Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 16

by The Burnt House

  “Yes, I mean Holmes. Who the hell else would I be talking about? This bastard murdered my daughter and you’re sitting on your hands!”

  Just a few days ago, Lodestone had been insistent that Ivan had murdered Roseanne. Of course Holmes’s arrest had changed all that. Although Farley still detested Ivan, he was now aiming his considerable wrath at the contractor. Ivan Dresden was also venting about Holmes to Decker. At last the two men had something in common. It seemed that everyone loved Ray Holmes as Roseanne’s killer.

  Decker said, “Farley, no one has been ruled out.”

  “And no one has been arrested, either.”

  “That’s correct. We’re being very careful because we don’t want any of our hard work thrown out because of procedural errors.” Decker could hear grousing over the phone. “Look, Farley. The case that we’re working on now—the one that involves Raymond Holmes—is over thirty years old. We’re tenacious buggers. We don’t give up just because things are hard.”

  Silence.

  Decker said, “I’m making every effort I can to find out what happened to Roseanne. And I have no reason to think that we won’t solve the case.”

  More silence.

  “Are you there, Farley?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  Decker groaned inwardly. “I’m doing the best I can. I understand that my best isn’t always enough. I’m sorry about that. But I promise you, I’ll keep at it.”

  Maybe we’ll get lucky, he thought to himself.

  Lodestone finally spoke. “The parents of the dead girl that you found. Are they still alive?”

  “Yes, they’re still alive.”

  “How old are they?”

  “In their seventies.”

  “Nice people?”

  “Lovely.”

  “And they’ve been in the dark about their daughter for over thirty years?”

  “Yes.”

  “My, my, my. Now, that is humbling.” The old man’s voice had turned soft. “You gonna talk to them again? The parents?”

  “Yes. I’m sure I’ll be talking to them quite a bit in the days to come.”

  Lodestone was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. When he finally found his voice, it cracked. “When you see ’em, send ’em my best.”

  “I’ll do that, Farley.” Decker felt his throat swell. “I know they’ll appreciate your good wishes.”

  The line disconnected. Decker rubbed his moist eyes and took a moment to simply breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. The conversation had left his voice dry and he slugged down a bottle of water. Then he rolled up his shirtsleeves and went to work.

  41

  THE OLD MAN’S memory was suddenly steeped in senility. Decker supposed that it was one thing to theoretically talk about screwing up one’s only living son. It was quite another thing for Martin Hernandez to face his own flesh and blood in a courtroom and condemn him to death.

  “I didn’t say that Ray did anything,” Hernandez emphasized. “I just told you that Ray and Beth were arguing.”

  “Actually, I have your exact words in front of me,” Decker countered. They were once again sitting in steel chairs, holed up in the luxurious interview room at Santa Fe Correctional. “You signed your statement, Martin. You specifically said that Ray told you that he pushed Beth, although you do say that it was an accident and that Ray said he didn’t mean for her to die.”

  “I’m almost eighty, for Christ sakes! Maybe Ray told me that Manny pushed her.”

  “Where is Manny?”

  “How the hell should I know that?”

  “I think you’d be curious about your own son.”

  “Being curious is not a good thing in a penitentiary. You learn real quick how to mind your own business.”

  Decker had no comeback to that. “I’m trying to help you get out of here early. I’m trying to help you with your dream of raising your dogs in all that beautiful, empty land in southern New Mexico. I’ve seen you work your animal magic and you have a lot to offer once you get out. There are lots of rescued dogs out there that can use rehabilitation.” Decker snapped his fingers. “Hey, maybe you can even get yourself a TV show like that Dog Whisperer guy.”

  Hernandez rolled his eyes. “Lieutenant, I’m old, I’m forgetful, but I’m not stupid. Don’t be playing me for a fool.”

  Decker nodded. “Scratch the TV show. But the rest is reality and that’s totally up to you. If you start forgetting things that you said, Martin, I can still use your statement for the grand jury. That’ll mean that you’re back to square one and you’ll serve out your sentence. All this talk will be for nothing. But that’s up to you.”

