Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 08

by Justice

  When they got to the curb, Decker’s eyes zeroed in on Stephain’s face. “You are going to let me handle this, right?”

  The young man paused. “You know I could cut through it a lot faster than you.”

  “Stephain, we got a concept in this country called due process. I’ve worked very hard on this case. I want to bring this bastard to justice. Don’t mess me up.”

  The brother looked down, said nothing.

  Decker said, “And while you’re watching your manners, keep a watch on your father for me. Last thing your mom needs is your dad in jail for acting impulsive.”

  “Now that we’re alone,” Bontemps said, “are you still sure that this guy, Kalil, and your sister weren’t—”

  “Yes.”

  Softly, Decker said, “How about your sister and Fatima? Did they have something going?”

  Stephain jerked his head up, but said nothing.

  Decker said, “Like Officer Bontemps said, your parents aren’t here. Tell me about your sister’s relationships.”

  Stephain looked away and said nothing.

  Bontemps said, “If this guy’s involved, it’s going to come out, Stephain. Might as well tell us your side of the story.”

  Stephain sighed, then sighed again. “Deanna…she belonged to this…there was a group of them at school. She probably met Fatima through them…one of her lezbo buddies. Dumb bulldyke bitch.” He looked up, eyes burning with ire. “This kind of shit wouldn’t have happened if she’d had a man to protect her.”

  Bontemps was about to speak, but Decker threw her a look that silenced her. What was the use of quoting statistics? That on average four women a day are killed by exes, husbands, or boyfriends. No, no, no. They weren’t here to debate or educate. They were here to solve a homicide.

  Decker said, “Thanks for your help, Stephain. I really mean that.”

  Stephain gave a weak smile. He started toward the house, then backtracked to Decker. “What was this bullshit you were feeding my parents about ghosts—”

  “Souls.”

  “Whatever. It’s still bullshit.”

  “Not to me.”

  “I can’t tell whether you’re putting me on.” Stephain rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but…but if Deanna contacts you again…if she talks to you in your dreams…you tell her I say hello, okay? Tell her I miss…I really…miss her.”

  Abruptly, Stephain turned around and jogged back into his house. Decker smoothed his mustache, then headed toward the unmarked. There was work to do.

  39

  Decker put on his seat belt and started the Plymouth’s motor. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bontemps twisting her hands. “You did good, Officer. You can relax now.”

  Immediately, Bontemps clasped her fingers together and buried her united fists into her lap. “Thank you, sir.”

  Picking up the mike, Decker called in Kalil Ashala’s name to dispatch, asking for pertinent ID—address, phone number, make and model of his car, and any outstanding wants or warrants. While he waited for a response, he put the car in drive and headed east toward Figueroa. It was dusk. He flicked on the car lights and hoped the night would be a dove rather than a vulture.

  Bontemps said, “Sir, I was…impressed with how you diffused the tension between the Greens.”

  “They never taught you the séance method of anger deescalation in the academy?”

  Bontemps gave him a fleeting smile. “No, sir.”

  “Today it was souls. Tomorrow it may be a Puccini opera aria. Anything that works.” He paused. “Actually, I wasn’t putting them on. The eternal soul is a Jewish concept. Deanna did speak to me, as bizarre as it sounds.”

  He glanced at Bontemps. She was taking it all in. He rolled down the window and caught a solid whiff of heavy grease, onions, and garlic. It smelled unhealthy and satisfyingly good. The air on his cheeks was like a shot of caffeine.

  Bontemps said, “I was too…confrontational with Stephain. I should have handled it better.”

  “Didn’t help that he called you an Aunt Thomasina.”

  “Yeah, but that was afterward. I let my excitement get in the way. It could have turned into something ugly.”

  “It didn’t.”

  “It just made me mad, Stephain being so angry at the world. Couldn’t see past his own rage to help us find his sister’s murderer.”

  “In the end, he came through.”

