Uh-huh, Decker thought. “Let me ask you this. If you did do the murder, what motivation did you have?”
“You’re asking me?” Tarpin said.
“I’m asking you.”
“I don’t have any motivation, because I didn’t do anything.”
“But if I wanted to pin something on you, where would I go? For instance, to find a hidden motivation, maybe I should check out your association with the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity. See what they have to say about you?”
Tarpin stared straight into the mountains. “Sure, you could do that.”
“Did the Baldwins know about your membership in PEI?”
“What the hell does this have to do with Merv’s murder?”
The words were strong, but Tarpin’s voice was deep and mild.
“Maybe nothing—”
“Definitely nothing.”
“I’ve heard that the Baldwins are very liberal. I’m just wondering how they felt about your association—”
“They wanted the best person for the job,” Tarpin interrupted. “I’m the best.” Laughter erupted from his broad chest. “So you’re thinking I murdered Merv because I didn’t like his politics? The Baldwins knew about my associating with PEI. Merv even proofread a couple of articles I wrote for their official newsletter. We were at political ends of the spectrum—them and me. I respected his right to believe what he wanted to believe; he respected mine.” Finally some emotion had entered the Marine’s eyes. “If you’d like to get on with solving the case, that would be nice.”
“I just don’t picture you having much in common with those PEI clowns.”
“National PEI is composed of over two thousand members. Suddenly you’ve met them all?”
“Two thousand members?”
A slow smile came to Tarpin’s lips. “Surprised?”
“Actually, yes, I am.” Decker shook his head. “I hope they’re less marginal than the mouthpieces in the local front office.”
Tarpin was quiet.
“What’s his name?” Decker scanned his notes in mock confusion. “Darrell Holt. What do you think of him?”
“You met Darrell?”
“Yep,” Decker lied.
Tarpin looked across the valleys. Picked up a stone and threw it down the mountainside. “Darrell ain’t no dummy. He went to Berkeley. They don’t let stupid people into college.”
Having gone to college, Decker knew that that was definitely debatable. “What about his girlfriend? Don’t tell me she went to Berkeley. She doesn’t even look eighteen.”
“I don’t know Darrell’s girlfriend.”
“Erin Kershan?”
“Nope. Don’t know her.”
No one spoke for a moment. Decker remarked, “I’m just thinking why Darrell Holt would pick the most radical of all UCs to go to. It hardly fits his politics.”
“That’s because you didn’t know Darrell in his younger days.”
“And you did?”
“Yes, sir. Kinky hair down to his shoulders, unwashed, unkempt, spouting that radical, racial gibberish. His dad put him in Dr. Merv’s camp about seven years ago. But the boy quit therapy, then went off to college. You can’t change a light bulb if it don’t want to be changed. But like I said, Darrell had some smarts. He came to reason on his own.”
Decker was astounded. “So Darrell went to Baldwin’s nature camp.” He tapped his pencil against his notebook. “Is that how you two met?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you were active in PEI at that time, Mr. Tarpin?”
“Correct.”
“Did you introduce Darrell to PEI?”
“No, sir, I don’t use the nature camp to recruit membership for my beliefs.”
Uh-huh, Decker thought. “So Darrell just fell into the group by happenstance?”
“Happenstance? That means by accident, don’t it? I think Darrell went into the group because he was interested in what we had to say.”
“But you never mentioned the PEI to him?”
“I might have,” Tarpin admitted. “Frankly, I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”
“How long has Darrell been with the group?”
“Three, four years, I think. Go ask him.”
“I will,” Decker said. “Do you know if Darrell and Ernesto knew each other?”
“No, sir, I would not know.”
“Have you ever heard of a guy named Ricky Moke?”
“No, Lieutenant, I don’t know the name.”
“Darrell told my men that Ricky was also a member of the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity.”
“That very well could be. Like I said, PEI has over two thousand members.”
