Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 13

by The Forgotten

  “We’re making the rounds.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Probably done in the wee hours of the morning.” Shearing slid his toe against the ground. “Probably by kids.”

  “Kids as in more than one?”

  “A lot of damage. I think so.”

  “Tell me about the guy in the dry cleaners.”

  “Gregory Blansk. Young kid himself. Uh…nineteen…” He flipped through more pages. “Yeah, nineteen.”

  “Any chance he did it and is sticking around to see people admire his handiwork?”

  “I think he’s Jewish, sir.”

  “You think?”

  “Uh…yeah. Here we go. He is Jewish.” Shearing looked up. “He seemed appalled and more than a little frightened. He’s a Russian import himself. Two strikes against him—Jewish and a foreigner. This has to scare him.”

  “Currently, Detective Wanda Bontemps from Juvenile is assigned to Hate Crimes. Make sure she interviews him when she comes out. Keep the area clear. I’ll be back.”

  Having worked Juvenile for a number of years, Decker was familiar with errant kids and lots of vandalism. He had worked in an area noted for biker bums, white trash, hoodlum Chicanos, and teens who just couldn’t get behind high school. But this? Too damn close to home. He was so distracted by the surroundings, he didn’t even notice Rina until she spoke. It jolted him, and he took a step backward, bumping into her, almost knocking her down.

  “I’m sorry.” He grabbed her hand, then clasped her body tightly. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  “I’m…” She shrugged in his arms. Don’t cry! “How long before we can start cleaning this up?”

  “Not for a while. I’d like to take photographs and comb the area for prints—”

  “I can’t stand to look at this!” Rina pulled away and turned her eyes away from his. “How long?”

  “I don’t know, Rina. I’ve got to get the techs out here. It isn’t a murder scene, so it isn’t top priority.”

  “Oh. I see. We have to wait until someone gets shot.”

  Decker tried to keep his voice even. “I’m as anxious as you are to clean this up, but if we want to do this right, we can’t rush things. After the crews leave, I will personally come over here with mop and broom in hand and scrub away every inch of this abomination. Okay?”

  Rina covered her mouth, then blinked back droplets. She whispered back, “Okay.”

  “Friends?” Decker smiled.

  She smiled back with wet eyes.

  Decker’s smile faded as the horror hit him. “Good Lord!” He threw his head back. “This is…awful!”

  “They took the kiddush cup, Peter.”

  “What?”

  “The kiddush cup is gone. We kept it in the cabinet. It was silver plate with turquoise stones and just the type of item that would get stolen because it was accessible and flashy.”

  Decker thought a moment. “Kids.”

  “That’s what they’re all saying. Why not some evil hate group?”

  “Sure, it could be that. One thing I will say on record is it’s probably not a hype. If he wanted something to swap for instant drug money, the crime would have been clean theft.”

  “Maybe the cup is hidden underneath all this wreckage.” Rina shrugged. “All I know is the cup isn’t in the cabinet.”

  Decker took out his notebook. “Anything else?”

  “Fresh scratch marks on the padlock on the Aron—the Holy Ark. They tried to get into it, but weren’t successful.”

  “Thank goodness.” He folded his notebook and studied her face. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I’m…all right. I’ll feel better once this is cleaned up. I suppose I should call Mark Gruman.”

  Decker sighed. “He and I painted the walls the first time. Looks like we’re going to paint them again.”

  Rina whispered, “Once word gets out, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of willing volunteers.”

  “Hope so.” Decker stamped his foot. An infantile gesture but he was so damn angry. “Man, I am pi…mad. I’d love to swear except I don’t want to further desecrate the place.”

  “What’s the first step in this type of investigation?”

  “To check out juveniles with past records of vandalism.”

  “Aren’t records of juveniles sealed?”

  “Of course. But that doesn’t mean the arresting officers can’t talk. A couple of names would be a good start.”

  “How about checking out real hate groups?”

