by Grievous Sin
Decker smiled at her. “Morrison decided to turn the case over to the FBI. It’s a kidnapping, it’s his prerogative. Officially, I can still work on the case, but when there’s more than one agency, we step all over each other’s toes. I’ll let them handle it. It’ll be out of my hands.”
“You don’t sound relieved.”
“What can I do?” He shrugged. “I’ll give them my notes and my theories—see if they can shed some light on what’s going on.”
“I’m sorry, Peter.”
“Aw, the heck with it. It’s only work.” Decker smiled. “Main thing is, we’ve got a beautiful family.”
Rina returned his smile. “I’m looking forward to the shalom nikevah brunch for Hannah on Sunday. Everybody I’ve spoken to sounds so excited.”
“Brunch…you didn’t cancel it?”
“No. Why should I? The caterer is handling everything….”
“Rina—”
“Peter, this is my last baby! Forever! I’ve done nothing but grieve. Now I want to celebrate! Nothing is going to dissuade me!”
“I’m stuck?”
“You’re stuck.”
Decker ran his hands over his face. “I think you’re crazy for doing this.”
“Of course I’m crazy. I’m irrational. I don’t care.”
Decker laughed. “You’re smiling. It’s good to see you happy.”
Rina stopped filling the bottle with breast milk and put it down on the nightstand. “Happy? Let’s not overdo it.” She smiled. “What would make you happy?”
Decker thought about that one. “I’d really like another week on the case.”
“Talk to Morrison, Peter. Maybe he’ll give you a few more days.”
“I would if I had something concrete. I can’t even find the guy I’m looking for. Marge and I have tried every phone book in the entire southwest region of the state clear down to Baja California. I can’t look up every phone book in the country. I’m so damn frustrated!” Decker blew out air. “Ah, don’t worry about me, Rina. I’ve got a couple days off next week before I start Homicide in Devonshire. I’m not going to waste them brooding.”
Both of them heard a little peep from the living room. Decker bounced out of bed. “I’ll feed her.” He snatched the bottle from Rina’s nightstand. “I’ve got fresh warm milk and everything.”
“Bring her in here,” Rina said. “We’ll talk while you feed her.”
“That’ll be nice.” Decker kissed his wife’s cheek. “You can tell me all about the brunch…tell me how many rabbis are going to bore us to death.”
Rina laughed. “Just Rabbi Schulman…and maybe a few others….”
“I knew it!”
“Friends of the family. How can I not let them say a few words?”
“Knew it! Knew it! Knew it!” Decker left the room and came back with a bundle in his arms. “Somebody’s wet and hungry. Feed first, then change?”
“I think that’s the order of business.”
Decker sat and rocked his daughter in his arms as she devoured the bottle of breast milk. A gift so soft and warm…The case would have suddenly seemed meaningless, except there was another bundle out there….
Still, there was no crime in being grateful for what you had.
“So I really have to put up with all these rabbis’ enlightening words of wisdom?”
Rina thought a moment. “You may doze off during the speeches, Peter. That’s acceptable. But you may not snore. It’s déclassé.”
Decker grabbed the receiver with shaky, sleep-deprived hands.
Marge said, “Wake-up call.”
He looked at the clock. “Do you know what time it is?”
“’Bout quarter to six.”
“Obviously, something’s on your mind.”
“Obviously.”
“Hold on,” Decker whispered. “Let me put on a bathrobe and take the call in the other room.”
He’d been wondering when the fatigue was going to catch up with him, and now he could stop his ruminations. His eyes were heavy, his stomach a whirlpool of acid. He ached from muscles he never knew he had. He picked up the phone in the kitchen.
Marge said, “Remember when I spoke to Bert Stine, I told you it sounded to me as if Geoffrey Roberts left Berkeley under suspicious conditions?”
“Yeah?”
“So what if Roberts has been using an alias?”
“Roberts doesn’t have a record.”
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t do something wrong. It just means he hasn’t gotten caught.”
“Well, if he’s using an alias and has started over with a new Social Security number, profession, etcetera, etcetera, we’re not going to find him unless he gets caught for something else.”
