Hangman

by Faye Kellerman

  “It would be nice if something positive came out of it.”

  “How’s Hannah doing?”

  “She seems okay.” He shook his head. “What a terrible thing to go through. I should have been more sympathetic to her.”

  “Why don’t you bring her some flowers. That’s always a crowd-pleaser. There’s a florist a few blocks away. I’ll pick up something sweet like sunflowers.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “Don’t even go there.” Marge laughed. “By the way, Chuck Tinsley called. He wants his jewelry back.”

  His brain cells finally sparked. “Marge, where’d you find the jewelry?”

  “Where?”

  “Yeah, where in his apartment. Was it in plain sight?”

  “I think it was in his underwear drawer.”

  “In a bag or what?”

  Marge thought. “Yeah, they were in a paper lunch bag.”

  “And you itemized them?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you gloved up when you sorted through them?”

  “Absolutely. Didn’t want to ruin any DNA if one of the pieces was from Adrianna.”

  Decker nodded. “Tell Tinsley we misplaced the pieces but we have a list of the items. If the stuff is permanently lost, we’ll replace them for cash value. And at the current price of gold, he shouldn’t complain.”

  “Are the pieces lost?”

  Reaching into his desk drawer, he pulled out the paper evidence bag with the jewelry. “Look for yourself.”

  “What’s up, Pete?”

  “When did Tinsley’s mother die?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Why would a guy like Tinsley keep his mother’s jewelry? Some of these pieces look valuable. There’s a big gold bracelet studded with rubies and there’s a necklace pendant—an R made out of diamonds. Those could bring in some bucks. Does Tinsley look like the sentimental type to you?”

  “You think he’s a thief?”

  “Something’s not right.”

  “I’ll have Wanda do an inventory cross-check with burglary. I’ll also find out when Tinsley’s mother died.”

  “Good idea. And while you’re at it, find out Mama Tinsley’s first name.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  WITH THE BOYS out of the house and Hannah rarely home, Decker had forgotten how cramped twenty-six hundred square feet could be. Rina liked euphemisms, referring to the situation as “compact” or “cozy.” She was making last-minute adjustments on her Shabbos tichel—her special Sabbath scarf. In accordance with Jewish law, married women covered their hair. The one she had chosen was silk shantung interwoven with lamé threads. Her face was barely showing signs of age: laugh lines at the corner of the eyes, a wrinkle or two on her forehead. She still had some years to go before fifty, making her a filly in Decker’s book.

  “How much time do I have before Shabbos starts?” he asked her.

  “About fifteen minutes.” Rina applied a pale pink gloss to her lips. There was a pause. “It’s nice to have everyone here together.”

  “It’s terrific,” Decker said. “The boys look good.”

  Rina’s eyes got misty. “I don’t see them too often. They’re men.”

  “That they are. It was really generous of them to take the time out to come here.”

  “It was a special occasion.”

  “I suppose it was a convenient excuse. At least sixty is good for something.”

  “It’s a celebration of life.” Rina looked in the mirror. “Which is passing by at record speed. It’s just lovely having everyone here.”

  “It is. And you know what’s even lovelier?” He kissed the top of her head. “They’re going back in a few days.”

  He thought Rina would admonish him. Instead she said, “I know what you mean: six strapping adults taking up space. Seven if you count Gabe. And he’s eating here, so I guess we have to count him. I think I cooked enough, but I might have forgotten how much men eat.”

  “I’ll take last,” Decker said.

  “No, you’re the birthday boy,” Rina said. “You take first. I made lamb. It’s not only your favorite, but it’s Yonkie’s favorite, too. The boy is downright gleeful.”

  “Lamb as in rack of lamb?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yikes. How many racks did you make?”

  “When you french the bone, it doesn’t leave all that much meat. So I needed a lot.”

  Decker made a face. “How much did all that cost?”

  “You don’t want to know.” Rina stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “You might as well eat it. I can’t take it back. I also roasted an entire turkey. There will be enough for tomorrow and then some. I know you love sliced cold turkey sandwiches.”

