Justice

by Faye Kellerman

  Rina watched her husband butter toast. He poured two glasses of orange juice, offered one to Rina, then sat back down with his breakfast.

  "Davidson's fixated on Diggs's boyfriend as the murderer." He gulped down half a mug of black coffee. "Now, I don't like the kid. He's cold, he's calculating, he's eerie, his affect is off, and I think he's an excellent liar. I have no trouble believing that Whitman could choke a girl as easy as scramble an egg."

  "Whitman's the boyfriend?"

  "Yeah. Christopher Sean Whitman. He's a weird sucker and he's also Mafia."

  "I didn't know there was Mafia out here."

  "He's originally from the east. He's Joseph Donatti's adopted son."

  "The Joseph Donatti?" 174

  Decker nodded.

  Rina raised her eyebrows. "No wonder Davidson is in an uproar about him."

  "On the surface, the kid looks like the perfect perp." Decker took a bite of his toast, chewed quickly, and swallowed. "But there are intervening factors. Things that Davidson is point-blank choosing to ignore."

  "Like what?"

  "Conflicting evidence. Foreign pubic hairs not linked to Whitman. Now, that's not unusual. Lots of investigations aren't cut-and-dried. But Davidson doesn't even want to hear about anything that negates the Whitman-as-killer theory."

  "The man is rather concrete."

  "More like a cinderblock wall. He's impeding my investigative techniques. The case is moving forward, but not in a methodical way."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm either going to find something tangible on Whitman or I'm going to move on. The homicide is already forty-eight hours old, which is nothing if you have a suspect in custody. But if it isn't Whitman, we have no understudies waiting in the wings."

  Decker flipped through the stack of papers in front of him.

  "I've been reading and rereading . . . I'm not having much luck. I don't know. Maybe I am exhausted."

  A high-pitched plea of momeeeeeeee sirened through the kitchen.

  "I'll get her." Decker dashed out of the room and returned a moment later snuggling a bundle cocooned in warm pink sleeper. All that was visible was a mop of auburn silk. "Someone's still very tired."

  "Hello, Hannah Rosie," Rina said. "Are you hungry?"

  At the sound of Rina's voice, the toddler reached out to Mama. Rina swept Hannah up in her arms, then kissed her tummy, drawing out tinkly laughter. Sitting down, she gave Hannah her bottle. To her husband she said, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

  "I'm fine. Is there anything I can do for you?"

  "As long as you asked, yes, there is."

  "Uh-oh."

  "If you have the time," Rina said, "take the boys to Rav Schulman and sit in on the lesson."

  "The boys are way ahead of me."

  "So they won't learn gemara for one night. Rav Schulman will choose something appropriate for everyone. You look upset, Pete. Maybe a little spirituality would be uplifting ... take you away from the ugliness of your work." 175

  A good point. Decker said, "I'll see what I can do." He let out a small laugh. "That sounds moronic, doesn't it? I should see if I can fit God and beauty and holiness into my busy schedule of murder, mayhem, and tragedy."

  Rina kissed her daughter's palm as warm and soft as eiderdown. "We all get caught up in what we're doing. Too caught up to stop and smell the coffee."

  Decker smiled weakly. Rina was worried ... and a little pissed by his preoccupation with the Diggs murder. So be it. The teen had been murdered and he wanted the perp put away for good. One less sleaze in this world to worry about.

  Whitman opened the front door.

  Decker pulled the paper out of his briefcase. "Hello, Christopher. I'm sure you've been expecting this." He proffered Whitman the search and seizure warrant. "You're blocking. Excuse me."

  Decker entered the apartment, heading toward the boy's bedroom.

  Whitman followed. "I'd like to read the warrant before you start."

  "Son, you can read it," Decker said. "But I've got a job to do. And since I know it's been properly executed, I'm going to start right in so I can get out of here as quickly as possible." He smiled. "I bet that sounds pretty good to you, too."

  Decker began with the closet. A quick overview: no tux. That meant going through the items one by one.

  Whitman leaned against the doorframe and read. "Your warrant prohibits the demolition of anything that provides structural integrity to the building."

  "That means I can't knock down walls. But if you've punched a hole in something, it's fair game."

  "I haven't punched a hole in anything."

  "Then there's nothing to worry about." Decker took out his pad and pen, scribbled a few notes. Whitman was compulsive. His shirts were arranged in rainbow-color order red, orange, yellow, green, and blue. Same with the jackets, all the hangers facing the same way. Dress pants were pressed and folded. Tie rack on the side, again color coded. Not a thing was hung in a haphazard manner. Made Decker's job a hell of an easy task.

  He said, "Where's your tux, Chris?"

  Whitman didn't answer.

  "You know what I'm talking about?" Decker carefully placed 176

  Whitman's apparel on his bed. "The tux you wore the night of the prom."

