Both Oliver and Marge had tried to stay clear of her. The loo, on the other hand, seemed impervious to her brittleness.
“Your bosses weren’t very organized,” he had complained.
She had glared at him with wet eyes. “I’d pass on the message except I doubt that it would do any good!”
Decker stared at the blinking computer icon. The files were mundane—business spreadsheets and patient notes. Marge was right about one thing: Moke did seem to be Dee’s responsibility. He had yet to find anything on Merv’s file as to what Moke was being paid for.
He looked up from the monitor. “The checks started three years ago. Holt came on with PEI about four years ago. So they took about a year to develop whatever racket they had going.”
Maryam couldn’t contain herself. “You’re wrong!” She had colored with indignation. “You are so way off—”
“Nah, not way off,” Decker answered. “Darrell Holt/Ricky Moke was either blackmailing Dee or doing some kind of illegal service for her or both. And if Holt was blackmailing, it implies that the Baldwins had done something bad. And you already know what my guess is, so I won’t bother repeating myself.”
“For the fiftieth time,” Maryam said, “you can’t hack into the Educational Testing Services to get advance copies of the SATs or any other test. They have their own nerve center that is not connected to anything on-line!”
Decker said, “And for the fiftieth time, I’m saying that there was probably an ETS insider who’s downloading from the nerve center onto either the Baldwins’ computer system or maybe Holt’s computer system—”
“You’ve gone through the files—”
“Not all the files.” Marge sighed.
Decker said, “Besides, we’re not a professional hacker.” He blew out air. “Maybe we should just take all this equipment back to the station house—”
“There are patient files in those computers!” Maryam protested. “Your search warrants allow you to search, not to steal. This is an incredible invasion of privacy—”
“Doctor—”
“Why would the Baldwins do that?” the psychologist cried out. “Risk everything that they had worked for? You know the Baldwins’ success record started way before three years ago! They’ve maintained a lead in the field of test preparation for at least ten years!”
“Competition is fierce,” Marge said. “You said that yourself.”
“Competition among students, not among psychologists. The Baldwins were in a class by themselves. Your assumptions are…you don’t even know that this Moke and that horrible man Holt are the same person.”
“How much do you want to bet?” Marge spoke dryly.
Maryam rolled her eyes. “That’s very juvenile.”
“Wanna know my opinion?” Oliver said.
“I suppose I’m going to hear it whether I like it or not.”
“Dee needed to stay on top of this testing thing because she needed to charge top dollar.” Oliver picked up a stack of papers—credit card bills. “The woman had good but expensive tastes. There are charges from Gucci, Tiffany, Armani, Valentino, Escada, Zegna—that must be for the mister—”
“Not to mention the remodel on their house in Beverly Hills,” Marge added. “And the ten grand a month to rent a beach condo—”
“So where are these mysterious SAT files?” Maryam asked. “You have no evidence!”
“We’ll find them,” Decker muttered. “Maybe not me, but someone will. Even if they had been erased, there are thousands of ways to retrieve it. Well, maybe not thousands—”
“You don’t even know what you’re talking about!” Maryam chastised.
“Neither do you,” Decker retorted. “If Dee Baldwin was paying someone to hack into private files, you’ll be lucky if you get out of this without your reputation besmirched. You might want to consider hiring a mouthpiece. You’re part of the practice, Doctor.”
Again, tears pooled up in Maryam’s eyes. “I can’t believe it.”
“Just trying to be helpful—”
“Well, you’re not!” Maryam buried herself in a book, but her shaking leg indicated that she was anything but calm. Finally she put down the novel. “I’m going to take a walk. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Decker nodded.
In a huff, she left the office. As soon as Marge heard the door slam, she sighed in relief. “Thank God!”
“Don’t bother,” Oliver said. “She’s probably hiding behind the wall, trying to eavesdrop.”
“You think so?”
“Go check it out.”
“Ah.” Marge waved him off. “Let her listen in.” She slid back into the desk chair and rolled backward a couple of feet. “You know, Pete, after hearing George’s story, I kind of feel sorry for Holt.”
“Even if he’s a mass murderer?”
“Yeah, well, maybe not.”
“If it’s even true,” Decker said.
Oliver looked up. “I thought you said the old man seemed honest.”
“He did,” Decker said. “Now I’m just wondering if he’s maybe exaggerating. You know, trying to create sympathy because he knows that Holt’s in deep water.”
“Doesn’t seem like it would be too hard to check out George’s tale,” Oliver said.
“How?” Decker asked. “The mother is supposedly dead. Who knows what happened to the kid?” He rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. “I suppose we should concentrate on finding Holt first.”
Marge said, “I sure hope we’re right about this…about Holt and Moke being the same person. If not, we’re gonna look awfully stupid.”
Oliver said, “These letters that you got from Karl. Are you sure they’re legit?”
“I don’t know why they wouldn’t be,” Decker said.
“Whole thing could be a setup,” Oliver said. “Maybe Karl did it and is framing Ruby Ranger.”
Decker did a slow burn. “First off, Karl hated Ruby. Secondly, why would he kill his brother?”
