Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 09

by Prayers for the Dead

  “It will land you in jail.”

  “More tax dollars wasted,” Polinski said. “But that’s what this society has come to. Lots of waste.”

  Decker stared at the biker, took out his notepad. “Any idea who might have bumped Granddaddy, Sidewinder?”

  “Me?” Polinski scratched his head. “No. No ideas.”

  “Nah, we don’t know assholes who do this shit,” Sanchez said. “We don’t believe in random violence.”

  Decker managed to keep his face expressionless.

  Sanchez said, “You shoulda seen Granddaddy on a bike, Lieutenant. Man, he was somethin’. Burnin’ the tar, smokin’ dirt through his tailpipes. And he put his money where his mouth was. Came through when it counted.”

  “How so?”

  “In the cause, man.”

  “What cause?”

  “He means,” Polinski said, “that Granddaddy came through when you needed him.”

  “Fucking-A right!”

  “What cause?” Decker repeated.

  “Like when Benny got wrecked.” Polinski scratched his head again. Flakes snowed from his scalp. “Man, did he get wrecked!”

  Sanchez said, “Yeah, man, that was somethin’. He really got wrecked, man.”

  Decker said, “What happened to Benny?”

  “Asshole was skunk drunk.” Sanchez adjusted his pants. “Went flyin’ head first into the ground. Blood squirtin’ all over the fuckin’ place. Granddaddy sprung into action. Man, it was somethin’ to see that guy in action when Benny got wrecked. Old guy like him.” He snapped his fingers. “Moved like that.”

  Polinski said, “He had him bandaged up and ready to go way before the medics came tooling by. It was something to watch him. We were all in awe.”

  “What happened to Benny?” Decker asked.

  Sanchez said, “He died, stupid fuck. Massive brain injuries.”

  “Not that he had much brains to start with.”

  Decker said, “He wasn’t wearing a helmet?”

  Sanchez sneered. “We was playin’ around in the desert. You don’t expect to get wrecked playin’ around in the desert. Besides, helmets are for pussies.”

  Too bad Benny wasn’t around to offer a rebuttal. Decker said, “How did Dr. Sparks come to join your group and ride with you?”

  “I asked him,” Sanchez said. “I fell in love with the old guy, know what I’m sayin’. He comes into the lot with his sons, I thought, Shit, another stupid fuck. Turns out the guy wasn’t a stupid fuck. Knew what he wanted, knew what he was talkin’ about. I asked him…I said…hey, Granddaddy, want to ride with us on Saturday. I kinda threw it out like a joke. But he said, Yeah, I’ll come ride with you on Saturday. And you know what? He came and rode with us.”

  “He was good.” Polinski ran his tongue over equine frontal incisors. “Could have used a little polishing when taking the curves. But for an old guy, he had great balance.”

  Decker said, “Either of you have any theories about his murder?”

  “Yeah,” Sanchez said. “It was some asshole.”

  Polinski said, “It’s absurd. Someone murdering Granddaddy. For what reason? Grease Pit’s right. It had to be some hyped asshole.”

  Sanchez hit Polinski’s shoulder, pointed to someone in the crowd. “Who’s that guy, Sidewinder? Don’t he look familler?”

  Decker looked to where Sanchez was pointing. Muscular build, curly black hair, blue eyes. “That’s Paul Sparks. One of the doctor’s sons.”

  Sanchez pulled up his pants. “Who’s he talking to?”

  Decker regarded Paul’s companion. A ruddy man who appeared to be in his sixties, around six feet with a sizable spread about his middle. Soft features—thick lips and a thick, veiny nose. White hair cut short and blunt. Dressed in a gray double-breasted suit, white shirt, red tie.

  From Decker’s viewpoint, the old guy seemed to be lecturing about something important. Because Paul was listening carefully, nodding at frequent intervals, his eyelids calm and steady.

  “Don’t he look familler?” Sanchez repeated.

  “Yes, he does,” Polinski agreed. “He’s obviously a friend of Granddaddy’s. But I don’t remember him ever riding with us.”