  “I probably won’t be home in time for lunch tomorrow.”

  Rina paused. “Probably or definitely.”

  “Adrianna Blanc’s memorial service is at eleven. I’ll try to be home by two.”

  “Don’t rush, Peter. We’ll wait for you.” She slipped on her shoes. “Poor parents. What a brutal crime. What was she? Like Cindy’s age?”

  “A little older than Sammy. There’s no good age for murder, but it really hurts when they’re that young. Only thing sadder is children.” He was quiet, then shook it off. “What’s for dessert tonight?”

  “If we were sticking to tradition, I would have baked you a cake. Instead, I baked pies.”

  “Good call. I love pies.”

  “Hence my decision. You have your choice of peach, strawberry, and cherry with or without pareve vanilla ice cream and/or pareve whipped cream.”

  “I have to choose between pies?”

  “You may have all three,” Rina told him. “It’s the prerogative of the birthday boy.”

  “In that case, I will take all three. I’ll probably stuff my face and get sick. You should have just made a salad.”

  Rina laughed. “My family is together for the first time in ages, and I should make a salad?”

  “I have no self-control when it comes to your food.”

  “If you open the medicine cabinet, you’ll note that it’s fully stocked with Prevacid, Pepto-Bismol, and Tums. You know my slogan: eat, drink, and take antacids.”

  THE CHURCH SERVICE lasted forty-five minutes, and at the end, the minister invited anyone who wanted to speak to do so. There were about a hundred people at the gathering, none of them anxious to get up onstage. Finally, Sela Graydon braved the microphone, sobbing her way through a heart-wrenching eulogy of her two best friends. She had aged, with sunken eyes and a pasty complexion. Sela was followed by a woman named Alicia Martin, who introduced herself as Kathy’s best friend. Then another friend took the microphone, followed by another friend, and then another. By the time the service concluded, it was a few minutes past one.

  Decker didn’t want to intrude on the grieving parents, but it had seemed important to Kathy that he make an appearance. He waited patiently behind a line to offer words of solace and condolences. Kathy, as usual, was dressed in style—a knitted black dress with a gold belt, black pumps, and tortoiseshell sunglasses. She saw Decker hovering in the back and waved him forward. Although he could see her clearly—he stood above most of the mourners—it wasn’t easy for a big man to weave through the mass of human flesh. When he finally made it up to the front, Kathy took his extended hand with both of hers.

  “Thank you for coming.” Kathy’s eyes moistened. “The burial is just for family. I hope you understand.”

  “I do. You need your privacy to say good-bye.”

  She looked away and dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex. Then she returned her gaze on Decker’s face. “This is Pandora Hurst.” She was referring to a woman on her right. “Crystal’s mother.”

  Decker offered his hand, which she took. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Ms. Hurst.” The woman looked him over with pale, dry eyes: long nose, thin lips, and a ghostly complexion. She remained silent.

  Kathy said, “Will you excuse me
for a moment?”

  “Of course,” Decker answered. “Please offer my condolences to your husband.”

  “I will.” Kathy walked a few steps and collapsed into the arms of Alicia Martin, sobbing on her shoulder.

  Decker returned his attention to Pandora Hurst. She wore a long black dress that bordered on a witch’s costume. Her gray hair was in a bun secured with several ivory combs. “If there’s anything that you need right now, Ms. Hurst, please let me know.”

  “You can call me Pandy.” Her voice was emotionless. “When are you going to release my daughter for burial?”

  “I’ll check with the people who are in charge.”

  “I want to take her back to Missouri with me.” Pandy crossed her arms. “They gave me all sorts of paperwork to fill out. I was never good at that kind of thing under the best of circumstances.”

  “I’ll see that someone helps you out with the forms.”

  “When would that be?”

  “Whenever you want. Monday would work best for me, but I can do it sooner.”

