Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 13

by The Forgotten

  “A synagogue was vandalized earlier today.” Martinez made eye contact with the young woman. “We were wondering what you knew about it.”

  Her eyes swished like wipers behind the glasses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s all over the news,” Webster said.

  “I don’t watch the news.”

  “You’ve got a radio on. I b’lieve it’s tuned to a news station.”

  “That’s not me, that’s Darrell. Why are you here?”

  “Because we know what this place is all about,” Martinez said. “We’re just wondering exactly what role you had in the break-in.”

  A man suddenly materialized from the partially opened door. He was around six feet and very thin, with coffee-colored frizzy hair and tan eyes. He had a broad nose and wide cheekbones. Martinez wondered how this guy could be an ethnic purist when his physiognomy screamed a mixture of races.

  “May I ask who you all are?” he said.

  “Police,” Webster said. “We’d like to ask y’all a few questions, if that’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay,” the man said. “Because no matter what I say, my words will be twisted and distorted. If you have warrants, produce them. If not, you can show yourself to the door.”

  “That’s downright unneighborly of you,” Webster said.

  The man turned his wrath toward the girl. “How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t let anyone in unless you’re sure of who they are!”

  “They said they were the police, Darrell! So what do I do? Just leave them there, knocking?”

  “And since when do you believe everything someone says? You know how people are out to get us. Did you even ask for ID?” Darrell turned toward them. “Can I see some ID?”

  Webster pulled out his badge. “We’re not interested in your philosophy at the moment, although I reckon we’re not averse to hearing your ideas. Right now, we want to talk about a temple that was vandalized this morning. Y’all know anything about that?”

  “Absolutely not!” Darrell insisted. “Why should we?”

  “Is there anybody who can vouch for your whereabouts last night or early this morning?” Martinez asked.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” Darrell said. “If I knew I was going to be raked over the coals, I would have established an alibi.”

  “S’cuse me?” Webster said. “This is being raked over the coals?”

  “You barge in—”

  “She buzzed us in,” Martinez interrupted. “And you haven’t answered the question. Where were you and what were you doing last night?”

  “I was home.” Darrell was smoldering. “In bed. Sleeping.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. Alone. Unless you count my cat. Her name is Shockley.”

  “And this morning?” Webster inquired.

  “Let’s see. I woke up at eight-thirty…or thereabouts. I don’t want to be held to the exact time.”

  “Go on,” Webster pushed.

  “I exercised on my treadmill…ate breakfast…read the paper. I got here at around ten-fifty, ten-thirty. Erin was already here.” His eyes moved from the cops’ faces to the pitchfork of the Grant Wood classic. “What exactly do you want?”

  “How about your complete names for starters.”

  “Darrell Holt.”

  Martinez looked at the woman. “You’re next, ma’am.”

  “Erin Kershan.”

  Holt tapped his foot, then released a storage cell of aggression. “I had nothing to do with the vandalism of a synagogue! That isn’t what this group is all about! We don’t hate! We don’t persecute! And if you were told that, you’ve been misinformed. We do just the opposite of persecute. We encourage ethnic integrity. I applaud Jews who wish to congregate with one another. Jews should be with other Jews. African-Americans should be with African-Americans, Hispanics with Hispanics, and Caucasians with Caucasians—”

  “And what exact ethnicity are you?” Webster asked Holt.

  “I’m Acadian, if you must know.”

  “You don’t sound like any Cajun I ever met,” Webster said.

  “The original Acadians came from Canada—Nova Scotia specifically.” Holt gave off a practiced smile. It was condescending and ugly. “I am proud of my heritage, which is why I feel so strong about preserving cultural purity. And it has nothing to do with racism, because as you can see for yourself…” He pointed to his hair and nose. “I have black blood in me.”

  “So you admit to being a mutt,” Webster said.

  Holt bristled. “I am not talking about bloodlines, I’m talking ethnicity. My ethnicity is Acadian and it is my wish to preserve my ethnic purity. It is our opinion that the mixing of ethnicities has ruined civilization and certainly the individualization and pride of too many cultures. Immigration has turned everything into one big amorphous blob. Look at cuisine! You go out to a French restaurant when you’re in the mood for French food. Or perhaps a Mexican restaurant when you want enchiladas. Or Italian or American or Southern or Tunisian whenever you want the various cuisines. Imagine what it would be like if you mixed up all these nuances, all the flavors. Individually they work; together, they’d make for one horrible stew.”

  “We are not beef Stroganoff, sir,” Martinez said. “Food isn’t the issue. Crime is the issue. Vandalism is a crime. What happened today at the synagogue constitutes a hate crime. The vandals will be found, and they will be punished. So if you know something, I suggest you get a load off now. Because if we come back, it’s going to be bad for you.”

  “You have us all wrong.” Holt picked up a handful of leaflets and handed them to Martinez. “You’ll probably throw them away. But should you care to enlighten yourself enough to give us a fair shake, you’ll see that what we say makes a lot of sense.”

  Erin broke in. “We have all kinds of members.”

  “All kinds of ethnicities,” Holt added. “We cater to the disenfranchised.”