  “No, he didn’t ride with us.”

  The two bikers continued to stare.

  “Didn’t Granddaddy brought him into the store once?” Sanchez said. “When he looked at the Harley Bagger.”

  “Granddaddy bought a Bagger?”

  “I knowed he looked at one,” Sanchez said. “A thirtieth anniversary Ultra Bagger. But I don’t think he buyed it.” To Decker, he said, “That is one mean mother bike—1340 ccs at 5000 rpm, 78 pounds of torque, and fuel-injected. Tops out ’bout ninety which ain’t bad considering all the shit it got on it. I remember Granddaddy was looking at a Victory Red.”

  “Cool,” Decker said.

  Polinski continued staring at the man.

  Sanchez said, “Think we should go over and say somethin’ to him?”

  “Like what?”

  “I dunno,” Sanchez said. “Like hi or somethin’.”

  Again, Polinski tongued his front teeth. “I don’t even remember his name.”

  “I don’t, either.”

  Polinski said, “Nah, I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “Me, neither,” Sanchez said. “I was just thinkin’ that we should be…you know…like payin’ our respects.”

  “We showed up and signed into the book,” Polinski said. “That’s enough. You know what? I’ve had enough. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

  “Yeah, good idea.” Sanchez turned back to Decker. “You remember what I told you, right?”

  “If you remember what I told you.”

  “What did I miss?” Polinski said.

  “I was just informing Mr. Sanchez that lynch mobs are against the law.”

  Polinski waved Decker off. “He’s just frustrated. We all are. Too much tax dollars wasted on psychos. Too many laws restricting freedom of choice. The government should be catching criminals…real criminals. Not passing meaningless shit that the cops can’t enforce. I mean the drug czar, for instance. What a waste of tax dollars. I’m not saying drugs are good. I’m just saying the drug czar was a waste of money. No wonder people get mad and blow things up.”

  “Because it’s meaningless,” Sanchez said.

  “Exactly.”

  Decker said, “You’re entitled to think a law is meaningless. Just as long as you obey it.”

  Polinski said, “If the law told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it?”

  “You’re speaking in absurdities, Mr. Polinski,” Decker said.

  “That’s the point,” Polinski said. “The law’s absurd.”

  Decker said, “Let’s talk bottom line, gentlemen. I don’t want any trouble with you, I don’t want you getting in my face. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Hey, you do your job,” Sanchez said. “You get no trouble from us.”

  Polinski hit Sanchez’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Before you two go, can I get your full names and addresses?”

  Polinski said, “Stanislav Polinski, aka Sidewinder. He’s Emmanuel Sanchez, aka Grease Pit.”

  “Addresses?”

  “Right now we got a trailer in Canyon Country,” Sanchez said. “But that don’t mean nothin’. ’Cause we’re always on the move.”

  “Where in Canyon Country?”

  “Somewhere,” Sanchez answered.

  Sidewinder said, “No sense giving you a place ’cause we move around a lot.”

  “What about the shop?” Sanchez said.

  “What about it?” Decker asked.

  “I work at a used-bike dealership Thursday through Saturday. You can call me anytime.” Sanchez moved in and smiled. “Give you a great deal on the bike of your choice. Specially if you got trade-in.”

  “I’ll bet,” Decker said. “What’s the address of the dealership?”

  Sanchez gave it to
him. “Good meetin’ you.” Sanchez grabbed Decker’s hand with a leathery palm, shook it hard. “You’re gonna find this asshole, right?”

  “I’m going to do my best.”

  “Come on.” Polinski gave Sanchez a slight nudge. To Decker, he said, “Ciao.”

  “Ciao.” Decker watched them go, swaggering and jingling, with Sanchez tugging his pants upward to hide his butt crack. Grease Pit talked a good case of avenging Granddaddy, but he was probably more smoke than fire. Still, one never knew. They both merited further investigation.

  Decker made some final scratches in his pad, notes reminding him to check out certain things. He finished his scribblings, tucked the pad into his jacket. Then he looked up and scanned the crowd. Paul was conversing with a bunch of white-haired church ladies. And the man with the thick lips and veiny nose had disappeared from sight.

