Decker said, “I don’t like it—”
Oliver said, “Uh, Loo. I think we need to talk—”
Decker said, “What if it got back that the information came from him?”
“How?” Oliver said. “All he has to do is make an anonymous phone call to me or you or Narcotics.”
Joachim said, “Lieutenant, I have nothing to do with Malcolm—”
“Exactly,” Decker said. “They suspect the one who has nothing to do with the dealer.”
Joachim said, “Lieutenant, the entire school isn’t on drugs. I’d say over fifty percent of the student body has nothing to do with Malcolm Carey.”
Decker said, “Officer Cohen, don’t you have to take Joachim home?”
Cindy frowned. Excluding her at this crucial time. Still, she understood her father’s dilemma. “How about if we wait outside?”
“Good idea. Be with you two in a moment.”
Oliver waited until the front door closed. Then he said, “Deck, you can’t let an opportunity like this pass through your fingers—”
“Scott—”
Marge broke in, “Pete, he’s right. Worse comes to worst, we arrest a felon, get a major dealer out of the school.”
Oliver said, “Deck, we use Malcolm to get to Sean, we use Sean to get to Garrison. Yeah, there are a lot of holes along the way. So what? Marge is right. Even if we’re completely off base, even if Sean and Malcolm had nothing to do with Garrison’s OD. What’s the worst that can happen? We jail a pusher.”
“We’ll bring Narc in on it,” Marge said. “Really make it look legit.”
“With the understanding that we get first crack at Malcolm,” Oliver said. “It’s gold, rabbi. The honest-to-goodness twenty-four-karat item. If the kid’s willing to make a discreet phone call—”
“I’m worried about the kid going overboard,” Decker said.
“So we’ll talk to him,” Marge said. “He’s a legal adult, Pete. We can’t get into trouble that way—”
“We’re still using a kid,” Decker said.
“We’re not asking him to wear wires,” Oliver protested. “Just to make a simple phone call if he hears something. Face it, Loo. We’re not going to get Sean any other way. And if we don’t get Sean, we won’t get Jeanine Garrison. Think about those innocent victims from Estelle’s—thirteen murdered, thirty-two wounded.”
Decker said. “This whole thing has nothing to do with Estelle’s.”
“You don’t know that,” Oliver said. “Maybe Malcolm’s the mysterious second shooter—”
“Or maybe he isn’t—”
“Forget about Estelle’s!” Marge blurted out. “Estelle’s is irrelevant, okay? We’re not investigating Estelle’s. We’re investigating David Garrison. His death is listed as an accidental OD, but homicide has not been ruled out. If we hear rumors that lead us to investigate his death as a homicide…well, then I’m gung-ho. Because that’s what I do. I investigate homicides. And as far as I’m concerned, David Garrison is as good a homicide as any. And in the process of my investigation, if I get a rat’s ass punk pusher out of a school, well, then…fine with me!”
No one spoke. Decker threw back his head. “God, what a night.” With resolution, he gave his hands a clap. “We’ll do it under two conditions. First, the reason we’re going after Malcolm is to get to Sean and Jeanine, right?”
They both nodded.
Decker said, “We can’t possibly expect Malcolm to admit to a homicide in exchange for a simple drug charge. Which means we’ve got to get multiple charges on him—pop him with so many drug felonies that he’s never going to expect to see the light of day. To get that, we’re going to have to arrest at least a dozen students who’ll admit to buying from Malcolm. Which means we can’t pop him for a simple buy. We’re going to have to raid a dope party.”
“Good point,” Marge said.
“Agreed,” Oliver said.
Decker said, “Once we have the kid convinced that we’re his only hope, we bring up David Garrison—”
“You mean Sean Amos,” Oliver said.
“No, David Garrison.”
“But we don’t have anything that connects Malcolm to Garrison.”
