Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 05

by False Prophet

  “A little?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “It bothers me a little,” Decker said.

  Sammy didn’t answer.

  “You can’t help who you fall in love with. And I’m thrilled to be in love with your mother. But sometimes our age difference bothers me. Especially since Eema doesn’t seem to be aging at the same rate I am.” Decker shifted his weight. “The difference is sometimes pretty noticeable. And I could see where that might embarrass you—”

  “I’m not embarrassed,” Sammy retorted.

  “Good.” Decker hesitated. “I can’t say that I’m honestly not a little bit embarrassed by it sometimes. I get a lot of ribbing at the station house.”

  Sammy cocked his head. “They tease you?”

  “It’s good-natured.”

  “Marge teases you?”

  “No, not Marge. She’s decent about things like that.”

  “But it bothers you when the others do it?”

  “Sometimes it does. As a matter of fact, I think it bothers your mother, too. She blushes a little every time someone mistakes her for my daughter instead of my wife.”

  And blushes a lot when someone mistakes her for Cindy’s girlfriend. God, was that horrible. All three of them had felt like sinking into the ground. The look on Cindy’s face. Not a damn thing he could have done to fix it, but that hadn’t made it any easier.

  “But like I said,” Decker continued, “she looks young. And I look my age and then some. It’s a natural error.”

  “Would you like it better if she was older like you? I mean not old, but closer to your age?”

  “I like Eema just the way she is. And I’m glad she was young when she had you and Jakey because young mothers have a lot of energy. Sometimes, I wish I were a little younger so I’d have more energy.”

  “You have energy.”

  “Not too bad for an old guy.”

  “You’re not that old, Peter. You know, most of the kids in my class have dads around your age. Eema was just really young. Both of them were…Eema and…you know, Abba was young, too…when I was born.”

  Decker took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you wish I was as young as your abba?”

  “No, no, no. Not at all. I didn’t mean that.”

  But the boy’s voice was cracking and it wasn’t from hormones. The pain was palpable.

  Decker said, “You know what I wish, Sammy?”

  Sammy didn’t answer.

  “I wish…” Decker took his stepson’s hand. “I wish that you were having this discussion with your abba right now. I swear to God, I wish that he was here instead of me.”

  Sammy broke into tears, folding against Decker’s chest. Holding him tightly, Decker let him cry it out. The boy was developing into adolescence, a decent layer of muscle enveloping his shoulders and arms. Yet, sobbing so bitterly, he seemed so frail.

  “I can’t remember him so well anymore, Peter. I try and try, but every day the memories just get more and more…cloudy. I remember things I did with you, but I can’t remember the things we used to do together.” The boy broke away, dried his red eyes on his pajama sleeves. “Sometimes…sometimes…you know? I think I remember things.” He sniffed and dried his eyes again. “I think I remember them very clearly. But then I’m not sure if I remember them because I heard Eema talk about it. Or I actually remember it ’cause it happened. And I feel terrible about it ’cause there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s only four years ago. God, at this rate, I won’t remember anything by the time I’m twenty.”

  “Sure you will.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  Okay, Decker, just back it up. “You were young when he died.” Too young. Way too young. “Sammy, what do you think about this? Why don’t you write down whatever you do remember about your abba and show it to your mother. See if she remembers it the same way you do.”

  “That would upset her too much.”

  “No, I don’t think it would.”

  “Yes, it would. I know it would, Peter.”

  Decker felt relief. It was good to see the kid arguing with him. There was nothing as scary as a preteen with no spunk.

  “Well, write it down anyway and show it to me. And if I think the timing’s okay, I’ll show it to her. How about that?”

  Sammy shrugged.

  “Up to you, kiddo.” Decker looked down at his partially consumed lunch. His stomach was churning, his shoulder was throbbing, and he felt a headache coming on. He fished a couple of Ecotrin from his pocket and swallowed them dry. “Just think about it.”

  “Okay.” Sammy paused. “It wouldn’t bother you? I mean for me to…you know, talk about my abba?”

