Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 13

by The Forgotten

  “Furious.”

  “Do you know if she was doing anything illegal?” Martinez asked.

  “She was doing drugs.” Alice shrugged. “That’s illegal.”

  “What kind of drugs?”

  “I don’t know…I never asked. She’s been doing them since she was fourteen. Nah, I don’t know for certain that she was doing something real bad. But she hung in bad company.”

  “Like who?”

  “She brought home strange boys. The last one was really spooky. A black boy. Light skinned but you could tell it anyway.”

  “Darrell Holt?”

  Alice thought a moment. “He never did say his name. She brought him by twice. I put my foot down. I said no bringing boys up to your room. She spit in my face and told me she’d eff whoever the eff she wanted to eff.” The woman sighed. “I shoulda kicked her out.” Tears. “But it was my own daughter.”

  “Did she come home with any other friends?”

  “Once or twice she brought up the boy who was in the papers.” Alice’s eyes darkened. “The one that was…”

  “Ernesto Golding,” Martinez filled in.

  Alice made swipes at her cheek. “What happened?”

  “That’s what we’re looking into,” Webster stated.

  “You think Ruby had something to do with it?”

  “You tell me,” Martinez answered.

  “How should I know? I never had any idea what that girl was doing.” But her eyes told a different story.

  Martinez pressed her. “Did you ever meet Ernesto?”

  Slowly Alice nodded. “Once. He came here waiting for Ruby. She never did show up.” She opened and closed her mouth. “He made an attempt to be civil. I thought that was nice.” She got misty-eyed. “Ruby…she was bigmouthed, but she wouldn’t…she couldn’t have…you know.”

  They knew.

  “Ernesto…he was okay.” Another sip. “He was Ruby’s flavor of the month. She was probably using him. But using people is one thing…. The other thing…she wouldn’t…” But the woman did not sound convinced. “She wouldn’t do that!”

  “You mean murder?” Webster filled in.

  Alice grimaced. “My daughter is not a killer!”

  Obviously, the woman, as much as she was proclaiming not to care, couldn’t wipe her hands of her own offspring.

  Martinez spoke in a soft voice. “You tried.”

  “Yes, I did,” Alice agreed. “I tried very hard. But very hard wasn’t good enough. I tried but I still failed.”

  “Any idea where she may be?”

  “No, but if you find her, tell her she owes me money for junking her stuff.”

  Webster said, “Mrs. Ranger, would you happen to have an old phone bill from when she was living at home?”

  “Probably.”

  A long pause.

  “You think you can look it up for us?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now,” Martinez said.

  “It could take a little while.”

  “We can wait.”

  Alice stared at her drink. “She’s in big trouble, isn’t she?” There was a long pause. Then she whispered, “Is she in danger?”

  Martinez shrugged but didn’t answer. Alice felt herself shudder. It was always what wasn’t said that scared her.

  31

  The house was situated on the side of a mountain, one of those places precariously perched on concrete reinforced stilts and built by optimists who denied earthquakes happened in Southern California. It was dark outside, so it was hard to tell the color of the exterior, but it looked to be tan and white stucco spruced up with white gingerbread. Since it was a two-story split-level, most of the physical structure remained hidden, the majority of the edifice having been bolted and carved (hopefully) into the rocky hillside. The appeal of these domiciles extended beyond the thrill of danger: the homes had tremendous views of the verdant canyons and the glittering city lights beyond.

  Since the house was gated, Decker had to ring to get in, but suddenly announcing himself as a police officer would ruin the element of surprise. He looked around. Behind the metal barrier was a small blip of asphalt driveway holding a lone black Mercedes. Outside the gate, resting on the fold of a mountainous curve, were an SUV and a three-year-old Mustang.

  Decker rang the bell. A woman, talking through a squawk box, answered his page.

  “Yes?”

  “You own that orange Mustang parked outside?”

  “Who is this?”

  “We’re about to tow it away. It’s got four unpaid parking tickets.”

