“King’s office was ransacked, Davida,” Decker said.
“There was probably a terrible…struggle.” Again, she bit her thumbnail. “I don’t know what happened because I wasn’t inside. I left when I heard—”
She stopped herself. Decker said, “You left when you heard gunshots?”
The room was silent. The old woman slid down onto the divan. Pink robe against pink upholstery, she seemed to meld into the couch—a woman with dimension but no contrast. Like a bas-relief. But her voice still had control—not a waver or a whimper.
“Russ merely wanted to talk to Kingston, Sergeant.”
“Talk to him about what?”
“Kingston claimed he had the memoirs.”
“And you wanted them, didn’t you?” Decker said.
She was silent.
“Why?” Decker asked.
“None of your damn business.”
Decker said, “You asked Kingston to steal them—”
“I did not!” Davida seemed offended. “I blurt things out—things like ‘God, I wish I had those papers.’ It’s not my fault if my son loves me so much, he tries to grant me my every wish.”
Decker said, “So why’d he change his mind and keep the papers himself, Davida?”
“I don’t know. I tried calling him to ask him just that. He wouldn’t talk to me over the phone. And I wasn’t about to go into his office when he was butchering his fetuses. His research made me sick!”
“What’d you do with the gun you gave Donnally?”
Her eyes hardened. “What gun? I don’t own a gun. I told you Albert packed. Not me. I don’t have any guns. Your search will verify that.”
Meaning that if there were guns at the scene, she probably had Kelley and Eubie ditch them when they took Russ’s body. Yet…they swore they didn’t see any guns. Worry about that one later.
Decker said, “So King never did tell you why he changed his mind and decided to keep the memoirs?”
Davida fell silent.
“Know a woman named Greta Millstein, Davida?”
She snapped her head upward, then let out a peal of mirthless laughter. “My God, where did you dig up that senile kraut? She must be a hundred years old.”
“Nah, she’s not that old. Not much older than yourself, as a matter of fact.”
The hit was dead-center. Again, she threw her empty glass across the room, the tumbler smashing into pieces.
“That wrinkled old Nazi, just what kind of fairy tales did she tell you?”
Decker said, “Those memoirs must have posed a big problem for you, Davida. After all these years of trying to convince Freddy he was adopted…now he might learn his true biological heritage. And then of course, there was Lilah. Plus there were other things in those papers that you didn’t want coming out—other things you’ve done.”
Davida looked up, confused. “What other things?”
“Heidi Millstein’s murder.”
“Heidi’s mur—did that old bitch say I was responsible for her daughter’s death?” Davida began to pace. “Well, let me tell you something, Sergeant. It was Heidi’s choice to fuck my husband. It was Heidi’s choice to drink with my husband. And it was Heidi’s choice to pop pills while she was drinking and fucking with my husband. My husband, do you understand? MY husband! So if she made a series of stupid choices, I have no tears for the little tramp. I’m glad she died. And if Hermann with his overly sodden emotions has written it any other way, he’s not only a shithead, he’s a liar!”
Winded, she stopped walking and flopped onto her settee. “Pour me a drink, Peter.”
“Not part of my job description, Davida.”
“Do it for me anyway…please?”
Decker glanced at her face—old and defeated. He got up and poured her a finger’s worth of bourbon. Davida held the glass with shaking hands and swallowed quickly.
“Good old Freddy. He must despise me.”
She sounded sad. More self-pity than regret. Decker said, “Yes, I think he does.”
“I had to…to hide the truth. It would have resulted in too many questions.”
“Truth might have been simpler, Davida. Deception’s hard work.”
“I had my reasons.”
“Must have been good ones for you to go to all that trouble—keeping secrets and stealing papers. What would it have hurt to tell Freddy that he was Hermann’s son?”
The old woman stared at him, her eyes filled with tears. “It wasn’t Freddy. It was Lilah! I couldn’t have her learn the truth!”
