by Justice
“You’re not Chris’s lawyer.”
“Suppose I can get a release from Chris that allows me to look at his files.”
“But of course he wouldn’t do that,” Decker said. “Because he’d be real mad if he knew you were here.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” She sat back in her chair. “He wouldn’t permit it.”
Decker thought a moment. Perhaps the girl did come in on her own.
Terry said, “Then I guess I’m going to have to look into the case on my own.”
“Be my guest.”
“Because I think there’s a person out there who got away with murder.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Can’t say that it does.”
“You think Chris killed Cheryl.”
“Yes.”
She looked pained, but she didn’t stop. “Any hints on how I should start an investigation?”
Decker sat up. “Terry, enough.”
“Do I just start asking people questions or what?”
Decker reminded himself to be patient. “Terry, we’ve had this conversation before. You put your nose where it doesn’t belong, you get people mad. If you’re really hell-bent on retribution for your boyfriend, hire a private detective. I’ll even cooperate with him, how about that?”
“I can’t afford a private detective.”
“So approach Donatti. The man has some powerful connections.”
“Chris would be furious if he found out I went behind his back. Sergeant, please help me out!”
“Terry, I’m not Whitman’s advocate. I’m his adversary.”
“But we’re all on the same side, aren’t we? The side of truth and justice.”
“You forgot the American Way.”
“I’m being serious!”
Again her eyes had turned moist—bright and shiny like rain-slicked stones. Decker said, “Terry, I know you’re hurting. And I feel bad for you. But I can’t help you.”
She wiped tears away from her cheek and nodded. “I know. It’s my problem.”
Decker said, “If Chris really told you to let the case ride, listen to him. It’s good advice.”
She nodded, but wasn’t hearing him. She said, “Every case starts from square one. So I’ll start from square one. Besides, I know all the people involved…I’ll just ask around.”
Decker’s expression remained flat, but inside he was steeped in frustration. “It would not be a good idea for you to poke around. If you respect my opinion, now’s a great time to start showing it.”
Terry sighed. “Sergeant, did you have any other leads before you arrested Chris?”
“No,” Decker lied.
“So it was always Chris?”
“Yes.”
“Did you interview all of his friends?”
“Yes.”
“How about all the hotel personnel?”
“Yes,” Decker fibbed.
“Each and every person who was at the hotel?”
“Are you casting aspersions on my thoroughness?” Decker said, smiling.
“Oh, no, not at all. I’m…” She stopped, saw the look in Decker’s eyes, and smiled. “I’ll just start from square one.”
Decker rubbed his mustache. “You’re wearing me down.”
“That’s the idea.”
Decker stared at her. “Why do you care so much, Terry? He wasn’t even your boyfriend in high school. What happened?”
She looked down. “You’re thinking that Chris found a real sucker in me.”
That’s exactly what Decker was thinking. But there was more to it. He said, “Chris is bright. Why did he need a tutor in the first place?”
“It was a ploy…a way to get to me since we didn’t hang out in the same groups.”
“Ah…” Decker said. “That sounds like the Chris Whitman I know.”
“But I don’t think the extra push I gave him hurt. Because he missed a lot of school.”
Without thinking, Decker took out a notepad. “How so?”
“He traveled a lot, did a lot of gigs…playing with orchestras, ensembles…sometimes even solo work.”
“There’s a national shortage of cello players?”
“A shortage of players of his caliber.”
Decker said, “So he missed a lot of school.”
Terry nodded. “One minute he’d be totally caught up. Then he’d miss a week or two and fall behind.”
“How often did he play gigs?”
“I think he had…maybe two gigs during the time I was tutoring him. Why do you ask?”
“Just trying to get some background.”
Her eyes brightened. “You’re going to help me?”
“I didn’t say that,” Decker backtracked. “While you tutored Chris, did you two talk about other things?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did he ever talk about his family?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did he ever mention doing work for his uncle?”
“Just the opposite. He made a point of telling me he had nothing to do with his uncle’s activities.”
“And you believed him?”
“At that time, I had no reason to doubt him.”
“How about Cheryl?” Decker scribbled. “Did you talk about her?”
“I brought her up once or twice. He said she was no big deal. They went together because it was easy.”
“Easy?”
“She was promiscuous. That kind of easy.”
“And you accepted that?”
She sighed. “Sounds crazy but yes, I did. He was engaged to someone else. He felt it was better not to even start.”
“Looks like you’ve both changed your minds.”
She smiled but it was a weak one.
Decker knew he was mining old fields. Still, a pinprick nagged his brain. Something Terry had told him the first time he interviewed her. About prom night.
We talked about running away together.
Why would Whitman kill Cheryl when he was planning to run away with the girl he truly loved. And he did love her. Guy was scum, but he went to the hole for her.
And then there were those African-American pubic hairs….
But was Decker curious enough to pursue it? Whitman was a cold mother. Why should Decker care if the kid rotted in jail? Then Decker realized something. He didn’t care about Whitman. But he did care a great deal about the process.
He said, “I’m going to cut you a deal, Terry—”
“You’re kidding!”