  16

  The captain was in. Phone in hand, he pointed to a seat and continued talking into the receiver. Decker sat and waited. Strapp’s office wasn’t much bigger than his lieutenant’s cubicle, wasn’t any better decorated, either. Standard-issue desk and chairs, file cabinets, a separate work station with the computer. He had a phone, a fax machine, and a slotted paper holder overflowing with multicolored police forms. The desk held the pictures of the wife and kids, the walls were hung with photographs of the professional man. A smiling Strapp showing lots of teeth standing next to the mayor, Strapp with the Guv, Strapp in uniform between the president and first lady. Other snapshots, among them a photo of the Captain standing next to a little girl holding a teddy bear. The man who stood at her other side wore a white coat.

  Dr. Sparks.

  Decker remembered the four-year-old headline. The girl had been given a new heart and life from the tragedy of another child’s untimely death.

  Strapp hung up the phone, folded his hands on his desk. He was about to speak, then noticed where Decker had focused his attention.

  “Patty Harrison. Cute little thing, isn’t she?”

  “Adorable. Do you know how she’s doing?”

  “No, I don’t.” Strapp grew tense. “I hope they’re coping with the news of Sparks’s death. This could be devastating. How’s the investigation going?”

  “Still gathering information. Dr. Craine should be getting back with an initial autopsy report, Farrell Gaynor’s been doing paper trail for the last eight hours, the others are asking questions, sorting through physical evidence. The investigation’s proceeding nicely, sir. But I’ve got a problem.”

  “What?”

  “My wife knows one of Dr. Sparks’s sons. The priest, Abram Sparks.”

  Strapp pondered the words. Slowly, he asked, “Does she know him well?”

  “Well enough to be at Azor Sparks’s memorial service.”

  “She went at the priest’s behest?”

  “Yes, although they haven’t been in contact for years. At one time, they were good friends.”

  “Romantically involved?”

  Decker started to smile because the thought struck him as ludicrous. An Orthodox woman like Rina with anyone, let alone a priest. Instead, he thought a moment and decided to frown instead. There had been an intimacy between them—that swift glance. Decker knew a strong bond had been forged because Bram had moved into her life at a very crucial time. But how strong?

  A good-looking man selflessly nursing his dying friend through the terminal stages of his illness, comforting the friend’s beautiful wife with perfect words: about how there were reasons for everything and having faith in God…

  An adulterous relationship was out of the question. Rina would never have permitted it no matter what the circumstances might have been. But what had happened between them after Yitzchak had died…well, Decker wasn’t as certain as he should have been. Because gentile or no gentile, passionate feelings often superseded convention. His memory tape did an instant rewind as he thought about how willingly Rina had accepted the raised eyebrows in her own community when she had dated and married him.

  Which was probably why Decker had reacted so strongly to Rina at the Sparkses’ reception. Yes, his wife’s involvement could mess up his case. But equally as upsetting to Decker was his lack of knowledge about Rina’s relationship with the priest. The whole thing made him feel squeamish.

  He said, “I don’t think so. But I don’t know.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to ask her?”

  “No.” Decker glanced at a smiling Azor Sparks, then returned his eyes to Strapp. “As much as I want to continue on this case, I do have my priorities. I’m not about to create tension in my marriage. There are rumors that the priest might be gay. I don’t know if that’s true, either. That’s all irrelevant right now. What is important is simply…there was a personal connection between my wife and Sparks’s son. What do you want me to do?”

  Strapp sighed heavily. “Is he a suspect?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Any indication that he’d make a good suspect?”

  “None so far.”

  Strapp rested his elbows on the desk, made a teepee with his hands. “You’re a lieutenant one temporarily acting as a two. So your role in this homicide, as with all your Dees cases, is supervisory, right?”

  “Yes. But occasionally I do get involved. Usually in the beginning when cases aren’t cut-and-dried.”

  “Like this one.”

  “Yes.”

