Street Dreams

by Street Dreams

  “Maybe he eyes you because you are so beautiful.” He exhaled and shook his head. “Sometimes I must pinch myself.”

  I bent over, giving him a view, then kissed the top of his head. “I’ll do that for you. Excuse me.”

  I took the opportunity to reapply my makeup. I liked looking good for him. Upon returning, I had a full view of the table—three 50-plus couples, and yes, the men did look like lawyers. In fact, they probably were. I knew for certain that the lone black man was.

  Raymond Paxton—David Tyler’s conservator.

  I had called him three times in the past several weeks and all I ever got was voice mail. The first two times, I just wanted to know if he had heard from David. The third time, I told him I was looking for David in my off-hours. I gave him names of shelters I had been to, explaining that I didn’t want him to plow old ground, should he happen to be looking for David as well.

  Not even the courtesy of a follow-up call from a secretary. Not that he was required to answer me, but it would have been polite. He saw me heading toward his table and stood up, excusing himself before I could intrude on his party. We met halfway between our tables and found a corner at the busy bar. I sat; he didn’t. I expected hostility. Instead, I got an immediate apology.

  “I’m sure you’ve been busy.” I kept my face expressionless, although I maintained eye contact. Typical cop stare. I didn’t know if we got it from TV or vice versa. Paxton wore khaki pants, white shirt, red tie, and blue blazer. Very preppy. I wondered if he had attended an Ivy.

  He said, “It takes two minutes to make a phone call. I didn’t call back because I didn’t trust you.”

  My shrug was noncommittal.

  “I couldn’t figure out what your game plan was,” he told me. “I still don’t know.”

  “I’m looking for David Tyler.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  I actually gave the inquiry some thought. “I don’t know, Mr. Paxton. I suppose it’s because in life I’ve been given a great deal and he’s been given a raw deal.”

  Paxton looked down. “His trust fund is significant. The first couple of months he was gone, I hired a private detective, you know.”

  “I didn’t know. You never told me.”

  “The man was a con artist.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “My own fault. I didn’t do my homework. Since you seem to be on some sort of mission with David, I could give you money for your time and expenses. But you’ll have to make it official. I’ll need a written report of your progress.”

  I held up my hands. “Maybe money for gas . . . wear and tear on the car. Other than that, I’m fine. How about giving some money to the baby instead?”

  “I can’t do that unless I have medical evidence that the child is David’s offspring. Otherwise I could be sued later on. But there are . . . things I could arrange. Why don’t you have the mother of this child hire a lawyer? It would be easier if I spoke legalese with him . . . or her.”

  “All right. I will.” I held out my hand. “Thank you.”

  He waited a moment, then shook it. “I apologize for being rude, Officer Decker. I’m not a big fan of the police.”

  “Neither is my boyfriend.”

  “The man you’re with is your boyfriend?”

  I nodded.

  “I thought he might be your partner.”

  “Not in this getup.” I smiled. “Once he was DWB—driving while black—and it put him in the wrong place at the wrong time. He spent a night in jail because of a mix-up in identity with a rapist. After hearing the story and the circumstances, I told him I would have done exactly what the cops did.” I shrugged. “He didn’t want to hear it.”

  “I’m sure I could agree with him, having had a similar experience.” Paxton pointed to the dining room. “After you.”

  We went back to our respective tables. By the time I sat back down, the waiter had brought our Caesar salads. “Sorry it took so long.”

  “Everything all right?” Koby asked me.

  “Actually, yes, everything is very all right.” Even if I didn’t find David, at least his baby might be provided for. Certainly, Louise Sanders could use some monetary help. Things were tough for her. If Paxton came through, then it was well worth his initial snubs.

  I picked up my fork. “Wow, this looks good. I’m starved.” I took several bites. “Delicious!”

  Koby stabbed a crouton and chewed it slowly, a half smile on his lips. “I love it when women eat. It’s very sensual.”

  “You’d get lots of female fans with that statement.” I laughed. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re for real or is it, you know, like the Ethiopian restaurant. You just have all these great lines and angles to get into women’s pants.”