“If for no other reason than to get you off my back. Promise me you won’t do any homespun investigating, and I’ll reread the Diggs files. If something pops out at me, I’ll look into it—quietly and discreetly.”
“And if nothing pops out?”
“You drop the whole thing.”
“Will you let me know if you find out something?”
“No. You’ll just have to trust me on this one.”
“You won’t even keep me updated?”
“Probably not. That’s what quietly and discreetly means.”
“So I have to sit back and wait? I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Yes or no, Terry. I’m getting tired.”
“Yes.”
“Great.” Decker stood. “I’ll walk you out.”
“What about—”
“Gosh, it’s so noisy in this room. Can’t hear a blessed thing.” He took her elbow and prodded her upward. Then he led her out the door into the front reception area. “Good-bye.”
“Can I call you?”
“No.”
But Decker knew she would anyway. The teen was a very beautiful girl. And a smart one, too. But she was a pest. Like a fly, she seemed attracted to garbage.
34
“I’m going to be working late,” Decker said. “But I’ll be here. So call if you need anything.”
“A new case?” Rina asked.
“No. Just tying up loose end
s. If tonight’s not good, I can do it tomorrow night.”
“No, tonight’s fine. Maybe I’ll ask the boys to pitch in with some baby-sitting. I’d like to go over to the yeshiva and catch one of the Rebbitzin’s shiurim.”
“What’s the Rebbitzin lecturing about?”
“Shyalahs and Tchuvahs—questions and answers. She’s a good speaker.”
“When’s the lecture?”
“She usually starts around eight.”
“You know what, Rina? I’ll meet you there. If the lecture isn’t over, I’ll learn in the study hall. Then maybe we can go for a ride afterward…get some ice cream.”
There was silence over the line. Then Rina said, “A ride? And ice cream?”
“I’ll bring the Porsche. I’ll even put the top down.”
“Just the two of us? With the top down?”
“Yes. Can your heart handle the excitement?”
“I don’t know. This is an untested event.”
Decker laughed. It had been awhile since they’d stolen some quality time together. He didn’t count the times his insomnia had brought her to the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning. “Love you, kid.”
“Are you all right, Peter?”
“I’m great. My business shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. Old stuff. So I’ll see you soon.”
“You promise?” Rina quickly added, “No, don’t promise me anything.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“You don’t trust me, huh?”
“Of course I trust you.” Rina paused. “It’s your job I don’t trust. A truly seductive mistress.”
Decker was quiet. “That’s an odd way of looking at my work.”
Rina said nothing. “You’ll be home in an hour?”
“Of course.” Decker was peeved. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
She hung up. Tension in the air. Screw it. He’d handle it later. He was good at handling things.
Just an hour, though the case didn’t deserve even that much. He opened the folder and scanned the pages for an overview, refamiliarizing himself with the facts, the figures, and the autopsy report. All the lab tests had been completed. The semen inside Diggs hadn’t matched Whitman’s. As far as the fetus Cheryl had been carrying…no one had ever tested Whitman to see if he had been the father, hadn’t been necessary since Whitman had confessed.
Back-to-basics time. Decker fished out his old checklist. First name on the roster was Henry Trupp—the night hotel clerk. A handwritten scrawl in the margin that Decker had called the house three times, but Trupp hadn’t answered.
He dialed the number. After two rings, he was told the line had been disconnected and there was no new listing. He hung up, asked directory assistance for a new number. But there wasn’t any listing—not anywhere in the Valley.
Decker tried the city directory. No luck there. Aloud he sang, “Oh where, oh where has Henry Trupp gone?”
He rang up the Grenada West End, and spoke to a desk clerk named Caroline. First identifying himself, Decker then asked for Trupp. His request was followed by one of those pregnant pauses.
Caroline said, “Excuse me, Sergeant, I’m going to transfer your call to my supervisor.”
Decker said, “Is there some sort of problem?”
But she had already pressed a button, sending him into the great electronic void. Another voice came through the receiver—Joe, the supervisor.
Decker said, “I’m trying to find an employee…or maybe a former employee of the hotel—Henry Trupp. He used to work the night desk at this location.”
Joe was suspicious. “What is this about, sir?”
“Just want to talk to the man, that’s all. Do you have his current phone number?”
“Sergeant, Mr. Trupp is…deceased.”
Decker sat up. “He’s dead?”
“Yes, sir. About two months ago.”
“What happened?”
“We’ve already made our statements to the police, sir.”
Statements to the police? Decker said, “Trupp was murdered, Joe?”
“Sergeant, if you are who you say you are, you should know all this. If you have any questions, contact the hotel attorneys.”
The phone disconnected. Decker’s mind was reeling. Two months ago. That would have put it around the time of the Diggs murder. It was obvious that Trupp hadn’t been whacked at the hotel. Otherwise, Devonshire would have fielded the call. He looked down at his notes. Trupp’s former address was on Sepulveda near Roscoe.