  Having denuded the closet, Decker started tapping the walls of the empty space. "I didn't see it hanging up."

  Whitman was silent.

  "You didn't lose it now, did you?" Decker said.

  "I can't stop you from making a mess," Whitman said. "But I don't have to talk to you."

  He was aware. Decker said, "Just thought you might want to help. Get me out of here quickly."

  Whitman remained quiet.

  Decker knocked on the closet's ceiling, banged and checked the floorboards. Solid. He sneaked a sidelong glance at Whitman. The kid's face was flat, but this posture was stiff. He was tapping his foot, not out of impatience, but out of nervousness. His eyes kept going to the clothes piled on his bed. Had Decker missed something? Didn't appear that way. Maybe Chris just liked things orderly. If that was so, he'd do well in prison.

  Decker decided to be neat and polite. If he made a mess, it might initially unnerve Whitman, but it would also make him angry and defiant. The kid probably performed well when he was mad. Rage wasn't alien to him.

  "I'm done with the clothes. I'll need to toss your bed." Decker rolled his shoulders. "You want to hang up your things while I hunt through your drawers, be my guest."

  Whitman started forward, then stopped himself. He wanted to put back his clothes, but he didn't want to do what Decker i.e., the police had suggested.

  Decker smiled inwardly. He had put Chris in a classic double-bind. Whitman closed and opened his eyes. "Just toss the clothes on the floor. Do you want some coffee?"

  "I'd love some."

  It wasn't the answer he had expected. Now optionless, Chris hesitated, then left the room.

  "Black is fine," Decker shouted aloud.

  He started on the drawers. Casual clothes jeans, T-shirts, polo shirts, khakis, sweats, sweaters. Lots of clothes all folded and stowed army regulation perfect. He wondered if Whitman had ever attended military school. His pants were a thirty-four extra, extra long. Decker picked up a jacket off the bed forty-two extra, extra long. Decker wore a forty-six on good days. 177

  Having rooted through his clothes, Decker moved on to the next bank of drawers. This one held bed linens. Decker smelled them. Freshly washed. That made sense. The stakeout had followed the kid early this morning, first to a restaurant, then to a Laundromat. Odd, though. The building had machines in the basement. It seemed to Decker as if Whitman was trying to draw out the tail.

  Decker plowed through more of Whitman's drawers. One held school supplies, the other contained stereo equipment wires, wire cutters, leads, heads, and an assemblage of doodads that Decker couldn't identify. Two other drawers were filled with CD racks one with classical, the other with rock. Kid had eclectic tastes. More s
chool supplies paper, pens, pencils, calculators, a dictionary, a thesaurus, markers, crayons ...

  Decker stopped.

  Crayons?

  That's right. Whitman was an artist. So where did he keep the bulk of his art supplies?

  More searching produced nothing of significance. Decker started in on the bed.

  Whitman came back with the coffee.

  "Thanks, just put it down anywhere." Decker carefully folded back the covers and searched the bedding. Then he began a careful examination of the mattress, checking the seams for signs of tampering. Finding nothing, Decker reached into his briefcase and pulled out a pocketknife.

  Whitman said, "The warrant says you can't destroy anything."

  Decker said, "The warrant says I can't break down walls, Chris." Carefully he cut the mattress ticking, peeled back a flap, and exposed lumpy piles of stuffing.

  "Are you going to pay for that?" Whitman asked.

  "You'll be compensated." Decker sorted through the stuffing. Nothing. He repeated the procedure with the box spring. Again, it was devoid of anything valuable.

  Meaning he didn't stuff his tux in his mattress.

  Decker opened each pillow and came up equally dry. Whitman watched it all, leaning against the doorframe, his face as expressionless as wood. Decker smiled. "Sorry about the mess."

  Whitman didn't answer.

  Decker moved on. He checked the floor under the box spring. He tapped the walls, the ceilings, and explored the floor on his hands and knees, looking for a trap door. Everything was intact and solid. 178

  Rising from his knees, Decker stretched, picked up his coffee, gulped it down, then handed the mug back to Whitman. "Thanks."

  Decker went into the second bedroom, Whitman his shadow. It had been set up as a music studio as well as a workout room. No exercise machines, but a rack held a dozen sets of freestanding weights. A couple of barbells lay against the walls.

  Decker toed one of them. "How much weight do you have on them?"

  "Don't know what's currently set up. I can bench-press around two hundred pounds. What about you?"

  Decker grinned. "Buddy, I'm an old man. I look at weights the wrong way, I throw my back out."

  Whitman eyed him. "I think you're putting me on."

  "Chris, I never lie." Decker's eyes shifted to the cello resting on its side. Beside it was a closed case. Decker strolled over, knelt down, and examined the case. It was big, padded with a soft lining that looked to be in original condition. He took out a knife, opened a corner, and peeked inside.

  "That's an antique case," Whitman said.