“Pete, remember I said something about Roberts originally being Cuban?”
“So?”
“I think Cindy mentioned that Roberts changed his name to Anglicize himself. What if he went back to using his original name?”
Decker thought about it. “We can’t ask Tandy what the original name was.”
“I know. I was thinking more like we should check name changes registered in the courts at Berkeley. Trouble is, the official offices don’t open until nine. By that time, the case’ll be turned over to the FBI.”
“So this is why you called me at quarter to six?”
“Wait, there’s more,” Marge said. “Couldn’t sleep to save my soul, so I decided to pull an all-nighter. Bear with me and my far-fetched assumptions.”
“Shoot.”
“Let’s suppose Roberts did Anglicize his name. I figured he’d stick to a name that sounded like Geoffrey Roberts. So I worked backward. I looked at Hispanic surnames that sounded like Roberts—Roberto, Berto, Humberto, Umberto—”
“Those aren’t last names. They’re first names.”
“I found that out. So I started from scratch, went down the R’s in the phone book until I found something that sounded Hispanic and sounded like Roberts. The closest name I found was Robles. What do you think?”
Decker shrugged. “Roberts…Robles. Could be.”
“Well, it’s all I have. I started checking out all the Robleses, and I found quite a few possibilities. The one I like best is a Geraldo Robles. Geoffrey Roberts…Geraldo Robles. Guess where he lives, Pete?”
“In Westwood, right near UCLA.”
“Even better. What’s the closest place ideologically to Berkeley in L.A.?”
“Venice.”
“You’ve got it. Want to take a morning stroll with me down the boardwalk to visit Mr. Robles?”
“Marge, we’re talking a long shot. We should at least look up this Mr. Robles on our house computer before we barge in on him.”
“Pete, we don’t have a lot of time. A baby’s at stake. Tandy’s a possible nutcase who could blow any moment. The feds are taking over soon. Worse comes to worst, we wake up some poor schmuck and apologize profusely. I’m going. Are you with me or not?”
“I’ll be waiting outside.”
“Me and my Honda will see you soon.”
33
At six-thirty in the morning, there was plenty of street parking in Venice, allowing Marge to bypass the public lots that would soon fill with vehicles driven by the summer beachgoers. She pulled curbside on Rose Avenue near Speed-way, both she and Decker stretching as they stepped out of her Honda. It was just a short jaunt to the boardwalk.
The parkway was lined on the eastern side by old apartment houses, storefront boutiques, stall shops, and cafés. On the west stood the shoreline receding into an endless stretch of pewter ocean. Cutting through the strand was an asphalt bike path that meandered through the golden sheet of sand like a frayed gray ribbon. Not too many bike riders, skate-boarders, or rollerbladers at this hour. But there were some joggers in all shapes and ages, as well as a number of unleashed dogs out for their morning constitutional.
Decker was surprised to find anyone awake, a reflection on his own need for sleep. He expected
his mood to be foul, but there was something rejuvenating about the boardwalk. Maybe it was the freshness of sunrise: The giant star had just popped over the horizon. Yet the air was still cool, a salty breeze drifting over the waves. Too bad he couldn’t enjoy the scenery.
The boutiques were closed, but some of the cafés had opened their doors to the breakfast crowd. Today the patrons were prototypical Venice residents—the elderly, students, old-style hippies and arty types who didn’t work nine to five. And then there were the homeless, with their life possessions stuffed into plastic bags. They dined side-by-side at outdoor tables, drinking coffee and eating Danish or croissants as they read or stared at the rhythm of the sea.
Park benches were also hot gathering spots for the homeless. Some ate sandwiches out of paper bags; others spooned directly out of cans. An old, hunched black man, weighted down by a mountaineer’s backpack, read the morning paper as the people around him kibitzed with each other. Discussions ranged from jocular ribbing to the inequities of politics. Decker sensed a well-formed camaraderie. And, as he and Marge passed by, not one of them asked for a handout. Perhaps it was the realization that at this time of the morning, the crowd could only be locals—people on fixed incomes or no income at all. Why squeeze blood from a turnip?
