Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 16

by The Burnt House

  “I’m in,” Marge said.

  Oliver looked at Decker, who said, “You two go. In my two-day absence, paperwork has multiplied tenfold and has threatened to take over my desk. Not to mention that I do have other detectives who have other cases. I’ll see you both at two down at the Crypt.”

  “What’s going on at the Crypt?” Oliver asked.

  “We’re doing a computerized age progression on Manny Hernandez.” Marge brought Oliver up-to-date and showed him the facsimiles of Martin Hernandez. “It would be nice to have a bead on the brother, Belize Hernandez. He’s about the same age as Manny and the two brothers might look alike.”

  Oliver said, “Does that even matter? I thought computerized age progression was done by a canned software program.”

  “It starts with the canned program, then the forensic artist steps it,” Decker said. “There’s still a lot of intuition involved.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Marge said. “A computer is a wonderful thing. It can render, it can reproduce, but last I heard, it can’t create.”

  DECKER TOOK A deep breath in and out and punched the blinking light. “Hello, Farley, how are you doing?”

  “I’m the same, Lieutenant. Just making my daily call to remind you that I’m still around and Roseanne ain’t.”

  “And I’m still working on the case. Right now we’re going door-to-door at the condo complex for a third time, trying, once again, to ferret out any possible witnesses who saw or even heard anything coming from your daughter’s condo. The complex is a big place, Farley. People mind their own business. Still, one can hope.”

  “I don’t know why you’re bothering with witnesses,” Farley said. “Just bring in the bastard and beat a confession out of him.”

  “You know it doesn’t work that way.”

  “Then coax a confession from the sumbitch.”

  “I wish it were that simple. But we both know it isn’t.” Farley grumbled. In the recesses of his mind, Decker again wished he could introduce Farley to Peter Devargas. Let the two of them curse the world together. “Farley, the official flight 1324 recovery effort is scheduled to conclude in about a week. If Roseanne’s remains don’t turn up—”

  “You know they’re not going to turn up.”

  “The point is, Farley, once the effort is concluded, we can then make a plea to the public for help. Maybe someone will come forward and tell us something we don’t know.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, Farley. Sometimes people who commit murder confess it to a friend or a lover. Sometimes they even brag about it.”

  “Let me ask you this, then, Lieutenant. Who would Ivan confess to?”

  “We’re speaking theoretically, because we have no proof of Ivan’s involvement. But I could see him perhaps telling a close friend or relative. Maybe even his girlfriend.”

  “You mean the stripper? So bring in the wench and see if she knows anything.”

  “Farley, we’ve already talked to her. She’s not saying much, and she isn’t at all anxious to get involved.”

  “So maybe she knows something.”

  “Maybe she does, but right now I can’t squeeze it out of her. Besides, I don’t want her to go running to Ivan, saying that we’re still suspicious of him.”

  “He knows that already.”

  “Yes, he does, but we haven’t bothered him in a while. If we get something on him, it would be nice to have the element of surprise.”

  “Yeah, I agree with you there. I’m still surprised that the weasel hasn’t taken off.”

  “I’m sure he will just as soon as he gets the insurance money. Right now that’s the one hold we have over him. I’m hoping that after the recovery is concluded, a televised plea will spur someone to do the right thing.”

  “I doubt it, Lieutenant.”

  “You can never tell, Farley. A conscience is an unpredictable thing.”

  “The bastard doesn’t have a conscience,” Farley said. “God’s an ironic bastard. He only gives a conscience to the good people who don’t need ’em.”

  33

  THE HOUSE SAT on the edge of the Venice Canals—Abbot Kinney’s dream to bring a bit of the Old World into the subtropics of Southern California. The area was six blocks of interlocking waterways that emptied into the Pacific Ocean. Once the channels had cut through land tracts that held small bungalows and shacks. Thirty years ago, the custom-built houses started to replace the sheds and cabins, and current lot value was well over a million dollars.

  From the dream of owning a communal organic farm to a three-story, architectural statement: Alyssa Bright Mapplethorpe had done a sharp U-turn somewhere. Yet, if the woman still harbored any utopian ideals, Venice, California, was the place to live. The area still hosted scores of socialists, communists, iconoclasts, vagrants, and lots of original hippies.

  Marge parked in a driveway off an alley, and she and Oliver walked around to the front side. The place was a modern stack of cubes, with oversize picture windows that faced the water. Before they knocked, they stood on a porch containing two rocking chairs with a set of table and chairs, and looked outward. Beyond was a dock that secured two rowboats. Sitting under gray skies, the waters were calm, the surface split by gliding ducks shaking tail feathers, their paddling feet leaving behind a silvery wake. The air was misty and tasted of brine.

  Oliver rapped on the door and the woman who answered introduced herself as Alyssa Bright Mapplethorpe. She was slim bordering on scrawny, and in her fifties, with shoulder-length gray hair, a wrinkled face adorned by a tinge of makeup—blush and lip gloss. She was dressed in jeans that emphasized her bowed legs, and a soft, cashmere pink sweater. Her feet were set into running shoes. Alyssa invited the detectives in.