“Then we’ll just have to convince not only Malcolm but his lawyer that we have compelling evidence,” Decker said. “We’ll say we’re going to run a gas chromatography on all Malcolm’s heroin. Tell him the composition matched the shit found in David Garrison’s apartment. Convince him that the odds of any one batch of heroin exactly matching another batch of heroin are extremely minuscule.”
“Are the odds remote?” Marge asked.
Decker shrugged. “Who knows? But it sounds good. Let’s bring Joachim back in here and explain the situation. Tell him not to call us unless he’s sure that there’s a big whopper going down. When he’s sure, we move. And not a moment before. We move too early, we blow everything.” He caught his breath. “Now for the second condition. In order to execute the operation, I’ll need clearance from Strapp.”
Marge frowned, “We can’t circumvent him?”
“No, I’ve got to tell him what’s going on.” Decker rubbed his eyes. “I just have to figure out how to do it without bringing in Cindy.”
Marge said, “I’ll take the heat. We’ll tell the exact same story except I’ll be Cindy.”
“I’ll cover for you, Dunn,” Oliver said. “I’ll say I was backup while you were with the kid.” He turned to Decker. “You know, your daughter was really clever to come up with that jive-ass cover on the spot.”
“Yes, she was.” Decker shook his head. “But she was completely out of line…taking a chance like that. I don’t know whether to brain her or kiss her.”
“Why’d she do it?” Oliver asked. “What was in it for her?”
“She was trying to help me out.”
Marge said, “Then she accomplished her goal.”
Words spilled from Decker’s mouth. “She’s entering the Academy after the first—”
“What?” Marge said.
“When did this happen?” Oliver asked.
“She told me about a month ago.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Marge demanded.
“I kept hoping she’d change her mind.” Decker sighed. “This bit of intrigue certainly dashes that hope. You notice that excitement-junkie look on her face? Like she took a vial of adrenaline and shot it through her vein.”
“She did a good job,” Oliver said.
Marge said, “For what it’s worth, I think she’ll make a good cop.”
But Decker couldn’t let go of the image—an hours-old infant nestling in his arms. Soft, red, and so very warm. He bit back mist that had clouded his eyes, said, “Let’s go talk to Joachim.”
34
Not much more than a shed. But it sat in the middle of an enchanted forest.
Decker said, “If you kiss it, will it turn into a palace?”
“Only works on frogs.” Rina fiddled with the keys. “Shall we go inside?”
“Sure, let’s live dangerously. You’re positive this place has a sewer line?”
“Last I checked, it even had cable hookup.” She placed the key inside the lock, turned the bolt. “Nice of the owner to give us the run of the place.”
“He’s probably hoping we’ll burn it down so he can collect insurance.”
As the door opened, they were spotlighted by dusty rays. Old lumpy furniture sat in an old house. Dirt-coated floors. Decker bounced on the planks. No squeaks. “Sturdy…solid wood.”
“What kind?”
He bent down, regarded the grain. “Cherry.”
“That’s good?”
“Our dining-room table’s cherry.” He scratched the floor with his nail. “Yeah, this is all superficial gunk. It’ll come right off.” He knocked on the walls. A thud answered. “Lath and plaster.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Good.” Decker rapped his knuckles against the walls several more times
. “Here’s the structural beam.” More knocking. “Several of them. Deceptively well built. Bet you could add a second story.”
Rina gave off a soft smile. “You like it.”
“Just trying to be positive.”
Together, they explored the pint-sized den, two tiny bedrooms—between them a connecting water closet. The kitchen, though roomy, looked like it hadn’t been touched in fifty years.
Decker stood, legs apart, arms folded across his chest. “A major undertaking.”
“Up to you,” Rina said. “If it involves too much, we’ll keep looking.”
“Could you live in this place?”
“As is?”
“As is with another bathroom.”
She shrugged. “In Israel, this would be considered a luxury apartment.”
“First of all, we’re not in Israel,” Decker said. “Second, I saw some of the apartments there, darlin’. They had granite and marble.”
