by Justice
“Listen to me, Chris,” Decker said. “I know what’s going on. So that explains a lot of your behavior to me. I know you’re engaged to a girl who’s fat, ugly, and stupid. Right now, you’re in a hellhole. But you’re willing to put up with it because you get time with the girl you love. How long do you think that’s going to last?”
Whitman’s eyes sparked fury.
“I know you love her, Chris,” Decker went on. “Terry’s beautiful. She’s beautiful and smart, and truly, she loves you, too. But she’s also one very young puppy, guy. She jumped into your arms because you’re a strong, good-looking dude who gave her a shoulder to cry on. How long before she finds another strong, good-looking guy who’ll give her another shoulder to cry on. Some college stud who won’t be locked up in this pisshole—”
Whitman threw his cigarette at Decker’s face. “Get the fuck outta here!”
The lit end stung Decker’s face; then the butt fell to the floor. Calmly, Decker wiped the hot spot on his cheek and crushed out the smoke. He lit another cigarette and placed it between Whitman’s lips.
“Son, she’s good for about a year. Then she’s going to start missing visits. So where will that leave you? And before you open your mouth to cuss me out, just think about what I’m saying. Because by talking to me, you may be helping yourself.”
Staring at the wall, Whitman said, “She meet someone new, Decker? Don’t shit me.”
“Whitman, your girl is head over heels in love with you and that’s no lie. But the future is a queer bird, know what I’m saying?”
“You’re sounding like my uncle.” Whitman sucked on his smoke. “He buy you or something?”
“No.”
“Then what’s all this to you? You hate my guts.”
Decker didn’t answer.
“I don’t get it,” Whitman said. “What do you want?”
“Tell me about the men in Cheryl’s life.”
A long pause. Then Whitman said, “I’m sure Cheryl didn’t tell me everything. I don’t even know why she told me anything. I didn’t give a damn.”
“Maybe that’s why she told you.”
“To make me jealous?” He shrugged. “Didn’t work. I didn’t care what she did. Too busy stalking Terry.”
“Stalking Terry?”
Whitman’s eyes were far away. “After she blew me off, she started dating this…nerd. But I could tell she liked him.” His breathing became rapid. “Outside I was pure cool…” Short breaths. “But inside…in my brain…I was slipping…on the cliff’s edge with sweaty hands…started thinking up plots of revenge. First it was killing him…then it was kidnapping her…keeping her in a basement…like in the book The Collector. John Fowles. You ever read it?”
Decker nodded.
“I could have done it, you know. I’m real good at hiding things.” Whitman smoked down to the butt, then he crushed it with his shoe. “Got another one?”
Decker gave him another cigarette.
Whitman took it, blowing hard, leaning back and staring at the ceiling through a carcinogenic cloud. “You know why I didn’t do it? Because I know the difference between having monstrous thoughts and being a monster. It’s the difference between me and my uncle.”
He was absorbed in his nightmare, but Decker steered him back to the present. “Cheryl’s partners, Chris.”
Whitman clucked his tongue. “I know she was having an affair with one of the teachers at the school—Tim Gobles. He was head of the prom committee. Big surprise when she made prom queen.”
Decker flipped out his notepad and started writing rapidly. “Go on.”
“I know she did everyone in the group at one time or another.”
“The group being…”
“Steve, Tom…Steve Anderson, Tom Baylor, Blake Adonetti. But I know she did other guys at school, too. She liked sex. Simple as that. She was pretty good at first. Then she got real stale real quick. I think that’s why she started bartering for sex. Something different. Added a little thrill.”
“Trupp?”
“Yeah, Trupp. In exchange for rooms whenever her mom or one of her mom’s boyfriends kicked her out. She did Gobles to get the queen title and for an A in his class. She did this grocer for food…anyone who had something that she needed. Mostly old guys. She liked their…desperation.”
“Any other men?”