  “Not before blaming the victim. ‘Wouldn’t have happened if she’d had a man to protect her.’” She shook her head. “Good thing you gave me a look. No sense in telling domestic crime numbers to someone as pigheaded—”

  Abruptly, she stopped talking, the silence filled in by distant horn honks and the chirping of crickets.

  After some thought, Bontemps said, “I guess he’s hurting bad if he’s telling us that he misses her. Feeling guilty that he wasn’t home to protect his sister.”

  “Yeah, he’s hurting, all right.” Decker waited a beat. “Hard to admit that some things are out of your control.” He made a series of turns, heading deep into the inner city. He said, “Well, maybe we’ll get a break in Deanna’s case. That would sure be spiffy.”

  “Sir, exactly what is our status regarding this case?”

  A good question, Decker thought. “I’m not looking to horn in on Wilshire’s case…steal anyone’s collar. But if that happens in the process, I can live with it.”

  “In the process of what?”

  “In the process of solving my case.”

  “I see.”

  Decker hesitated. “No, that’s not entirely true. Initially, I was interested in Green only as it related to Whitman. But Deanna has taken me in. I’d sure like to find the sucker who murdered her.”

  “Are you going to contact Wilshire Homicide?”

  “Now?” He shrugged. “Be better if we had something definite to tell them, don’t you think?”

  Bontemps gave him a conspiratorial nod. “Yes, sir. Definitely.”

  “Our evening is already shot. Why disrupt theirs?”

  “I agree.”

  Dispatch called back. Immediately Bontemps pulled out her notebook, jotting down the data as Decker drove. Ashala had managed a brief but active criminal life—a dozen arrests for felony drug possession, grand theft auto, and burglary. No assaults, rapes, or murders. At least nothing was on the books. The radio transmitting operator gave out Ashala’s address and Decker was on his way.

  Warm summer nights in the ’hood. The sun goes down and people come out for air. The living becomes alfresco as the sidewalk swells. Mothers pushing strollers while their older children run ahead, their steps punctuated with shouts and laughter, hand-holding couples out for strolls, groups of bored teenagers out for trouble. The din of traffic was often drowned out by bass-heavy music coming from car stereos and boom boxes. Old apartment buildings were temporarily emptied of their residents. Lots of lawn parties, lots of drinking—ergo, lots of problems.

  It had been a long time since Decker had worked the inner city. His area, although not without its trouble spots, was considered a plum. Looking at the street life, he felt it was good to see what Bontemps and his other colleagues dealt with day after day. Gave him perspective and maybe more than a hint into the woman’s frustration and anger.

  Decker turned down Ashala’s block. It was poorly lit, an area of single-family bungalows, some of them in sad disrepair but others well preserved—compact and standing proud. The lawns had been baked to yellow straw by the heat, wilting plants craning their stalks upward. Most of the homes held barred windows and fenced yards; behind the barriers were snarling dogs, straining at their leashes. They were called bandogs—tying the animals up all day drove them crazy, made them mean.

  Ashala’s house was somewhere in the middle on the scale of neglect—a fried lawn, a couple of punched-out spots in the wall that once had been overlaid with stucco, a single boarded-up window. It was fenced, the dog who patrolled it a mixed-breed of aroun
d sixty pounds. The front-door grate was closed, but the door it protected was wide open. Decker could see flickering colored movement from a TV screen. He parked the car, rolled up the windows, then took out his Beretta, readjusting his shoulder harness so his gun would be in easy reach.

  “Don’t know how much it will actually help if they start raining down on us,” Decker said. “But it makes me feel better.”

  Bontemps opened her purse and pulled out her service revolver. “I didn’t bring my belt.”

  “I’ve got a war kit in the trunk.”

  “How are we going to get past the dog?”

  Decker opened the glove compartment and removed a small plastic Baggie and a leash. He sniffed the contents of the bag and made a face. “Dried liver—better known as canine pâté. My setter loves it.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “We have Mace. Twilight is on our side. We won’t be as visible. Let’s go.”