  Truth be told, it did bother him and he felt petty because of it. But he was mature enough not to let his smallness get in the way of his stepson’s well-being.

  “Sammy, you and your brother talk about your abba all you want. As a matter of fact, I’d like to learn about your abba, too. But sometimes I feel funny asking your mom about him.”

  “I could understand that.”

  Decker nodded in agreement. Father-son bonding. All right!

  “You know what, Peter?”

  “What, big guy?”

  “I feel sort of guilty that I don’t call you Dad.”

  Oh, boy. “Do you want to call me Dad?”

  “Kind of. But it doesn’t…you know, come easy. Not that I don’t think of you as my dad. I want you to know that.”

  “Whoa, you are really going through a lot of changes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Sam, I don’t care what you call me. If you want to call me Dad, please, go ahead and call me Dad. But certainly don’t feel guilty if you’d rather call me Peter.”

  “I think Yonkie would like to call you Dad. We were discussing—I don’t want you to think we talk a lot about you behind your back.”

  “I talked a lot about my parents behind their backs.”

  Sammy smiled. A genuine one this time. “Anyway, when you and Eema first got married, Yonkie was asking me, like what do we call him. And I…I knew I couldn’t call you Abba. And I felt weird calling you Dad. So Yonkie said, if I wasn’t gonna call you Dad, he wasn’t gonna call you Dad, either. But I think he wanted to.”

  “Why don’t you—?”

  “I know, I know. Talk it over with him. Talk, talk, talk. I don’t know.”

  Decker stroked the boy’s hot check. “Do this. Call me Dad for a week. Better yet, call me Dad for a month. After a month, if you still feel more comfortable calling me Peter, go back to Peter. Or Akiva. My Jewish name’s pretty personal to me. It could be our special name, if Dad doesn’t seem to feel natural.”

  “Akiva. That’s not bad. I didn’t even think about that. Okay, I’ll try Dad. If not…Akiva.”

  “Great.”

  Sammy looked at the half-eaten sandwich. “I ruined your appetite, didn’t I?”

  “Nah…” Decker made himself pick up the sandwich and take a bite. “See?”

  “Nice save…Dad.”

  Decker laughed.

  “You know?” Sammy turned serious. “Remember we were talking about how you were a little embarrassed about Eema looking so young?”

  “I should remember it. The conversation took place about five minutes ago.”

  Sammy punched his shoulder—his good one. “Sometimes—I mean this is gonna sound real weird. But a lot of times, Eema gets mistaken for my older sister. Even when she’s…even now.”

  Decker nodded. Apparently the word pregnant didn’t come easy to him, either.

  “I don’t mean this to sound like an insult,” Sammy said, “but I’m really glad you look old…older. When I’m around you, people know you’re my dad. We go to the baseball game, everyone knows you’re a dad taking his kids out to the game. I’m proud that Eema looks so young and pretty, but sometimes a kid wants his parents to look like parents, know what I mean?”

  “You bet. Don’t worry, Sammy, no one is eve
r going to mistake me for your brother.”

  “Well, I’m happy about that.”

  “So am I,” Decker said. “Really.”

  “I never told you this, Pete—Dad, but most of my friends’ fathers are, you know, like doctors or lawyers or businessmen.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The kids at school think it’s real neat that you’re a detective.”

  “Real exotic, huh?”

  “Yeah, exactly. Like you do what they do in the movies we’re not supposed to see. I tell them that it’s not like that…except for that one time…”

  “That was an exceptional circumstance.” Chasing an errant teenager and a psycho cross-country. Do a favor for someone and get yourself shot. Still, he’d brought the teenager back to the family in one piece. That was worth it all. He shifted his weight again. “Don’t worry. It won’t happen again. You’re right, Sam. My job’s not like the movies.”

  “Yeah, I tell my friends you mostly just investigate. Interview people and make a lot of phone calls…push pencils—”

  Decker burst into laughter.

  “Isn’t that what you always say?”

  “Word for word.”

