Then he looked her square in the eye.

  “Her name is Pearl,” Decker said. “Where can I find her?”

  Mae cracked gum. “What’d she do?”

  Broad Brooklyn accent. Decker said, “She didn’t do anything.”

  “So den why should I help you?”

  “I can make it worth your while.”

  “Whatchu have in mind?”

  Decker peeled off a twenty and flicked it in front of her face.

  “Dat’s it?”

  “Mae, let’s get along, okay?”

  The girl shrugged and snapped up the bill. “Her name’s Tachako Yamaguchi. She’s Japanese. I saw her go into the Royal Crown Motel ’bout twenty minutes ago with some ugly, pumped-up dude. Now how about a tip for being so nice?”

  Decker palmed her another ten. “Get out of here.”

  She took off. The motel was a block away. Decker started walking. As luck would have it, he hit upon the entrance right as some ugly, pumped-up dude with a small Asian girl stepped outside. Decker grabbed the girl’s arm and told the dude to disappear. He saluted, backed away, then turned and ran.

  She was very small and thin except for enormous breasts as big and round as cantaloupes. Dark protruding nipples were visible under a cotton gauze tank top.

  Whitman was right. Girl had implants.

  She wore crimson latex short shorts, black backless high heels, and her nails were dragon red inset with rhinestones. Through the layers of foundation, blush, lipstick, and eye goop, Decker could make out a pretty face. Her ID said her name was in fact Tachako Yamaguchi. According to the DMV, she was nineteen. According to Decker, she was a child. Hoping to expedite things, he slipped her a ten, then dropped her arm. She remained rooted to the spot, looked at Decker with expectant eyes. A good sign. Maybe he wouldn’t have to work too hard.

  He fished in his pockets and pulled out mug shots of Whitman that were taken at his booking. “You know this guy?”

  Tachako’s eyes went from Decker’s face to the sketch. “What’d he do?”

  “Just tell me about him.”

  She tapped her foot and shrugged. “Quiet. He paid well.”

  “How’d his taste run?”

  “Nothing I’ve never done before.”

  Decker pulled out four fives and showed them to her. He gave her one. “Talk to me, Tachako.”

  Her eyes went to the ground. “Blow-jobs.”

  Decker frowned. “That’s it? Blow-jobs?”

  She waited.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” Decker said. “You’ve got to work for the money, even with me.”

  “Head with him was enough.” Tachako studied her nails. A rhinestone winked in the moonlight. “Did him two separate times. Third time I saw him coming, I ducked in the alley. Enough’s enough, you know.”

  “What’s enough, Tachako?”

  “He was real big. Liked to use it all.”

  Her eyes were uneasy. There was more. Decker gave her another five.

  She said, “He liked me on my back. Liked to kneel over me and do it.”

  “Straddle you?”

  She nodded. “Just picked up my head and shoved it in. Second time, he did it so hard and deep, I had a sore throat for a week. I kept gagging and gagging. Didn’t stop him. Kept going till he came. After, he gave me double my usual. But who needs it, you know? Plenty of others not so big.”

  Her eyes flitted from spot to spot. Decker gave her a third fin. Tachako buffed her nails on her latex hotpants. “He was into control. Bondage.”

  “He tied you up?”

  She nodded.

  “Just the hands?”

  She shook her head.

  “Hands and feet?”

  She nodded.

  “Gags?”

  “Be hard to suck him if I was wearing a gag.”

  Decker laughed and so did she. He said, “You do a lot of regular bondage?”

  “No.”

  “So why’d you do it with him?”

  “Like I said, he paid well.” She flicked imaginary dirt off her sweater. “And he was cute.”

  “He ever knock you around?”

  “No. He just liked bondage.” She paused. “I think he used old ties.”

  Decker pulled out his notebook. “He tied you up with neckties?”

  She nodded.

  “Tight?”

  “Not tight enough to kill, but tight enough.”

  “Would you be willing to testify to a grand jury that he tied you up with neckties?”

  “You crazy? He’d kill me.”

  “He gave me your name, Tachako. He drew me your picture. Want to see it?”

  The girl was quiet. Decker took out the sketch and showed it to her. Her eyes widened. “Why’s he drawing me?”

  “So I could find you. He drew me a few others as well. You know any of these girls?”

  He gave her Whitman’s drawings. Tachako sorted through them one at a time, then she shook her head. “Is he like one of these like whacko…serious killers? Am I on some kinda hit list?”

  Decker said, “Tachako, he drew you so I could find you. He wanted you to tell me just what you told me.”

  She took a baby step backward. “Why’d he want that?”

  “He’s being held for murder. If you tell a grand jury about your bondage, we may not need evidence we have to indict him. He doesn’t want us using that evidence. He’s trying to protect someone.”

  “He wants me to mess him up so’s he can protect another girl?”

  Decker nodded.

  “I don’t believe you. That kind of guy don’t do nothing for other people, even girls they say they love.”