  “I ain’t gonna lie for you.”

  “God forbid,” Decker said. “Martin, all I want is for you to tell the truth. Tell a grand jury what Ray told you. That’s it. The rest is up to a court of law.”

  “He never ever tol’ me he killed her, Lieutenant. I want to make that clear.”

  Decker said, “But he did tell you he pushed her…”

  “He pushed her, Manny pushed her. All he kept saying is that he didn’t mean for it to happen.”

  “In your signed statement, you state that Belize told you that he pushed her.”

  “Maybe I made a mistake. He tol’ me someone pushed her. Maybe him, maybe Manny.”

  “Maybe Manny…” Decker sat back in the chair. “Do you remember the last time you saw Manny?”

  “When he was a kid and the missus used to bring them in. After he married Beth, he didn’t come see me no more.”

  “He moved to California.”

  “He coulda wrote.”

  “And Belize never told you what happened to Manny?”

  The old man shook his head no.

  “Did you ever wonder if Belize murdered your son?”

  “No, sir.” Hernandez shook his head. “I never did wonder that. I figure if Manny never visited me before the Beth incident, why would he visit me after? Like I tol’ you, being too curious ain’t a good thing.”

  “What would you say if I gave you proof that Belize murdered Manny?”

  “Maybe I’d care, and then maybe I wouldn’t. Manny was always a mama’s boy. Belize was mine, for better or worse. I mighta been rough on him, but that was because he could take it.” Hernandez leaned across the table. “The deal was that I’d say what Belize told me. The deal was not that I’d lie just because you want me to. And where I come from, a deal is a deal.”

  “No one is asking you to lie.”

  “A deal is a deal.”

  “Ray pushed Beth. You have that in your statement to me.”

  “Well, maybe Ray pushed her and maybe it was Manny. You can read your statement and I can say I don’t remember. I’m an old man. Ray made his confession to me a long time ago and I don’t remember who did what. I’ll tell your grand jury that Ray was there and you can ask me all the questions you want. But I won’t lie for you.” Hernandez folded his thick arms across his barrel chest. “Now, are you gonna keep your end of the bargain?”

  With the old man backtracking, his statement virtually matched the statement that Ray Holmes had given him in San Jose. The D.A. could put Raymond Holmes at the scene of the murder, but now it looked like it was going to be nearly impossible to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he killed Beth. Decker still had the old man’s signed and sworn statement, when the taste of freedom had meant more to Martin than blood ties. The capital murder case would most likely move past the grand jury. “We’re working on a deal, Martin, but you have to keep your end of the bargain.”

  “What can you do for me?”

  “If you agree that you’ll cooperate with us, you’ll get parole. Parole means a parole officer and reporting in once a week. Parole means you can’t move out of state. And most important, this parole also means you’ll have to wear an ID ankle bracelet. Once you’ve made your statement to the grand jury, you’ll be off the hook. The bracelet comes off and you’re free as a bird. If you don’t
make a statement, you’re back in Santa Fe Correctional and you’ll have to make up the free time that you had in prison.”

  “I thought I was going to get early release period.”

  “I tried, Martin, but I couldn’t swing it. First parole and then early release.”

  “When is this grand jury?”

  “In about six months.”

  “If I agree, when do I get out of here?”

  “Just as soon as the deal is inked with the DA here and in Los Angeles.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Hopefully in a couple of weeks. Do we have a deal?”

  Hernandez sighed. “As of right now, I’m in. But don’t wait too long, Lieutenant. I could change my mind. Or I could die.”

  AFTER TWO WEEKS of hunting down BMW dealerships, car washes, and custom shops, Marge got a break. Jim’s Hot Rods, Dragsters, and Funny Cars took up residence on a side street off Roscoe in the industrial section of the San Fernando Valley. Sitting behind a wall of chain link topped with barbed wire, the shop included a warehouse whose windows and doors were protected by iron bars and a concrete yard littered with the exoskeletal remains of automobiles, trucks, and motorcycles. Jim’s did everything—from little jobs like custom upholstery to converting lowly soccer-mom vans into drivable pleasure palaces.