  They got out of the car, Decker popping the trunk to retrieve the utility belt for Bontemps. As they approached the house, the dog leaped at the fence, greeting them with a hostile bark. Decker dangled the treat in front of the dog’s snout, then threw it up and over the wrought-iron pickets. The dog caught it airborne. Softly, Decker called the dog over, holding out another liver treat. The animal stopped barking and trotted over to investigate.

  “Hey, there…” Decker looked at the dog’s rear end. “…girl. Are you a good girl or what?”

  The dog stuck her snout out through the bars.

  “Yeah, you’re a nice girl.” Decker held out the desiccated liver. “Kinda ribby, too. Bet they don’t feed you too much.” The dog continued to sniff vigorously, then let out a bark. Slowly, Decker stuck his hands through the bar, feeding her while feeling for her collar. Finding it, he quickly snapped on the leash and gave her another treat. Then he tied the leash to the fence, reinforcing her cooperative behavior with more treats. Decker got up from his crouch and spewed the treats over a two-foot-long diameter.

  “That should keep her busy for a while. A well-trained guard dog would never accept food from a stranger. Nice that someone got lazy. Let’s go.”

  Decker unlatched the gate. Bontemps stowed her canister of Mace, resting her hand on the butt of her gun. It felt weird, wearing silk cinched by a utility belt. Maybe she’d make a new fashion statement. The sophisticated garb of urban living.

  They went to the front door, peered through the metal grate. The living room appeared empty.

  They knocked. A moment later, a porch light came on. A woman wearing shorts and a bikini top appeared behind the grate.

  “Police,” Decker said, presenting his ID. “Can you open the door, please?”

  “Depens on whatchu want.”

  Bontemps stepped in. “Girl, open the door and quit buying trouble.”

  “I’m not buyin’ nothin’. Last time you come in here, you tear the place apart. Take me five days to clean up the mess.”

  “No one’s going to tear up the place,” Decker said.

  From behind the grate, a male voice said, “Who is it, Mama?”

  “Police.”

  An ominous scurry of movement. Decker said, “I’ll take the back door. Call for backup now!”

  He raced around the rear of the bungalow just in time to see a figure jump over the bushes into the next-door neighbor’s yard. Without thinking, he followed, cursing his age, catching a glimpse of the runner, who was scaling a fence. Before Decker could scream out “Police,” a staccato burst of fire suddenly flew his way. He hit the ground and swore, the bullets whizzing past him as he reached for his Beretta. When Decker looked up again, the sprinter was at the top of the fence, face shining in the moonlight, eyes peering down on him. The mother had a semiautomatic aimed at Decker’s heart. It spit molten lead as Decker rolled furiously for cover. He managed to fire a round in return.

  A moment later, the sprinter was gone.

  Decker didn’t move. In the distance, he heard screaming sirens. He looked around, saw Bontemps falling into the neighbor’s brush, cursing like a sailor.

  “You okay?” she shouted when she landed.

  “Fine.”

  “I heard shots.”

  “Yep.” Decker got up. “Lost the fucker but I got a good look at his face.”

  “Is it—”

  “Let’s go meet backup.”

  They both started to run.

  Bontemps’s gait was unsteady. “Goddamn shoes!” She swore as she limp-sprinted. “I broke a heel. Last time I dress up for any assignment. I requested a canine unit, by the way.”

  “Good.”

  Within minutes, six black-and-whites were at the scene, a dozen uniforms spread out down the block. A low-flying helicopter chopped up the sky. The air became saturated with the sounds of motors and deep barking—police dogs on the hunt.

  Decker returned to Ashala’s house, stationing himself on the front porch, absorbing abuse from the woman who had answered the door. She hurled one obscenity after another, finally ending her complaint with a wad of spit directed at Bontemps.

  “That’s it!” Decker turned her to the wall. “Hands up now! You’re under arrest for assault upon a police officer.”

  “Whachu say—”

  “You have the right to remain—”

  “I didn’t touch no one—”

  “Spitting is an assault.”