  “But once the case starts gathering its own momentum, you back off.”

  “I leave the nuts and bolts to my detectives unless they have a specific problem, yes.”

  Strapp considered the problem in silence. Then he said, “At the moment, I see no reason to yank you off. Tell you what. You make sure to run everything by me. And I’ll back you up if this should become an issue.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “Also, we should set up regular meetings so something will be on the books. Let’s try to talk on a daily basis sometime in the afternoon.”

  “Fine.”

  “It’s good you told me.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Call me with updates then.” Strapp picked up the phone. “We’ll talk later.”

  The exit line. Decker stood up and left.

  “Paul was in debt,” Gaynor said. “I’m not talking a home mortgage or car payments. I’m referring to debt from personal bank loans.”

  Decker ran his hand through perspiration-soaked red hair. Man, he was tired, his iron will demanding that his eyes stay open and his mind stay alert. But he knew he only had a few hours left before the brain shut down. Though it was only six in the evening, it felt two in the morning. “How deep was he in?”

  “Three hundred fifty-thou give or take a few bucks.”

  Oliver shot back in his seat and whistled. “My oh my!” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Is it my imagination or is it suddenly hot in here?”

  “No, it’s hot.” Decker leaned back in his desk chair. “We’re a little cramped. Tom, you want to turn down the thermostat?”

  Closest to the dials, Webster adjusted the temperature. A blast of cold air shot through Decker’s office. He leaned against the wall, slapped his notebook against his palm. “I wouldn’t even know how to start spending that kind of money.”

  “Oh, I would,” Oliver said. “Spending is never the problem. It’s getting it. How’d Paul weasel a heavy bank loan like that?”

  Gaynor shuffled through his stack of computer printouts. “One guess.”

  Marge shifted her rear on a hard seat of plastic. “Dad co-signed.”

  “Right.”

  “How long has Paul had the loan?”

  “Two years. At this point, it’s more like a revolving line of credit.”

  “Secured loan?” Decker asked.

  “Unsecured,” Gaynor said. “Higher interest but neither had to put up any collateral. Sparks’
s credit and word were good enough.”

  Martinez fanned himself with his notepad. “What’s the doctor worth?”

  Gaynor consulted his papers. “He has over six accounts—three money markets with three different brokerage houses, one savings account, two checking accounts. By the rises and falls in the balances, the savings account is probably for household expenses. Balance around ten grand. Checking accounts…uh, first one looks like household expenses again. A balance of about two grand. Then he has one for business with a balance of around twenty grand.”

  “That’s an awfully high balance for a checking account,” Marge commented.

  “Yeah, I asked about that,” Gaynor stated. “Apparently, it’s not unusual. Doctors have high expenses.”

  Martinez said, “Except New Chris was paying for everything. It’s not like Doc had equipment to buy or a payroll to meet.”

  “Or even malpractice insurance.” Webster stood in front of the air-conditioning vent. “I b’lieve New Chris even paid for that.”

  Gaynor shrugged. “I’m just giving you the facts.”

  “What about the money markets?” Decker asked.

  “With Levy, Critchen, and Goldberg…uh…” Gaynor shifted through reams of paper while all of them waited wordlessly. “Uh…here we go. He had around a half-mil in stocks, bonds, mutual funds, and cash.”

  Decker said, “Levy et al. is Paul Sparks’s firm.”

  “So he did banking with his son,” Marge said. “There must have been some kind of trust.”

  “Up to a point,” Gaynor said. “Because with Kenner, Carson, Thomas, he kept more. About two and a half mil in assets, not counting his pension, which has another three million.”

  Oliver said, “Shit, that man was rich!”

  Marge said, “Emphasis on the was, Scotty.”

  Oliver made a face. “Yeah, won’t do him much good now. Tom, stop hogging the vent. We’re dying here.”

  Webster stepped away from the grille. “Sorry.”

  “Doesn’t the money automatically go to the wife?” Martinez asked.

  Gaynor stated, “I know his pension money does because I got hold of the beneficiary papers—don’t ask me how.”