  Dunn found herself surrounded by more mullets than inside an ocean and lots and lots of ponytails as well. But she gave the guys an A for their work ethic. The place absolutely roared with activity, the noise level deafening even without the three barking pit bulls chained up in front of the main office.

  Jim Franco—better known as Jumbo Jimbo, due to his height more than his girth—was cooperative and articulate. He wore a gray T-shirt (probably once white) and denim overalls, grease rags sticking out of every pocket. His hands were big and callused, his nails short and surprisingly cared for. Not that they didn’t have dirt under them, but Marge could tell that the man took pains to make a decent appearance when he put on street clothes. He stood around six five and was packed with muscle. He turned to the dogs and they withered under his scowl.

  “Yeah, I remember Dresden.” He looked down at Marge and made her feel short. He spoke with a voice that was foghorn low. “The guy was not only an idiot, but a tool.”

  “Why do you say that?” Marge had to scream to be heard over the noise.

  Jimbo clapped his hands and shouted, “Hey!” The din took a breather. “Five-minute break. I need to talk to this lady.”

  The mullets and the ponytails headed inside the warehouse. Marge waited a moment, then looked way up. “I said what did Dresden do for you to call him an idiot and a tool?”

  “First off, any man who forgets to put the top up on a convertible in the pouring rain is an idiot. Second, he’s a tool because that’s what he is—a middle-management dick who was trying to be one of the boys. If he’s a pretentious asshole, he should just be one.” Jim waved a disgusted hand in the air. “No big whop. We get ’em all the time. Anyway he brought in a black 330 ci that reeked of mold. I told the guys in the shop to wear face masks and to pop antihistamines. Man, it was bad!”

  “What did you do?”

  “Took everything down to the metal.”

  “Including the seat upholstery?”

  “I probably could have cleaned it up on the outside—it was leather—but I wouldn’t take responsibility for what was growing inside the upholstery. It would have always smelled and who would want to breathe that shit in. Didn’t matter. He wanted it stripped to the metal anyway. He said insurance would pay for it, but I didn’t trust the guy. I told him I’d help him collect from insurance, but if he wanted me to do the job, it would be cash and cash only. I asked for sixty percent up front hoping to scare him off, but he agreed.”

  “Why did you want to scare him off? Did he give you any problems?”

  “No, he didn’t,” Jimbo admitted. “Paid whenever I asked him to.”

  “Did you also replace the carpeting in the trunk?”

  “Everything. Dresden wanted everything to match.”

  Marge winced. “That’s too bad. Nothing was salvageable?”

  “Why?” Jimbo gave her a look. “Something funny happen inside the car?”

  “I don’t know, but it looks like we’re never going to find out.”

  The jumbo man gave her an oversize smile, exposing tobacco-stained teeth. “You know, ma’am, today might be your lucky day. The carpet in the trunk didn’t need to be replaced, but as long as we were redoing the interior carpeting, I knew we’d probably have enough square feet left over to do the trunk, too. So it wouldn’t cost Dresden extra to replace it. The car mats were a different story.”

  Marge’s ears perked up. “Car mats?”

  “Yeah, the car mats that go on top of the carpet. New car mats with the BMW logo would cost Dresden money. I told him that I could probably steam-clean the old ones as good as new, but he insisted on ordering fresh. What the hell? Didn’t make any difference to me except that there was a six-week wait and it took a little extra time. Shipment got mixed up or something. Anyway, I asked Dresden what he wanted me to do with the old ones. He told me to chuck them.”

  “Tell me you didn’t do it.”

  “Why throw away perfectly good mats?”

  “Tell me you have them.”

  “No, I don’t. That’s why I said it might be your lucky day. I cleaned them up and sold them on e-Bay. I got a few bucks and the customer got a bargain.”

  “Do you remember who you sold them to?”