  “Tachako, I’m telling you the truth. You testify against him, you’ll make him very happy.”

  “I still don’t believe you.”

  Decker raised his eyebrows. “Fine. Don’t believe me. If I can’t convince you, maybe Whitman can. He’s out on bail. I know he’ll be looking for you.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Wha…what do you want from me?”

  “How about an official statement?”

  Davidson read the two sworn affidavits and said, “Where the hell did these come from?”

  Decker said, “The names of the girls are on the bottom—”

  “That’s not what I meant, Decker. How’d you find these girls?”

  “From Whitman.”

  The lieutenant jerked his head back. “What?”

  “Whitman gave me the names of the hookers.”

  Davidson paused. “You’re telling me the guy is deliberately screwing himself?”

  “He wants a deal.”

  “A deal? What kind of deal? Solicitation instead of Murder One?”

  “He wants to suppress the McLaughlin sketches—”

  Davidson burst into laughter. “He
can’t be serious.”

  “He’s very serious.”

  “Then he’s not only dangerous, he’s delusional. State won’t deal with him. The shit’s got nothing to trade.”

  Decker paused. “McLaughlin’s a nice girl. Why put her through an ordeal if we have other evidence to convict him?”

  The Loo glared at him. “What the fuck happened to you? You didn’t promise him or her anything, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You know, Decker, even if I was psychotic and agreed to the possibility of a deal, State would never take hookers’ testimony in exchange for those sketches we found at his apartment. We need those drawings to make a definite case.”

  Decker smoothed his mustache. “I know.”

  Davidson grinned. “You sly bastard.” He hit Decker’s arm in camaraderie. “You weren’t really thinking exchange. You were just trying to squeeze him, weren’t you?”

  Decker paused. “I was just trying to see what I could do. Like I said, McLaughlin’s a nice girl.”

  “Not that nice.”

  “She made a mistake. So have I.”

  Davidson said, “I’ve lived with my mistakes, let her live with hers. At least you should be convinced the fucker’s guilty.”

  “Loo, I can’t help but ask why this piece of shit is screwing himself up to protect this girl.”

  “He knows he did it,” Davidson said. “He knows he’s going down for it. He knows he’s fucked. You said he liked this girl. Maybe he don’t want to take her down with him.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Definitely.” Davidson gave Decker back the hookers’ sworn statements. “Give those to the State. More evidence against Whitman, the better. From your perspective, Diggs is done, you can move on.”

  Decker said, “I’d like to check out a few more things—”

  “Waste of time. Let it go, Sergeant. If you don’t, you’re gonna screw yourself.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Not ominous.” Tug raised his head and gave him a mean smile. “Just a friendly word of advice.”

  28

  Another bad night’s sleep coupled with a nagging piece of evidence brought Decker into work around seven. He had sneaked out of the house before Rina had arisen. He hadn’t wanted to deal with another one of her lectures. Especially because he knew she was right. His first appointment was a court case at ten.

  He glanced around.

  Davidson hadn’t checked in yet. Decker took out his notebook and pulled out the Diggs file, sorting through the now familiar pages with practiced speed. Within moments, he found what he was looking for. He clicked a ballpoint pen and copied down the phone numbers of the three identified black males who had been in the Grenada West End the night of the murder. He also took out Whitman’s sketch of Henry Trupp and copied down the night clerk’s address and phone number.

  Scott Oliver got off the horn and managed to get his body upright. He trudged over to Decker’s desk, his feet shuffling against the linoleum floor. “Tell me you had a fight with your young lady. Make me feel better.”

  “Leave me alone, Scotty,” Decker barked. “I’m not in the mood.”

  Immediately Oliver backed off. “What are you working on, Rabbi?”

  “Diggs. I can’t shake those unaccounted-for pubic hairs. I’ve got to know where they came from.”

  “Maybe they came from Whitman,” Oliver said. “Maybe he screwed a black female before he got to Cheryl and transferred them onto her.”

  “They’re male hairs.”

  “He was dead drunk. Who said the black had to be female? Why don’t you ask him about it right now? He’s waiting for you.”

  “Whitman’s here? Christ, what the hell does he want?”

  “Maybe mercy from his arresting officer.” Oliver clasped his hands. “‘Please don’t fry me. I’m so young and have so much to offer. I’m a musician, I’m an artist, and I’m an expert in knot tying.’”

  Decker rolled his eyes. “Why me?”

  “It’s in the script,” Oliver said. “Kid’s out by the front desk.”

  Decker plopped his hands on his desktop and pushed himself up. He went through the secretary’s office, passing the assignment board. Yes, it was true. Marge was still on vacation. He thought of her tanning in Hawaii, feeling a twinge of envy. Then he remembered he never tanned anyway, only burned, UV rays being the bane of a redhead’s existence. Plus, Decker hated sand, which always settled in his crotch. Furthermore, he detested poi and papaya.