  “Like who?” Martinez asked.

  “Read our flyers. Our members write the articles.” He plunked a few from the table. “This one—on the ills of affirmative action—was written by an African-American, Joe Staples. This one is on English as a second language in America, written by an ex-Marine turned psychologist.” He focused in on Martinez. “Mr. Tarpin is just elucidating a well-known point. That in the United States we have only one official language and that language is English. If you read it, you’ll see that he has nothing against Hispanics. Everyone who lives in the U.S. should speak English.” He smiled. “Just like you’re doing right now.”

  “I’m glad Mr….” Martinez looked at the flyer. “Mr. Tarpin would approve of my English skills.”

  “Which makes sense, being as Detective Martinez is American,” Webster stated. “Which means, if you’re Canadian, Mr. Holt, Detective Martinez is more of an American than you are. And if you advocate people staying with their own kind, maybe you should go back to Canada.”

  Webster was florid with fury, his hands bunched into fists. Martinez, on the other hand, was completely impassive, glancing at Mr. Tarpin’s words on why English was such a wonderful, expressive, and large language. That was certainly true enough. Compared to Spanish’s blooming buds, English was an entire bouquet of flowers because it used words from a variety of other languages. The irony was lost on the author.

  Martinez said, “Did you print these flyers yourself?”

  “The PEI did. Absolutely.”

  “Things were left behind in the synagogue,” Martinez said. “Nazi slogans that were printed on flyers just like these.”

  “There’s a Kinko’s about a mile away from here,” Holt retorted. “Why don’t you ask them about it?”

  Webster said, “And if we were to download your computer files, we wouldn’t find neo-Nazi groups bookmarked on your favorite places?”

  “No, you would not,” Holt said confidently. “But even if you did find anything you deem as offensive, it still proves nothing.
I did not vandalize anything!”

  “There were also photographs left behind at the temple,” Martinez said. “Horrible pictures of holocaust victims—”

  “That’s terrible,” Erin piped up. “That’s not our thing.”

  “What is your thing?”

  “Erin, I’ll handle this,” Holt said.

  She ignored him. “Our thing is keeping ethnic identity pure. Gosh, we do it with animals—purebred this and purebred that. So what’s so wrong about wanting people to stay pure? You call it racism, but like Darrell stated, we are not racists! We are preservationists. We have nothing against Jews as long as they stick with Jews, and stop controlling the stock market—”

  “Erin—”

  “I’m just saying what Ricky says. He says the Jews control all the computers. Just look at Microsoft!”

  “Erin, the head of Microsoft is William Gates III,” Holt said. “Does that sound like a Jewish name?”

  “No.”

  “That’s because William Gates III is not Jewish. If Ricky told you that, Ricky is full of shit!”

  Erin’s mouth formed a soft O.

  “Who’s Ricky?” Martinez asked.

  “Some jerk…” Holt made a face at Erin. “Why do you bring him up?”

  “You said he was your friend. Didn’t you go to Berkeley together?”

  Holt rolled his eyes. To the cops, he said, “Ricky Moke is to the right of Hitler. Why don’t you go hassle him?”

  “Where can we find him?”

  “That’s a good question,” Erin said. “He hides out a lot.”

  “Erin, shut up!”

  “Don’t yell at me, Darrell. You were the one who gave the cops his last name.”

  “Is this Moke a fugitive?”

  Erin and Darrell exchanged glances. Holt said, “Moke tells lots of stories. Among them is this tale about his being a wanted fugitive.”

  “What is Moke supposedly wanted for?”

  “Bombings.”

  The cops exchanged glances.

  “Bombing what?” Webster asked. “Synagogues?”

  Holt shook his head. “Animal laboratories. Not the actual cages, just the data centers. Ricky, by his own admission, is an animal lover.”

  4

  Torah Academy of West Hills had been molded from an old veterinary clinic. It must have been a thriving practice, and for big animals, because the examination rooms were extra large though still too small for classrooms. So the majority of actual learning took place in prefab trailers that filled the parking lot, save for a few science classes that were held in the animal morgue. The other clinic rooms had been turned into offices for the administration. Decker knew that the school, like everything in this community, was run on hope, volunteers, and the occasional out-of-the-blue donation.

  Rabbi Jeremy Culter was in charge of secular studies. He was in his mid-thirties, and considered very modern for an Orthodox rabbi. In addition to being ordained as a rabbi, he had a Ph.D. in education and, most telling, he didn’t have a beard. He was fair complexioned and on the short side—trim with very long and developed arms. His office held a minimal look—a desk, a couple of chairs, and a bookshelf filled with sepharim—Jewish books—as well as books on psychology, sociology, and philosophy. The walls were cedar-paneled and still retained a faint antiseptic odor, along with an occasional waft of urine.

  Usually, when Decker visited the school, he wore a yarmulke—a skullcap. But today he was there not as a father but in an official capacity. He didn’t wear a yarmulke when he worked because he often dealt with people who hated him in particular and cops in general, and he didn’t want to give any psycho-felon anti-Semite any more fodder to use against Jews. Still, sitting in front of Culter, he felt exposed without a head covering. If Culter noticed, he didn’t let on.