“I could manage,” Rina said. “But eventually, we’d have to have another bedroom.” She looked at the worn cupboards. “And a decent kitchen. Can you save any of the cabinetry?”
He examined the doors, gave them a gentle cuff. “I could save it all. This is solid stuff.”
“What do you think?”
“With enough elbow grease, it could be something.” Decker rolled his shoulders. “Now I could get another bathroom in within…oh, a month or so. But the rest…the kitchen, another bedroom, expanding the master bedroom if you could call it that.” He exhaled. “It’s going to take time. My Sundays’ll be booked for the next year.”
“Too much for you?”
“No, I don’t mind,” Decker said. “I was thinking about you—and Hannah. Cooped up with a little kid running around.”
Rina said, “But, she’s in school during the day. And when she’s not, there’s the yard. It’s smaller than you’re used to…but isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes, it is nice.”
Decker’s beeper went off. Rina frowned. “Can’t you disconnect that thing?”
“It would only come back to haunt me.” He looked at the number. “It’s Narc’s extension.” He took out the portable phone. “Niels, it’s Decker. What’s up?”
“You still looking for that kid, Malcolm Carey?”
“Absolutely.”
“Call just came through. Westbridge is having a big party hearty scene at some kid’s house. Parents are out of town. Starts around nine tonight. Call said Malcolm should be there with his pharmacy.”
Decker felt a jolt. Joachim had actually come through. His beeper went off again—Marge. To Niels he said, “Start setting up operations. I’m sending over Bert Martinez and Tom Webster to coordinate with you. It’s your baby, but I want Malcolm Carey.”
“He’s all yours.”
“I’ll clear it with the captain, then get back to you.”
“Got it.”
Decker hung up, called Marge. She said, “Guess what?”
“Joachim called. There’s going to be a drug party.” A pause. “He just called Narc. They got to me first.”
“Joachim called Narc?” Marge was surprised. “Kid’s real thorough.”
“Apparently. Was Joachim invited to this shindig?”
“He said it was an open-invitation bash.”
“So his presence shouldn’t be missed.”
“Probably not,” Marge said. “Who’s coordinating with Narc?”
“Bert Martinez and Tom Webster. That leaves you and Oliver to pull the warrant for the house and Malcolm’s car if we’re lucky enough to hit pay dirt. Who’s on the bench?”
“Randall.”
“Yeah, he’s fine.” Decker paused, trying to keep excitement out of his voice. “I just have to clear the whole thing with Strapp—”
“You haven’t talked to Strapp yet?”
“Why would I have talked to him about it? I had no idea if Joachim would produce. It’s only been two, three weeks since we talked to him.”
“Something like that.”
“I’ll ring up Strapp right now.”
A long pause. “Pete, I think he’s at the tennis tournament.”
A knife went through Decker’s gut. “That’s right. I’ll catch him there.”
“How about if I go—”
“No need.”
“Pete, I think it would be—”
“Gotta go, Marge.” He disconnected the line.
Rina said, “Joachim called?”
“Yes.”
She smiled. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”
“Yes, very good.”
She hesitated. “You don’t look happy.”
“I’ve got to okay the procedure with Strapp. Right now, he’s probably gliding into his seat at Jeanine Garrison’s wheelchair tennis tournament. Twenty bucks gets you into the place, a hundred lets you have a decent view, and a thousand puts you courtside. FYI, the arena is sold out.”
Decker gave a bitter grin.
“But Strapp don’t have to worry none. He’s been comped.”
A cloudless November day, the deep blue sky engulfing the L.A. basin with a gentle autumn kiss. Even though most of the deciduous trees had lost their leaves, the area still sparkled emerald from the perennial landscape and blades of freshly planted lawn. The West Hills Sports Center stood in the middle of parklike grounds.
Even with the official badge and placard, Decker stalled in the event’s traffic. Though spacious, the center was not built to host major tennis tournaments. But Jeanine had done a fine job on short notice, setting up tiers of portable bleachers around a central court. He parked in a space marked LOADING ZONE, walked over to the gates, and showed the attendant his badge. She gave it a moment of her time, then allowed him to enter.