Decker thought about Lilah, how she worshiped Hermann Brecht. How it might have destroyed her, if she learned that Brecht wasn’t her biological father. Maybe even an egocentric woman like Davida had seen that as well. Decker felt strong fingers grip his arms. Davida was shaking him.
“Don’t you understand, Peter? I would have done anything to prevent Lilah from…” The old woman closed her eyes, cheeks wet and shiny. “I couldn’t bear the thought of it!”
She lowered her chin onto her chest and sobbed openly.
Decker patted her shoulder. “You couldn’t bear the thought of what, Davida?”
“I couldn’t…” She looked up at him with puffy eyes. “I wouldn’t have been able…to look Lilah in the eye. Because…I’d know that every time…she looked at me…that she’d be thinking: There goes my grandmother.”
32
It would make the five o’clock news. And talk about images: The captain himself personally escorting the great grande dame of the late-night one-checker, pushing her head down as she slid into the transport so she wouldn’t bump it on the cruiser’s ceiling. The black Mercedes that housed Davida’s silk-suited lawyer. For the crowd scene, there were young nubile wide-eyed things in bikinis, their color-coordinated lips forming smoke-ringed Os of surprise. The uniforms dispersed the gathering as the black-and-whites drove away. Hands in pocket, Decker watched without comment.
The reporters eventually gave up on him and went to Marge. She smiled at the cameras and offered a “Hi, Mom” as her sole statement. Eventually, the hordes moved on, the reporters packed up their camerapeople, and he and Margie were left alone to finish up their job of searching Davida’s bungalow.
Decker looked at his watch. The Sabbath was three hours away. What he should do was go home and take a long hot shower. What he was going to do was work until the last minute because they still didn’t have anything to take to the DA. The more Marge talked about the case, the more he realized that sad fact. Without the memoirs, they were hogtied. Merritt had probably stowed the papers in a good, safe place—a place they’d never locate.
“But Davida admitted being on the scene,” Marge said.
“She admitted being in the car,” Decker corrected. “That’s a far cry from being at the scene. If she paid Russ, I’m sure she did it in cash. Nothing exceptional went in and out of Donnally’s bank accounts. Who knows? Maybe Donnally did act on his own…trying to gain brownie points with his employer.”
“Like Kelley Ness,” Marge said. “Didn’t she swear she did it on her own?”
“Yep,” Decker said. “Claimed she found Russ by accident and was trying to protect the spa’s image. She refused to implicate anyone.”
“How could she do it on her own? Davida had to have mentioned something to her.”
Decker held out his arms and shrugged.
“God, that pisses me off,” Marge said. “Woman’s literally getting away with murder! We’re never gonna find the papers, Pete.”
“I know.” Decker paused. “Do you really think she paid Donnally to kill Merritt?”
Marge thought about that. “Maybe it was like Davida stated—that Merritt and Donnally did kill each other. But I’m not going to let this go until I’m convinced that the shooting was just another stupid accident by two hotheaded people. To be continued…”
Decker nodded. “Yeah, we’ll do some follow-up.”
“You bet we will….” Marge sighed. “Even though our
caseloads are already bursting at the seams.”
“A cop’s work is never done.”
Marge smiled.
Decker said, “Morrison looked pretty good, don’t you think?”
“Not too bad considering he was swearing under his breath.”
“This kind of PR isn’t all bad—a famous woman being hauled in for questioning.” Decker shifted his feet. “The law is money-blind and all that rot. Too bad they won’t be able to hold her more than a couple of hours.”
“She’ll sue, Pete. False arrest.”
“She wasn’t arrested, just brought in for questioning—”
“Pete—”
“She can sue, but it won’t stick. No one’s going to bag her for anything because we don’t have enough evidence.” Decker turned to Marge and noticed she was holding a large book under her arm. “What do you have?”
“A high-school yearbook.” Marge flipped through the pages. “Ten years old. Kelley Ness was in tenth grade.”
“It’s Kelley’s?”
“Yeah, all the little inscriptions written on the cover are made out to her. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have thought a thing about it except it was hidden under a floorboard in Davida’s bedroom.”