  "I really am sorry." Decker stuck his hands inside, pulled out a clump of horsehair. He sifted through it. No clothing fibers. He did it a couple of times and came up empty. "I'll make sure it's restored properly." He walked over to Whitman's cello. "Expensive?"

  "Very."

  "How much?"

  "It's not a Strad or a Guaneri, but it's five figures."

  "Then you pick it up for me. I want to look inside."

  Whitman cooperated.

  Gently, Decker rapped his knuckles against the top of the wood, then against the back. Different sounds, one much more dampened than the other. He asked Whitman about the discrepancy.

  "It's supposed to be like that," Whitman answered. "That's the way stringed instruments work."

  "And how is that?" Decker said.

  "I'm not a cello maker," Whitman said.

  "Do the best you can," Decker said.

  Whitman hesitated. Without emotion, he said, "The tops of stringed instruments are usually carved from soft wood mostly spruce, sometimes pine or cedar. They are constructed to vibrate and amplify the sound wave made by the bowed or plucked string. The backs are usually hard wood for cellos and violins it's almost always maple. 179

  They are not supposed to vibrate like the tops. They are made to support the structure of the instrument and reflect the sound wave back into the sound box. If you had two pieces of wood vibrating at different rates in one sound box, you'd have a mess."

  Decker took a flashlight out of his briefcase and turned it on. "These S-shaped holes "

  "F-holes."

  "Yeah, I guess they do look like cursive fs. These allow the sound to come out?" ,

  "Exactly."

  "They're pretty big, aren't they?"

  "Cello's a big instrument."

  "Turn the instrument toward me, Chris. I want to look inside."

  "Can you wear gloves, Sergeant? The oils on your hands aren't good for the wood."

  Decker smiled. "I was only going to take a quick peek."

  Whitman's face was expressionless. "Just in case you decided to touch."

  Decker slipped on a pair of gloves, then shone light inside the holes. It was hard to see inside lots of shadows but it looked empty except for some wood bracing along the back. He stuck his fingers in as best he could, felt along the top.

  Nothing.

  And that made sense. It would be hard to stuff a tuxedo inside holes meant to accommodate sound waves.

  But something seemed off. Decker didn't want to let it go just yet. He looked inside the instrument again more of the same. Again he tapped the front and the back. Decker had worked with wood before. Wood had a ring to it when knocked. The front side of his cello sounded flat. But damned if he could see a hint of any cloth inside.

  Casually, Whitman said, "You seem to be interested in acoustics. You want to hear what this one sounds like? It's a real keeper."

  Decker knew the kid was toying with him. But it seemed like a good idea to act dumb. "Sure. Play for me."

  Whitman took the cello from Decker, took his bow, and brought his instrument over to his stool. He placed the bottom metal spike into a hole and eased the instrument between his knees. Flicking his wrist, he picked up the bow and started playing.

  In Whitman's hands, the instrument was transformed into something animate and expressive. It was hard not to get swept away in its siren call. Though Decker didn't recognize the piece, he recognized the virtuosity. With great effort, he blinked away the right side 180

  of his brain and went back to his left side, studying the kid as he made music.

  At first, Whitman was hard and stiff, the instrument a foe to be conquered. The boy seemed to attack the strings, raping it to produce sounds. But as the music evolved into something pyrotechnical, his face and posture relaxed. His wrist broke, his muscles went slack, his body almost drooped, long limbs enveloping his cello as if it were a lover. The end was lightspeed, a dazzling display of finger work that produced a crescendoed climax. When he was done, the room took on an eerie silence. Whitman's face had once again gone flat.

  Decker held out his hand, asking for the instrument. "One more time?"

  Whitman blew out air and handed him the cello. "Be careful."

  Decker ran gloved hands over the wood. "How do you do repairs on this?"

  "Repairs?"

  "If you drop it, for instance. How does the repairman get inside to fix it?"

  Whitman smiled. "I don't know. I've never dropped it."

  Decker tried to read Whitman's face. Nothing. Reluctantly, he handed back the instrument.

  Whitman said, "What'd you think?"

  "Thanks for the concert."

  Whitman's mouth turned into a mocking grin. "That's it? I overwhelm you with my prodigious talent and all you say is thanks?"

  Decker locked eyes with the kid. "You know something, Chris? You're very good."

  "Bet that's high praise from you."

  "Excuse me." Decker sidestepped around Whitman, into the room's closet. This one was filled with file cases containing sheet music. The pieces were alphabetized by composer. Tucked into the corner was another cello case. Heavy. Decker took it out. "What's in here?"

  "My traveling cello. Would you like me to open it for you?"

  "Yep."

  Whitman took the case and opened it. "It's the same as the other, only cheaper."

  Whitm
an handed it to Decker, who inspected it closely. Decker gave it back.

  Whitman said, "I can put it away?"

  "Sure."

  "You know, Sergeant, I'm kind of enjoying this." 181