  “I don’t think they believe me. Maybe it’s because they all know you were…you know, shot. Baruch Hashem, you’re okay. You are okay, right?”

  “I’m great.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “I was scared when it was happening, sure. But I’m not scared now.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “Nope.” It was the truth. His concern was saved solely for the people he loved, not for himself.

  “The kids at school…” Sammy fingered his covers. “They ask me about the incident. I wish they’d shut up about it.”

  “It gets on your nerves.”

  “Yeah, I don’t like to think about it. That’s why I tell them your job isn’t like that normally. But they still ask me questions. You have this kind of, I don’t know, mystic around you.”

  Decker fluttered his fingers and howled like a ghost.

  Sammy laughed. “Emes, I think it’s kind of neat what you do, too. Maybe one day you can take me to work with you.”

  Decker felt his throat tighten. The kid was actually proud of him. “I’d like that, Sam. Pick a day, we’ll clear it with Eema, and you can be my partner.”

  Impulsively, Sammy reached out and hugged Decker around the neck. Then, just as abruptly, he pushed him away. “Okay, I’m sick of talking. You want to play some cards?”

  The detectives’ squad room at Foothill Substation was not the location of choice when the merc climbed past ninety. With dozens of men sweating into a confined area with no air conditioning and little circulation, the room became ripe very quickly. Some took it better than others, and although Mike Hollander was fifty pounds overweight, he took it better than most.

  It just wasn’t his nature to get overly excited about things. Not that he was a jerk-off. But he was…relaxed.

  Dunking his doughnut into his coffee, he had some spare time before court. He heaved his portly frame out of his wooden chair and lumbered over to Decker’s desk. Resting on the scarred wooden top was a manila evidence envelope, a couple of police sketches and a list of felons who physically matched the drawings. Hollander brushed crumbs from his walrus mustache, picked up the list, and planted his butt back in his chair.

  He picked up the phone and started to check out the mugs. He’d scratched two off the list by the time Decker walked in. Hollander hung up the phone and took another bite of doughnut.

  “You got lab info on the Brecht case. Also, Leo dropped off the sketches and names based on your gal’s description. I checked out the first two. Both are still in the cooler.”

  Decker took off his jacket and made a beeline for the coffeepot. “Thanks, Mike. Who’d she pick out?”

  “Not guys associated with rape.”

  “Robbery perps?”

  “Yeah, but that don’t tell you squat. Most of the geniuses in the books got there by doing two-elevens.”

  “True.”

  “I marked their mug-shot pages if you want to compare them to the composites. Also, Ma Bell called you back. A call did go out from a Malibu prefix to Frederick Brecht at seven-forty-six A.M. that morning. I cross-referenced the number: It belonged to Davida Eversong.”

  Decker nodded. “Nice to see you doing the old work ethic, Detective Hollander.”

  “Don’t tell anyone, but I get in these moods once in a while.” Hollander extracted a pipe from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, unlit. “What’s eating you, Rabbi?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s Morrison, isn’t it?” Hollander said. “What’d he do?”

  “Nothing. He’s assigning a couple of dicks from Burglary to handle the jewel theft.”

  “It’s big bucks. They have the contacts. Let them have it.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “So why’re you pissed? You’re thinking Morrison doesn’t have faith in you or what?”

  “I’m not pissed.” Decker sat at his desk. “Well, I’m a little pissed. I’m pissed about all the shit we have to deal with because someone else screwed up.”

  Hollander shrugged. “They did it, we didn’t. Fuck the nonbelievers.” He chewed on the stem of his pipe. “This lady—Lilah. She seem on the level to you?”

  Decker regarded the composites. “Why do you ask?”

  “Take a gander at the sketches and tell me what you see, Rabbi.”

  “Lots of erasures. And the requisite shaggy hair and squinty eyes.”

  “Squinty dark eyes,” Hollander said. “Apparently everyone in this world who squints has dark eyes.”

  “In answer to your question, the lady is weird.”

  “Leo said the lady seemed very, very fond of you.”