Decker studied the faces as he looked for Robles’s address. Yes, the men and women looked unkempt, uncared for, but they didn’t seem depressed. They may have been down, but they weren’t out.
Robles’s address put them in front of a square apartment building checkerboarded with patio windows. The building was fronted by a cinder-block wall painted in several shades of beige and brown—different colors used to hide graffiti rather than for decoration. Robles’s window was covered with drapery. The front door was flecked with peeling white paint and had no knocker or doorbell. Decker used his knuckles.
Immediately, a baby started to wail. Marge gave him a wide grin. She felt excitement down to her toes. “You say a long shot, do you?”
Decker said, “People named Robles are allowed to have babies, Marge.”
“Admit it. Your heart’s beating.”
Racing actually, Decker thought. As much as he tried to remain detached to avoid disappointment, he couldn’t help but hope. He knocked again. Finally, a husky, agitated female voice spoke from behind the door, asking who it was.
“Police, ma’am,” Marge said. “We’d like a few minutes of your time.”
There was a stretch of silence that went on too long. Decker knocked harder. “Police, ma’am! Open up!”
Marge said, “Should we break down the door?”
“Don’t have probable cause.”
“But the baby’s crying.”
“That’s what babies do,” Decker said. “Where’s the back door?”
“I don’t think there is a back door.”
“Well, then she can’t go anywhere.” Decker pounded on the door. “Police, ma’am. Open the door right now!”
A moment later, the door opened a crack, a small, useless chain still attached from the door to the jamb. The woman asked, “Just what do you want?”
“To ask you a few questions,” Marge said.
“So talk.”
“Open the door, ma’am,” Decker said.
“If I’m going to open the door, I’ll need to see identification.”
Marge showed her I.D. through the crack in the door. A moment later, the door closed, then opened all the way.
Decker’s mouth dropped open.
He was looking at a computer-aged Marie Bellson. Rationally, he knew Marie’s mom was in a rest home, but this woman—this woman who had to be in her late fifties—was Marie’s older clone. Both had long faces with webbing at the corners of the eyes and mouth. Both had wavy lines across the forehead, only this woman’s lines were scored deeper. She was built like Marie—long and lean. Only the eyes were different from Marie’s. The nurse’s were bright green dotted with brown; this woman’s eyes were hazel but muddied like silted water.
Who was this woman? Was she related to Marie?
The harried woman held a babe in arms who was beet red and had dark, feathery hair. The infant was screaming as the woman rocked her vigorously. She looked at Decker, then smoothed the white terry robe she wore.
“I know why you’re here,” she declared. “And I intend to fight this on whatever grounds I have available to me. Typical bureaucracy!” She held the infant over her shoulder and patted her back. “The baby is our flesh and blood. The county has no right to put her up for adoption when she has living relatives. I don’t care what Tandy’s last wishes were.”
Decker closed his mouth. “Can we come in…is it Mrs. Robles?”
“Henrietta,” the woman stated. “Hetty for short, and it’s definitely Roberts. I never changed it back to Robles. Just because he went through a midlife identity crisis doesn’t mean I have to.”
“You’re Tandy’s mother?” Marge asked.
The woman narrowed her murky eyes. “Let me see your papers again.”
“Can we come in?” Decker asked. “Unless you want to conduct an interview so all your neighbors can hear.”
Hetty paused a moment, then stepped aside.
The apartment was furnished simply. A couch, a couple of side chairs, and a coffee table holding art and interior-design magazines. The walls were covered with bookshelves that contained reading matter as well as small abstract sculptures and figurines. Resting against the back wall were a small crib and a stack of unopened paper diapers.
“Please try to keep it quiet,” Hetty stated. “His Majesty is sleeping, and I’d like to keep it that way. Between the two of them, I barely manage any rest. But I’ll survive. I’ve certainly survived worse.”
“May I see the baby?” Decker said.
“I am not going to relinquish the child without proper authority!”
“Agreed. Right now, I’d just like to see her face.”
