Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 10

by Serpent's Tooth

  Sam finished his sandwich. “Cindy, you’ll ace the game once you get the hang of it. Look, you’re a Columbia grad—”

  “That proves nothing.”

  “Well you took the SAT. That was timed.”

  “I had more than fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s the same thing…only sped up. Trick is, do your thinking on your opponent’s time. It’s not hard once you get into the rhythm. You’ll do great.”

  Cindy regarded the boy’s earnest face. “Okay. I’ll give it a whirl. Just to see if I can do it, if for no other reason.”

  “Besides, what could possibly happen at a Scrabble tournament? The contestants aren’t the rowdy type.” He checked his watch. “It’s after eleven. I have to be home by midnight or else Eema will send out the National Guard. Worse, she’ll send out Dad.” A pause. “How about if I drop by your house tomorrow at ten?”

  “Don’t drop by the house. Don’t go near my house. Don’t even call. We’ve never been best friends—”

  “We’re not enemies, Cin—”

  “No, of course not. But we haven’t had much to do with each other except for the obligatory family affairs.”

  “True.”

  “If my mother sees us together for no visible reason, she’s going to start asking me questions. That’s all we’d need. For Dad to hear about this little escapade from my mother.”

  “Where then?”

  Cindy said, “McGregor Park. Eleven o’clock. You, me, and all the old Russian people. Be there or be square. Call it a night, Sam?”

  “Sure. You go on. I still have to bench…to say grace.” Sammy’s hand reached for the bill, but Cindy was too quick.

  “A division of labor,” she said. “You thank God for the meal; I’ll pay for it.”

  30

  It seemed to Rina that Hollywood got uglier and dirtier with each passing year, that the gentrification that was always being touted was just a word in the dictionary. And now with the Metro rail…all the construction and soot and dust and microorganisms being thrown into the air. Not to mention the bizarre parade of human flesh. Hard to believe this place was still a major tourist spot. But there they all were, all nationalities, wearing short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts even in the winter, toting cameras around their necks. And the local inhabitants. Unisexual sleaze with greasy hair, torn jeans, vests, and tattoos. What wasn’t covered in ink was studded with pierces. They must never fly commercial airlines, Rina thought. Because they’d never make it through the metal detectors.

  She found the address with no problem, parked her twelve-year-old Volvo in a pay parking lot. Sweaty hands. A pounding heartbeat. She hoped he wasn’t home, but feared he was. He didn’t get out much.

  She had dressed simply. Black sweater over a denim skirt. Her hair was braided and covered with a kerchief. She knocked on the door, heard the uneven clomp of his compromised walk on the other side. It took a while for him to answer. His face registered instant surprise.

  He leaned on his cane and grinned. “I b’lieve I know you.”

  “Believe you do.” Rina smiled. “You were at my weding.”

  “Ah…I remember the wedding…the food. Right fine Peking duck, ma’am. Think I ate enough to last me a year.”

  “Then we’ll have to throw another wedding. Because it appears you haven’t been eating much since then.”

  He patted his thin stomach. “I get by.”

  She glanced at him, then looked away. Abel Atwater. Peter’s war buddy over in Vietnam. Hard to fathom that this man was ever fit for combat. Unbearably thin. A gaunt face given the illusion of fullness by a gray beard. His hair had turned silver, still fashioned in a long braid. His sweats hung on his emaciated body. Only giveaway of life was his eyes…clear…aware. She said, “Your clothes are literally falling off.”

  “You don’t like the sagging look.” He hiked up his pants. “Old person’s move. The pants hike.”

  “Can I come in, Abel?”

  “Absolutely.” He swept his cane over the threshold, bidding her enter.

  Rina walked into a room stuffy with heat. Small. The place overlooked the pay parking lot, had a kitchen the size of a closet. Thin gauzy curtains, a threadbare brown carpet. Furnished with junk. Faded, lumpy pieces. Formica table with two plastic orange chairs. But the place was clean. Spotless.

  “Offer you a beer, Mrs. Decker?”