  “Definitely, Rina. We’ll work this to the max. Nothing in this geographical area comes to mind. But I remember a group in Foothills—the Ethnic Preservation Society or something like that. It’s been a while. I have to check the records, and to do that properly I need to go back to the office.”

  “Go on. Go back. I’ll be okay.” She turned to face him. “Who’s coming down?”

  “Wanda Bontemps. She’s from the Hate Crimes Unit. Try not to bite her head off. She had a bad experience with Jews in the past.”

  “And this is who they bring down for a Jewish hate crime?”

  “She’s black—”

  “So she’s a black, and an anti-Semite. That makes it better?”

  “She’s not anti-Semitic at all. She’s a good woman who was honest enough to admit her issues to me early on. I’m just…I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.” He looked around and grimaced. “I should learn to keep my mouth shut. I’ll chalk it up to being a little rattled. Wanda’s new and has worked hard to get her gold. It hasn’t been an easy ride for a black forty-year-old woman.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Rina answered. “Don’t worry about her, Peter. If she just does her job, we’ll get along just fine.”

  2

  The pictures of the concentration-camp victims had to have come from somewhere. It was possible that they were downloaded from a neo-Nazi on-line site and enhanced to make them look like real photographs. Still, it was equally as likely that they had come from some kind of local organized fascist group. The fringe group that Decker had remembered from his Foothills days had tagged itself the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity. When he had worked Juvenile, it hadn’t been much more than a post-office box and a once-every-six-months meeting in the park. A few quick phone calls told him that the group was still in existence and that it had evolved into something with an address on Roscoe Boulevard. Decker wasn’t sure what they did or what they espoused, but with that kind of a name, the hidden message had to be white supremacy.

  He checked his watch, which now read close to eleven. He got up from his desk and went out into the squad room. There were lots of empty spots, signifying that most of Devonshire’s detectives had been called into the field, but luck placed Tom Webster at his desk, and on the phone. The junior homicide detective was blond, blue-eyed, and spoke with a good-ole-boy drawl. If anyone could pose as an Aryan sympathizer, it would be Webster…except for the dress. Neo-Nazis didn’t usually sport designer suits. Today, Tom had donned a navy suit, white shirt, and a maroon mini-print tie—probably Zegna. Not that Decker wore hundred-dollar ties, but he knew the brand because Rina’s father liked Zegna and often gave Sammy and Jake his cast-off cravats.

  Webster looked up, and Decker caught his eye, pointing to his office. A minute later, Tom came in and closed the door. His hair had been recently shorn, but several locks still brushed his eyebrows, giving him that “aw shucks” look of a schoolboy.

  “Sorry about this morning, Loo.” Webster took a seat across Decker’s desk. “We all heard it was pretty bad.”

  “Y’all heard right.” Decker sat at his desk and sifted through his computer until he found what he wanted. Then he pressed the print button. “What’s your schedule like?”

  “I was just doing a follow-up on the Gonzalez shooting. Talking to the widow…” He sighed. “The trial’s been delayed again. Perez’s lawyer quit, and they’re assigning him a new PD who is not familiar with the case. Poor Mrs. Gonzalez
wants closure and it isn’t going to happen soon.”

  “That’s too bad,” Decker stated.

  “Yeah, it’s too bad and all too typical,” Webster answered. “I have court at one-thirty. I thought I’d go over my notes.”

  “You’re a college grad, Webster. That shouldn’t take you long.” Decker handed him the printout. “I want you to check this out.”

  Webster looked at the sheet. “Preservers of Ethnic Integrity? What is all this? A Nazi group?”

  “That’s what you’re going to find out.”

  “When? Now?”

  “Yes.” Decker smiled. “Right now.”

  “What am I inquiring about? The temple vandalism?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I supposed to be simpatico to the cause?”

  “You want information, Tom; do what you need to do. As a matter of fact, take Martinez with you. You’re white, he’s Hispanic. With racists, you can do good cop, bad cop just by using the color of your skin.”