  “Are they going to release my daughter on Monday?”

  “I don’t know. I have to call and find out. Sometimes things slow down over the weekend.”

  “No one dies on Saturday or Sunday?”

  “The staff is usually smaller. If they can, they’ll hold things over until Monday.”

  “So they work at their convenience.”

  “I’ll call right away and let you know as soon as they call me back,” Decker told her. “Also, I know this is a very hard time, but it might help me with your daughter’s case if I could talk to you about Crystal.”

  “Not now.” She shook her head. “Not now.”

  “How about tomorrow or Monday?”

  “I suppose on Monday. You’ll help me with the forms?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I want to take her back to Missouri.” Pandy rubbed her arms. “She never liked Missouri, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, then…there you have it.”

  “I thought you raised Crystal in L.A.”

  “I did. I moved out here for my husband. Then he left me five years later to chase young men. I was either stupid or in denial when I married Jack. When he came out to me, I told him no hard feelings. But I think it was hard on Crystal.”

  “Divorce usually is.”

  “That and finding out your father’s gay.” She shrugged. “After Jack and I split up, I took Crystal back to Missouri to visit my folks. I wanted her to know her grandparents. She just hated it. She complained about the heat, she complained about the bugs, she complained about the humidity, she complained about the camp I sent her to, she complained about the kids. When I moved back, she was flabbergasted. Why would I want to live in a swamp with a bunch of hicks? I tried to explain to her that I missed my family. That as I got older, I wanted to be around people who cared about me.”

  “I understand,” Decker said.

  “You may understand, but she sure didn’t. But that was Crystal. She never really got the concept of intimacy and relationships. Everyone she met was her best friend.”

  THE DRIVE TO Vegas on the I-15 was a direct shot: around 270 miles that should have taken about four hours had they not stopped at one of Oliver’s favorite diners. The place was noted for cheap prices, big portions, and clean bathrooms—the trifecta of the open road. Scott decided to treat himself to a cheeseburger and fries, while Marge selected a tuna melt. Both had apple pie for dessert.

  They rolled onto the Strip around two in the afternoon. Not a cloud sat in the sky and the mercury danced around eighty-five. As they tooled down Las Vegas Boulevard going north, the sun was fierce, reflecting off the Four Seasons onto the gold glass walls of Mandalay Bay, the glare following them as they drove down the Strip. The gigantic hotels did little to shade the heat since they arose straight up like monoliths, their verticality even more pronounced because they had been erected in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Oliver had booked a small but serviceable motel off the Strip. The lobby was a brightly lit atrium that held coffee-shop tables, a reception desk, and a bank of slot machines that beeped and flashed even when no one was playing them.

  After checking into their respective rooms and unpacking, Marge plopped down onto the bed and called Detective Lonnie Silver on her cell. “Sergeant Dunn here.”

  “Welcome to Vegas. How was traffic?”

  “Not bad at all. Weather is accommodating.”

  “Yeah, it’s beautiful outside. Way too nice to be bogged down in homicides.”

  Marge said, “Any news at all on Garth Hammerling?”

  “I haven’t found him or the woman. But something interesting came through the wire about an hour ago. It’s good that you came down.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Interesting, not ominous. Not yet. I’m right in the middle of fleshing out a lead on another homicide we’re working on. How about we meet in a couple of hours?”

  “Tell me where.”

  Silver asked Marge where she was staying. “I’ll come to you, give you a call when I arrive. There’s a coffee shop in the lobby. We can talk there.”

  He hung up. A moment later, Oliver knocked on the door between their adjoining rooms. Marge got up and opened it.

  “We have a meeting in a couple of hours. He hasn’t located Garth Hammerling, but he was glad we came down. Something interesting just came through the wire.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, but I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.” She checked her watch. “We’ve got some time. Weather’s perfect. I think I’ll take a dip in the pool.”

  “Have fun.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ve been sitting for the last five hours. It’s beautiful outside. I think I’ll take a walk around. See what’s happening in town.”