  “It’s Rina.”

  Abel smiled. “Rina…a pretty name. For a pretty lady. Would you like a beer, Rina?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I don’t got much else beyond beer.” Abel opened an ancient icebox, stuck his head inside. “Would you b’ lieve I’ve got orange juice? Want some orange juice?”

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  Abel straightened up, closed the door. “An easy customer,” Again, the cane pointed, to the couch covered in something that might have originally been red and gold. Rina sat. Abel plunked down on the opposite side. “You showin’ up like this. I’d be a mite concerned about the big man. But you’re actin” too calm for there to be serious trouble.”

  “Peter’s fine.”

  “Glad to hear it. Should we continue with the chitchat? Or do you want to tell me why you’re here?”

  “Actually, it has to do with the big man.”

  “You throwin’ a party for his birthday or somethin’ like that?”

  “No. Peter hates surprises.”

  “Don’t we all,” Abel said to himself. “What’s up, then?”

  “I need help, Abel.”

  The thin man smiled, then grinned, then laughed. A spindly finger pointed into his sunken chest. “You want help from me?”

  Rina sighed. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea coming. When I first met you…I didn’t treat you very nice. Perhaps I was jealous of your relationship with Peter. So it’s really hypocritical of me to ask you for help.”

  “I put a gun to your head, Mrs. Decker,” Abel said. “It made you cautious around me.”

  Rina lowered her eyes, remembering the incident. The “big get-even” Peter had called it. “I suppose I did have my reasons for being reserved.”

  Abel laughed, hobbled over to the window, and opened it. “Sorry about the stuffiness. I wasn’t expecting company. Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  Rina said, “It’s about one of Peter’s cases. The mass murder at Estelle’s—”

  “I read about it, read his quote ’bout the shootup being your worst nightmare.” He looked upward. “Guess he don’t have any more Nam dreams.”

  “Oh, he’s had his fair share lately. All the carnage…it evoked terrible memories for him.”

  Abel nodded.

  Rina said, “He’s obsessed with the case, Abel. One of the victims in the shooting…actually the daughter of two of the victims…Peter feels she had something to do with it.”

  “With the shooting?”

  “Yes. He questioned her. The next day she charged Peter with sexual harassment—”

  “Doc?” Abel made a face. “It’s a lie, ma’am.”

  “I know. The suit was frivolous and was eventually dropped. But the charges made it hard for him to do his job. He had to tiptoe around her. Eventually it got very complicated. His captain pulled him off the case entirely.”

  Abel limped back to the couch, lowered himself slowly, using his walking stick for support. “I thought the mass murderer committed suicide at the scene.”

  “That’s the official story.”

  Then Rina told him all she knew. Abel listened, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, hands buried in the folds of his sweatshirt. When she was done, he sat up, drew his right leg upward so it folded at the knee. His left leg followed without help. He waited a moment before speaking.

  Abel said, “A woman manipulatin’ two men to shoot up a restaurant. Gettin’ one of ’em to blow the other’s brains out—”

  Rina said, “That’s the wild card. The second shooter. One of the victims remembers a man leaving
Estelle’s right after the shooting stopped. Just walked right out of the door. A very strange behavior unless he was involved, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t matter what I think.” He cocked his head. “And Doc thinks this second shooter is a seventeen-year-old Scrabble player?”

  “I know…it sounds ridiculous.”

  Abel scratched his beard. “The ice Pete’s skating on is thinner than Saran Wrap.” He hoisted himself up. Went over to the window. “Still, Doc is an intuitive sort. I don’t discount that. Woman gives him a hinky feelin’, she’s hinky.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” Rina fidgeted with her kerchief, then dropped her hands in her lap. “He was stonewalled, Abel. She’s been using her connections to obstruct him. He needs someone to get around her.” A pause. “This is where you come in.”

  Abel waited a moment. “I’m not what you’d call ‘high society.’ Exactly what did you have in mind?”

  Rina blushed, blurted out, “Peter seems to feel that if he had someone on the inside, the could maybe get information.”