Whitman looked up at Decker and smiled. No longer toothpaste perfect. His two front teeth had been chipped and stained yellow from coffee and tobacco smoke. “She told me she’d done a cop.”
Decker managed to keep his face flat. “You have a name?”
“Never said. Just that he was an old fart.”
“You think she was blowing smoke?”
“Could be. Who knows?”
“Guy married?”
“According to her, yes.”
“Say anything else about him?”
“Nope…not really.”
“Did he have children?”
Whitman shrugged.
“White guy?”
“I would assume. Cheryl didn’t have much fondness for the brothers. Used to call them monkey dogs.”
Decker hesitated just a moment. “Why the antipathy?”
“I guess she was a bigot. She certainly didn’t have any real experience with blacks. Somehow…I don’t remember how…she found out I did a black whore. After that, she made me wash myself off with alcohol before she’d have sex with me. As if being black was like AIDS. You could get it from intercourse. God, that girl was stupid!”
“You see any blacks the evening of the prom?”
Whitman shrugged. “Sure. School has about a dozen black seniors. Everyone was at the prom.”
“How about at the hotel?”
“Don’t remember. Why are you asking me questions about blacks?”
“Did you see any blacks at the hotel?”
“Let me think…” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Anyone from the hotel come up to Cheryl’s room that night?”
“What do you mean? Like Trupp?”
“Did Trupp come up to Cheryl’s room?”
“Not when I was there. Too busy watching the boob tube in the back room.”
“Did anyone else come into Cheryl’s room?”
“Just the gang.”
“Besides the gang. Someone from security? Maybe a maid came in to turn down the sheets?”
“Not in that place. They don’t even have real room service. You want something, you call up their seedy coffee shop and some stoned-out dude—” Whitman looked up. “Shit. I forgot about him.”
“Who?”
“After I was done with Cheryl, I called the hotel coffee shop and ordered up some coffee. So damn drunk I had to get something into my stomach. Guy who brought it was black…light-skinned but definitely black.”
Decker remained calm. “Did the server come into your room.”
“No,” Whitman said. “Cheryl was zoned out and I didn’t see the point of letting anyone see her like that. I told him to put the coffeepot down in the hallway and leave.”
“So how do you know the server was black?”
“I opened the door to tip him.”
“Then what happened?”
“I drank the coffee and left.”
“And Cheryl?”
“By that time, she was out like a light. I remember thinking she looked dead.” He shrugged. “Maybe she was.”
“Was Cheryl still tied up at that point?”
Whitman blinked hard. “I must have taken off the binds. I wouldn’t have left her up like that.”
“You don’t remember?”
“It’s all real hazy. I was drunk.”
“Describe this man from room service.”
“I only saw him for about two seconds.”
“The best you can.”
“He was…maybe a few years older than me. Light-skinned guy. Brown eyes, kinky hair…big surprise, huh?”
“
Go on.”
He stared at Decker, but seemed to be looking through him. Concentrating on an image that was visible only in his brain. “A mustache…a tuft of hair under his chin. I don’t know what they’re officially called. We call them juice mops.” He continued to gape at nothing. “A couple of like little moles over his eyes…”
“How can you describe a man so clearly, Chris, when you were so drunk you can’t even remember if you untied Cheryl?”
“I’m an artist.” He shrugged. “I’m good with faces.”
Decker paused. “You could draw this guy for me, Chris?”
“Yeah, I could draw him.” Whitman hesitated. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Decker said, “You might as well trust me, Chris. You can’t get much lower than where you are now.”
Whitman ran his hand over his face. “Give me a pencil and paper. I’ll give you the guy. Then kindly get the fuck outta my life.”
38
Decker managed to squeeze in dinner with Rina and the kids before hurrying to meet Bontemps. It was a rushed meal that no one enjoyed, his family listening to his attempts at casual conversation while watching him gulp down food. He knew he needed to slow down, but he couldn’t seem to find the brakes. His stomach was in knots by the time he reached Wilshire Substation. He parked in the back lot and reached the snack bar by a quarter to six. That gave him just enough time to wash down some antacids and Advils with bitter black coffee.