  “You know what’s happening in town, Oliver. Gambling, gambling, and more gambling. How much money did you bring to flush down the toilet?”

  “Since when did you become so judgmental?”

  “I don’t care if people gamble. I just don’t want my friend and partner to lose his shirt.” She held out her hand. “Give me half. You’ll thank me later, after the gambling rush has died down and your pockets are empty.”

  Oliver thought about it. Then he peeled off five one-hundred-dollar bills and stuffed them in her palm. “I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

  “Maybe because I’m right.”

  Oliver grumbled. “I’ll be back in an hour. I’m going to play the tables. The ante is cheaper in the daytime. I’ve got this new system I want to try out. And by the way, I don’t intend to lose.”

  “No one ever does, Scott. That’s why the masses keep piling in and the hotels keep getting bigger.”

  OUT OF HABIT, Decker turned on his cell phone after he left the memorial service for Adrianna Blanc, and as always, there were messages. He figured he might as well clear them so he could eat lunch and enjoy his family in peace. Dinner last night was noisy and opinionated, with the younger set talking a mile a minute. There were times when he felt as if he were at a tennis match with his head moving back and forth to catch the flow of conversation. But the energy was great. He enjoyed it because he knew it was temporary. By Monday, he’d have his semiquiet house back to himself.

  There were two messages on his voice mail.

  Number one: Hi, Loo, it’s Wanda. I’m sorry to disturb you on your Sabbath, but something’s come up that you’d want to know about. Give me a call as soon as you can.

  Number two: Hi, Lieutenant, it’s Gabe Whitman. Detective Bontemps left a message on your home machine and is trying to get hold of you. She says it’s important. Rina said that you should go to the station house and not worry about lunch. She’ll eat with you whenever you come back. I was elected to call you since I’m not Jewish. It’s nice to be good for something.

  Although Gabe’s humor made Decker
smile, the contents of his message made him sigh inwardly. He turned the car around and headed for work.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  AS SOON AS Decker walked into the station house, Wanda Bontemps got up from her desk, a stack of papers tucked under her arm. Decker gave her a wave and grabbed a cup of coffee from the communal pot. He unlocked the office door, turned on the light, and offered Wanda a seat. She wore a long-sleeved lime green shirt over black pants, and rubber-soled shoes. Gold hoops adorned her ears, and her long nails were painted medium brown, matching her skin tone.

  Decker was still in his black suit and uncomfortable loafers. He had taken off the tie in the car and elected to remove his jacket and hang it over his chair.

  “How was the service?” Wanda asked Decker.

  “Sad. Kathy Blanc introduced me to Crystal Larabee’s mother.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “Sad. Her name is Pandora Hurst and she’s coming to the station house on Monday. She’s been living apart from her daughter for a while, but there’s always something new to learn.” Decker leaned back in his chair. “So what’s up?”

  Wanda took the papers from under her arm and laid a colored jpeg on Decker’s desk. “Look familiar?”

  Decker was staring at a yellow-gold diamond-crusted R on a gold chain; it sat around the neck of a girl with shoulder-length dark hair and brown eyes that gazed off to the side. The photograph was a torso shot and the girl was in a dark boatneck sweater against a sage green background. “High school senior picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was she?”

  Using past tense, Wanda noted. “Roxanne Holly—a twenty-six-year-old bank teller who was murdered by strangulation. Her mother gave the detectives this picture of her because it showed the necklace clearly. Roxanne wore it all the time, but it was missing when they found the body.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Three-plus years.”

  “Where was the homicide?”

  “Oxnard. I looked up the case when this came through. She went out drinking and never came back. Her body was discovered a day later by a homeless man named Burt Barney, a chronic alcoholic, who died a year ago from cirrhosis of the liver. He had always been the primary suspect, but police had never amassed enough evidence to charge him with the crime. There was no shortage of suspicious characters. It’s an agricultural city, but it’s pretty big—around two hundred thousand people.”