“Really. Find anything else there?”
“Nope. So far as I can tell, there’s nothing unusual in the album. But the mere fact that Davida has it squirreled away must mean I missed something significant.” She handed it to Decker. “You try your luck.”
Decker took the yearbook and looked at the cover—Jackson High, Fountainville, California. A picture of Old Hickory in sepia tones.
“Let’s go inside.”
“Good idea,” Marge said. She closed the door and sat on a wingback. Decker sat on Davida’s pink settee and opened the album.
It’s been fun being in history with you. See ya next year. Have a rad summer—Heather
Don’t get all gnarly about geometry, Kell. You always were good with squares—Ryan
Gnarly. Ten years old.
More adolescent wisdom. Decker flipped another page—an inscription that took up half the space. This one seemed personal. Decker read silently, then began again out loud:
My dearest Kelley,
I know this has been the most trying of trying times for you and for Mitchy too. But you have to remember that we all must do what we all must do. That drums beat differently for each and every individual and we must all go at our own pace. I will always be there for you. You know how much I care about you and we will always be friends no matter what people will say or do. And people do say and do nasty things. But this kind of thing only serves to makes us strong. Alone, we fall, together we can stand tall. There will always be jerks who try to bring you down. Don’t listen to them. Listen to your heart and know that I care about you and luv you with all my heart. I only want the best for you. You know that.
Luv 4-ever,
Denise
“Denise?” Marge said. “Sure that doesn’t say Dennis, Pete?”
“No, it says Denise.” Decker showed her the page. “See. She even dotted her i with a little heart.”
Marge suddenly sat up. “You know, Pete. Not that it matters much, but maybe that’s the secret Kelley and Mike were trying to hide.”
“What secret?”
“Maybe Kelley’s a lesbian.”
Decker frowned. “I don’t see being gay as blackmail material in this day and age. And besides, Marge, I’ve seen my daughter’s album inscriptions. Cindy’s yearbook was full of mush—using words like love and friendship interchangeably. Denise was probably Kelley’s best friend.”
“Maybe it was friendship that turned to sex.”
“Doesn’t spell blackmail to me.”
“Then why does Davida have the yearbook, Pete?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned to the tenth-grade class pictures, found Kelley Ness’s small black-and-white. Hair cut very short, showing off dangling earrings. Hard to tell if she was wearing makeup. One thing she wasn’t wearing was a smile. The girl looked downright grim. Like old Denise had said, it must have been a hard year for Kelley.
Then he scanned the class for Denise. He found her easily, because underneath her picture was a tag line: Luv from me. Denise Dillon. Cute little thing. Short curly hair and dangling earrings. Decker flipped from her picture to Kelley’s. The earrings matched. He looked at Denise again. She was smiling—a broad, toothy smile.
Decker showed Marge the pictures. “Look, they’re wearing identical earrings.”
“I’m telling you, that’s the hold Davida has over Kelley,” Marge said. “That’s why Kelley was willing to remove the bodies for her. And that’s why Kelley isn’t implicating Davida. She didn’t want it getting out that she was a lesbian! Pete, we can use Kelley to get to Davida!”
Decker shut the book and drummed his fingers. “You know what’s bothering me? Kelley doing dirty work for Davida when Mike was around. Marge, he’s very protective of his sister. I have a feeling he watches her like a hawk. I don’t think he’d permit Kelley to move a body for Davida when he could have done it himself.”
“I’m not following.”
“I’m not making myself real clear.” Decker paused a moment. “Suppose Davida had something on Kelley.”
“She was a lesbian.”
“Whatever. Suppose Davida told Kelley she knew her dirty secrets. First thing Kelley would do would be what? Tell her brother, right?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Not maybe. Definitely! Now Ness is a punk, but look at the way he acted when he found out Eubie was getting it on with his sister. He charged Eubie. I see Mike as being a little white knight, walking up to Davida and saying, ‘You want your shit done, lady, don’t go to my sister, you go to me….’” Decker wagged his finger in the air. “Wait a minute, I just remembered something. I’m trying to think of the exact words. I think they were: You got my sister involved, you fuckhead!”
