"I know." He licked his fingers again. "But this time I bought the kind without the jelly in the middle."
Decker made the call from the locker room because it afforded him more privacy than the squad room—everybody listening in and pretending not to. Cindy picked up on the third ring.
"Hi, princess. How did finals go?"
She burst into tears. Decker felt his stomach knot and gave her a few moments to compose herself. "Don't worry, Cindy, I'm sure you did better than you think."
"I did okay."
Decker said, "I'm sure you did very well."
"I didn't say I did very well." She sniffed. "I could have done better, but I didn't flunk or anything."
"That's good."
"Why? Did you think I'd flunk?"
"Of course not."
"I think I got an A and three Bs."
"That's terrific!"
"Aren't you cheerful."
Decker exhaled slowly. "When are you coming in to L.A.,
Cindy?"
"Daddy?"
"What?"
"Are you mad at me for not telling you about the summer?"
"No, sweetheart. I'm not mad at all."
"Is it okay?"
"Cindy, it's more than okay. I'm looking forward to it. We'll have a great time together if I can ever get your butt in the saddle."
She said nothing, but Decker could picture her smiling with moist eyes. Her voice was little when she returned to the line. "It's okay with Rina? I don't want to impose—"
"Cynthia, you're my daughter. You are never an imposition except when you get cranky and even then you're not an imposition, just a pain in the butt. You've been very cranky lately. What's bothering you? Is it Rina being pregnant? Is it me having another baby? Are you jealous?" There was a long pause. "Not consciously."
Decker smiled. What a college-kid answer. "Baby, I love you. I love you, love you, love you. You are my kid, you will always be my kid even when you're in your seventies, I'm in my nine-
ties. It's a sentence of life without parole, Cynthia. You're stuck with me."
He heard a chuckle over the line. That made him smile again. "So just tell me when and where and I'll pick you up. Your mother already dropped off your car, so you should be all set."
"I won't get in your way—"
"Cindy, you've never gotten in my way."
"I can be a help to Rina."
Decker sighed. "For God's sake, princess, you're becoming your old man—too darn serious. Even / wasn't this bad at nineteen. Will you do me a favor? Will you try to have fun this summer?"
She laughed. "I'll try."
"Try hard, Cindy."
She laughed. "I'll call you after I've scheduled my flight out, Daddy. You know there's something wrong with your phone—"
"Damn!" Decker gently hit his head with his fist. "I'm working on a bizarre case and we've changed our number. I forgot to tell you."
"Thank you very much."
"I'm sorry, Cindy. Mea culpa, twenty lashes with a wet noodle, ashes and sackcloth."
"Oh, Daddy!"
He gave her the new number. "I love you, princess."
"I love you, too.... I know I've been testy. And I know you've been trying really hard. It's okay. You're really a good guy."
'"Predate the compliment, beautiful. Thank you."
"You're welcome. Bye."
She cut the line.
Decker hung up the phone, feeling on top of the world. A good talk will do that to you. That's all she needed—a good talk, words of support from Daddy. Nothing like a father's love to make you feel good.
Then he thought: Maybe she felt better because she'd made it through her first year of college. Maybe it had nothing to do with their conversation and had a lot to do with finals being over and an A and three Bs at Columbia.
With teenagers you never could tell.
He shrugged, then laughed to himself. Of course it was their talk that had eased Cindy's mind. His understanding words, his paternal love. The hell with being a shrink. What was that famous
motto? When it comes to kids, take all of the credit, none of the blame. That sounded about right to him.
It was all Ness could do to refrain from punching her lights out. Instead, he kept himself hidden, waiting until Davida opened the door to her bungalow. Then he moved in, pushing her inside with his body and shutting the door behind both of them. He latched the chain, then shoved her against the wall. Davida's expression changed from frightened to furious, then back to frightened. "Where have you been?" Ness whispered. Davida cast her eyes down at her pumps, then slowly inched them back to his face.
"I bought a new car, Michael. A black BMW convertible with a new Alpine stereo, DAT tape deck and CD." Her lips formed a wide smile. "I drove it off the lot. Would you like to take a
ride?" Ness closed his eyes, counted to ten, and opened them. "Do
you have any idea how much shit you're in?"
"Me?" Davida laughed. "Why, Michael, I haven't done—" "Remember that so-called little assignment you gave me yesterday, Davie?" He eased his grip on the old woman and stroked her arms, lowering his voice. "Kingston's dead."
Davida brought her hand to her mouth. "Oh, dear!" She pushed Ness away and sat on her divan. "Oh, dear, are you sure?" "Yes, Davida, I'm sure."
Slowly, her eyes moistened. "I thought it might be bad, but I had no... I thought it was..." She choked out, "My
poor baby..."