  “What? Hold on! Justin! Come here this instant! There’s a man—”

  “I’m towing the car now.”

  “Hold on!”

  “Can’t do that,” Decker said. “I’ve got a job to do.”

  “There’s a mistake—”

  “No mistake. Some of the tickets are over a year old.”

  “Wait! Don’t tow the car. Just hold on!” She screamed, “Justin! Get over here right now!”

  Purposely, Decker didn’t answer. A moment later the gate began to swing open. Light spilled out from the front door. A woman came running after him. “Excuse me! Who are you?”

  She was knife-edge thin and looked equally as hard. A pinched nose, hollow cheeks, a strong chin, a shiny white forehead with straight black hair sprayed stiff and combed straight back.

  “Just what do you think you’re do—” Panting, she glanced about with jerks of the head. “I don’t see any tow truck.”

  Decker took out his ID and badge and showed it to her. “That’s because there is no tow truck. I’m the lead investigator on the Baldwin murder case. And I bet you know why I’m here, Mrs. Frammel.”

  Panicked eyes went from the ID folder to Decker’s face, then back to the badge. “I…I want to—”

  “Let’s take it inside. No reason for the entire neighborhood to hear us.” Decker began to urge her forward by her elbow, but she resisted.

  “You’ll have to come back when my husband’s home.”

  “You’re harboring a fugitive wanted for murder,” Decker replied. “I think not.”

  Again the woman was stunned. “Wanted for…no, no, no, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “So let’s go inside, and Erin and you can explain it to me.”

  At the mention of her niece’s name, the woman winced. “God damn it! How do I end up in these situations?”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  “How do I know that badge is real? How do I know you’re not going to attack me once I let you inside?”

  “Because I would have attacked you by now.” Decker sidestepped her, jogged up to the front door, and pushed it open. Walking in, he took two steps down, his feet sinking into deep-piled gray carpet, his eyes drawn to the glass wall before him.

  The view was breathtaking—a stunning panorama of twinkling, multicolored lights. Below the switchboard sky were long stretches of onyx black that probably held the wooded copses seen only in the daytime. The room held modern furniture in vogue about fifteen, twenty years ago—sling-back leather sofas and chairs, chrome and glass tables. A stone wet bar sat against one wall; a granite fireplace stood on the other. Resting above the mantel was a tremendous, unframed canvas of some kind of leaping animal. It could have been a deer, a cougar, or even a Matisse-type dancer.

  “Where is she?” Decker asked.

  “I want to call a lawyer.”

  “You could do that. But it might make things worse for you. Because if you call a lawyer, then I’ll have to do things like…officially arresting someone. But sure, go ahead.”

  The woman tapped her foot. “I want to call my husband.”

  “Sure, call him.” Decker looked at his watch. “But I’m on a tight schedule. If I can’t conclude the interview here, I’m going to have to haul Erin down to the station house. The one where I work…in the Valley.” His eyes went back to the view. “You can meet us there if you want.”

 
“At least let me call my sister.” A pause. “That would complicate things.”

  “You know your sister.”

  “It’s not my sister who’s the problem, it’s her husband. If he were any more of a fascist, he’d be a Nazi. And that’s a pretty good trick because he’s Jewish.” She rolled her eyes. “Not that I’m anti-Semitic. He just happens to be a prick.”

  “There’s usually one in every family. I’d like to talk to Erin now.”

  “I knew this was a bad idea, taking her in. She just looked so…scared.”

  “I’m sure she is scared. That’s why I’d like to talk to her.”

  She kneaded her hands. “I don’t know…”

  Talking more to herself than to Decker. He said, “While you decide, I’ll look around in the meantime.” He started down a long foyer that was covered with the same plush carpet. The pile was so soft, it was almost like wading in muck.

  The woman came after him. “You just can’t—Goddamn! Justin, turn down that awful music!”

  There was no discernible decrease in volume. To Decker, she shouted, “Now, you stay right where you are. I will not let the police bully me or Erin or anyone. That poor girl has gone through enough.”

