Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 04

by Day of Atonement

  Putting it that way, it really did sound absurd. “God’s honest truth,” Decker said.

  “You’re an asshole,” MacPherson said.

  Decker laughed.

  “Kid related to Rina?” Fordebrand asked.

  “No,” Decker said. “Just doing a favor for one of her friends.”

  “Hell of a favor,” Fordebrand said.

  “You know how it is,” Decker said. “Starts out as an ‘I’ll look into it’ and turns out to be a mess.”

  “All runaways are messy,” Hollander said.

  Ain’t that the truth, Decker thought. He should have removed himself from the case when he had a chance. Should have packed up the crew and gone to Florida—to his real family. Why didn’t he back out?

  Then he told himself, You know why, schmuck. Something to do with a grandmother’s eyes.

  “Well, I’m off to court,” Fordebrand said. “This case gets any more continuances, the foreman of the jury’s gonna keel over. Think the guy’s ninety-two or something.”

  “Why do they pick them that old?” MacPherson asked.

  “The victim was old,” Fordebrand said. “That juror was one for the prosecutor’s side.” He started singing: “I owe, I owe, so it’s off to work I go…”

  The off-key song was accompanied by off-key whistling. After he left, MacPherson said, “There goes Dopey.”

  “Dopey couldn’t talk, Paul,” Decker said. “Maybe you should try to emulate him.”

  MacPherson sighed. “Can anyone do something about the man’s breath?”

  His request was met with silence.

  Hollander said, “Marge should be in momentarily, Pete. She has a pile of papers for you, but I don’t know where she put them.”

  “I’ll wait for her,” Decker said. “I don’t think she’d appreciate me ravaging her files.”

  “As long as you’re here,” Hollander said, “you remember that sexual assault you picked up before you left—”

  “Don’t want to hear about it—”

  “It’s turned into a real mess,” Hollander said. “The girl has a psychiatric history and they want to subpoena your notes.”

  “Christ.”

  “I told them you were out of town—”

  “Consider me not here—”

  “PD’s throwing a shit fit,” Hollander said. “Claims his man put the injuries on her, but it was part of a game—”

  “So what?” Decker stated. “She claims she told him to stop when it got too rough and after seeing her wounds, I believe her. She was beaten to a pulp.”

  “Sexual games gone wild.”

  “PD doesn’t have a good defense. That’s why he’s angry.”

  “Just keeping you up to date,” Hollander said.

  “Well, I don’t want to hear it until I’m officially on duty,” Decker said. “I’ve got enough crap to worry about—”

  “Yeah, speaking of that, a Terry Vadich called yesterday…day before yesterday, something like that. Sounds like another loonybird. Says she’s got something of importance to tell, but she’ll only talk to you. I left her number on your desk.”

  Decker slouched in his chair and closed his eyes. “I’m out of commission for the next ten days.”

  “I suppose you don’t want to hear about—”

  “You suppose right, Mike,” Decker said.

  “I don’t blame you,” Hollander said. “I’m out of here day after tomorrow. Mary’s niece is getting married.”

  “Who’s going to cover for you?” Decker asked.

  “Beats me,” Hollander said. “Somebody’s gonna be in the shop. Let him…or her take it up with the Watch Commander.”

  Decker knew “her” was Marge. He felt bad, but not bad enough to cut short his so-called vacation. Besides, Noam needed him more than Marge did.

  A moment later, a pair of strong hands pushed his legs off the desk.

  “I work and he sleeps? What a deal!”

  “I’ve been thinking about you.” Decker smiled.

  “How long have you had those nightmares, Rabbi?”

  “I’ve missed your lilting tones, Detective Dunn.”

  “You missed someone kicking your butt,” Marge said.

  “Rina kicks my butt,” Decker said.

  “But I pack a bigger wallop.”

  “True.” Decker opened his eyes. A looming mass of female flesh was staring down at him. But the eyes—soft and brown—they sparkled. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her wispy blond hair stuffed into her coat collar. Her face was even-featured. She was a good-looking gal, especially when she bothered to put on makeup. Decker usually didn’t think of Marge in sexual terms. But Shimon’s questions about her made him aware of her femininity.