Ness went to the bar and poured himself a Scotch. Davida wiped her cheeks, only to have them wetted again by a fresh flow of tears. Ness sat down next to her. After downing half the shot, he held the tumbler to her lips.
"Drink."
She took the glass and sipped. "What happened?"
"I thought you could tell me."
"I told you I left." She lifted her head and faced Ness. "Was it
bad?"
Ness caught her eye, then looked away. "Yes, it was very bad." He took the drink from Davida's hands. "There're going to be lots of questions. The police have been here—"
"The redheaded detective?"
"Different guys. Two clowns from Burbank—one of them couldn't take his eyes off the women's asses, the other one was clearly on a fishing expedition. They know some details, but not enough to cause damage."
"Did you get rid of them?"
"Only temporarily, Davie. They're not interested in me. I didn't even know King. But they're real interested in talking to you."
She took the tumbler back from him and finished the Scotch. "I was here all day yesterday. You know that. You were with me—"
"Davida..." Ness took her hand. "I can vouch that I saw you yesterday. But I was also teaching class yesterday. I was in the weight room, I was at the pool, I took the ten o'clock broth break with the ladies in the snack bar. I was with other people and..." He sighed. "And you were not there."
The old lady just sat there, tears streaming down her cheeks. Ness patted bony, liver-spotted knuckles. "Don't worry. We'll figure something out."
Davida bit her nail and blinked away tears. "I swear I don't know what happened. I wouldn't hurt my own flesh and blood. You know I..." She started crying again.
Ness buried his face in his hands, wondering how the bitch lied with such facility. Then he remembered what acting was all about.
Or maybe she was genuinely grief-stricken. Her son was dead. But what did she expect, sending in some errand boy. She knew King had an explosive temper! But women like Davida never thought about consequences. Just like his mom. Users. They went on their merry way, exploiting their kids as if they were property. She was talking to him.
"... police say when they were coming back?"
"No, they never do. They just pop up when you're not expecting them."
Davida wiped her eyes. "Like audit letters from the IRS."
Ness smiled. "Freddy sent them out to Malibu—pretty clever stall on his part. You never answer the phones so the two of them are going to waste a c
ouple of hours driving there and back. But you're going to have to talk to them eventually."
"What do I say?"
Ness shrugged. "You're the performer."
"I'm an actress, Michael, not a writer."
"Then play it simple. Act the grieving mother and keep your
mouth shut." Davida blinked her eyes in rapid succession. "I don't have to
act, Michael."
"I'm sorry, Davida. But you should have known better. You should have let me handle Kingston."
Davida nodded like a chastised little girl. God, she was sick. But the bitch had a way of evoking pity. Ness sighed.
"Does Lilah know?" Davida asked.
"Yes, Davida, she knows. The cops have already talked to
her—"
"What'd she say?"
"I don't know. She's been incommunicado, doing nothing but
exercising—" "What?"
"Leading the one-o'clock class, even as we speak. She gave Natanya the afternoon off so she could take over. You know Lilah. When she's truly hysterical, she aerobicizes. She's been at it all day and hasn't eaten a thing. Freddy's really worried about her, afraid she's gonna drop dead." Ness gave her a half smile. "Or maybe that's what you want."
And then Ness felt a whack across his face. It took him a few seconds before he realized she'd actually backhanded him. He touched his burning cheek, then shook his head. Didn't know the bitch had it in her.
Davida said, "Don't you ever—"
"Sorry." Ness sipped his drink, then stroked his face. "Jesus, you pack a good wallop for an old broad."
She grabbed his chin, turned his head, and inspected his imprinted face. "Yes, Michael, indeed I do." She kissed his cheek. "When you were... there, did you happen to notice—"
"Davida, I was there for just a moment." He pushed hair out of his eyes. "It was so... so messy... so... bloody. I just got the hell out. But I took care of some details for you, Davie." "What details?" "Better that you don't know." "But you didn't—"
"No papers. Your errand boy came up dry. Or King got to him before he had a chance to really look."
Davida's eyes watered. "He was my son, Michael, and I loved him. I want you to know that. I never meant for him to die."
"You don't mean a lot of things, but you screw up a lot." Ness stood and kissed her forehead. "I've got to go. Afternoon yoga with the ladies. If the cops come, I'll do the best I can. You know that."
"I know that," Davida took out a handkerchief. "Thank you. You have been a luv."
"That's me, a real luv." He took a final drink, then placed the tumbler on the bar. Reaching into his back pocket, he popped a peppermint candy into his mouth. Wouldn't do at all if the starving girlies smelled Scotch on the breath of their health-conscious aerobic guru.
Then his heart started racing. He felt around his back pockets, then his front pockets. He patted his shirt, tried his pants again. His head started spinning.
His wallet was gone.
Marge hung up the phone. "The best Reed can do for us is forty-five minutes at three. If we leave right now, we should make it." Decker said, "Burbank's not going to like it—especially Malone. He wanted to be in on the interview."
