Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 13

by The Forgotten

  “It’s one of the excuses,” Martinez answered. “One among many.”

  “Our exit is coming up. It’s right past the Honor Farm.”

  Martinez moved over into the right-hand lane, then got off into a land of hay-colored, parched hillside undulating in the distance. Heat radiated off the asphalt. Scrub oak—gnarled and bent—thrived in the baked earth. Tall eucalyptus trees shimmered silver while exhaling fiery, menthol breath. Chaparral had managed to sprout and grow from the cracked ground below. The Dodge pitched through the lonely terrain, through air that was hot and still. But the visibility was better. Out here, even the smog had retreated, burning away in the unforgiving sunlight. Sweat was pouring off skin surfaces that Webster shouldn’t have been aware of.

  Martinez said, “How far is this place?”

  “Canyon country.”

  “Which canyon?”

  “Sierra Canyon. Next to Placerita Canyon—the nature reserve. Y’ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “I was there about five years ago. Not in this heat, but in the springtime. My hay fever went haywire.”

  “You really are a city slicker.”

  “So far as I know, no one’s allergic to cement.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “Wait a minute.” Webster regarded the map. No grid lines—the roads in the Thomas Guide weren’t much more than a series of random squiggles. He gave Bert directions to the best of his ability—a mile here, two miles there. Martinez negotiated the series of twists and turns, and within minutes the car descended into the protective covering of the glens, mercifully shaded by towering sycamore trees that dropped the temperature a few degrees. The Dodge’s temperature gauge dropped as well.

  “Try the air-conditioning again?” Webster suggested.

  “Sure, live dangerously.”

  They closed the windows and blasted the fan. But all it did was throw tepid gusts throughout the car’s interior. Small wooden homes—some not more than shacks—blended into the landscape. Deeper into the winding canyon, they passed a biker bar, replete with blinding chrome-studded Harleys. Shirtless, bearded fat men were hanging out of the place, bellies protruding like tongues from panting dogs. Martinez smoothed his mustache and reduced the speed, just long enough to cast a couple of glances.

  “Think PEI has any sympathizers out there?”

  “I reckon it may have one or two.”

  “Want to catch a beer, Tom?”

  “There’re ’bout sixty of them and two of us. I’ll pass.”

  The men laughed, but it was a jittery one. Delving into the wilderness, farther from the telephone poles, farther from civilization.

  Webster said, “From the looks of it, I’d say that Tarpin felt right at home at Baldwin’s nature camp.” He stared at his map, looking at the small dirt roads that he had outlined in red. “’Bout a mile up you got to look for an unpaved pathway—Homestead Place. But there aren’t any street signs.”

  “I’ll use the odometer.”

  “It’ll be on our left.” They rode in silence, looking for the turnoff. Webster squinted. “How ’bout there?”

  Martinez slowed. “It’s as good a guess as any.”

  The car rattled as it plowed against the rock-hard dirt lane, both of them praying the tires wouldn’t give out. As the car hugged the tortuous paths, makeshift shacks and lean-tos could be spotted nestled in the copses. The structures held addresses, but the street numbers seemed to defy logic. Five minutes later, after several backtracks and some good luck, they found the appointed place. As soon as they got out of the air-conditioned vehicle, a blast from the midday furnace hit their faces. But as strong as it was, it couldn’t compete with the stench.

  “Good Lord!” Webster held his nose. “Whatever died was awfully big.”

  Martinez was sweating profusely. But not just from the heat. He was visibly upset. “This is terrible! We just saw the man yesterday.”

  “Assuming it’s him.” Webster mopped his face with the tail of his shirt. “Y’all want to call it in to the local authorities?”

  “Shouldn’t we check it out first?”

  “My nose already did that.”

  Martinez gave him a look.

  Webster shrugged carelessly. “Go ahead.”

  “By myself? Suppose there’s someone lurking in the back?”

  Webster grimaced. “You just want me to puke.”

  “Stop being such a wuss.”