  “What do you have for me?” Marge asked.

  Decker sat up. “You don’t have to do overtime, Marjorie.”

  Marge smiled, held herself back from tousling his hair. She didn’t bother to remind him of the extra hours he’d spent with her at the academy shooting range. All those long nights over coffee, Pete bolstering her ego, keeping her spirits up after an asshole blunted her forehead with an iron. If it hadn’t been for Pete, she would have folded, probably been reassigned to some ass-spreading desk job meant to baby-sit those lost to combat fatigue.

  “I don’t mind,” she said. “Come over to my place, honey, and I’ll give you what I got.”

  “Best invitation I’ve had all day.” Decker stood and pulled some snapshots out of his desk drawer. “Our boy, Hersh Schaltz, captured on film.”

  Marge took the pictures. Class photos from the seventh grade in a Williamsburg school. A group picture—all the boys dressed in black coats, slouch hats, white shirts, and ties. None had any visible hair but all of them had those funny long earlocks. Hersh seemed grim but nothing unusual in the sea of serious faces. What was noticeable were his sunken cheeks—not a molecule of fat on the gaunt face.

  She turned her attention to the next photograph. Tenth-grade high school shot. Public school. Gone was the somber dress. Hersh was wearing a Def Leppard T-shirt, the short sleeves tight around his developed arms. His face was still lean, but it seemed like an affected look of hunger rather than one created by lack of food. An expression designed to connote toughness.

  She asked, “Did Hersh graduate from high school?”

  “I haven’t found any record of it,” Decker said.

  Marge studied the photograph again. Hersh’s expression. Very scary. Especially the eerie smile. Then she focused in on the mug shots. Same lean face, same crazy smile. Wiseguy leer.

  “A real sweetheart,” she said. “You have some of Noam as well?”

  Decker gave her Noam’s school photograph. She said, “He looks kind of cocky, too.”

  “Yep,” Decker said.

  “But it’s more adolescent cockiness,” Marge said. “A kid trying to be tough.”

  She sat down at her desk, unlocked her files, and pulled out a folder. “I started at the beginning. The rental cars at the airport. No one named Schaltz or Stewart or Stremmer, et cetera, rented any vehicles from the airport at least.”

  “He could have changed his name again.”

  “Could be,” Marge said. “Clerks I talked to see thousands of people. No one recalled seeing him—or him and a teenaged kid. If they were there, they got lost in the shuffle. I also talked to the various bus lines and as many cabbies as I could find. Also zip. Just too many people.”

  Decker nodded.

  Marge pulled out a piece of paper, turned it over. “Called Hollywood PD, put them on notice. Last night, I checked out the cheapy motels on the strip, also the shelters. Nothing.”

  Starting from square one again, Decker thought. This time, no friends for leads. But at least he knew Los Angeles, knew the cracks that hide the untouchables.

  “Did you have a chance to check out Westwood Village at night?” Decker said. “Tons of kids hanging out there now.”

  “Didn’t get to it,” Marge said.
/>   “I’ll do it,” Decker said.

  “Hey, I’m free,” Marge said. “Keep you company if you want.” She thought of Rina. “You know what, Pete, I can do it myself—”

  “No way, Charlie.”

  “You stay with Rina.”

  Decker shook his head. “She won’t mind. She got me into this mess.”

  A lie, but a convenient one.

  “I’ll get you home early,” Marge said.

  “What a peach,” Decker said.

  “I’ll pick you up around eight,” Marge said. “What are your plans now?”

  “I have a few ideas,” Decker said. “Could be they settled around Disneyland. You know, kids on an adventure. Disneyland might be a big draw for both of them.”

  “Sounds okay,” Marge said.

  “I’ll head out for Anaheim now,” Decker said. “Pick up Rina, she can keep me company on the long ride over.”

  “Any excuse to see the Magic Kingdom, eh?” Marge said.