  He came into the front station. Officers Gerrard and Belding were manning the desk today. They peeked at Whitman, then gave Decker an inquiring look. Decker returned their silent questions with a shrug.

  Whitman had parked himself next to the candy machine. He wore a starched white shirt tucked into black jeans, a black wool blazer, and black leather high-tops. His posture seemed tense, his eyes were unreadable. He stood when he saw Decker, but remained fixed to the spot. Decker loped over to him, looked him in the eye.

  “What’s up, Chris?”

  Whitman maintained eye contact. “I thought we had a deal. A trade—evidence for evidence.”

  “News to me.”

  Whitman’s eyes went dead. “I talked to the girls last night. They told me they talked to you.” He lowered his voice until he was whispering. “They said they told you everything. From the blow-jobs to the binds. You know they’re telling the truth. Because you got to them before I did.”

  Decker said nothing.

  Whitman said, “You’ve got sworn statements, Decker. Their testimonies are far more damaging to me than a couple of stupid sketches. I came through. Now you do the right thing, Decker, and let her go.”

  “It’s not up to me, Chris.”

  “That’s bullshit!” Whitman blurted out.

  Gerrard and Belding picked up their heads. Belding said loudly, “Everything okay, Sergeant?”

  “We’re fine.” To Whitman, Decker whispered, “You’re cruising for a bruising, son. Keep your temper in check.”

  Whitman opened and closed his eyes. “Are you telling me that your input has no influence on how the State handles this case?”

  “Whitman, the sketches have already been entered as material evidence—”

  “So unenter them, dammit!”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  Whitman clenched his jaw and made tight fists with his long fingers. “Why does the State need drawings when they have more incriminating statements?”

  “Statements made by hookers—”

  “Sworn statement by hookers.” A desperation rose in the kid’s voice. “You know they’re telling it true. You got to them before I did. You got good shit against me without the drawings. Why bring Terry down when you don’t need her?”

  “The State needs the sketches, Chris.”

  “Aw, c’mon!” Whitman did a half turn and swung back. “You can’t actually believe that crock of shit?!”

  “You never heard that a picture’s worth a thousand words?”

  Whitman glared at Decker, nostrils flaring, blood vessels pulsating in his neck. “You met her. I can’t believe you’re gonna waste her just like that.”

  Decker was quiet. His silence only increased Whitman’s frustration. “You’re washing your hands in her blood. You feel good about that?”

  Decker’s eyes bored into the teen. “Chris, you’re arched like a cornered cat. Go take a walk and blow off steam.”

  Whitman threw back his head and stared at the ceiling. Then he flashed Decker an eerie smile. “Man, I don’t know what I was thinking when I gave you those names.”

  “Get a grip on it, kid. Take a walk now!”

  And even though Decker had anticipated it, even though he saw it coming, Whitman was still too fast. The best Decker could do was take a giant hop backward so the punch failed to make full contact. But there was enough impact in the solar plexus and Decker doubled over. He gasped for air and told himself that if he breat
hed normally, the sparkling mobile of stars and tweeting birds behind his eyes would go away.

  By the time he recovered his vision, Decker could make out Whitman subdued on the floor, his hands behind his back, a pile of uniformed and plainclothes officers cuffing and clamping him. Watching the melee put on by LAPD were the civilians—a Latina with a tattooed arm holding a drooling baby, two acned, overweight, busty biker ladies wearing bustiers and torn jeans, and lastly, two teenagers, one black and pregnant in cutoff shorts and Rastafarian curls, the other white and very pregnant in cutoff shorts and Rastafarian curls.

  Decker was not only surprised he could speak but also shocked that his voice could carry. “Let him go,” he shouted.

  The officers looked up in amazement.

  Decker stood up straight. Man, it hurt bad. “Get off of him,” he ordered. “I can handle the bastard myself.”

  Nobody moved.

  “Get off of him!”

  Slowly, layers of blue began to peel off and Whitman came into view. When there was enough clearance, Decker went in, grabbed the kid’s jacket, and jerked him to his feet. One ankle was dangling chains, the other ankle was metal-free.

  Decker said, “Who has the keys to the leg press?” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The sharp, jabbing sensation had turned dull and throbbing. “Take the chains off his feet, but keep the handcuffs on.”

  As soon as Whitman’s ankles were liberated, Decker twisted Whitman’s collar, dragged him into the squad room, then threw him inside one of the interview rooms, banging the kid against the wall.

  “Sit!” he commanded, slamming the door.

  Whitman obeyed.

  “Well, that was real smart, Chris. Now you’re in a heap of shit.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” Decker paced as he spoke. “You think an apology’s going to prevent me from hauling your sorry ass into jail? You think an apology is going to sit well with your bondsman? Or with your uncle after he just forfeited fifty grand worth of bail money? Let me tell you something, Whitman. Sorry doesn’t cut it. I thought you were smart. I thought you were clever. Now I realize I’m dealing with a garden variety dumbshit.”