“Whose words?”
“What Mike Ness said to Eubie Jeffers. You got my sister involved, you fuckhead! Margie, don’t you see it? That implies that Eubie roped Kelley into doing the dirty work. But the way Kelley tells it, she roped Eubie. We got a contradiction here.”
The room went quiet. Decker stood and stuck his hands in his pockets.
“Let’s play it like this, Margie. Mike screamed at Eubie: You got my sister involved. Then Eubie answered back something like: I couldn’t do it myself, Mike. That means Mike asked Eubie for help. Then Eubie asked Kelley to help him.”
“Why would Eubie help Mike?”
Decker thought a moment, then said, “Simple. Mike covered for Eubie the night of Lilah’s rape. I see Ness as the middleman between Davida and Eubie. Who knows? Ness might have checked out the murder scene first before sending Eubie over. Maybe Ness even removed the guns. He left the hard part—the removal of the bodies—to Eubie.” He paused. “Why did Kelley Ness insist that she masterminded the plot and take the heat for Mike?”
“Well, she could be protecting Mike,” Marge said. “Of course, that contradicts your theory of Mike as the protective older brother.”
Decker said, “So then the question is: Why did Mike allow his sister to take the heat?”
Marge said, “It seems to me, if Mike Ness was willing to let his sister take the heat for him, she must be protecting him against something big. Now I find this annual under a floorboard….” She paused. “Maybe we should stop looking for dirt on Kelley and start hunting for info about Mike. Something Davida had on him!”
“Okay,” Decker said. “He’s two years older than Kelley. That would have made him a senior.”
“I skimmed the seniors,” Marge said. “He wasn’t there at first glance. You give it a whirl.”
Decker checked and didn’t find his picture in the graduating roster. He leafed through the list until he came to the final page—Wendy Wyster, Jackie Zallero, Mark Zipp….
Then a column of names; seniors whose p
ictures were not shown. Decker ran the tip of his finger down the column. “Here he is, Marge. Michael—” He stopped himself, then stared at the name. “Holy shit, that’s Michelle Ness.”
Marge peered at the page. “Must be a misprint.”
Decker turned back to Denise’s inscription to Kelley.
I know this has been the most trying of trying times for you and for Mitchy, too.
Mitchy.
And then things began to click: The pretty face, the surprisingly bony frame, the defined muscles without the bulk, even the ballet lessons. Who in heartland America gave their son ballet lessons?
“Marge, I don’t think that’s a misprint. I think Mike Ness is or was a girl.”
“What!”
“He’s pretty. You said it yourself—”
“Yeah, but Pete—”
“Androgynous looking—”
“Pete—”
“Not physically prepossessing—”
“He’s slight, but most smaller-than-average men look slight to me.”
“He moves with grace—”
“He had ballet lessons.”
“A boy taking ballet?”
“It happens sometimes. That’s why we have Nureyevs and Baryshnikovs. Pete, the guy may be small but he’s very masculine. The way he talks, the way he swaggers.”
“You’re right, Marge. He isn’t effeminate. But that still doesn’t negate his size.”
“He isn’t that small.”
“It ain’t the height or even the muscles. Hell, he could take steroids and build up some biceps. It’s his frame. He’s bony.”
Marge thought about the first time she’d questioned Kelley about the sexual harassment suit against Mike Ness. If you knew my brother, you’d know how inane the suit is. Then she felt her eyes widen.
“Oh, my God!”
“What is it?”
“The hairs, Peter! The ones used to match against the semen found on Lilah’s sheets. Buck found a bag of female hairs. He thought I fucked up. I thought I fucked up. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I just gave him Mike’s hair and it was really Michelle’s hair! That would explain the female banding. You can change your dick, but you can’t change your DNA.” Marge shook her head in amazement. “You can’t make up stuff as weird as this.”
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