  “Any excuse to be with Rina,” Decker countered. “Another thing that occurred to me. Both Hersh/Hank and Noam/Nolan are or were religious Jews. Noam especially could get homesick and run to what is familiar. Rina knows the Jewish areas in Los Angeles. We can check that one out together as well.”

  “Got yourself another partner, eh?” Marge said.

  Decker hesitated a moment. Marge was smiling when she said it, but her tone of voice wasn’t light. He joked, “Just trying to conserve your energy for the big ones, Detective.”

  Marge’s smile widened. It seemed genuine and Decker felt relieved. Jesus, for Marge to feel displaced by his wife…

  Women!

  “I’d love to come with you to Disneyland,” Rina said.

  “If it’s no bother.”

  “It’s no bother.”

  Decker was sprawled out on his bed, enjoying the feeling of a mattress big enough to handle his entire frame. Curled against him was Ginger, the Irish setter given to him by his daughter for his thirty-fifth birthday. Exhaustion was creeping under his eyes and he would have loved to close them and drift away. But there was no time to lose.

  “Boy, is she happy to see you,” Rina said.

  “Feeling’s mutual,” Decker said. “Guy come to feed the horses today?”

  Rina nodded and scratched Ginger’s scruff. “You want to take her with us?”

  “They don’t allow dogs in Disneyland. Besides, we won’t be gone all that long. I want to make it back by eight. Marge and I are going to check out Westwood.”

  Rina looked at the clock. Two-fifteen. The ride was two solid hours, maybe three in traffic. “That’s cutting it close. Maybe you should hold off until tomorrow.”

  Decker was suddenly irked. “Look, I have a job to do. You don’t want to come, fine with me—”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to come—”

  “Rina, these kids had to park themselves someplace. The sooner we find out where, the better it is for everyone.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Rina said. “I’m just wondering how well you can cover Disneyland and Anaheim and make it back to Westwood by eight.”

  “So we’ll make it back by nine.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Rina said.

  Decker said, “What?”

  “You don’t have to snap at me.”

  “I’m not snapping at you.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “What’s your brilliant idea?” Decker said.

  “I didn’t say it was a brilliant idea.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  Rina sighed, feeling guilty. It was her fault he’d been brought into this mess. “It may be stupid, but I was just thinking. Since Hersh didn’t seem to rent a car or take a bus from the airport—”

  “He could have taken a bus,” Decker said. “Hundreds of people take the bus. Unfortunately, no one remembered him.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Rina said. “Forget it. It’s probably just a waste of time.”

  Decker slowed himself down. “You’re right. I did snap at you and I apologize. I’m not used to getting ideas from my wife. Tell me, honey. What’s your idea?”

  “Well,” Rina started out, “maybe they didn’t take the bus out of Inglewood right away. Being tired and not knowing where they were, maybe the two of them checked into one of those cheap motels near the airport. Those places have closed-circuit TV, the type of junk that might interest Hersh….”

  Bingo!

  He said, “How do you know about closed-circuit TV, Rina?”

  “They advertise on the marquee, Peter.”

  Decker said, “The ones that say XXX, nudes—topless, bottomless, adult entertainment in each room.”

  “Yes, those.”

  “Never look at them.” Decker got off the bed, walked over to Rina, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You’ve got a good mind, darlin’. Better than your old man’s. Let’s go.”

  Rina tried to hide a smile by rummaging through her purse.

  Decker said, “Hey, you think if I muscle the desk clerk hard enough, he’ll comp us a room for an hour?”

  “I’m not doing anything on those sheets,” Rina said. “You don’t know where they’ve been!”

  21

  Rina could never figure out why men became unglued behind the wheel of a car. She said nothing as Peter weaved in and out of traffic, swore, banged the dashboard of the unmarked, and talked not only to himself but also to drivers who couldn’t hear him. A psychiatrist witnessing the situation out of context would have declared her husband psychotic.