  Decker walked back into the living room, away from the noise. “So tell me about it.”

  The woman’s lips shut.

  “Mrs. Frammel, my coming here may have been the best thing for your entire family. Somebody—or bodies—has killed four people in two days. Given the numbers, I don’t think he or they would hesitate at killing four more.”

  She shuddered. “That’s a horrible thing to say.” She brought her hand to her throat. “You’re being deliberately cruel. Just like my brother-in-law.”

  “I’m not being cruel, I’m trying to emphasize the gravity of the situation.”

  The woman wrapped herself in her arms. “She isn’t in any of these rooms.”

  Decker studied Mrs. Frammel’s face—guileless, worried, and concerned. “Where is she?”

  “Why should I trust you…what’s your name again?”

  “Lieutenant Peter Decker. It’s on the front page of the paper. I’m quoted regarding the death of Dee Baldwin. Where is Erin, ma’am?”

  The woman hesitated. “We have a cave…down below. My husband…he wanted to be more…in touch with the elements. He excavated this room from the wall of the mountain.” She made a face. “It’s his pride and joy. He did it all himself. But it isn’t up to code.”

  “I promise I won’t report him to the building commission. How do I get down there?”

  She told Decker to follow her. She led him into a wide, open caterer’s kitchen, filled with stainless steel appliances, stainless countertops, and white, lacquered cabinetry. In the middle sat a leather and steel dining set, the table being round and balanced on a pedestal that looked more like a giant spring than something designed to support. The chairs had black leather seats and were also balanced on spring-looking bases. Perhaps if one bounced hard enough, one could catapult across the room.

  “This way,” the woman told him.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Frammel.”

  “Doreen.”

  “Thank you, Doreen,” Decker repeated.

  “I suppose I should answer ‘you’re welcome,’ but I don’t know if that would be answering truthfully.” She sneered. “God, why does he play that music at ear-splitting level?”

  “To annoy you.”

  “Well, it’s working.” She opened a drawer and took out a key. Then she brought him into the service porch. A Miele washing machine was tumbling wet, soapy clothes. Doreen stared at the rotary drum for a moment. “Sometimes I think it’s better than network TV.”

  “It’s certainly more dynamic.”

  Doreen managed a small grin. “She’s a real screwed-up kid. I’m the first to admit it. But she doesn’t deserve to go to jail because she, like my sister, has lousy taste in boys.”

  “Lousy taste isn’t punishable by imprisonment. But aiding and abetting a criminal is.”

  “She’s stupid,” Doreen insisted. “Cut her slack.”

  “Why don’t you let me talk to her first?”

  The woman rubbed her eyes and unlocked a door. She flicked on a wall switch, and a beam of narrow yellow light revealed a narrow staircase. “Watch your step, watch your head. I hope you’re not claustrophobic.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then you’re one step above me. I hate this. Frankly, I think my husband’s crazy.”

  The steps going down were wooden and rickety and too small for his feet. Decker had to tiptoe on a few of them. He also had to stoop to descend the steps. By the time he was close to the bottom, he was almost entirely bent over. The passageway ended in another door. Heavy metal music escaped from the rocky walls. It was muted, so all Decker could hear was the thumping of the bass line.

  Doreen knocked. “Erin, honey, open up, it’s me.”

  No answer.

  She knocked again. “Erin?”

  Nothing.

  “Come on!” She pounded.

  Suddenly, the music turned softer. The door opened. The kid’s eyes did a quick assessment; she decided that slamming the door shut was her best bet. But Decker had anticipated her actions. Positioned well, he leaned forward, taking the brunt of the force on his shoulder—the one without the bullet scar. At the same time, he threw his weight onto the swinging slab of solid wood, and the door flew back open.

  He went inside. He could stand up straight, but barely so. At certain points, the cave-room ceiling brushed against his hair, making it not more than six-five or-six.