  “It’s only your pants, my love, and I think I don’t need a lineor an angle. You seem always very willing.”

  A warm flush crawled over my body. “Will you please eat? You’re making me nervous, staring at me like that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know what you’re thinking.”

  “What areyou thinking?”

  “That you look very handsome.”

  His smile turned white and luminous. “Thank you.”

  I stole a glance at his face. “That you lookvery good.”

  “Thank you again.” His eyes had turned hot and hungry. “You know, Cynthia, we could ask the waiter to pack our main dishes.”

  I put down my fork. “Yaakov, I’d really like to make it through a meal.”

  “Certainly.” He sipped his beer, licking foam off his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. He raised his eyebrows. “Would you like another drink?”

  “No . . . I’m okay.” I picked up my fork again. “But thanks.”

  “Anything you want, my love. That is my motto.”

  “Did you take your charm pills today, Koby?”

  “With you, I don’t need them. It is all natural feelings.”

  “That’s sweet.” I gave him a shy smile. “Really. I mean that, Yaakov. I feel the same way. I think you’re wonderful and sexy and brilliant . . . fun . . . just the best.”

  He grinned. “It is you who takes the charm pills.”

  “Yeah, I’m the one who needs them.” I laughed. “I wish a little of your smoothness would rub off on me.”

  He took my hand. “You are not slick, Cynthia, but you are always sincere.” He kissed my fingers one by one, then gently swiped my nose with his index finger. “Eat.”

  I speared another leaf of romaine, my eyes sweeping over his face. Again he was studying me, those long, luscious lashes sweeping over those magnificent pale whiskey eyes.

  He really lookedfine!

  I nibbled on salad, but suddenly everything was tasteless.

  Who was I kidding?

  Oh my God, I was sinking again.

  I summoned the waiter, requesting our entrées to go, along with the check.

  40

  The coast of Californiais God’s kissed countryside from San Diego to the Oregon border—blue iridescent seas on one side, towering verdant mountain majesty on the other. Traveling north from Santa Barbara on 101, Decker couldn’t have asked for lovelier weather. It was in the low 70s with the sun playing peekaboo behind woolen tufts of crystalline clouds. As he turned east onto 234, going deep into the Santa Ynez Valley, the Porsche began to climb between granite walls of imperial rock and twist seamlessly through the winding canyons. The temperature dropped and a fine mist hovered above.

  “Spectacular,” Rina whispered.

  “Hannah’s getting bigger,” Decker answered. “We should really do this more often.”

  “Yes, we should.” Rina adjusted the baseball cap on her head, enjoying the wind and sun on her face. “It’s nice to feel young.”

  “Free,” Decker said. “We never had much of this.”

  “I know. Instant family when we married. Poor you.”

  “Not poor me,” Decker told her. “Rich me. I wouldn’t trade it fo
r anything. Still, you’ve got to find a balance. We shouldn’t have to use a project as an excuse to get away for a weekend. But since we did come up with a purpose, what is the game plan here?”

  “I have a couple of questions about the murder, but if I don’t get to ask them, I’ll be fine.” Rina took in a deep breath and let it out. “It’s really all about my mother’s childhood. I don’t even care about the murder anymore. That was just the catalyst.”

  “I’m thrilled to hear you say that. Basically, I think we should just let the ladies talk.” Decker took in a lung’s worth of pine-scented air. A minute later, they were off the freeway, the exit for Solvang putting them onto Mission Avenue, a two-way boulevard lined with imposing cedars, regal in size and wide in girth. For a few miles, they passed farm country and orchards, patches of foot-high baby avocado trees dotting the earth like plugs in a hair transplant. A hundred yards later, they drove by an ostrich ranch. No sign of the big beasts, but coming up from L.A., they had seen a genuine llama ranch, so Decker was sure the flightless birds were somewhere near.

  Soon they drove by the official green sign welcoming the visitor to Solvang—population 5,332.

  Danish Disneyland.

  The little tourist town really had an amusement-park feel to it, down to the street names—Vester, Aarhus, Nykobing, Midten—using Hof and Sted instead of street, avenue, or lane.