Reluctantly, Hetty permitted Decker a peek of the infant’s face. He pulled out the hospital’s infant picture of Caitlin Rodriguez. He looked at it a moment, then his eyes went back to the baby.
A wave of overwhelming relief washed through his body. Then his usual stoic professional demeanor was broken by a Cheshire-cat grin. The expression was infectious. Marge let go with a full smile.
Decker showed the picture of Caitlin to Mrs. Roberts. The woman sighed—a long-suffering sigh. Something told Decker she’d used it many times before.
“I intend to fight this with all my resources. I don’t particularly relish the idea of a baby at my age, but she’s mine. Tandy didn’t know what she was doing when she signed that will forbidding me guardianship of the baby.”
“Will?” Marge said.
“Will, testament, codicil. I don’t know the technical legal term for it. But I do know it won’t stand up. My daughter wasn’t well when she signed her last wishes.”
Decker said, “Tandy’s not dead.”
“I realize the legality involved, but I’m prepared for a long, drawn-out court battle,” Hetty asserted.
“Mrs. Roberts,” Marge asserted, “Tandy isn’t dead!”
For the first time, Hetty’s face registered confusion rather than anger. “What are you talking about?”
“Your daughter is very much alive,” Decker said.
“That’s impossible!” Hetty said. “The whore said she died in childbirth.”
“The whore?” Marge said.
Decker said, “Mrs. Roberts, who gave you this baby?”
“The whore. She said she was Tandy’s labor nurse. Her intentions were to leave the baby with Geoff, but she found me here instead. How’s that for poetic justice?”
There was a moment of silence. Decker thought about Hetty’s words. Her hatred seemed pure enough, but the speech was written with lots of false notes.
He said, “Does this whore have a name?”
Hetty sneered. “Marie Bellson.”
“Marie Bellson gave you this bab
y, Mrs. Roberts?” Marge asked.
“Better known as the whore. Not my name for her. Just ask anyone who was at Berkeley at that time. Everyone called her that. She called herself that. Geoff was the only one stupid enough to fall in love with her.”
Marge said, “He got her pregnant, didn’t he?”
Hetty clenched her hands. “The stupid ass. For her, he destroyed our marriage and our daughter. Tandy never forgave him. And for some stupid reason, Tandy never forgave me, either. I was just as much a victim as she was.”
“How’d Marie find you?” Decker asked.
“She didn’t find me.” Hetty’s eyes deepened in color. “She found him. She knew where Geoff lived. Geoff had looked her up when he moved to L.A. She didn’t want anything to do with him. Spurn him once, shame on her. Spurn him twice, shame on him!” The woman let out a bitter laugh. “Anyway, the whore found me. I could see the pain in her eyes as she handed me the baby. It was delicious.”
Marge and Decker exchanged glances. Decker said, “Marie told you Tandy was dead?”
Hetty nodded. “She told me Tandy bled out during childbirth. I believed her. Why shouldn’t I? Tandy was never well—physically or emotionally.”
Bled out during childbirth! Rina!
Decker felt his stomach knot. Someone was using his own wife’s tragedy to fashion a role for some sick play. “Tandy is very much alive, Mrs. Roberts.” He looked at Marge. “We’d better call it in.”
Marge said, “Mrs. Roberts, I’m going to use your phone.” To Decker, she said, “I’ll call Pacific, get them to call DPSS for the kid. Should I contact Lourdes Rodriguez?”
“Let Social Services do it. I don’t want to foul up procedure at this point,” Decker said. “Someone has to pick up Tandy.”
“I’ll call Hollander.”
“Fine.” Decker said to Hetty, “We’re calling the proper agencies. Someone is going to take the baby from you.”
“I’ll fight it.”
“Mrs. Roberts, I have a strong reason to believe that this isn’t your grandchild. I have reason to believe this baby was kidnapped from Sun Valley Presbyterian maternity ward a few days ago.”
“Of course she was kidnapped,” Hetty said. “The whore admitted she’d taken the baby. Otherwise, the county was going to put her up for adoption. She was trying to cut through the legal red tape. For Geoff’s sake, not mine. I suppose she felt she owed him one for aborting his seed twenty years ago.”