  At least his mood didn’t dampen the day. It was already ugly. The sky was overcast with clouds and smog, the air smelled of chemical emissions, and the temperature had fallen to a dank sixty degrees. Nothing like New York freeze, but cold for Los Angeles in early October. The trip from the east valley to Inglewood under the best of circumstances took over an hour. In stop-and-go traffic, it was going to take a lot longer. The extra time allowed Rina to observe landmarks such as the Fox Hills shopping mall, the complex just a stone’s throw away from the Doric columns of Al Jolson’s cemetery edifice. Ten minutes later the oil derricks came into view, pumping oil from the surrounding mountainside, looking like skeletal dinosaurs bobbing for apples.

  She heard Peter mutter a “fuck” and turned toward him. He offered no apology—just a “Did you see that asshole?” When Rina didn’t respond, he jerked the car into the far right lane, slamming on the brakes to prevent rear-ending the Honda in front of him. She breathed a sigh of relief when he exited on Century Boulevard.

  Decker glanced at his watch, then started groping his seat cushion.

  “What are you looking for?” Rina asked.

  Decker swung left, then a right onto Century. “My list. I put it next to my—”

  “It’s in my purse,” Rina said. “It was just lying there and I didn’t want it to get lost—”

  Decker said, “Can you tell me next time you take my stuff?”

  Rina handed him the list and folded her arms across her chest. Decker consulted the addresses and drove at the same time, his eyes darting back and forth between the scrap of paper and the road. Rina was tempted to say something, but thought better of it and kept quiet.

  Decker stuffed the list into his shirt pocket.

  The strip leading into the airport was filled with high-rise office buildings, business hotels, and freight warehouses. Once the road had been littered with dozens of seedy, X-rated motels, but it looked as if time had forced the boulevard to clean up its act. Land values were too expensive to waste on “adult” motor inns, and porn films were found in most of the established hotels. Why would Joe Jr. Exec bother with something so downscale when he could get his rocks off in a clean place complete with room service?

  Decker drove all the way to the airport, turned around and worked backward, figuring that to have been the route taken by Hersh and Noam.

  Still some leftover fuck motels. Big marquees framed with pink and orange b
linking lights, the black lettering advertising all the naughty pleasures found within. Decker turned left into a large parking lot. The place was a one-story job faced with dingy plaster and high, narrow windows. The lobby was fronted with a big picture window, next to it two vending machines—one for soda pop, the other for ice. Both machines looked like they hadn’t been used in a long time. He parked and turned to Rina.

  “Maybe you’d better come in with me,” he said. “This is not a great spot for you to be left alone.”

  “Sure.”

  “I snapped at you before,” Decker said. “Sorry.”

  Rina said, “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, you’re awfully patient.”

  “One of us has to be.”

  The clerk behind the desk held the photographs at arm’s length. His name was Clint Willy. He appeared to be in his early thirties, had thin blond hair and milky blue eyes. His skin looked tissue-thin and was pitted with acne scars. His eyes widened as he stared at the snapshots.

  “I’m farsighted,” he said. “Forgot my glasses.” His voice was deep. “That’s the problem with being farsighted. You can drive without glasses, but you can’t see close up. Man, I can’t even read a newspaper with my Coke bottles. Now, if I was nearsighted, I couldn’t drive without my glasses, see? So I’d never forget them.”

  Decker noticed that ole Clint could see Rina just fine. His mouth had dropped open the moment they walked through the door. His leers had lessened to sidelong glances after Decker had presented his shield. But Clint’s eyes still managed to wander in Rina’s direction.

  The lobby was small and smelled of insect repellant. One wall was taken up by the registration desk; any leftover room was filled by a worn plaid couch accented with peeling Naugahyde strips and a coffee table graced with out-of-date airline in-flight magazines. In the corner was a pay phone. Rina was huddled between the phone and the front window.

  Decker said, “I’ve got a magnifying glass in the car.”

  “Nah,” Willy said. “S’kay. I can’t make out any detail—like I couldn’t tell you if this dude was blue-eyed or brown-eyed. Course the picture is in black-and-white, but I mean I couldn’t tell you if the pupil was light or dark.” He handed Decker back the photos. “But I can make out enough to tell you that these two dudes were here. Checked out yesterday morning, paid their bill. No problems.”