The stone face was back, so Decker couldn’t tell if he was lying. “What can you tell me about Darrell Holt…when he was at the camp?”
“Bright boy, but very troubled.”
“How was he troubled?”
“Acting out all the time. Lord knows Merv and Dee tried. Darrell wasn’t going to have it. Like I said, he settled down on his own.”
“Did he talk to you much?”
“Not too much.”
“What about Ernesto?”
“What about him?”
“Did he talk to you?”
“All the boys talk to me, Ernesto included. I don’t encourage it…the Baldwins don’t like it. It interferes with their therapy.” He faced Decker. “I’ll tell you one thing, Lieutenant. Ernesto felt bad about what he’d done to the temple—genuine remorse. What do Ernesto’s problems have to do with the murder anyway?”
“Right now, we don’t know who the intended victim was. Could be Baldwin. But maybe it was Ernesto.”
“Why would it be Ernesto?” Tarpin asked. “He’s just a kid.”
“Let me turn it around on you, Mr. Tarpin. Why would it be Baldwin?”
“Because the Baldwins dealt with some really bad kids—psychos with the flat, lizard eyes that you see on snipers. The doctors tried, but some kids are beyond redemption.”
“But why murder someone up here…in the mountains? Bad access, hard to escape, plus you have all these witnesses and potential enemies.”
“Not if the man was a survivalist.”
“Are you saying the boy was a graduate of the camp?”
“Maybe.” Tarpin faced him. “Why do you think the intended hit was Ernesto?”
Decker hesitated. How to talk without revealing too much. “To this day, I don’t believe he acted alone in the vandalism. I think Ernesto might have fallen into bad company, had remorse about it, and maybe some of those neo-Nazis were coming after him.” Decker tapped his pencil against his pad. “Did he ever mention a young woman named Ruby Ranger?”
Again, Tarpin broke into a disaffected stare. “Ernesto talked about her from time to time. She sounded like a bad egg.”
“Was she ever a patient of the Baldwins? Or don’t the Baldwins take girls?”
“They take anyone who needs them. I don’t know about Ruby Ranger. Why don’t you look her up in the office files?”
“That requires a subpoena.”
“So go get one.”
“You see her as a suspect, Corporal?”
“Yes, I do.” He spit on the ground. “Used to be that the worst things that girls did was smoking dope or kiting checks. Now they’re just as bad as the boys. There’s progress for you.”
18
Getting a search warrant on criminals with probable cause was one thing. Getting a warrant on patient files when one of the doctors was still alive was proving to be more difficult. As the hours dragged on, Decker decided to send a team over to the Baldwins’ Beverly Hills office to see if they could talk their way into information. Since Martinez was hunting down Malibu condos for Dee, and Tom and Wanda were still tied up at the scene, Decker gave the daunting task of being charming to Scott Oliver and Marge Dunn.
Neither sounded overjoyed at the assignment.
Riding on the freeway over the hump, Oliver sat in
the passenger’s seat of the unmarked and tried not to dump on Marge. He was cranky because he hated officious people, and those who practiced in Beverly Hills tended to be full of themselves—or maybe the correct word was successful. Scott figured that Deck had given him the detail on purpose, that the loo was still upset over Oliver’s all-too-brief relationship with Deck’s daughter Cindy. Never mind that the woman had dumped him and was on her way to being a rising star in the LAPD. Never mind that he was on the dark side of forty and had reached the pinnacle of his career ten years ago. No, forget all that crap. Oliver decided that Decker’s animosity came from the fact that he was better looking, and could get tons of women any time he wanted just because—
Marge interrupted his fantasies with business. “I talked to one of their psychology associates. Her name is Maryam Estes.” She picked a speck of dirt off of her navy linen/polyester blend slacks. They were supposed to wrinkle a little but still look presentable. The garment definitely had the wrinkle part down pat; presentable was another matter. Still, the deep tone looked good with her pale complexion, her brown eyes, and her dishwater, thin hair. Along with the pants, she wore an oxford weave shirt and a matching blue jacket. Sensible navy shoes with rubber soles, but stylish—a Tod’s knockoff. She always felt lucky when she found decent shoes in size ten wide. Her feet were proportional to her height and weight, but the fact didn’t make it easier to find things in the stores. “She didn’t sound very cooperative over the phone.”