  “Inside of what?”

  “This wheelchair tennis tournament she’s hosting.” Again, Rina turned red. Her speech faltered. “It’s filled with handicapped people. If Peter could place someone…you know…someone on the inside…someone Jeanine would never expect…he felt that maybe she’d let something slip up about the case…and Peter could learn something that way…about Jeanine…and about the case. Am I making sense?”

  “Indeed you are. You’re sayin’ you need a gimp—”

  “Abel—”

  “Because you think that all us gimps have this Masonic brotherly bond with one another—”

  “Abel, please don’t make this even more nauseatingly hard on me.”

  No one spoke.

  Abel said, “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

  Rina said, “I was thinking of people I knew who could maybe pull this off. You’re the only one who could do it and the only one I could trust. Because you love Peter almost as much as I do.”

  Abel’s eyes misted. “I take exception to the word almost, lady.” He scratched his face, furrowed his brow.

  “Rina, these tournaments are ritzy things. You don’t just walk in…or hobble in…and announce your availability for a job based on the fact that you’re handicapped. I mean, even if I wanted to do it, they ain’t gonna hire me…even for manual labour. They got their own crew.”

  Rina considered his words. “You’re right.”

  “Besides, the paraplegics don’t consider amputees among the real physically challenged. Because we can walk. There’s an unspoken hierarchy among us gimps. All the quadriplegics want to be paras, the paras want to be amputees, and we amps want to be able-bodied. And I’m not even a bad amputee-only half of one of my legs. To them, I’m barely crippled…the lowest gimp on the totem pole.”

  “Of course. Forget the whole things.” She got up. “Abel, don’t be a stranger, please.

  “Invite me for dinner if it’ll ease your conscience.”

  “How about Sunday night?”

  “You don’t think Doc’ll find that a mite suspicious?”

  “I can say I ran into you.”

  “I don’t run into anything.” Again, Abel scratched his beard. “I’ll take a rain check, Mrs. Decker.” He started to talk, then stopped, then said, “You’re right ’bout one thing, ma’am. I do love that son of a bitch.” He sighed. “He’s a good man. I owe him big and I suppose it is payback time.”

  “Abel, it’s not necessary—”

  “Even so, give me a couple of days to think. I know a few people in the network. Find out if any of them is working for this tournament. Ask them to throw some scut work my way.”

  Rina bit her lip. “Thank you for hearing me out. It’s hard to see someone you love so frustrated. I’m trying to help, which is probably a mistake—”

  “Most likely a very big mistake. Your devotion, although overwrought, is touching.”

  Rina smiled. “Thank you for the backhanded compliment.”

  Abel looked her over. “You’re a very pretty woman. Doc’s one lucky guy.”

  “You like pretty women, you’ll love Jeanine.”

  “She’s pretty?”

  “A knockout.”

  “But a real Jezebel, huh?”

  “Jezebel…” Rina waited a beat. “You went to Bible school, Abel?”

  “Kentucky Appalachian poor, ma’am. We lived on dust and God. Bible was the only book in the house. That and the Sears catalog. Learned how to read using the both of them. Then when I got hold of some real books, I couldn’t figure out why people didn’t use words like hast and doth and makest…”

  Rina smiled softly.

  Abel said, “Yes, I know who Jezebel was. She was a very evil woman.”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “So be it.” Abel stroked his beard. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of evil women. Reckon one more cain’t do me much harm.”

  31

  The Scrabble tournament was set up on the second floor of the bookstore, all the way in the back, sandwiched between the video/audio section and the game department. Lots of board games. Old standards such as Monopoly, Life, Clue, Scrabble, chess, checkers, backgammon, and go. But there were also lots of the exotic and/or erotic adult games. Lots of “Host Your Owns.” Host Your Own Murder Party, Host Your Own Stock Market Party, Host Your Own Baseball League Party, Host Your Own Strip Party. Host Your Own Sex Party?

  Cindy wondered what that was all about.