  Before the woman could resist, Decker had clamped on the cuffs. The woman let out a streak of swearwords, kicking and cursing adding to the soundtrack of barking dogs, rotary blades, police sirens, angry shouts, curses, and rap music. The commotion was gathering too much momentum. Neighbors were pouring out for a better look. Hostile epithets were thrown in their direction.

  Decker ignored the crowd, hoping they would stay put. But the woman’s shouts and screams were a magnet for problems. Several men took steps forward, crossing the street. Bontemps took a step forward herself, ordering them back. The woman continued to flail about and yell. Decker tightened his grip on her, then discreetly leaned in close, whispering several sentences in her ear.

  Immediately she went slack. She stared at Decker and he nodded. Bontemps looked at him quizzically, but Decker kept his face flat. He turned to the handcuffed woman and said, “Was that your son, ma’am?”

  The woman shrugged. “Mebbe. What’s it worth?”

  Decker said, “Why’d he take off like that?”

  Before she could answer, the air came alive with thunderous roars that echoed down the block. Decker and Bontemps exchanged looks.

  “The dogs,” Bontemps said. “They got him?”

  “Sure sounds like it.”

  A few minutes passed, then two panting uniformed officers returned to Ashala’s house. One was black, the other was white. The white one said, “What are you doing here, Bontemps?”

  “Helping me out,” Decker said. “You find him?”

  “We got someone,” the black man said. “Do you want to take a look, sir?”

  “Did you get his gun?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I’ll take a look.” He threw Bontemps the keys to the Plymouth. “In the trunk of the car are evidence bags, plastic gloves, and a flashlight. Go back to the spot where the assailant fired at me, try to retrieve the bullets, then call it in to Ballistics.” To the officers he said, “Take my friend here down to the station house.” Happily, he transferred his prisoner. “I’ll deal with her in a little while.”

  “Remember whachu tole me,” she shouted out.

  “I never lie,” Decker said back.

  As the uniformed duo escorted the woman to a cruiser, Bontemps turned to Decker. “What did you say to get her to cooperate, sir?”

  “Nothing much.” Another pair of uniforms were walking toward them. Decker said, “Ah, my escorts. Go get some evidence, Bontemps.”

  Wanda didn’t move.

  Decker smiled. “I told her that if she behaved herself, there was money in it. What’s a h
undred bucks to the department if it prevents a scene? Get to work.”

  “She gets a C-note and I’m doing this for nothing?”

  “Life isn’t fair. But to show you what a sport I am, I’ll pay for your broken heel.”

  “I’d rather have the hundred bucks.”

  Decker laughed. “You came through for me, Officer. Thank you.”

  Bontemps licked her lips. “You’re welcome, sir.” She paused. “The man, sir. Was it Kalil Ashala?”

  “I believe so.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  Decker said, “The bullets, Bontemps?”

  “Right away.” She raced toward the next-door neighbor’s backyard, limping as she galloped.

  Decker jogged toward the waiting officers. A moment later, he was whisked down the block in a cruiser. An agitated but restrained man was lying spread-eagle on the ground. Surrounding him, but not touching him, were a team of at least a dozen police officers, two German shepherds, and one oversized, snarling male rottweiler.

  Decker made the ID.

  40

  Decker had originally planned to jail Ashala until the search warrant came through for the house. Since he knew what evidence he needed, he wanted to comb the place before taking a crack at Kalil. But right now the fleeing felon seemed excessively chatty. Not one to waste an opportunity, Decker booked him, then placed him in a four-by-six interview room. Since Ashala had waived his rights to an attorney, it was just the two of them in a cubicle about as big as a gym locker. Smelled like one, too. As Decker studied Ashala, he realized what a good artist Whitman was. The same high cheekbones and upward-slanting eyes almost giving Ashala an Asian look. Whitman had captured not only the face but kinetics in the expression—from the small, sneering mouth to the dark, jumpy eyes.

  Decker turned on the tape recorder, stating all the necessary identification. Then he poured Ashala a glass of water and placed it in front of him. He said, “You want to tell me why you bolted, Kalil?”

  “I wasn’t boltin’,” he said. “You was chasin’ me, so I be runnin’.”