“From what I understand, he never claimed to be white. He told my men that he was Acadian.”
“Oh, that’s a good one.” Another laugh. “Darrell the Cajun. My, my. Darrell has reinvented himself many times over. He is not Acadian although his mother was from Louisiana. What Darrell is…is a little psychopath. Not surprising considering his genetics.” He looked at Decker. “Hers, not mine.”
“His mother.”
“His mother was a slut.” The nostrils fumed. “I’m not even sure Darrell is mine. But I took him on as if he were such because…” He paused, typed furiously, then resumed conversation. “Because I felt I had no choice. I was too ashamed and too embarrassed and too stupid and too enthralled with the woman’s sexual prowess to question. And some humanitarian part of me felt sorry for the little bastard. Maybe he was mine. Whatever seed penetrated that woman’s ovum produced an offspring that had some smarts. The boy is not stupid. Just amoral…and lazy. Very, very lazy. He wanted all the trappings…” Holt swept his hand across the room. “But never lifted a finger to work for them.”
“Has he called you within the last four years even if he hasn’t seen you?”
“Maybe. I certainly haven’t talked to him. He’d only want money so why bother speaking to him? But you can check the phone records if you’d like, Lieutenant.”
“Any idea how he’s been supporting himself?”
“He’s twenty-four and computer-savvy.” Holt checked the electronic ticker tape. “Very, very good. What were we talking about?”
“How Darrell is supporting himself.”
“The boy has skills. He had two years in Berkeley. Not to mention the fact that he is highly manipulative. I don’t fret for him.”
“Do you know if he held down any kind of a job?”
“No, I do not.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Ah, the tea.” He reached around and pushed the buzzer. The double doors opened. “Just in time. Can you pour for us, George?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“George, maybe you can help the lieutenant out. He wants to know about Darrell.”
The old man stopped pouring for a moment, then continued. “Yes, sir?”
“Have you seen him lately?”
“No, sir.”
But the hesitation told Decker a different story.
“Any calls from the lad?” Holt asked his butler.
“No, sir.”
Holt held up his hands. “If George isn’t aware of Darrell’s whereabouts, then no one is. Darrell always liked George, isn’t that so?”
“I would hope so, sir.” George handed Holt a gold-rimmed china teacup, then served an identical one to Decker. As soon as he was relieved of the cups, he passed around a tray of butter cookies. Holt took two, but Decker declined.
“Oh, do take a cookie, Lieutenant,” Holt advised. “Life needs to be sweetened from time to time.”
“The tea is fine, sir. What else can you tell me about Darrell?”
“I told you everything I know about him.” He smiled. “He’s a psychopath. There is nothing else to tell. George, do you have anything to add?”
“No, sir.”
“When was the last time you talked to him?” Decker asked.
“Years ago.”
“How many years?”
“I believe I stopped talking to him when he got involved with that crazy group.”
“Preservers of Ethnic Integrity?” Decker said.
George made a face. “Nothin’ but a bunch of lunatics.”
“Well spoken,” Holt agreed.
“Anything else I can get you, sir?” George asked.
“No, George, I’m fine, thank you.”
George left. Decker waited a few moments, then rose from the bed, still holding the teacup. He took a card out of his pocket. “You will phone if he contacts you?”
“Of course.” Holt looked up from one of his laptops. “What did he do, by the way?”
“I can’t say, Mr. Holt. It’s an ongoing investigation.”
“Then remain tight-lipped if you please.” Holt typed away. “Whatever you think he did”—type, type, type—“I’m sure he did it.”
Decker waited. Then he said, “I’ll just close the door behind me.”
“Fine, fine. Take a butter cookie on the way out.”