  “Them’s fightin’ words.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  The two of them trudged through the detritus of dried leaves and dead foliage, feeling the crunch under their shoes. The fumes grew stronger and more organic—the putrid stink of rotted flesh and waste. Dense clouds of black flies swirled about their faces, their hums intoning like a monk’s mantra. Webster swatted them away from his face.

  The door to Tarpin’s cabin was partially open. Martinez pulled out a handkerchief, wrapped it around his hand, and gave the portal a sizeable nudge.

  More flies rose up along with other creepy-crawlies—bees, wasps, mosquitoes, gnats, mites, spiders, beetles, and silverfish. A veritable bugfest of black and silver winged things as well as slithery creatures gorging themselves on flesh, bone, and blood. A large brown rat scampered across the wood-planked floor. Among the drones of the vermin and the odor of putrefaction lay Tarpin in a black-veined, maroon pond of sticky, coagulated blood and sera. His eyes were open; his mouth was agape, maggots wriggling through the open orifices. His hair was matted and wet, a natural breeding ground for anything with six legs. He was fully clothed. He had been shot in the head.

  Pulling out a camera, Martinez started snapping pictures. Webster rocked on his feet, sensing electric flashes and sparkles dance through his once perfect vision. Abruptly, he excused himself.

  Martinez watched him go. At least Webster had the smarts to lose it away from the crime scene. It would have been very unprofessional of him to contaminate the evidence.

  Oliver parked his butt on a hard folding chair and slung his head back. Talking to the ceiling even though there were three other people in the room. “Every time we get a suspect, he winds up dead.”

  “That’s the good news,” Marge responded. “It means we have very few people on our wanted list left to investigate. The bad news is if we strike out with them, we’re screwed.”

  Oliver sat up, took off his jacket, then loosened his tie. “Doesn’t this place believe in air-conditioning?”

  “It works great in the winter.” Decker wiped his face down with a handkerchief and tossed a manila envelope to Oliver. “Your passport, Detective. Dr. Estes is expecting you and Marge in an hour.” He looked at his detectives’ faces covered with sweat. “If you leave now, you’ll have plenty of time.”

  Oliver took out the warrant. “How’d you pull it so fast?”

  “I’ve got connections in high places. Also, Tarpin’s death sped things up.” Decker had taken off his jacket but had kept his tie knotted. He had large, wet ellipses under his armpits, and his neck was bathed in perspiration. Marge and Wanda wore short-sleeved blouses, but their armpits were damp as well.

  Marge checked her watch. “What time’s the funeral?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  She frowned. That gave her and Oliver just a little over three hours to make it into Beverly Hills, root through the Baldwin files, and make it back into the Valley. As it stood, they were looking at fifty minutes of absolute travel time, more actually because peak commuter time was just around the corner. “We’re not going to make it.”

  “You’re excused. This new homicide changes things.” Decker looked at Wanda. “What do you have?”

  She bit her lower lip. “It isn’t looking good, sir. The PEI office was completely cleaned out. Not a scrap of paper to be found.”

  “What about the furniture?” Marge asked.

  “It was still there,” Wanda said.

  “That makes sense,” Decker said. “You take off
quickly, you don’t take furniture.”

  “I sent a tech over there to dust the place,” Wanda said.

  “What do you hope to find?” Oliver challenged.

  “I don’t know what I expected to find,” Wanda answered. “But what I got was surprising. The walls and the furniture were basically free of prints.”

  “Basically?” Oliver asked.

  “We pulled up about a dozen fingerprints…a couple of palm prints. Way less than expected.”

  Decker said, “Someone wiped down the place before he cleared out.”

  Oliver said, “You mean Darrell Holt wiped the place before he cleared out.”

  “Yes, that is what I mean.” Decker took out his pad and paper. “Put the prints into the system. Let’s see if it spits back anything.”

  “That’ll take days,” Oliver answered.

  “Are you going anywhere?” Decker retorted.

  “I’m only lamenting, Loo. So much for a quick solve.”

  “I lament with you, Scott.” Decker tried to clear his brain. “What do we know? We know that the Baldwins were Holt’s therapists. According to Tarpin, Holt wasn’t one of the Baldwins’ success stories. We also know that Tarpin was involved with Holt and PEI. That’s what we know.”