  Decker concluded that Mr. Frammel must be a short man.

  The niche was big enough—about two hundred square feet. The floor had been finished with cork tiles, but the walls had been blasted from the raw mountain, giving the room a primitive caveman-era look. Any wall that wasn’t rock was glass. At one point, the room had been constructed to look as if the floor dropped out from under one’s feet, giving one an off-balance feeling of floating or falling—disconcerting but original; he gave Mr. Frammel that much.

  The space held a bed, a TV, and a desk with a computer, modem, phone, and fax. There was a bookshelf that held more videos than novels, but there were some paperbacks, almost all of them in the true-crime genre. Lurid cases. Decker remembered some of them. He wondered if Mr. Frammel had hidden whips and chains somewhere.

  Erin had locked herself behind a door—presumably the bathroom.

  Decker turned off the blaring stereo. “Come on out, Erin. I’m here to help you.”

  “You’re part of it. Go away!”

  “Part of what?”

  “His worldwide alliance—the New World Order.”

  “I’m not part of anything.”

  Erin was silent.

  Decker thought a moment. “All right. If you feel safer talking from behind the door, then that’s okay with me. Just talk to me, okay?”

  Several moments passed, then a full minute.

  “Aunt Doreen?” The voice from behind the door was tiny.

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, darling. Come on out. He’s…” She glanced at Decker, her expression sour. “I think he’s here to help.”

  “You think?” Decker whispered.

  She snarled back, “I don’t know who the hell you are.”

  “Aunt Doreen?” she bleated.

  “Yes, Erin. What? Come out, okay?”

  The woman was growing impatient.

  Decker whispered, “Maybe you should call up your husband or your sister.”

  “And leave you alone with her?”

  Decker took a step forward until he was almost chest to chest with the woman. “And you really think that you could protect her against me?”

  She swallowed hard.

  Decker stepped back. “I’m on the right side. Go make some phone calls to the police if you don’t believe me.”

  Th
e woman hesitated.

  “Aunt Doreen?”

  “What, Erin?”

  “Do you think it’s okay?”

  A sigh. “Yes, honey, I think it’s okay. I think it’s time we tell the authorities.”

  Seconds passed…then the door opened.

  32

  The girl was a stick figure: one-dimensional arms and legs with almost no body. She had thin brown hair—long and straight and dull. Wide waiflike brown eyes were set over small lips. Her nose was red and dripping. She wiped it with a bony finger.

  “She has a terrible cold,” Doreen said.

  “Go upstairs, Mrs. Frammel,” Decker told her. More force was in his voice. “We’ll be fine.”

  Doreen looked at Erin. The young girl nodded.

  “I’m leaving the doors open,” Doreen announced. “Shout if you need anything.” Then she started the journey up the steps. Decker waited until he heard the footsteps recede. Then he sat on the edge of the bed. She was sitting on the opposite corner, legs tucked under her wasted body, head against propped pillows.

  Decker pulled out his notepad and a small tape recorder. “Do you mind?”

  She shook her head.

  “I need you to talk, Erin. The recorder doesn’t pick up head movements.”

  “You can record it. I don’t care.”

  “Good.” Decker adjusted the volume, then set the machine in the middle of the bed. “How long have you been using?”

  Erin’s eyes jumped around, landing on the machine.

  Decker said, “I’m not going to bust you. I’m just curious.”

  “I dunno. Over a year.” She rubbed her nose, then got up and closed the door. She plopped back down onto the bed, bouncing the tape recorder as she did so. “That’s why I stayed with Darrell so long. He supplied me.”

  “What happened to the biker you took off with?”

  “A real bummer.” She straightened her spine. “I thought he was gonna be my meal ticket…but then he made me work for it.” Her mouth turned downward. “Asshole.”

  “What about Darrell?”

  “He’s an asshole, too. A sick puppy, but so are most guys. But he didn’t make me work for my shit. All I had to do was give him what he liked, the way he liked it. Sex games—him and her.”