  Decker jerked his head up. “What did she tell him?”

  “I don’t know. Just repeating what he said. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. You know how rape survivors can be.”

  Decker looked him in the eye. “Then why’d you mention it, Mike?”

  Hollander held out the palms of his hands. “No offense, Rabbi. Just that Leo placed a lot of emphasis on the very, very part of the very, very fond. If she’s wacky, might be a good idea to get Marge or me involved—just to show the lady that you’re not her personal public servant. Especially since she’s so good-looking.”

  “What does good-looking have to do with it?”

  “Hey, we’re all human—”

  “I don’t believe you’re telling me this shit, Hollander. I’ve been on the detail almost as long as you have.”

  “Deck, I’m not saying anything about your ability to handle Lilah Brecht or any other rape case. But you know as well as I do what a pain in the ass fruitcakes can be. Your wife is expecting and I’m just trying to save you grief. You wanna play hot dog, forget I said anything.”

  Hollander poured himself another cup of coffee and returned to his desk.

  Decker rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, you’re right. She could be grief. Both she and her mother.”

  “Miz Davida Eversong,” Hollander said. “You ever see any of her films? Man, she was hot stuff in her heyday.”

  “She’s still a good-looking woman. Well preserved.”

  “Natural or surgical?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Look, Mike, thanks for offering, but I can handle the case.”

  “Just trying to be helpful.” Hollander ticked off another name on the list. “One Bobby Ray Gatten. Wonder what old Bobby Ray’s been up to.” He picked up the phone and dialed.

  Decker sat down and broke open the seal on the Brecht evidence folder. There was a semen analysis, but it wasn’t going to be useful until they had a suspect. There was also a chromosomal banding on the few foreign pubic hairs. It was interesting that none of the hairs was picked up from the combing or from her bagged clothes. All of them
had been plucked from the sheet, along with half a dozen short, dark head hairs. No blood, no bits of foreign clothing. Print had come up dry as well.

  Lilah’s own fingernails and toenails were clean—all that meant was that she didn’t or couldn’t fight. Her vagina was free of semen. The envelope contained police photographs taken at the hospital. Again, Decker’s wariness turned to pity when he saw her swollen eyes. There was also a picture of a splotchy bruise that ran down her right thigh.

  Poor kid.

  He heard Marge’s voice and turned around.

  “Hey there, Dunn.”

  “Hey there, Rabbi.” She came over to him and looked down at the files he was reading. “Anything?”

  “Hairs and semen. That’s it.”

  “That’s enough if we find a suspect.”

  “You have any luck?”

  “I spoke to the kitchen help at the spa,” Marge said. “They say they were home the night of the attack. Wives and friends verify it.”

  “And you think?”

  “I think they were home. Hairs look like Hispanic hairs?”

  “Head hairs were short and dark. Let’s see…” Decker flipped through the notes. “Uh…under EM, they were straight hairs. Doesn’t say anything else.”

  “Could be Hispanic.” Marge pulled up a chair at Decker’s desk and sat down. “But with straight hairs popping up, we’re probably counting out blacks.”

  Decker took that in. “What do you have, Marge?”

  “Eubie Jeffers, the tennis instructor at the spa, is black.” Marge pulled up a chair, took off her shoes, and began to rub her feet. “He’s a very light black, a very acculturated black. But he’s black.”

  “Is he suspicious?”

  “He was at the spa the night of the attack. He wasn’t too keen on admitting it, either. He normally doesn’t live on the premises so I asked him what he was doing there. Said he was with a patron giving her a private unscheduled lesson.”

  “A lesson in bedroom sports?”

  “I think so.”

  “Don’t tell me. She was married.”

  “So I won’t tell you.”

  “Nice. Husband pays for his wife to get a little R and R and she goes off and boffs the hired help.”

  “Maybe wifey and spouse have an arrangement. I don’t think Jeffers was worried about an irate husband gunning him down. I had the feeling he was more concerned about a lawsuit à la Mike Ness and Ms. Betham.”