  The interior was as contemporary as the exterior, the floor plan essentially loft space filled with chrome and glass. The house had been built to show off the views of the Pacific. Public quarters made up the first level, with ceilings that soared upward of twenty feet, the upper levels reached by climbing a steel spiral staircase. The off-white furniture was simple in design and spare in quantity and contrasted dramatically with black ebony floors.

  “Please have a seat and be comfortable,” Alyssa told them. “Can I get either one of you anything to drink? How about some water?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She walked to the kitchen section, took out three handblown-glass tumblers, filled them with ice, and returned with several bottles of springwater and lemon slices. “I’m always thirsty. I’ve been checked out for both kinds of diabetes and the tests always come back normal. I guess I’m just one of those people who dehydrate easily.”

  She distributed the glasses, downed her portion, and poured herself another round.

  “I was in shock when you called this morning, Detective Oliver.” Her eyes became shiny with tears. “This interview is long overdue.”

  “We appreciate you meeting with us,” Oliver answered. “I also talked to the original lead detective on the Manny and Beth Hernandez case last night. George Kasabian. He’s now retired, but he remembered that the church members did a good job avoiding the police.”

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. “It was the times. After our shock at Beth and Manny’s disappearance, we were faced with the conclusion that they fled with the money. As angry as we were, no one ever suggested calling the police. The ‘fuzz’ was the enemy.”

  “Especially when the members were heavily involved in drugs,” Marge suggested.

  “It definitely tilted our decision not to cooperate. At the time it never dawned on me or anyone else that something bad happened to Manny and Beth until Beth’s mother called a week or two later. She was distraught. She wanted my help in hunting them down. I told Mrs. Devargas to go to the police. She told me that she and her husband had been to the police and no one from the church was giving them any help.”

  A big sigh.

  “I told her I’d look into it for her. When she called a second time, I got scared. I packe
d my bags and said good-bye to California without leaving any forwarding number or address. The group could tolerate the possibility that Manny and Beth stole from us. But if something bad had happened to them, we didn’t want any part of it. We broke apart. We went separate ways.”

  “Where’d you go?” Marge asked.

  “Back home to Boston…to college actually. I threw myself into my studies and didn’t participate in any more protests, love-ins, or sit-ins. And definitely no more drugs. That side of me just died. I became an architect, got married, had a daughter, lived a quiet suburban life until my daughter grew up, the empty nest set in, and my ex and I discovered we had nothing in common. The divorce was ten years ago. He stayed in the East, I moved back to California. I had had enough of eastern winters.” She took a paper napkin and dabbed her eyes. “I suppose I realized I was coming back to face my demons. My sudden split from L.A. and no forwarding information was so cowardly. It must have been so hurtful to the Devargases. They must hate me.”

  “Mrs. Devargas spoke very highly of you,” Marge told her.

  “Ill-deserved.” Alyssa spoke through a cracked voice. “Not that I could have told her anything. I have no idea what had happened to them.”

  “We think we found Beth’s body,” Oliver said. “Confirmation is being done today using dental records. We’re almost certain that Beth was murdered.”

  This time, the woman sobbed openly. Marge offered her a Kleenex from her purse and they both waited until Alyssa had calmed down enough to talk. “The poor girl. I hope it was quick and she didn’t suffer.”

  “We told you what we know,” Marge said. “What we don’t know is who did it.”

  Oliver added, “We also don’t know what happened to Manny Hernandez. We’re open to any ideas you might have.” He regarded her intently. She threw up her arms, wiped her tears, but didn’t speak. “How was their relationship?”

  “You mean Beth and Manny?”

  Oliver and Marge nodded.

  “Gosh, we were very young and idealistic and frankly addled by weed, so my memories may be clouded. But I seem to remember it as being very good.”

  Marge and Oliver looked at each other. “Did they fight?”

  “I’m sure they did, but nothing that I can recall as openly hostile. She adored him. He was not as effusive: he’s a man. From what I recall, he was nice to her. I remember he used to compliment her cooking a lot. Beth was an excellent cook. They were from Santa Fe, New Mexico…I guess you know that already.”

  “We do,” Marge said. “Go on. You’re a wealth of needed information.”

  Alyssa smiled. “You’re being so nice. And I know deep inside you must think I’m a horrid bitch.”

  Oliver said, “Tell us about Beth’s cooking.”

  “Oh…well, she made wonderful traditional dishes. Manny loved to eat and he always said that Beth should be promoted to a chef instead of a waitress…gosh, it’s all coming back to me. Beth worked as a waitress. I suppose you know that as well.”

  Marge did, but confirmation was always good. “Manny was a janitor from what I understand.”

  “Yes, he cleaned apartment houses and offices. But he was also a talented carpenter. He designed the layout of the church—the chapel, the offices. He built the pews and the altar. Manny was a good guy. That’s why we trusted him with the money for the farm…do you know about that?”

  Oliver said, “From what we were told, all the members pooled their money and bought an organic farm up north.”

  “Actually, we were going to buy land and turn it into an organic farm. Manny was busy working on plans for communal living quarters. He and Beth were the last people we thought would steal.”

  Marge said, “We’ve heard that Manny could be abrasive.”