"They're en route to Malibu; we can't exactly wait for them. Reed's a busy guy." Marge slung her purse over her shoulder. "We'll take the recorder and play back the interview word for word. Besides, didn't Morrison tell us to get the lead out?"
"If I move any faster on this case, I'm gonna turn into a sonic boom." Decker stuffed his wallet in his pants. "All right, let's do Reed... find out if he knows anything. I just wanted to avoid a stupid interdepartmental squabble. I have a feeling Donnie Malone might be the petty type."
"So that's his problem. He wants to field hotshot calls, let him apply to Southeast—get lowdown and funky in the pits."
Decker regarded her. "Are you still interested in working Homicide?"
Her face became animated. "Why? Is there an opening?"
"Nothing official, Margie. But scuttlebutt says Devonshire might have an opening soon."
Marge's face fell. "An opening? As in room for one: as in white male?"
"Maybe they could be talked into two for one."
"So what does that make me? A door prize?"
"Marjorie, you know the way the department works. If I say
no, they're not going to ask you to apply. So either I convince them to take you as a door prize or we both stay put. Stop getting touchy."
There was a long silence.
"Do you want to work Homicide?" Marge said.
"It's a challenging detail, but it's also a lot more hours." Decker shrugged. "At this point, it's theoretical. I just wanted to sound you out, okay?"
Marge smiled. "I appreciate what you're doing. I don't mean to sound like an ingrate, but it's infuriating."
"I know it's hard being passed over because you don't have a dick. But I have one and if I can help you, why not?"
"You're a good guy, Pete."
"My daughter just told me that."
"It must be true." Marge winked. "Let's go. I'll drive."
Decker looked out the window and thought: It's good to get out of the squad room. The day was hot and clear, the freeways relatively empty. The drive was long but scenic, the unmarked trailblazing through winding canyons shaded with copses of eucalyptus, leafy maples, and gnarled California oak that shimmered in the heat. Clusters of black birds dotted the aqua summer sky.
The Plymouth was making good time until it hit Hermosa Beach at Pacific Coast Highway. Traffic immediately jammed with stalled cars and reckless motorbikes weaving in and out of lanes. The right sides of the streets were marked for bike paths and were filled with latex-coated cyclists. The sidewalks were clogged with flower-shirted tourists weighed down by cameras around their necks, and pedestrians in skin tones ranging from deep tan to lobster red. Whizzing past the walkers were the skateboarders and the Rollerbladers dressed in Day-Glo surfing shorts and muscle shirts. Gull cries and bird songs competed for air space with boom boxes or the rowdy shouts of party animals stuffed onto balconies of apartment buildings.
On the right, PCH looked down upon several streets stacked with multifamily dwellings. The buildings had been erected without much thought to architectural conformity, although most were made of stucco and wood and had lots of windows. Beyond the houses was an expanse of steely-blue undulating with the rhythmic flows of whitecaps.
With the car stopped at a congested intersection. Marge's eyes drifted from the, ocean to the street scene. "Ah, to be young, single... and while. This place is Wonder bread."
Decker squinted out the window. "I think 1 see a couple of
blacks."
"Nah, they're not real blacks, more like... chocolate-dipped
surfers."
"1 hear rap music."
Marge waved him off. "Rap has been coopted by whites, Pete. Look at Vanilla Ice and his Xeroxes." She laughed. "Everyone wanting what the other guy has—whites putting shit in their hair to get dreadlocks, blacks putting shit in their hair to turn it straight. No pleasing the human race."
"It's what makes us creative," Decker said. "Turning the restlessness into art. Hey, Margie, how 'bout us writing a policeman's rap:
"A cop's lot in life is no easy shakes. Criminals and felons and all sorts of fakes Cettin in my fate every night and every day, Stalkin and waitin just to blow me away—"
"Keep your badge and gun. Sergeant."
Decker's expression was deadpan. "I'm wounded."
Compulsively neat with a wide sweeping view of the ocean, the office looked more suited for a CEO than for a doctor. The walls were wainscoted—peach and hunter-green chintz print above the chair railing, deep-walnut paneling below. Reed's desk was an old-fashioned mahogany partner's desk, the legs carved into lions. But from the way it was positioned and the diplomas on the wall, it was clear the desk was used only by one person who demanded
lots of space.
Decker made him
self comfortable in one leather wing chair opposite the desk; Marge took the matching seat. Reed had seated himself erect in his desk chair, hands folded and resting on the desk, his lab coat sparkling white and stiffly starched. A man used to order. Decker bet he got anxious if things didn't go as planned. And he was anxious now. The straight-featured, bronzed face was knitted at the brow, the chestnut eyes dancing instead of
Faye Kellerman - Decker 05 - False Prophet Page 29