  Lifted right out of a fairy tale: picture-perfect cottages with mullion-paned windows, dozens of gables, and multipeaked roofs topped with special tiles evoking thatched straw. Cute little bungalows of sparkling white stucco and red brick, overwhelmed with gingerbread, set on lots with meticulously planted flower gardens. Almost all the dwellings had exterior walls deluged with Tudor-style trim—stripes and triangles and squares of brightly painted wood appliqué, light blue being the most common color for the decorative beams. But some of the owners had chosen brown or green or in some cases bright red. There were lots of white picket fences and many second-story balconies ringed with white dowel railings. Two of the motels on Mission Avenue had life-size windmills, another had a clock tower with a weather vane.

  Decker had never seen streets so clean, as if they were washed daily.

  The business district, also on Mission, was a couple of miles long with architecture that was nearly identical to the residences. The shops and restaurants andbacaris were owned by individuals with names like Mortensen, Petersen, and Olsen. And the names weren’t just for atmosphere. Both he and Rina agreed that they had never seen so many white-haired, pink-complexioned elderly people in such a small geographical area. When they drove past the local school—across the street from a Lutheran Church—it was all fair skin and light hair, except for a clique of Native American children.

  Anika Lubke lived in a bright yellow one-story house, the door surrounded by two bay windows and the sides trimmed with blue wood beams. Set into a pole was a Danish flag guarding the entryway; the hand-painted address numbers were red on blue-and-white delft tiles. The front yard was a pallet of color, a profusion of wildflowers. Someone had plunked a stuffed Nordic seaman, complete with beard and cap, smack in the middle of a daisy bush—the Danes’ answer to a scarecrow. Decker parked the Porsche and checked his watch. Ten-forty: They were twenty minutes early.

  “What do you think?” he asked Rina.

  “I don’t think they’d mind. But if you’d feel uncomfortable, we can walk around for a few minutes.”

  Before they could decide, the door opened. The woman who came out was tall and thin, wearing a housecoat printed with calla lilies. Her white hair was tied into a long ponytail, her complexion fair with rosy cheeks. “You are Lieutenant and Mrs. Decker?”

  “Hi,” Rina said from the curb. “We’re a little early.”

  “No, no, it’s fine.” Her accent was light and crisp. “Come in, please.”

  The pathway to the front was narrow. Decker told Rina to go first. The woman introduced herself as Anika, then stepped aside, allowing them to walk into a compact living room with blond hardwood floors and yellow washed walls. The furniture was simple in design and made by someone with a utilitarian eye. The couch and chairs were straight backed and upholstered in tiny blue checks, holding a couple of rudimentary pillows. The coffee table was a trunk, with hand-painted flowers and swirls, which looked to be genuinely old. The walls were hung with oil still lifes, mostly florals: original paintings but not very good. There were also a couple of sketches and a map of Denmark. No family photos. Maybe she kept them in the bedroom.

  The air was heavy with the smell of cabbage.

  “Lunch is not ready.” Anika flailed birdlike arms. “I do apologize.”

  Rina smiled. “It’s not a problem.” Up close, Anika was wrinkled, her face furrowed and drooping with fatless skin. But her blue eyes sparkled, as did her teeth, though Rina suspected they were dentures. “The food smells wonderful, Miss Lubke, but unfortunately we can’t eat it. We’re kosher—”

  “Ach!But of course.”

  “I insist that you eat when it’s ready.” Rina inhaled deeply. “I’m sure it’s my loss. What is it?”

  “Hvidkälsrouletter—cabbage roll with meat. I can make up some vegetarian.”

  “No, no, no,” Rina said. “Please don’t bother. If you want to serve us anything, I wouldn’t mind some tea.”

  “And you, Lieutenant Decker?”

  “Tea is fine.”

  “Kommt sofort!Right away.” She moved with a sprightly walk. A minute later, she returned from the unseen kitchen. “I put the water up to boil. Marta is in church. We were odd—Lutherans in Bavaria. The state is very Catholic, their churches rococo in style because it is near Italy. Also, there were many Russian aristocrats in Bavaria, so the churches have that onion-dome Russian architecture. Inside, they are filled with marble and gold, with angels and cherubs floating in a sky that is painted on the ceiling. It is not my idea of Heaven.”