At six, Bontemps walked through the door. She was wearing a camel-colored suit over a loose black blouse and carried a big leather bag over her shoulder. She bought coffee and sat down next to Decker. She looked tired, her eyes telling him anywhere but here.
“Everything okay, Officer?” Decker asked.
Bontemps said, “I’m fine, sir.”
“Okay,” Decker said. “I’ll take you at your word. I had a chance to read Creighton’s files on the Green case. Lots of men were questioned—relatives, neighbors, friends. Deanna didn’t seem to have a boyfriend. Do you know anything different?”
“I don’t recall her having someone special, Sergeant. From what I remember, the parents said she put most of her energies into her studies and lessons.”
“Did she date at all?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Bright attractive girl…” Decker shook his head. “She must have had some sort of social life.” He looked at his notes and moved on. “According to the autopsy report, whoever strangled Deanna broke her windpipe. There was nothing you could have done to save her. The convulsions could have been reflexive. She was gone by the time you came.”
He waited for Bontemps to say something. She didn’t.
Decker said, “Unfortunately, you had to witness her last moments. I’ve seen people die. It’s horrible. Only satisfaction I can offer you is, maybe we can drum up a new lead…find the monster who did it.”
Bontemps looked at Decker, then her eyes went to her coffee cup.
Decker pulled out a sheet of paper and laid it on the table. “Look at this face, Officer, then put it in your bag. If this guy is known to the Greens, just maybe we’ll be a baby step closer to resolution.”
Bontemps eyeballed the paper. “Doesn’t look like a police-artist sketch—too much detail.”
“You’ve got a good eye. Christopher Whitman drew it. He’s an artist. Whitman saw this man at the hotel the night Diggs was murdered. I’m not saying it means anything but maybe it does.”
“What’s preventing him from making someone up?”
“Nothing. But with this much detail, if the face is fictitious, the Greens won’t recognize it as anyone familiar.”
“Unless they happen to know some poor guy who looks like the drawing.”
“Bontemps, the sketch isn’t conclusive. We’ll use it as a possible tool, all right?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.” Quickly, Bontemps checked her watch. Decker caught it.
“Are you pressed for time?”
The woman blushed. “No, sir. I just need to call home before we go. Check to make sure the baby-sitter arrived. My big daughter’s watching my little one.”
Her big daughter? The woman appeared to be in her late twenties. Decker said, “How old is your big daughter?”
“Seventeen.” She started smiling, but held it back. “She’s going to be entering the academy next year.”
Decker studied the woman, trying to find hidden signs of age. He couldn’t. “Congratulations. You must be very proud.”
“More relieved than anything. Can I make my call?”
“Of course.”
In Bontemps’s absence, Decker thought of Cindy. Relief was a biggie in the emotional repertoire of parents with teens. Wanda was back in five minutes. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
Decker finished his coffee. “You know, Bontemps, before we go, I want to clear the air about something. This morning I made an offhand comment about being Jewish. Is that something you have trouble with?”
Slowly, Bontemps answered, “Like you said, sir, we all have our preconceived notions.” She looked at Decker. “I apologize if I offended you.”
At least the woman was honest enough not to fake it. Still Decker was skeptical. “I’ll give you points for being truthful. But we need to have a professional attitude here. You can’t let your notions get in the way.”
“Absolutely. You have my word on that, sir.” Bontemps stowed the picture in her purse. “It’s good you caught me. If I want my dream, I’d better learn to keep it all inside.”
“What’s your dream, Bontemps?”
She kneaded her hands. “Detectives, sir. It’s been my goal from the start. I’m very qualified, Sergeant. Overqualified if I have to say so myself. I’ve been applying for six years. Somehow there’s always a reason why they can’t make it work.”
“Who’s they?”