“Did she sound pretty?”
“By pretty do you mean young?”
“Yeah, young is definitely okay.”
“She sounded young.” Marge got off at Sunset and turned left, heading toward Beverly Hills. “Young and very nervous.”
“She doesn’t have the best job security right now.”
“For the moment, Dee’s still alive.” Marge slowed the car as she hooked around the twists and turns of the boulevard.
“Think so?” Oliver adjusted the air-conditioning up a notch. The wool of his charcoal suit was supposedly lightweight, but in today’s sticky, smoggy heat, the fabric was oppressive.
Marge thought a moment. “Either Dee whacked them or she’s running from the people who whacked them.”
“Either option ain’t good for the young-sounding Ms. Estes.” Oliver checked his hair in the vanity mirror. Still relatively thick and still in place. “Or is it Dr. Estes?”
“She didn’t say.”
“What exactly does Decker want?”
“To sniff out the Baldwins’ patients and see if any of them are violent psychos. We’re also supposed to find out all we can about Ernesto Golding and his problems, plus ask about a twenty-three-year-old named Ruby Ranger who was Ernesto’s girlfriend. But we have to be careful because we don’t have a subpoena and there’s a confidentiality problem.”
“Okay,” Oliver said, “so what’s the plan?”
“Just get her talking.” Marge stopped at a red light, then turned to face him and smiled. “Enthrall the words out of her, Scott.”
He straightened his tie and slicked back the salt-and-pepper hair that lined his temples. “Piece of cake.”
Marge turned the car right, onto Camden Drive, a street of large eclectic houses that sat on lots too puny for their size. The sidewalks were lined with magnolias that bathed the lawns and homes in muted light. When she hit Santa Monica, she realized that the street had turned one-way and she was going the wrong way. “I hate this city.”
“So do I.”
“Or maybe I’m just jealous because I can’t afford to live here.”
“I don’t mind not living here. I mind not being able to shop here.”
“You could always hit the sales.”
“Fifty percent off a fortune is still too high.” Oliver looked around. “We’re not too far away from Cindy’s, you know.”
“Now that would be a very bad idea.”
“I wasn’t thinking about anything, just stating a fact—”
“A very, very bad idea—”
“Yeah, yeah. Just concentrate on your driving.”
“Do you still see her?”
“We don’t stick pins in each other’s voodoo dolls if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m not asking if you’re enemies, I’m asking if you still see her?”
“What do you care?”
Sore point. Marge smiled. “You’re right. It is none of my business.”
“No, I don’t see her. Cindy’s idea, not mine.”
No one spoke.
Oliver said, “You passed the address.”
“I should concentrate on my driving,” Marge said. “Now I’m going to have to go around the block again.”
“God is punishing you for asking about Cindy.”
“That’s very medieval thinking. Besides, you brought her up!”
“I’m entitled. But you can’t say anything about it. Isn’t that the way it works?”
“You’re right.”
“Damn right, I’m right.”
“Can we be friends now?”
“That’s implying we were friends to begin with.” When Marge didn’t respond, Oliver frowned. “Okay. We’re friends. Happy?”
Marge patted his knee. The car crawled around the block until she finally parked in an underground lot. Silently, they rode the elevator to the eleventh floor—Oliver looking very sour—then got off and turned right, walking down a plush, quiet hallway to the Baldwins’ office. A young woman with mocha-colored skin and a nest of tumbling black curls met them at the door. She wore a white, short-sleeve, silk blouse tucked into a maroon skirt that brushed the top of her knees. Maroon pumps completed the look. They pulled out their badges, and the woman stepped aside so they could come in. She was breathless.