Oliver shrugged. “Okay. So maybe he doesn’t know who killed his brother, but he’s framing Ruby because he hated her.”
Decker hedged. “The kid isn’t that Machiavellian.”
“What about Ernesto?” Marge asked. “Was he in on the scam?”
Decker said, “I’m not sure. All of Ruby’s letters to him held veiled threats or worse. It’s possible Ernesto may have had a change of heart and was thinking about blowing the whistle on this entire thing. And that’s what did him in.”
“So this kid, who vandalized a synagogue and painted swastikas, had this big change of heart?” Marge was dubious.
“I talked to Ernesto a few times,” Decker said. “He felt bad about the incident. That combined with Ruby warning him not to do anything he may regret.” He mulled over ideas. “Maybe that’s what he was doing in the tent at three in the morning talking to Merv Baldwin, giving the doc the low-down on his wife’s scam—”
Oliver blurted out, “Or threatening to go to the police if Merv didn’t pay him hush money.”
“And that’s why Holt popped them all?” Marge made a face.
“Why not?” Oliver said. “They were all a threat to him. They knew about Holt’s scam.”
“Then that would mean that Ruby Ranger’s a threat as well,” Marge said.
“Unless she’s in on it,” Decker said.
“So how did Holt and Ruby Ranger hook up?”
Decker said, “They were both up at Berkeley at the same time.”
Oliver said, “Holt’s older, right?”
“Two years,” Decker said.
“So Darrell has been in L.A. for the last four years. They only had a year up there in common.”
“Maybe they met down here,” Marge said. “Didn’t your son say something about Ruby being interested in Nazis or supremacist groups?”
“She made comments about Hitler being a hero or something. I don’t remember the exact words. Could be she once flirted with PEI.”
Oliver broke in, “This is what I don’t understand. How can Holt be a mouthpiece for a group that basically fronts for white supremacy when he’s part black?”
Marge said, “Holt hated his black father because Daddy sent away his mother and his brother. So Holt denied his black heritage and identified with the victim—his mother—who was white.”
“Not at first,” Decker said. “He was a typical Berkeley radical.”
“But he went through a big metamorphosis. In the end, he sided with Mommy because she was the underdog, and Dad was a bastard.”
“I didn’t say his father was a bastard.”
“You said he was a schmuck,” Oliver added.
“Yeah, but his wife might have been horrible, too.”
“Maybe bad as a wife, but maybe she was a good mother. And Darrell really never got a chance to find out who she was, because she and Darrell’s brother were exiled.” Marge rolled herself back to the computer. “You like my explanation? I’ve been working it over in my mind for the last hour.”
“Freud would be proud,” Decker said.
“No, really.” Marge was emphatic. “Doesn’t it make sense?”
“It floats my boat,” Oliver stated.
Decker said, “We’re never going to be able to break all these files here. We need professionals.”
“I second that,” Marge said. “But she’s not going to let us take the computers unless we invent a good reason to do so.” She thought a moment. “We need Holt. You don’t think the father was holding back?”
Decker shrugged. His cell phone went off. He pushed the green send button. “Decker.”
“Erin Kershan’s real name is Erin Beller.” Wanda’s voice was filled with excitement. “She’s a fifteen-year-old runaway from Scarsdale, New York. Her parents have been looking for her for six months. She’s run away before but only for a week at a time. This last time, she flew the coop with some lowlife biker that she had met in Woodstock, New York, while on a family vacation.”
“Any clue as to where she might be right now?”
“Yes. They have relatives here in L.A.—in Brentwood. Relatives they don’t like.” Wanda gave him the address. “The Bellers had called the Frammels—the Brentwood relatives—just to let them know that Erin was missing and would they please call if she showed up. Of course, the Frammels said that they would contact them if she showed.”
“But so far there’s been no contact.”
“Exactly. But lack of contact with the parents doesn’t mean that Erin isn’t there now.”
“And you did instruct the Bellers not to call their relatives in Brentwood.”
“Yes. I did. I told them that if they gave Erin a heads-up, both of us would lose her. The parents didn’t like it—they want to talk to her—but they’re cooperating for now.”
“I’m not too far from Brentwood,” Decker said. “Maybe I should pay them a surprise visit.”
“I think that would be a very good idea, sir.”
Alice Ranger was as thin as ever, her face made even more severe by layers of foundation that gave her a ghostly appearance. The makeup looked newly applied, as if she were planning on going somewhere. If that were the case, she gave no indication of being in a hurry. On the contrary, she acted welcoming, as if the visit from Martinez and Webster were a social call. A brown knitted pantsuit hung on her bony frame; her feet were bare with toenails painted eggplant purple.
“Come in, come in.” Acting like old friends. “Would you like something to drink?”
Webster shook his head, but Martinez told her that water would be nice. He came from a culture that considered it an insult to refuse hospitality.
Alice regarded him with displeasure. Trying to stand in one spot, she teetered on her feet. “Only water?”
“Water, juice, a Coke…”
“How about a rum-and-Coke?”
“No, thank you.”
“Don’t be shy.”
“Then how about coffee?” Martinez asked.
“Coffee?” She was incredulous. “It’s well into the martini hour, Detective.”