  Her speech had the singsong inflections of those who spoke Nordic languages.

  “Anyway, Marta will return soon. Ah, the kettle boils. I’ll be back.”

  After she left, Rina whispered, “How old is she?”

  “Eighty-four or -five. Maybe even closer to ninety.”

  “The woman has energy.”

  “So does your mother. They must have grown them strong in the Old Country.”

  Rina tapped her toe. Neither she nor Peter had sat down. Anika came back with a tray. “Sit, sit. Please.”

  Decker sat. The sofa was as uncomfortable as it looked, with its stiff back and no lumbar support. By using pillows, Rina managed to ease herself into a decent position. Anika poured tea, then perched on the edge of a chair, her spine ramrod straight.

  Maybe discomfort was a cultural thing.

  Rina sipped tea. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  “Thank you for contacting us. I must say I was very shocked. Who thinks to hear from seventy-year-old ghosts? That’s how long it has been since your mother I’ve seen.”

  “I can understand how surprised you must have felt.”

  “Very.” She poured herself a mug of tea and sipped slowly. “It brought back memories very hidden. I don’t remember your grandmother’s death individually, but the deaths as a group I remember. I think that they scared my mother. Soon after your mother moves away, we move . . . to Hamburg.”

  “You told me you married an Englishman,” Decker said. “How’d that happen?”

  “Ach,such a long andtraurig story.”

  “ ‘Traurig’ is sad,” Rina said.

  Decker said, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Anika smiled. “But you didn’t. I wrote to you in my e-mail that I married an Englishman.” She thought a moment. “The people are all dead. I’ll tell it to you. In Hamburg, I met my husband when I was seventeen.”

  “The Englishman,” Rina said.

  “No, no, a German man. We got married. It was not happily ever after like theBruders Grimm. Right after the wedding, it is 1933 and Ger
many elects Hitler, who brings us into war. No excuses, Germany deserved what it got because our parents elected the demagogue.”

  She shook her head.

  “If you asked any German people after World War Two if they voted for Hitler, they all say no. No, no, no, we didn’t vote for him. Nobody voted for him! No one knows how he got power!”

  She waved her hand disgustedly in the air.

  “My husband was drafted and captured as a POW. He was astaatsbeamte —a civil servant—but because his title contained the word ‘staats,’ the English thought he was some important state official. In a camp, they put him with others that hadstaats in their title. They played cards and talked philosophy the entire time. Meanwhile, from him I don’t hear . . . maybe a year. I am young and stupid, and after the British invaded the North, I get younger and stupider and fall for an Englishman because he wears the winning uniform. I blame my parents. If they had not moved, I would have probably fallen in love with an American soldier. I would have been better off.”

  Rina smiled and nodded, but Decker shrugged confusion.

  “Toward the end of the war,” Rina explained, “Germany was being blitzed from three fronts: the British in the North, the Russians in the East, and the Americans in the South. That’s why the Russians liberated Auschwitz and the Americans liberated Dachau. So she’s saying that if she had stayed in Munich, which is in the South, she would have met an American.”

  “Ah, I see,” Decker said.

  Anika sighed. “I get a divorce from my poor German husband, who can’t believe that his young wife runs off with the enemy.” A sigh. “I hurt Hans very bad. Later, I hear a very nice girl he remarries. They have four children. He is very happy . . . much happier than me. Serves me right. Where was I in the story?”

  “You just divorced your German husband,” Decker reminded her.

  “Ah, yes. I marry Cyril Emerson and moved to a small town in Devonshire. You can think how much the English working class loves a German girl. I was miserable. So then we move back to Hamburg, and he is miserable. Finally, we reach a compromise. Hamburg is not so far from Denmark. So we move to Copenhagen and we’re both miserable. Still, we live in Denmark for thirty years. I birth two sons who move to America. So at fifty-six, I divorce Cyril, return to the name Lubke, and off to America I move. To St. Louis because Marta is living there.”