As people poured in, Decker’s eyes swept across the scene. The space outside the arena’s seating was filled with kiosks. Some were stacked with memorabilia-T-shirts, sweatshirts, visors, sunglasses, and wristbands, all of the items emblazoned with the title TENNIS FOR VICTIMS. Others hawked all types of ethnic comestibles. Diners munched their grub either standing up or sitting on folding chairs beside tables.
His eyes moved back outside, to the parking lot, to a roped-off and guarded area of trailers. Eight of them partnered two by two. The athletes’ dressing rooms. Directly in front of the barrier was a crowd of reporters, photographers, and lookie-loos.
Decker thought a moment.
Extremely unlikely that Strapp was holed up inside a trailer. That whole business was really none of his business. But curiosity got the better of him. He left the arena through one of the makeshift gates, waded through the throng of fans, and presented his badge to one of the minimum-wage security guards who asked the usual question: What was this all about? Decker evaded with the stock reply of police business. Then he ducked behind the ropes.
Shingles posted on the vans. Names of well-known figures in the game, some of them seeded players. Jeanine had pulled out all the stops. Ramps instead of steps led up to the trailers’ doors, which were also guarded. Some of the sentries stood, others were seated in wheelchairs. The paraplegic watchman stared at Decker, said nothing as Decker fast-walked past him. Turned the corner, squeezing between the backs of trailers. Took a step into the seam, then immediately retreated, his heart flying in his chest.
And there they were…Jeanine and Sean. Cautiously, Decker peeked around the corner, observing them with intense eyes, trying to interpret the body language.
It wasn’t the tongue of love.
Jeanine looking away…peeved…bored. Hands on her hips, foot tapping. Sean talked with his hands…with his arms, the appendages flying as his face grew redder. His voice became louder, faster. Still Decker couldn’t make out words. Only the sentiment. An argument.
Wishing he were a fly on the wall. He backed up, trying to find a way to get closer. A wheelchair-bound guard stopped him, asked for ID.
Decker took out his badge, which did little to erase suspicion from the
watchman’s face. The man adjusted his frame in his metal transportation and began the questions. Decker never got a chance to answer because Jeanine had suddenly appeared sans Sean. Frantically, Decker attempted to arrange his thoughts, tried not to stare.
She was as lovely as ever, dressed for the nip of fall in a long-sleeved white shirt that sat under a gray wool blazer and black slacks. The collar of her jacket had been turned up. Golden hair framing porcelain skin. Aqua eyes passed over his face. Quietly she said, “May I ask what you’re doing here?”
Decker managed to hold her eyes. “I’m looking for my captain.”
“Obviously he’s not here.”
The guard said, “Everything all right, Ms. Garrison?”
Jeanine’s smile was benevolent. “Just fine, Brock. You can let us be.”
Decker began to walk away. “I’m out of here.”
Jeanine followed. “I’ll be happy to escort you—”
“Not necessary.” Decker picked up his pace. But Jeanine continued to dog his heels.
“Would you like a seat for the match, Lieutenant? I’d be happy to arrange it.” She grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. A teasing smile on her face. “After all, we’re no longer enemies.”
That’s what you think, lady. Decker looked at her hand, gently but pointedly removed it from his forearm. Her touch made his skin crawl. “No thank you.”
Jeanine grinned, showing teeth. “His seat is located off aisle four, courtside. Are you sure I can’t cajole you to change your mind?”
Decker said nothing, jogged off without looking back. Sweating from the interchange. Nobody had a right to affect him like that. Embarrassed. Angry.
He came back into the arena, now in the final frenetic moments before the event. The anticipation. Tennis talk. Celebrity talk. He made his way to the front rows as cameras flashed, blinding him with bits of light. Not for him, of course, but for the dozens of film and TV stars who had showed up wearing black solidarity ribbons.
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