“Thank you.” Decker opened one of the brass doors and shut it softly. The teacup in his hand gave him the perfect excuse. Quickly, he walked down the hallway, passing the entertainment/piano room and then the living room, on to the other side of the house, where his journey ended with another pair of brass double doors. Decker rang the buzzer and a moment later he was allowed to walk into a cavernous kitchen. It held black-and-white lacquer cabinetry—smooth doors without handles. There was an eight-burner Wolf range in the center with a slab of metal suspended from the ceiling to act as an exhaust vent/hood. Even in the off position, the range emitted a sizeable amount of heat. The countertops were fashioned from jet-black granite and were completely empty—devoid of any appliance, breadbox, canisters for flour or sugar, flowers, knickknacks, cookbooks, or anything a human being might use in the process of cooking—except for a block of steel-handled knives. About as homey as the county morgue.
George stood in front of a stainless-steel sink, rinsing out the teapot. Slowly, his bent, arthritic hands turned the china over and over. He spoke with his eyes on the water. “He wasn’t all bad.”
“I’m sure he wasn’t,” Decker said. “There’s always other sides.”
“He had it tough. A tough father, a bad mother. He had it tough, Darrell did.”
“How long have you been working for Mr. Holt?”
“Sixty years.”
Philip Holt looked to be in his early fifties. Decker said, “You worked for Mr. Holt’s father, then?”
“Yes, sir. Ezekial Holt. A smart man, Mr. Holt was. And a good man, but he had his problems. He spoiled that boy rotten. Both him and his mama—Inez. They spoiled that boy.”
“Spoiled Darrell?”
“No, spoiled Philip. When Philip married that woman, Inez was tore up from limb to limb. She could tell that that woman was no good from day one. But Philip wouldn’t listen to his mama. Philip…he just saw what he wanted to see.”
“Did Philip have words with his parents about the woman…what was her name?”
“Dorothy. Everyone called her Dolly Sue.”
“What happened after Philip married Dolly Sue?”
“He had words with both his mama and his papa. Both were against the marriage. The woman was bad from day one.”
“Promiscuous,” Decker said.
“She liked all the boys—and had them, too. Her with her pretty blue eyes and corn silk hair. Acting all flirty. Talking with that Southern talk. Philip couldn’t help himself.”
Blue eyes, blond hair, Southern talk. Decker said, “She was white.”
“Yeah, she was a white woman. Philip met her when he was down in Shreveport, doing some work at the college. She worked at the college as a secretary. As soon as she found out that Philip had some money from his papa, she took him into her bed. After that…psssss…can’t fight that kind of temptation.”
“Philip’s father had money?”
“For a colored man, Ezekial had lots of money. Y’see, he was a trucker for Coca-Cola in Atlanta, Georgia. Every penny he got, he put into the Coca-Cola stocks.”
“That was very forward thinking.”
“It wasn’t Ezekial’s thinking. Ezekial did it to impress a white girl he liked. Y’see, her brother…he was buying up the stock. So Ezekial did the same thing. But back then, it was hard for a colored man to buy stock. No broker would see to the Negroes. So the white boy did it for him. Told him it would make him money. Ezekial bought the stocks for pennies during the depression. He did real well.”
“A white boy bought stock for Ezekial and put it in Ezekial’s name?”
“Yes, sir, he put it in Ezeki
al’s name. That boy was a fine white boy. He did right by Ezekial. Not all white people hated the colored. Most did, but not everyone.”
“Interesting.”
“After the war…in the fifties…Ezekial bought himself a fine house in Atlanta in the old colored area. A big house. And he still had money left over. Philip grew up like a rich boy. Got hisself a good education. Went to the university. That boy got everything he wanted. Trouble is, he wanted things that weren’t good for him. Now remember, this was the sixties. The black man started getting power…started getting a taste for things that he shouldn’t have no taste for. The white girls were giving it to them in free love. It made the black man think he was one of them. It was disgusting.”
George shut off the water and dried the pot. But he didn’t turn around.
“That was Dolly Sue. Free love to the black man…to everyone. She was no good.”
“How long before Philip realized that Dolly Sue was no good?”
“Soon.”
“How soon is soon, sir? A year? Two years?”