  Oliver said, “So if Holt’s the perp, we’ve got to ask ourselves what would Holt have to gain for whacking the Baldwins and Tarpin?”

  Decker said, “You forgot about Ernesto.”

  “I think he was wrong place, wrong time.”

  “You think so?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay. We’ll assume that for the moment, although I’m not convinced. But if it were the case, what would be Holt’s motivation for wanting the Baldwins dead?”

  Wanda said, “Maybe the Baldwins had something on him?”

  “Holt wasn’t running for Congress,” Oliver answered. “What could they have had on Holt that would have been more embarrassing than his association with PEI?”

  “Maybe something from his therapy days?” Marge suggested. “A weird sexual proclivity that wouldn’t have played well with PEI?”

  “Like he likes little boys?” Oliver asked.

  “Or how about little girls?” Wanda said. “That girl who was working for him was definitely jailbait.”

  Oliver considered some theories. “Maybe it was the other way around. Maybe Holt was blackmailing the Baldwins using Tarpin as a go-between. Maybe that’s why the Baldwins kept a racist like Tarpin on for so long.”

  Marge said, “Scott, if you’re squeezing money out of someone, you don’t want them dead.”

  “So maybe the Baldwins got tired of being blackmailed,” Oliver answered. “Maybe they were going to expose Holt. So Holt killed the Baldwins to shut them up.”

  Decker asked Wanda, “Any set amounts of money going out of the Baldwins’ bank accounts on a regular basis?”

  “Yeah, like every dime.”

  “The payoff for blackmail?” Oliver asked.

  “Or they just spent a lot of money,” Wanda said.

  Decker answered, “What could Holt have on the Baldwins that would make them susceptible to blackmail?”

  Oliver said, “Maybe the Baldwins were racists in their younger days. If they had been, like, ex-PEI members, that wouldn’t look good with their current clientele.”

  “They’ve been in practice over twenty-five years,” Decker pointed out. “Long before the inception of PEI.”

  “So maybe Holt found some other skeleton in the Baldwins’ closet via Tarpin.”

  “What kind of a skeleton?” Decker asked.

  Oliver shrugged. “Well, what were the Baldwins noted for? Taking bad, rich boys and putting them into their high-priced camp instead of real punishment from the schools. In Ernesto’s case, camp instead of jail. Maybe the Baldwins gave a kickback to every kid sent their way by a judge, or by a school. Or maybe Holt found out that the Baldwins were using insider’s information with the standardized tests. Maybe Tarpin knew about the schemes and passed the information on to Holt.”

  “Why would Tarpin do that?” Marge asked.

  “Because Tarpin believed all that PEI crap,” Oliver said with animation. “The two of them used the money to further PEI’s crazy philosophy.”

  Wanda broke in. “Scott, PEI was a rinky-dink operation. If Holt was getting blackmail money, he wasn’t using it for PEI in a big way.”

  “Well, then, maybe PEI was a front to launder blackmail money into their personal accounts.” Oliver smiled. “That sound good?”

  “In theory,” Decker said. “But I came back from the murder scene about forty minutes ago. Tarpin was living in a basic one-room cabin. Holt rents a one-bedroom unit just north of Roscoe Boulevard. They don’t appear to be living a profligate lifestyle.”

  “Holt’s apartment has been cleaned out,” Wanda added.

  “You mean Holt cleaned out his apartment,” Oliver said.

  “Whatever,” Wanda answered. “The place is empty. We’re in the process of checking out Holt’s parents…his father. He’s a local. According to the senior Holt’s secretary, Darrell’s mother is long gone—maybe not dead, but out of the picture.”

  “Where is the father now?” Decker asked.

  “Eight miles high in transit.”

  Oliver said, “What about the girl? The jailbait?”

  “Erin Kershan,” Wanda answered. “The address I pulled off her driver’s license doesn’t exist. I’m thinking that maybe she lived with Holt and was a runaway. I’m in the process of checking the data banks.”

  “So you think she’s in on it?” Oliver asked.