  He said, “I can’t believe you actually think that one of our own boys—your son’s classmates—desecrated a shul and left concentration-camp photos around? Children with grandparents who are survivors!”

  Decker looked at him. “How’d you find out about the specifics of the crime?”

  “This is a small community. Do I really have to explain this to you?”

  “Did my wife call you?”

  The rabbi shook his head.

  “Must have been one of the members of the bucket brigade.” Decker smiled at him. “I’ve just assigned you the role of my clergyman. Now I have confidentiality. Okay with you?”

  Rabbi Culter said, “Go on.”

  “This is the deal. We’re calling it a random drug check for the boys. I’m going to use that ruse with all the schools I’m going to. What I’m looking for is evidence of who might have done this. If you and your school cooperate with me, Rabbi, I’ll have muscle when dealing with the other privates.”

  Culter nodded. “The law is an objective animal and so are the police.”

  “Exactly,” Decker said. “If I searched my own son’s school, then what excuses can the other principals give me?”

  “You’re getting resistance?”

  “You’re the first school, so I’ll find out. But I can tell you that no swanky private school will freely admit having vandals in their student body. It doesn’t sit well with the parents who pay enormous tuition bills.” He pointed to his chest. “I can attest to that personally.”

  “Are you positive that kids did the crime?”

  “No, I’m not. The police are checking out a number of leads. I’ve assigned myself the role of school snoop. Lucky me. This isn’t going to give me status with my stepson—invading the privacy of Jacob and his friends. But it’s worth it if I get results. When other principals see a clergyman not attempting to protect his own, what excuse do they have?”

  “The parents are not going to be pleased.”

  “Rabbi, I want to nail these bastards. I know you do, too.”

  Culter lifted his brows. “So I’m supposed to tell everyone that it’s just a random drug check.”

  “If you could do that, it would be extremely helpful.”

  “What if…” The rabbi folded his hands over his desk. “What if you find something incriminating on your son?”

  “Meaning?” Decker kept his face flat.

  “I think you know what I mean. Yaakov has given me the impression that you two talk about personal matters.” A very long pause. He rubbed his nose with his index finger. “Perhaps I just spoke out of turn.”

  “You mean drugs?”

  Culter shrugged.

  Decker said, “Jake spoke to me about marijuana use. If it’s more than that, I don’t know about it.”

  The rabbi was stoic. “What are you going to do, Lieutenant, if you find anything in his locker?”

  It was a legitimate question, and it churned Decker’s stomach. “I’ll decide if and when I have to deal with it. Right now, I’m willing to take a chance. Because I really want these punks behind bars. Please help me out. Help the community out. Not only do we want to find the perpetrators, but we don’t want this to happen again.”

  “I agree.”

  “So you’ll help me?”

  “With reluctance, but yes, I will help you.”

  “Thank you, thank you!” Decker stood. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Are you personally going to do the searches?”

  “Yep. If it turns out okay, I’ll take the credit. If not, I’ll accept the blame. Where do you want to be during this fiasco?”

  “By your side,” Culter said. “You’re not the only one who believes in justice.”

  The contraband consisted of a few dirty magazines, as well as several plastic bags of suspicious-looking dried herbs, enough for Decker to act the bad guy and scare a few kids into behaving better. He used fear rather than actual punishment, effective in getting the point across. Yonkie’s locker was literally clean, stacked neatly and free of garbage. The teen’s recent behavior had indicated a change for the good, but Decker couldn’t deny the relief of just one less thing to
worry about. As it was, there were going to be repercussions because the kids didn’t understand why Decker—an Orthodox Jewish lieutenant—had singled them out. It played to the boys as the gestapo sending in Jewish capos to persecute their own. Yonkie did have the sense to keep his mouth shut, but his eyes burned with anger and humiliation.

  There’d be trouble at home, but Decker would tolerate it. His strategy had worked. Even before he had cleared out of the yeshiva, Decker had phoned and received an appointment with Headmaster Keats Williams from the exclusive Foreman Prep boys’ school. If the rabbis had agreed to a check, what excuse did the others now have?

  Decker was at his car when Yonkie caught up to him. Almost seventeen, the boy had heart-throbbing good looks with piercing ice-blue eyes and coal-black hair. Even in the school’s uniform—white shirt and blue slacks—he was more matinee idol than bumbling teen. The kid was glancing over his shoulder, his body jumping like fat on a griddle.

  He said, “This had nothing to do with my former drug use, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Because you couldn’t have orchestrated all this just to check up on me.”

  “Correct.”

  “I mean, even you don’t have that kind of power.”

  “No, I don’t have that kind of power, and that would be a big abuse of power.”

  “Yeah…right. So there had to be another reason.”

  Decker could have kissed the boy. “Very good.”

  “My friends don’t know that, though. They’re totally wigged. They think you’re pissed at me and taking it out on them.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I told them that you’re not from Narcotics. That this is a separate thing. So this whole drug search is probably a screen for something. Does this have anything to do with the shul being vandalized?”

  Decker hesitated. “Who told you about that?”