“I’m Maryam Estes.” Once inside, she closed and locked the door. “This way.”
They followed her down the thick-carpeted hallway, her chunky heels leaving depression marks in the nap. Her walk was stiff and quick.
“Are you a doctor as well?” Oliver asked.
She spoke over her shoulder. “Ph.D.”
Silence.
Oliver whispered to Marge, “I think she likes me—”
“Shut up.”
Panting, she led them into the Baldwins’ resplendent office. Paneled walls hosted verdant landscape oil paintings set into gilt frames; the polished parquet floors were adorned with several Persian rugs. The space was filled with handsome furniture that was old-fashioned in style but looked brand new—tables, chairs, sofas, and bookcases—the centerpiece being a walnut partners desk, its sides intricately carved with flowers, vines, and leaves. Strategically placed mullion windows showed off a city view.
Marge looked about. On the desktop sat two computers, blotters, pens, pencils, file folders, and piles of papers. She ran a finger over an empty spot on the smooth walnut surface—no dust. Someone had recently cleaned up.
Maryam said, “Sit anywhere you’d like.”
Marge settled into a rose upholstered sofa, but Oliver elected to walk around the room, dissecting the young woman in his head. She wasn’t pretty—her face was too round, and her eyes were too close set—but she still was attractive. Hot bod, good skin, and thick, biteable lips.
“Huge place.” He took in her dark eyes and smiled. “You could waltz in here!”
“They hold lots of group therapy sessions.” She averted her gaze. “They need the room.”
“What’s the rent on something like this?”
The woman stiffened. “I don’t know.” Another bristle. “I hardly think that’s important right now.”
“Probably not.”
Good job of enthralling her, Scott. But Oliver often had some method behind the incompetence. Marge looked at the partners desk. “Did the Baldwins share the same office?”
“They both have private space as well. There’s also an intake suite for interviews.”
“So in addition to the waiting room, an intake suite, and
this ballroom, they have individual offices?”
“If you’re doing individual therapy, you can’t be interrupted because your partner needs to look at the files.”
“So these…” Marge pointed to the back wall lined with oak-veneered cabinets. “That’s where the case files are kept?”
“The recent ones, yes.”
“You don’t lock them up?”
“Of course they’re locked!” Maryam was offended. “Pardon my impudence, but why exactly are you here? Shouldn’t Dee Baldwin be your concern? Shouldn’t you be out looking for her?”
“We’re doing that, Dr. Estes—well, not us personally—but the police have made Dee Baldwin a top priority. We are here because we need some help.”
“Help?” Maryam licked her lips. “How?”
“Information kind of help,” Oliver said. “We’re looking into culprits. Since Dr. Baldwin treated some disturbed people, we were wondering if one of his patients might have done this.”
“Like a revenge thing,” Marge added. “Do you know of any patient who swore a vendetta against either one of the Baldwins?”
A shake of the head. “Nothing comes to mind. And even if someone came to mind, I couldn’t help you. Patients have confidentiality.”
“Not when it conflicts with the immediate well-being of someone who’s alive,” Marge said. “You know the Tarasoff case.”
“It doesn’t apply when the person’s already dead.”
“Now, that’s a good point,” Oliver said. “So you shouldn’t mind answering a couple of questions about Ernesto Golding.”
“I can’t help you because I don’t know anything about Ernesto Golding.”
“Maybe we can take a peek at his file?” Oliver said.
“Certainly not!” Maryam protested. “I can’t give you that kind of permission. You’ll have to wait for Dee.”
“That may take a long time,” Oliver said. “Like in forever.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say!” Suddenly, Maryam burst out crying. “This is just awful! Who could have done something so dreadful? Dr. Merv didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
The two detectives let her cry for a few moments. Then Oliver asked, “How well did you know the Baldwins?”
Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 13 Page 16