“The brass.” Bontemps mashed her lips together. “It’s one excuse after another—there’s no opening, there’s been cutbacks, there’re people out there with more seniority…meaning ‘We got our quota of black women so you’re outta luck, sweetheart.’” Abruptly, she stopped talking, looked at Decker. “There I go again. Shooting off.”
Decker stood. “I asked you a question, you answered it. No harm in that. Let’s go.”
Decker drove the Plymouth, Bontemps sat shotgun. A five-minute ride from the substation put them in LaFayette Park, a genteel neighborhood of homes and children squeezed between blighted industrial thoroughfares. Most of the avenues were lined with stately palms that fronted turn-of-the-century Victorian or Craftsman-style houses, the driveways filled with twenty-year-old Caddies and Oldses. Mixed in with the homes were a few fraternity houses. While the University of Southern California wasn’t within walking distance, the area was apparently close enough for some to set up camp.
The Greens lived in a pale-blue, two-story, wood-sided Victorian house loaded with white-painted gingerbread. It held several peaked roofs inset with shuttered dormer windows, parapets, and cornices. The bottom story was symmetrical—a big bay window on either side of an arched doorway crowned with a keystone. The wooden porch held a swing. Four steps down was a roselined walkway that bisected a front bed of impatiens and begonias as well as a newly mowed lawn.
Decker parked the car but didn’t get out. He rolled up the window, then turned to Bontemps. “You’ll have to sneak some glances my way to pick up my cues. I can’t tell you how to do that. It’s an intuitive thing. And nothing confrontational. No good cop, bad cop here, Bontemps. We’re both good cops, okay?”
“I understand, Sergeant. Do you want me to introduce you?”
“No, I’ll handle that. Just try to look like you’re supporting me.”
“I am supporting you.”
Decker wondered about that as he got out of the car. He recognized hostility in his own voice. He was irritated at the woman—for her honesty, for her prejudice. It w
as his own damn fault. What he got from breaking professionalism. He should just have ignored her and moved on.
Then again, how can you deal with notions unless you deal with them? Professionalism was a hard, hard thing. Decker was still plagued with self-doubts. But Rina was right. He couldn’t exactly have argued with Whitman. Maybe he should have argued a little more with Davidson.
They walked up the pathway and climbed the creaky steps. Decker knocked on the front door. The woman who answered appeared to be in her forties, kinky black hair flecked with gray pulled back into a ponytail. Her face was coffee mixed with cream, crow’s-feet webbing from the corners of her dark brown eyes. Her cheekbones were high, her lips full and thick. Her hands were slender, her nails painted natural, the tips painted white. She had on a gray silk pantsuit and a sleeveless white blouse, a metal cross hanging from around her neck. Her feet were housed in sandals.
Decker said, “Mrs. Green? I’m Sergeant Decker. We spoke over the phone.”
The woman appraised him with a cool eye. “Yes. Come in, please.” She offered Decker a smooth hand. “And call me Tony.”
Decker shook her soft hand. She retracted it into the folds of her silk suit and looked at Bontemps. “How are you, Wanda? It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.”
Bontemps appeared to shrink under the woman’s scrutiny. “I’m fine, ma’am, thank you.”
Tony stepped aside, granting permission for Decker and Bontemps to come in.
The room was paneled in walnut, light streaming through the mullioned bay windows in round, dusty beams. The muted-patterned furniture was overstuffed and old—faded fabrics, scarred wood. But at one time, it had been top quality. Heavy and durable, not a rip or a tear in any of the pillows or seams. The room held shelving units and bookcases. The Greens appeared fond of knickknacks. Lots of glass or porcelain objects, not only in the cabinets but also resting on tables and on a vintage upright piano. The wallpaper was heavy and gold-flocked, some texture rubbed from the pattern. No pictures or photographs anywhere. If there ever was a family, it was now as distant as the faded, square spots on the wall.
“My husband just called. He’s going to be a bit late. He told me to start without him.” Tony pointed to the couch. “Do sit. Would you like something to drink? I just made a pitcher of iced tea.”