“Third year, Christmastime.” He stowed the pot in one of the black cupboards. “He and Dolly Sue were living here in Los Angeles. They went home to see the folks for the holidays.” He turned to face Decker. “I’ll take that cup from you, sir.”
Decker handed him the teacup. “What happened?”
George pivoted around and turned on the water. “He found her in bed with another man.”
Decker made a face. “Another man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“May I ask who?”
George lowered his head. “I’m ashamed to say it, sir.”
Decker grimaced. “Philip’s father?”
“Yes, sir.” George’s black complexion had taken on a rosy hue—like a Bing cherry. “Philip and Inez was supposed to be out Christmas shopping. But Philip came home early ’cause he wasn’t feeling well. He caught them, he did. Ezekial…he threw himself on his son’s mercy. Philip was a spoiled child, but he was no monster. He forgave his father and promised he wouldn’t say nothing to his mama. Of course, he wanted to end it with Dolly Sue. But a month later she told him she was in the family way.”
Silence.
George said, “No one knows who the real papa is, sir. They both had her, so it could have been either one. Inez…she never did find out. And Philip…he tried, sir. He tried to make it work. But the woman wouldn’t quit her flirty ways. When she had the second baby, Philip had suspicions. The baby was much too dark.”
“The baby was too dark?”
“Yes, sir. Philip wasn’t dark because his mama wasn’t black. She was Mexican. And Dolly Sue was white. The baby was like pitch coal. Even so, Philip tried, sir. For four years, he let that little mongrel call him Papa. But in the end it was too much for him. He made the mother put the baby up for adoption.”
Decker licked his lips. “Did she do it?”
“Yes, sir, she did. She didn’t want to lose Philip, and she didn’t want to lose Darrell. She was nothing and had nothing without them. So she put the baby up for adoption.”
“She actually put her own child, whom she had raised for four years, up for adoption.”
“Yes, sir.” George shook his head. “It was sad, sir. I felt sorry for the woman, but she had it coming. She had no right bringing a bastard into the house and pawning it off to be Mr. Philip’s. The one I really felt terrible for was Darrell. That little boy was Darrell’s brother. It broke his heart to see him go.”
Decker tried to keep anger out of his voice. “I would imagine that would be traumatic.”
“It wasn’t that Philip didn’t try.”
“Just a rotten situation,” Decker said, attempting to ease the old man’s guilt.
“Exactly, sir.” Another sigh. “And even that didn’t work. She still wouldn’t quit her flirty ways. So finally, Philip kicked her out. Gave her some money on the condition that she just pack up and leave. Darrell was ten. But even at ten, the boy cried a mountain of tears. Mr. Holt, he couldn’t take it. He brought me from his pappy’s home to take care of Darrell. I was the one who held the child at night.”
“And even with everything, he kept Darrell. Why?”
“The boy was his own flesh and blood—maybe brother or maybe son—but he was flesh and blood. When he kicked that woman out, Philip told his papa that he couldn’t raise Darrell alone. I came over and started working for Mr. Philip.” George placed the teacup on the stark, granite counter. “She died a few years later…after Mr. Philip kicked her out.”
“How’d she die?”
“Something with an infection and gangrene…had her leg chopped off. It was real sad. Mr. Philip paid for the cremation. Felt it was the right thing to do.”
What a sport, Decker thought. Yet who was he to judge? Then he thought, Why shouldn’t I judge? He took care of his daughter after his divorce, he took care of his wife’s sons, loved them and raised them and treated them as if they were his own—they were legally—at great cost to his own psyche. Damn right, he could judge.
“And the baby brother?” Decker asked. “What happened to the little boy?”
George shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. Darrell…he once told me that the boy died. Then he told me the boy was alive and adopted by a real rich family. Then he told me that the boy was a black Muslim. He makes up stories, Darrell does. He’s always made up lots of stories.”
Decker nodded. “Thanks for the tea, George.”
“You’re welcome.” Finally he turned to Decker. “Don’t be thinking too badly about Darrell. He had it rough.”