  From the synagogue, Bontemps called Decker and told him about the three kids she had hauled in for prior vandalism. All of them had sealed records.

  “How about a couple of names?” Decker asked.

  Bontemps said, “Jerad Benderhurst—a fifteen-year-old white male. Last I heard, he was living with an aunt in Oklahoma. Jamal Williams—a sixteen-year-old African-American male—picked up not only for vandalism, but also petty theft and drug possession. I think he moved back east.”

  “That’s not promising. Anyone else?”

  “Carlos Aguillar. I think he’s fourteen, and I think he’s still at Buck’s correction center. Those are the ones I remember for vandalism. If you check with Sherri and Ridel, they might have others.” A pause. “Then again, Lieutenant, you might want to consider the bigger picture when it comes to tagging.”

  Decker knew exactly to whom she was referring—a specific group of white, middle-to-upper-class males who were not only testosterone laden, but also terribly bored with life. Recently, after having been caught, the kids had secured their daddies’ highly paid lawyers before they had even been booked. The entire bunch had gotten off, the tagging expunged from the records, and in record time. Most of the kids were enrolled in private schools. For them, even drugs and sex had become too commonplace. Crime was the last vestige of rebellion.

  “There was a group of them last year,” Wanda said. “Around twenty of them dressing like homies and trying to act very baaaad. They defaced a lot of property. If I thought about it, I could remember some names.”

  “You could also have your ass sued for giving me the names,” Decker said. “As far as the records are concerned, they don’t exist. But I know who you mean.” A glance at the wrist told him it was eleven-twenty. “How’s it going over there?”

  “Photographers are almost done. So are the techs. Your wife is waiting with a crew of people—all of them armed with soapy water pails, cleaning solutions, rags, and mops. They are ready to start scrubbing, and they are angry. If the police don’t hurry up, someone’s gonna get impaled on a broomstick.”

  “That sounds like Rina’s doing,” Decker stated.

  “You want to talk to her? She’s hanging over my shoulder.”

  “I am not hanging,” Rina said, off side. “I am waiting.”

  Wanda handed her the phone. Rina said, “Detective Bontemps has offered to spend her lunch hour helping us clean.”

  “Is that a pointed comment?”

  “Well, you might want to take a cue.”

  Decker smiled. “I’ll be there as soon as I get off work. I will paint and clean the entire night if necessary. How’s that?”

  “Acceptable, although by the time you get here, it may not be necessary.”

  “I hear you have quite a gang.”

  “Specifically, we’ve got the entire sisterhood here with brooms and buckets. Someone also made an announcement over at the JCC. Six people came down to clean and paint—one guy actually being a professional painter. Wanda, who’s been a doll, actually called up her church and recruited several volunteers. Even the people from the press have offered to help. We’d like to start already.”

  “Detective Bontemps told me they’re almost done.”

  “It’s just so…ugly, Peter. Every time I look at it, I get sick all over. Everyone feels the same way.”

  “Who is down there from the press?”

  “L.A. Times, Daily News, there are some TV cameras, but Wanda isn’t letting them in yet.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Have you narrowed down your suspect list?” Rina asked.

  “I’m making a couple of calls. I’ll let you know if I have any luck.” He waited a moment. “I love you, darlin’. I’m glad you have so much support over there.”

  “I love you, too. And those mumzerim haven’t heard the last from me. This isn’t going to happen again!”

  “I admire your commitment.”

  “Nothing to admire. This isn’t a choice, this is an assignment. Have you checked out the pawnshops?”

  “What?”

  “For the silver kiddush cup. Someone may have tried to pawn it.”

  “Actually no, I haven’t checked out the pawnshops.”

  “You should do that right away. Before the pawnbroker gets wind of the fact that he has something hot.”

  “Anything else, General?”

  “Nothing for the moment. Someone’s calling me, Peter. I’ll give you back to Detective Bontemps.”

  Wanda said, “She’s quite the organizer.”

  “That’s certainly true. Thanks for helping out.”

  “It’s the least I could do.”