  Sam tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around. He said, “He’s the one wearing the knitted cap and the orange jacket.”

  Cindy’s eyes moved to the boy. Tall and thin. A pale but clear complexion with freckles thrown across the forehead and the nose. Patches of brown fuzz above his upper lip and under his chin. Dark eyes that skittered across the room, sizing up the crowd. Long, delicate fingers. Tapered nails. He wore an oversized white T under a tangerine cotton zip-up jacket, and old jeans. On his feet were Docs or facsimiles thereof.

  “Doesn’t look like a hit man to me,” Cindy said.

  “Yeah, he does seem pretty ordinary.” Sam waited a beat. “Whole idea seems so stupid now.”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “You sign up yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Come on. I’ll show you where.”

  “You know, Sam, if we’re gonna make headway, we can’t be hanging around each other.”

  Sam didn’t move. “I don’t know about this. What if you talk to him afterward? What if he gets you alone and wham—”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Cindy said. “Anyway, now’s not the time for cold feet. I’ll go sign up and you make yourself scarce. We’ll meet up later.”

  Sam paused, then nodded. “Take care.”

  “Bye.” Cindy walked away, studied the surroundings.

  Folding chairs and card tables were scattered throughout the aisles, bordered by bookshelves on Games Strategy—Chess, Bridge, Whist, Go, Backgammon, Poker, Craps. Not to mention the tomes on Game Theory, Logic, and Probability. Math subjects that Cindy had assiduously avoided at Columbia.

  About sixteen tables in all. Most held playing boards and timers. One table had been designated for snacks—bowls of pretzels, popcorn, potato chips, several water pitchers as well as paper cups and napkins. Another held the sign-up sheets for the tournament. Divided into three categories—two players, three players, and four players. Prizes and points were awarded to the highest score in each category. Ambitious ones signed up for all three. Joachim was ambitious.

  Cindy did the same. That way she knew she’d get to meet him at least once during the one-on-one. With any luck, she’d be assigned a three- or four-person match with him, too.

  She poured herself a cup of water, felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned around. Tried not to act surprised.

  Face-to-face. Eyes that bored into her. She bit her lip, sipped water. She cocked her
hip in his direction. “Yes?”

  “Are you the Cindy on the sign-up sheet?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “No, not at all.” He spoke in a soft voice. “Just need to know if you have an ISN?”

  “A what?”

  “An International Scrabble Number.”

  Cindy said, “How about a Social Security number—”

  He smiled. “Sorry—”

  “Driver’s license?”

  Joachim said, “This is an ISN tournament. You have to have an ISN number to play.”

  Cindy said, “And where would I get one?”

  “I can give you one. But it’s five bucks—”

  “What!”

  “Sorry. Their rules, not mine.”

  “The man leaves me no choice.” Slowly, Cindy locked eyes with him. His cheeks turned a shade of pale pink. She smiled pointedly, pulled out her wallet from her jeans, ruffled through its contents. “I’ve only got two…no, three dollars—”

  “I’ll give you the two bucks.” Joachim held out his hand.

  Cindy slapped three ones into his palm. “If you give me your address, I’ll pay you back.”

  “Forget it.” Joachim pocketed the money. “Wait here. I’ll get you your number.”

  Cindy watched him, studied him. Nothing to suggest that he was anything other than a typical gawky teenager. He returned a moment later. “Here.”

  The slip was made out to Cynthia Cohen. As a precaution, Cindy had used her mother’s maiden name. She said, “Four-seven-eight-two. My lucky number.”

  Again he smiled. “Have fun.”

  He walked away. Cindy turned, exaled forcefully. To herself, she said, “That was cool.”

  It took three uneventful matches before she hooked up with him. A two-person game. He smiled when he saw her, sat down across the table, and checked the timers.

  “How’re you doing?”

  “Not too good.”

  “You play a lot?”

  “I played in college,” Cindy said. “But nothing like this. It’s a no-brainer to bowl over a bunch of stoners bummed out on William Burroughs and weed grown from their windowsills.”