“I can see that.” Decker tapped his foot. “When was the last time you’ve heard from Darrell, George? This time I need to know the truth.”
“Three days ago,” the butler admitted. “The boy wanted money…like Mr. Philip said.”
“Did you give him money?”
“Four hundred dollars…from my savings. It wasn’t smart, but like I said, the boy had it rough.”
“Any idea where he might be?”
“No, sir. Before three days ago, I didn’t see him in three years.”
“How did he appear? Nervous or calm?”
“He was jittery. I just thought that he was nervous to get out before his papa came home. I tole him he could stay the night…that his papa wasn’t coming home. But he just took the money and left.”
“Didn’t say anything to you?”
“He said ‘thank you, George. Thank you, very much. I love you.’” The old man’s eyes watered. “I do believe he meant it.”
“I’m sure he did.” Decker hesitated, then said, “By the way, this lost brother of Darrell’s…was his name Richard…Ricky for short?”
George went wide-eyed. “How’d you know that?”
“A guess, sir.” Decker patted the butler’s rounded shoulder. “Just a guess.”
30
Decker looked up from Merv Baldwin’s computer. “How many years was Moke on the payroll?” he asked.
“Officially?” Oliver put down one accounting ledger and picked up another. “I’ve got six checks made out to him, the earliest one dating three years ago.”
“For how much again?” Decker asked. “Five G’s per check? Don’t look at me like that, Oliver. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Oliver tried to soften his sneer. “The first one was for fifteen hundred, then two, then twenty-five, then five, then seventy-five. The last one was ten grand. That was dated six months ago. Maybe Moke had asked for even more and Baldwin finally balked.”
“You’re talking about the female Baldwin, right?” Marge was seated in front of Dee’s computer. “She wrote the checks to Moke.”
Oliver said, “Yeah, I’m talking about Dee.”
“But Dee didn’t write most of the business checks,” Decker said.
“Correct,” Oliver said. “Merv did most of the accounting—”
“Correction,” Maryam Estes broke in. “The accountant did most of the accounting. Merv j
ust signed the checks.”
Decker looked at her. “How do you know that?”
She moved her head back and forth in twitchy little motions. “I had a couple of questions about my salary check. Merv told me to take it up with the accountant.”
“What kind of questions?” Marge asked.
“It was nothing serious. Dee forgot to pay me for a few extra hours when I filled in for her in group therapy. She wasn’t the best bookkeeper in the world. So I went to Mervin about it. It was all straightened out very quickly.”
“Who signed your salary check?” Oliver asked.
“Dr. Baldwin…Merv did.”
“Even though you worked mainly for Dee,” Marge commented. “See, that’s my point. Merv did most of the signing, but not when it came to Moke. Dee took care of Moke. I think she was the one who hired him on. She may have even kept her husband in the dark about him.”
“All the checks were drawn from the same account,” Oliver told her. “So even if it wasn’t Merv’s idea to hire on Moke, he should have known what was going on. The checks were for large amounts.”
Maryam gave out an exasperated sigh and stuck a novel in front of her face. Decker smiled at Marge, who smiled at Oliver. They had spread out over the entire office. The Baldwins’ partners desk was filled with patient files, stubs, ledgers, appointment books, and piles of papers. Oliver was doing the scut work, sorting and collating all the loose pages, Marge was at the computer, sifting through Dee Baldwin’s electronic files, and Decker was scrolling down files on Merv Baldwin’s desktop.
Meanwhile, Maryam made a weak stab at distancing herself, pretending to either be reading or doing her own paperwork. Her cell phone was ringing so much that Marge had asked her to turn it off. Every so often, Oliver stole a glance at the psychologist’s face. She was nervous and taut, not an ounce of slack anywhere on her face. She spoke up frequently, especially when she felt her bosses were being unfairly attacked. Oliver had dropped hints about the length of the investigation, inviting her to go home. But she clearly had a mission: to protect the Baldwins’ previously unblemished reputation.
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