  “Got it all down in my computer. She may not be happy giving back the mats. She got a good deal.”

  “Either she’ll get them back or we’ll get her new ones.” Marge was writing as fast as she could. “So let me get this straight. You offered to clean the old mats and put them back in the car, but Dresden told you to throw them away.”

  “Yep.”

  “And you’re positive that he told you to chuck them?”

  “Are you asking if I’d swear to it in court? The answer is yes. Matter of fact, I asked him specifically if he wanted me to clean them so he could keep the mats for a backup set and he told me no. He said he wanted brand-new and that I should just chuck ’em in the garbage.”

  “Those were his words? ‘Chuck ’em in the garbage’?”

  “Yes. That’s when I thought if they’re going in the garbage, why not clean ’em and see how they turn out?”

  “And you have the woman’s name and address?”

  “I do.”

  “What about her phone number?”

  “No phone number, Sergeant. It was a business transaction, not a date.”

  DECKER FELT A strange buzzing sensation in his chest. For a split second he wondered about his heart, but then he realized that he had placed his cell in his interior coat pocket and the ringer was on vibrate. He looked at the cell’s window: Marge. “Are we happy today?”

  “We are very happy.” Marge explained the situation in detail. When she got to floor mats, Decker pumped his fist and shouted “yes.” “I put Oliver on contacting the woman from e-Bay. She was out and he left a message on the machine, but we both think we shouldn’t take any chances. We’d like to drive down tonight.”

  “I agree. Take along a tech to luminol. I want this as professional as possible.” Decker paused. “I hope we get something. Usually some proteins remain in the bleed-out area, but in this case, the carpets were professionally cleaned. Even if we get a little fluorescence, defense could always say it was her car, maybe she scraped her ankle and bled into the carpet.”

  “I thought about that,” Marge said. “But we can counter by saying it must have been quite a lot of blood to survive a professional cleaning. Also, Dresden’s cover story is fishy—that he left the top down in a rain. It had to have been quite a downpour because the interior was not only soaked beyond redemption but infested with mold.”

  “When did he bring the car in to the shop?”

  “
About a month after the crash.”

  “So check that date against the local weather reports. Let’s see if it was raining around that time. If it wasn’t, we’ve punched a hole in that alibi.”

  “I’ve already put Oliver on that as well. The weather was L.A. consistent—partly cloudy with burn-off in the afternoons. No precipitation in the area other than morning dew. I also had Scott check farther up north and east in the mountains. There was some light rain in San Bernardino, but the system passed through pretty quickly. I’m no mycologist, but for it to smell that bad, it sounds like the interior was soaked. I think Dresden took a hose and drowned the interior, trying to wash away evidence.”

  “Makes sense. Let’s see if we can get some bright blue splotches to back it up.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m back in my hotel room packing up. I’ve got a little spare time, so I’ll probably grab some lunch and then drive back to Albuquerque. I’ll make sure my cell is charged, but reception on the ride back isn’t always so great. If you don’t get me, just leave a message. Call as soon as you know anything.”

  “I will. Have you decided on where to eat?”

  “Anywhere I can walk. Any suggestions?”

  “Pasquals on Water Street. It’s casual, it’s comfortable, and the food is terrific. Be sure to ask for both red and green chili on the side. Man, that’ll give your taste buds a workout.”

  “I could use a good meal. Thanks for the tip.”

  “I’ll give you another one. Instead of asking for red and green chili, just ask for Christmas chili. It’ll mark you as a local.”

  DECKER HAD THE option of a private table with a thirty-minute wait or immediate seating at a round communal table. He was tired and starved, so he opted for the latter. His tablemates included a retired stockbroker with a passion for fly-fishing, a ceramic artist, a family of tourists with two young children, and a couple from Texas who owned a second home somewhere in the mountains. When the stockbroker asked about him and what he did for a living, Decker told the table that he was a lawyer and was in Santa Fe on business. The two sentences, stated separately, were the truth. It was only putting them together that turned his words into a little white lie.