  “She’s awfully mousy…seemed pretty harmless when Webster, Martinez, and I interviewed them months ago.” Wanda shrugged. “But you know young girls. They get swept away. Maybe that’s what happened…she got swept away with Holt and the entire PEI movement. So yes, I’m hoping that she’s involved. Because if she isn’t involved—and Holt is—that’s not good. We don’t want her turning up as victim number four—”

  “Five,” Decker corrected. “There’s Ernesto.”

  “God, this is terrible!” Marge was upset. “How many dead bodies are going to turn up before we solve this thing?”

  Oliver said, “We’re not helping L.A.’s crime statistics, that’s for sure.”

  Decker didn’t bother to chastise him. Being cavalier was how Scott dealt with the atrocities. Suddenly, his tiny office started to drop in temperature.

  Oliver dabbed his brow with a Kleenex. “Feels cooler.”

  Decker said, “I think the air conditioner kicked in.”

  Marge was glum. “Nice to know that something’s being productive.”

  Decker said, “You two better get going over the hill. Until we hit on something, I want you to go through every single file.”

  Another all-nighter. Oliver said, “Can we break for dinner?”

  “You can order takeout and bill it to the department,” Decker answered. “As soon as Webster and Martinez are done with Tarpin’s crime scene, they’ll come over and join you. Wanda, you keep searching for Holt and Kershan. Also, keep going through the Baldwins’ phone records and bank accounts. Maybe something will turn up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tom said that the meat wagon picked up Tarpin’s body about twenty minutes ago. I’m pushing the pathologist to do the autopsy…at least to get the bullet out and send it over to ballistics.” Decker stood up and straightened his spine until he was all of his six-foot-four-inch, 220-pound frame. “I’ve got to clean myself up. Don’t want to go to a funeral smelling like a hamster.” He shook his head. “Although I suppose no one will notice.”

  27

  Pulling out of the parking lot, Marge went east until she hit the 405 South, the ultimate destination being the Baldwins’ main offices in Beverly Hills. A quick solve was drifting out of reach, and though she never expected a cakewalk, a suspect to lean on would have been nice. She dealt with the disappointment by concentrati
ng on her driving. Oliver, unusually quiet, busied himself by reading the reported incidents that flashed across the cruiser’s monitor.

  Twenty minutes later Oliver spoke, a bit startled by the sound of his voice after riding in a protracted silence. “There’s a hot domestic in Brentwood.”

  “We’re far from Brentwood.”

  “I’m not saying to go there.”

  “So why mention it?”

  “Because I was wondering what the rich fight about.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am serious.”

  “Scotty, look at your own divorce.”

  “My infidelities were an escape from my ex’s complaints about always being broke! I may have been a prick in the bed department, but I wasn’t a reckless spender. If I had had money, it would have been different.”

  “Think so? I bet you would have fought about how to spend it.”

  Oliver didn’t deny it. She was probably right. “I should have had such problems.”

  Marge glanced at him with sympathy. Although Oliver was dating his usual young bimbos, the young Ms. Decker was still on his mind. Cindy had knocked the wind out of him, and he had yet to recover. He fidgeted in his seat, a man angry and anxious. That meant he was serious. That meant he’d do a good job.

  “What do you mean go through all the files?” Maryam Estes was blocking the door with thin, silken arms, the bronze-colored extremities holding dozens of silver and gold bracelets and bangles enveloping her limbs clear up to her biceps. “You can’t intrude on their confidentiality. These are current cases!”

  “The warrant specifies all cases that had been handled by the Baldwins,” Oliver stated. “And it’s printed in English, Ms. Estes, which is your native language—”

  “I don’t appreciate your snide remarks at a time like this!”

  “You can be as outraged as you like,” Marge said. “Just let us do our job.”

  Oliver said, “That’s your cue to get out of the way.”

  “I will not!”

  A staring match went on for several seconds. Oliver debated calling in the proper authorities to have her physically removed. If they did it themselves, they’d open themselves up to charges of police brutality. But time was ticking away. Oliver reached toward her and tickled the pits under her sleek arms. As she involuntarily retracted, he ducked and went inside.