Decker called up the Van Nuys Substation, asking for Detectives. A CAPS dee named Bert Martinez answered the line. Briefly, Decker told the man who he was and what he wanted.
A hesitation over the phone. Martinez said, “I’m missing something here. I thought the Diggs case was closed. As I understood, it was a mob case.”
“Not exactly. The kid who confessed had Mafia connections. And yes, the case is closed officially, but—”
“So what do you want with Trupp?”
“Just wanted to go over a few minor things. Was the case solved?”
“Unfortunately no,” Martinez said. “It’s my case and it’s still wide open.”
“CAPS is picking up homicides?”
“No. I used to be in Homicide. Funny how that works.”
Decker hesitated. The man was sitting on some holy anger. “What can you tell me about Trupp?”
Martinez said, “Why exactly do you want to know?”
Decker said, “I’m sensing reluctance, Martinez. What am I doing to make you squirrely?”
Slowly Martinez said, “It’s just weird to find the principal homicide detective in a major case reopening his own investigation after it’s been solved.”
“I’m not reopening anything,” Decker said.
“So what are you doing?”
“Tying up some loose ends.”
“What’s really going on, Decker? You doing Cosa Nostra a favor or something?”
Instantly, Decker felt ire well up inside, but kept it in check. Martinez was making sense. Decker said, “I’m at Devonshire. Give me twenty minutes, I’ll meet you at Van Nuys, all right?”
“You’ll meet me here? At the station house?”
“You’ve got something else in mind?”
“I’m hungry. There’s a coffee shop a couple of blocks from here.” He gave Decker the address. “Twenty minutes?”
“Make it thirty.” Decker felt his stomach tighten, his words mocking him. Just an hour. “I’ve got to call my wife. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”
The place was so old, it was a wonder it hadn’t come tumbling down in the ’94 earthquake. It held a half-dozen booths and a Formica lunch counter hosting ten swivel stools. The vinyl used to fabricate the booths and stool tops must have been brown at one time, but now it was so faded and cracked, it looked like beef jerky. The floor was washed-out linoleum, something between an ivory and gray. Decker trod carefully, grateful that his shoes didn’t stick to the tiles as he walked over to someone he assumed was Martinez.
The guy was stocky, his complexion mocha-colored, a dense, black mustache providing an awning for a thick upper lip. He had black hair and coffee-bean eyes, and wore a white shirt loosened at the neck, a thin, out-of-date paisley tie, and a pair of gray slacks. He was eating a bowl of soup, dipping a French baguette into the tomato-based liquid. He looked up at Decker. “Have a seat.”
Decker sat.
The men shook hands. A waitress came up, automatically poured Decker a cup of coffee. She asked if he wanted anything to eat, but Decker shook his head. After she left, Decker said, “I didn’t appreciate your comment.”
Martinez gobbled up half of his soggy roll. “So tell me why you’re opening the case.”
“Long story short? I was never happy about the way the investigation was handled.”
“Why weren’t you happy if you handled it?”
“It was a
big case. Lots of people involved. My superior and I had differences of opinion. You might guess who won out.”
“You got your conviction. What’s the problem?”
“No problem,” Decker said. “I just don’t like being told how to do my work. But sometimes it’s unavoidable. The Diggs case was one of those times. Now that it’s over, I want to satisfy myself that I did everything right.”
“Your caseload’s that light that you got time for Monday morning quarterbacking?”
Slowly Decker appraised the detective. “Martinez, I take shit from the upper brass, I ain’t gonna take it from you. I’m not in bed with anyone. I’m working for my own personal reasons. You doubt my motives, I can live with that. Bottom line—are you going to help me out or not?”
Martinez looked up from his soup. “You’re not going to eat anything?”
Decker sat back in his chair. “You’ve got an agenda here, Bert. Fill me in.”
The waitress came over again, took Martinez’s empty soup bowl and placed in front of him a roast beef dip and a plate of fries. Decker felt his mouth begin to water.
Martinez said, “Give the man the same, Mimi.”
“No, no, no,” Decker said. “Nothing…well, maybe a scoop of cottage cheese.”
“Sugar, I’ve seen them all.” Mimi winked at Decker. “Believe me, you don’t need to diet.”
“Thank you. But cottage cheese is fine.”
“Want me to throw some fruit on it for you, sugar?”
“What do you have?”
“Lots of melon balls. I’ll throw some on for free.”
“Fine.”
Mimi left. Martinez said, “I think she likes you. She’s never offered me free balls.”
Decker said, “Speak to me, Detective.”
Martinez took in a mouthful of roast beef. “’Bout two months ago—when I was still in Homicide—I caught a two A.M. call…a Saturday night special.” He swallowed and took another bite. “Some geezer was found dead in the parking lot of the Chopperhouse. Are you familiar with the place?”
“No. Sounds like a biker bar.”
“An ex-con, biker bar…which is probably a redundancy. It’s about six blocks from the station house, which makes our job easy. From the bar, they go to the joint. Released from the joint, they go back to the bar. It’s quite a scene. Shitkicking scumbags on heavy metal transportation and girls with big knockers wearing leather vests.”