  “Abrasive?” Alyssa shook her head. “I wouldn’t say that. If you want to find his weak spot, I’d say he was prone to grandiose thinking. He had drawn up plans for an entire industry—a farm, a barn, a corral, a livestock grazing area, and a gigantic house and guesthouses. We had to tell him to scale it back. First of all, we could never raise that much money. Second, none of us knew anything about farming. We wanted to start off small.”

  “How did he react to your criticism?” Marge wanted to know.

  “It wasn’t criticism.” She poured herself another glass of water and drank it quickly. “It was…” A sigh. “From what I remember, he just modified the plans into something more manageable. Our goal was to save twenty thousand dollars for a down payment. We had about seven thousand in the bank, and that was pretty good considering we were living on a wing and prayer.”

  “A lot of money back then,” Oliver said. “Certainly a good haul if you were a thief.”

  “Manny wasn’t the only one on the signature card. As I recall, he insisted that someone else besides Beth and him be allowed access to the money. If something happened to them, he didn’t want the group not to be able to withdraw the money.”

  Marge’s ears perked up. “Who else was on the card?”

  “Christian Woodhouse.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “Sort of. I tracked him down and called him up after my divorce. I heard he was divorced as well. Currently he’s the headmaster of a prep school in Vermont.”

  “You dated?”

  “For about a month. It didn’t work out, but we left on good terms. I have his number, but I’m sure he can’t tell you anything about Beth and Manny, either.”

  “Why’s that?” Oliver asked.

  Alyssa rattled the ice cubes in her tumbler and drank up whatever water was left. “When Mrs. Devargas called me and asked if I had heard from Beth, the first thing I did was go over to the apartment. When they didn’t answer, I had the manager open the door. It was cleaned out. At that point, my first thoughts were about the money. I called up Christian and we went over to the bank and checked on the cash. I was there when the teller told him the account had been closed.”

  “It doesn’t mean that Beth and Manny had closed it,” Oliver told her.

  Alyssa looked confused, but then she understood what they were saying. “You think Christian killed them and cleaned out their apartment and the bank account?” She laughed. “No, no, no. Christian asked for a copy of the withdrawal statement. A copy was sent to him a few days later and Manny’s signature was on it. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. A few guys from the church went looking for them.”

  She shook her head.

  “That was a bust. Finally, I phoned Mrs. Devargas and told her that they had left—I left out the stolen money because I didn’t want to make her feel bad—and I suspected that maybe they were on their way back home.”

  “Why did you suspect that?” Oliver inquired.

  “Where else would they go?”

  No one spoke.

  Alyssa said, “Anyway, we agreed that we’d call each other if either one of us heard from Beth and Manny. Well, you know how that went. Your call this morning was the first I’ve heard about either of them in years.”

  “Do you think Manny murdered Beth?”

  “Anything’s possible, but I don’t think so,” Alyssa said. “There was never any indication that they were anything else but happily married. How should I put this?”

  A pause.

  “It was the times. We had an open community, if you know what I’m getting at.”

  “Free love,” Oliver said.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve heard that term.” Alyssa gave a sad smile. “As far as I know, when things got…passionate.” She cleared her throat. “Neither Beth nor Manny participated except with each other. I had been a close friend of Beth’s. If she was doing someone on the side, she would have told me.”

  Marge was trying to develop a motive for Manny wanting Beth dead. She said, “Maybe Manny wanted get into the action and maybe Beth said no. Maybe he got angry with her and struck her. Is that possible?”

  Again, Alyssa just shook her head. “I
f Manny had wanted to participate, Beth would have gone along with it. Manny was more about food and drugs than about sex. He loved his pot, he loved his frijoles and carne. I don’t remember anyone in the group having a violent temper. We were all about love and peace, Detectives. To be honest, most of the time we were stoned on weed or flying on acid. Whenever we held a private church service, we smoked weed.”

  “What was the difference between your private and public service?”

  “Well, every Sunday we tried to do a more traditional service to attract new people. It was a mixture of Christianity, Judaism, Unitarianism, and some Indian tribal customs that we learned from Beth and Manny. The public service was conducted without drugs. If we felt that the members would fit into our lifestyle, we’d invite them to our private session. We’d meet like twice a week and that’s when the drugs, booze, and sex began to flow.”

  Marge replayed Peter Devargas’s summations about the Church of the Sunland. He had been pretty much on target. “Did Beth and Manny go to these meetings?”

  “Oh, sure. They got drunk or stoned with us.”

  “What about the sex part?”

  “I told you, I don’t think so. I do remember Manny being wasted a lot. Beth always had to drive home.”

  Oliver said, “This is all very illuminating. But it doesn’t explain why we found Beth’s body and not Manny’s.”

  “So you do suspect him despite what I’ve told you.”

  “He’s still an unknown as far as we’re concerned,” Marge said.

  “Do you think he’s alive?”

  “It’s possible,” Marge said. “Do you have any old pictures of him?”

  “No. When I went back to Boston, I really finished with that stage of my life. I chucked everything and threw myself into my family and my career. The name Mapplethorpe opened doors.”

  “Are you related to Robert Mapplethorpe?”