“Thank you, but I’d still like coffee. How about making up a pot?”
“A whole pot?”
“Yeah. Tom’ll take a cup. And you’ll join us, of course.”
Alice made a face. “You want me to drink coffee?”
“Yeah. Go make up a pot, Mrs. Ranger.”
“All right.” It took her a while to focus. “I’ll get you coffee.”
“Thank you.”
“Be right back.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t go away.”
“No, we won’t,” Webster said.
“Hey, you can talk,” Alice sniped.
“Yes, ma’am, I can talk.”
Alice’s smile was loopy. “Be right back.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Finally she left. Martinez gave a quick once-over to the living room, hoping to glean some information about the family from the furnishings. Unfortunately, the decor was a vast snowscape of white carpet holding thick blobs of cream and white furniture. The art that broke up the vanilla walls was drab and shapeless, the coffee and end tables were as empty as the desert plains. No photos, no vases or bowls or plates or displays. No TV or entertainment unit, either. But there was a well-stocked, mirror-backed, granite-topped wet bar that took up half the room.
Webster had followed the arc of Martinez’s eyes, seeing them light on the bar. He whispered, “How much vermouth do you think is in that woman’s liver?”
“That’s between her and God. Our job is to get her sober enough to make sense.”
“It’s going to take more than coffee to do that.”
“Then we’ll have to take our time.”
“How ’bout I peek upstairs on the off-chance that Ruby’s there?” Tom suggested. “Could be the reason why the mother is so soused.”
“You know, it’s a good idea,” Martinez said. “Even if she’s not up there, you can snoop around the room. I’ll stay here. If she comes back and wonders where you are, I’ll tell her you’re in the bathroom.”
“Yeah, I think she likes you better than me anyway.”
“That’s because I smile when I talk to her.”
Webster nodded, stood up, and quietly made his way up the narrow staircase, remembering that Ruby had hibernated on the third floor, her space being more an attic than a room. When he opened the door, he slumped with disappointment. All of Ruby’s influence had disappeared, and in its place was an insipid guest room. It had ivory walls, a blond oak-planked floor, a Persian-style rug, and a double bed dressed with a dusty rose comforter and a matching quilted headboard. Crammed into the square footage were also a TV sitting in an oak bookcase, and a couple of nightstands. Harmless, characterless. Ruby hadn’t been there for a long time.
Out of habit or boredom, Webster went through the drawers, checked under the bed and furniture, slipped his hand under the pillow, lifted up the covers, stuck his arm between the mattress and bed frame. And what did he expect to find? A gun? A hidden computer file? A stash of money or drugs?
All he found were a couple of dust balls.
By the time he made it back down, Alice had returned with the coffee.
“Did you get lost?” she asked him.
“Just looking for the little boys’ room.”
“On the third floor? Ever hear of a powder room?” She rolled her eyes. “You were snooping.”
Webster smiled boyishly. The woman wasn’t as pickled as he had thought.
Alice said, “You won’t find anything of hers in it. I redid the place. Never felt so good about anything in my life. Clearing out her garbage was instant therapy. That girl has been trouble from day one.”
“In what way?” Martinez asked.
“What way?” Alice shook her head. She had returned with a glass of something amber and iced in a crystal tumbler. “Lying, drinking, stealing. And those are her good points.” But her face held trem
endous pain. “You know, it’s getting there that’s so hard. Once you make the commitment to separate, the rest is easy. I should have done it a long time ago.” She moistened her lips with her drink. “Now that she’s gone…it’s calmer. Things don’t bother me too much. Even his tramps.” She cocked her head at nothing in particular. “Nah, even he don’t bother me.”
“He” was obviously the husband.
“When was the last time you saw Ruby?” Webster asked.
“When was the last time you saw her?” Alice parried. “That was my last time.”
“That was about six months ago,” Martinez said. “She hasn’t contacted you since then?”
“Nope.”
“Not even to say hello?”
“Especially not to say hello.”
“How about for money?”
“Nope. Although if she did contact me, it would have been for money. Nah, I haven’t heard from her. Ruby has been flush the last couple of years. Probably whoring. Or stealing. Or even dealing.”
“How about computer hacking?” Martinez brought up.
“What?”
“Playing with computers.”
“Yeah, Ruby used to do that a lot.”
Webster said, “I didn’t see her computer up there.”
“She took it with her.”
“What did you do with the belongings she left behind, Mrs. Ranger?”
“Threw them away. I would have burnt them in the fireplace—you know—to make a statement. But then I was afraid I’d set off the smoke alarms.”
“Did she leave any disks or CD-ROMs behind?” Webster threw in.
“Nothing that I took notice of.” Alice swirled the ice in her drink. “I bought her a laptop. A state-of-the-art Toshiba. It put me back almost eighteen hundred dollars. God, was I a sucker.”
“So whatever was left over in the room,” Martinez said, “you threw it all away?”
“Threw it away, gave it away. She had an old Nintendo game system. I gave that away to Goodwill. I also gave away her bed, her furniture, her old TV, and the clothes she left behind. As far as I’m concerned, that girl is my daughter only on her birth certificate.”
Webster said, “You’re angry.”
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