  Decker said, “The taggers you were referring to, Wanda. Most of them went to private school.”

  “Some of them did—Foreman Prep…Beckerman’s.”

  “That could work in our favor. I’d have a hard time doing search and seizure with kids in public school. But in private school, they are subjected to different rules. Lots of the places have bylaws allowing the administration to open up random lockers to do contraband searches.”

  “Why would a private school administrator agree to do that for us, sir?”

  “Because it would look bad if they didn’t help us out. Like they were hiding something. Chances are I won’t find much…a secret stash or two.”

  “What specific contraband would you be looking for, sir? Anti-Semitic material?”

  “A silver wine cup.”

  “Aha. That makes sense.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Decker said.

  But one not without controversy or consequences. Because in order to appear objective—and the police needed to appear objective—he’d have to search several of the private schools, including Jacob’s Jewish high school. He’d start with that one.

  3

  What’s the address?” Webster asked.

  Martinez gave him the number while taking a big bite out of his turkey, tomato, and mustard sandwich, rye bread crumbs sprinkling his steel-wool mustache. He had been thinking about shaving it off now that it was more gray than black. But his wife told him that after all these years of something draping over his mouth, he probably had no upper lip left. “Any particular reason why Decker is using Homicide Dees for this?”

  “Probably because I was in the squadroom.” He looked at his partner’s sandwich. “You carryin’ an extra one, Bertie?”

  “Oh, sure.” Martinez pulled a second sandwich out of a paper bag. “You didn’t eat lunch?”

  “When did I have time?” He attacked the food, wolfing half down in three bites. “Decker cornered me just as I was hangin’ up on the widow Gonzalez. The loo has a boner for this one.”

  “Yeah, it’s personal.”

  “It’s personal. It’s also very ugly, especially after the Furrow shooting at the JCC and the murder of the Filipino mail carrier. I think the loo wants to show the world that the police are competent beings.”

  “Nothing wrong with us bagging
a bunch of punks.” Martinez finished his sandwich and washed it down with a Diet Coke. “You know anything about these jokers?”

  “Just what’s on the printout. They’ve been around for a while. A bunch of nutcases.”

  Webster slowed in front of a group of businesses dominated by a 99 Cents store advertising things in denomination of—you guessed it—ninety-nine cents. The corner also housed a Payless shoe store, a Vitamins-R-Us, and a Taco Tio whose specialty was the Big Bang Burrito. Cosmology with heartburn: that was certainly food for thought. “I don’t see any Preservers of Ethnic Integrity.”

  “The address is a half-number,” Martinez said. “We should try around the side of the building.”

  Webster turned the wheel and found a small glass entrance off the 99 Cents store, the door’s visibility blocked by a gathered white curtain. No address, but an intercom box had been set into the plaster. Webster parked, and they both got out. Martinez rang the bell, which turned out to be a buzzer.

  The intercom spat back in painful static. “We’re closed for lunch.”

  “Police,” Martinez barked. “Open up!”

  A pause, then a long buzz. Webster pushed the door, which bumped against the wall before it was fully opened. He pushed himself inside. Martinez had to take a deep breath before entering, barely able to squeeze his belly through the opening. The reception area was as big as a hatchback. There was a scarred bridge table that took up almost the entire floor space and a folding chair. They stood between the wall and the table, staring at a waif of a girl who sat on the other side of the table. Her face was framed between long strands of ash-colored hair. She wore no makeup and had a small, pinched nose that barely supported wire-rim glasses.

  “Police?” She stood and looked to her left—at an interior door left ajar. “What’s going on?”

  Martinez scanned the decor. Two prints without frames—Grant Wood’s American Gothic and a seascape by Winslow Homer—affixed to the walls by Scotch tape. Atop the table were a phone and piles of different-colored flyers. Absently, he picked up a baby-blue sheet of paper containing an article. The bottom paragraph, printed in italics, identified the writer as an ex-Marine turned psychologist. Martinez would read the text later.