“Wanda Bontemps is on the computer trying to get a bead on the singing duo,” Marge said. “I did manage to Google them right before the meeting. Over five hundred thousand references, but no official Web site. How old would either of them be?”
“Sixties.” Not all that far from his age, Decker thought. “While Wanda is tracking down the duo, somebody needs to go down to building and safety and find out when the apartment building went up. Let’s go with Lee Wang and Jules Chatham. Both of them are good with bureaucracy, paper shuffling, and details.”
“Chatham is on vacation,” Marge said. “I think Lee is at his desk. I’ll talk to him.”
Oliver said, “You’re talking about a twenty-five-maybe thirty-year-old building. That’s a lot of tenants, Loo.”
“Someone must have a record of everyone who rented there for tax purposes. Talk to the current owners and work backward. I’ll draw up an assignment schedule. We can confer again tomorrow morning. Maybe by then Wanda will have found a location for Priscilla and the Major.”
“Are you going to wait until the morning to call Lodestone?” Oliver asked.
“No, I’m going to call Lodestone as soon as you leave. Then I’m going to go home and forget about all this stuff. It’s Shabbos tonight and that means I get a day of rest. And even if I don’t get my day of rest, I’m at least entitled to a last supper.”
MUNCHING A PEANUT-BUTTER-AND-BANANA sandwich, Wanda was still at the computer when Oliver and Marge came out of Decker’s office. She didn’t bother to look up from the screen as she spoke. “The wonders of modern technology. Almost everyone in the universe is just a click away.”
Oliver said, “What have you found out about them?”
“First off, the original duo is a thing of the past. The original Major—Huntley Barrett—has been dead for twelve years. Priscilla used to perform with another guy, Kendrick Springer, but the fans and the reviewers didn’t like him at all. You should read the comments.” She shook her head in dismay. “Passions ran very high about Huntley’s replacement.”
“Does Priscilla still perform?” Marge asked.
Bontemps shrugged. “That’s an interesting question. She doesn’t have an official Web site, but she does have an agent. I can’t find any current concert dates for her. Last one I found was seven years ago.” She looked at her notepad, tore off the top sheet of paper, and gave it to Oliver. “Her agent.”
Oliver glanced at the slip of paper. Miles Marlowe with a phone number. It was after six and Marlowe was probably gone, but he’d leave a phone message. “Anything else?”
She handed him a four-inch stack of paper. “Everything I’ve pulled up and thought worth printing, I printed for you.”
“Jeez, I feel a little guilty.” Oliver hefted the pile. “Like I just nuked a forest or something.”
Bontemps smiled. “Sir, don’t take this wrong, but I would have never thought you to be the environmentally conscious type.”
“Don’t tell anyone, Wanda, but I even recycle.”
PRISCILLA AND THE Major’s last top-ten song had been recorded over twenty-eight years ago, but they had left behind a rich legacy of blogs, K-Right (order by toll-free number, only available through this TV offer) boxed-set CDs, and a host of sixtysomething fans wishing nostalgically for singable melodies and clean lyrics. As Oliver read through the stack of computer information, he discovered that though the couple had divorced, they had remained friendly up to the day the Major had died. Priscilla had moved to Florida specifically to minister to him during the final months of his life. As a result, the Major, the business brains behind the duo’s success, had left her his very sizable estate, including a collection of sixty vintage guitars, most of which Priscilla had auctioned off. There had been a daughter and it had been big news when Priscilla had given birth, but what happened to the girl was anyone’s guess.
After going through the material, Oliver stored the sheaves of paper in the newly created Jane Doe folder, and was just turning the key to his desk’s lone file cabinet when his cell rang. The window displayed a number that looked familiar, although he had no idea who was on the line. Since it was his cell and not the desk phone, he answered it by the regular hello rather than “Oliver.”
“I’m looking for a…a Detective Scott Olivier.”
Pronouncing it like the great, late actor. Oliver liked that. It gave him gravitas. “This is Detective Oliver. Who am I talking to?”
“Miles Marlowe. Uh, it’s says here on my message that you called regarding Priscilla Barrett?”
“I did—”
“Well, she isn’t interested in taking on any partners.”
“That’s good because I’m not interested in being her partner.” Oliver held back a laugh. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“Because you called yourself detective.”
“That’s because I am a detective.”
“A real one?”
This time Oliver let go with a chuckle. The man sounded old and feisty. “Yes, a real one, Mr. Marlowe. I’m with Los Angeles Police Department and—”
“Well, you’ve got to understand what I’m dealing with,” Marlowe interrupted. “All sorts of wannabes calling me to partner with Priscilla and they all got titles. I’ve had sergeants, I’ve had captains, colonels, and lieutenants. I’ve even had some royalty: two princes and one duke. I thought you were one of those. You know…remaking my lady into Priscilla and the Detective.” A couple of quick, short breaths—a smoker or emphysema. “Not a bad ring, but it sounds more like a TV show than a singing duo. Anyway, what do you want with my lady?”
“I’d like to talk to her, sir.”
“Why?”
“It’s part of an ongoing investigation. I only need a little bit of Priscilla’s time.”
“Nothing grisly in the investigation, I hope. She’s a delicate soul.”
“Nothing grisly at all,” Oliver lied. “I’ve been doing some homework on her. Last I checked, she was living in Vegas.”
“She was in Vegas for a while. Drew really big crowds, but she decided it wasn’t for her. Like I told you, she’s a delicate soul.”
“Understood, sir. Anyway, being an old fan as well as a detective, I thought I could talk to her—”
“I thought there was an ulterior motive. The woman still has the ‘it’ factor.”
“I’m sure she does,” Oliver said, “but I assure you I have no ulterior motive—”
“Well, this is what I’m gonna do for you. I’ll give her this number. She’ll call you when she’s ready.”
“I think I’m going to need a face-to-face, sir, and the sooner the better. If you want, I’ll be happy to call her up directly.”
“You want to talk to Priscilla, you go through me. For all I know, you could be an agent, trying to steal my lady. You just want to meet her, Detective Olivier. Don’t deny it!”
Oliver decided to lay on the schmaltz. “Okay, Mr. Marlowe, you got me. I’d love to meet your lady.”
“Now that you admitted it, we can get somewhere. So how do I know you are who you say you are?”
Oliver said, “Sir, why don’t you come down to West Valley Division of LAPD and we’ll go together to meet the lady. That way you’ll see that I’m legitimate and you can see I actually work as a detective.”
“Hmm…” Marlowe pondered the suggestion. “All right. I suppose I could come down and check you out in the flesh. If you’re legit, you can follow me to her house. She happens to live in the West Valley…Porter Ranch.”
“Does she, now? Well, that’s certainly convenient for all of us.”
“Not for me. I work in Hollywood.”
“Then I appreciate your taking the time to go out of your way to introduce us. It’s really not necessary, especially since I’m so close—”
“Now don’t you be getting any ideas about popping in on her, Detective Olivier. It’s a gated community with full-time guards.”
“I wouldn’t do that, sir, that would be
stalking. When is it convenient to meet you?”
“It’s not my convenience, Detective, it’s Priscilla’s. I’ll call her up and call you back.”
“That sounds fine, Mr. Marlowe.”
The phone hung up abruptly. Ten minutes later, just as Oliver was pulling his Chrysler PT Cruiser convertible out of the police parking lot, his cell rang.
“How about Monday at three?”
It was Marlowe, no introduction necessary. Oliver said, “Sounds great. Thanks for setting it up so fast.”
“I’ll come out to the police station to meet you. But no monkey business or I’ll have your badge.”
“You’re welcome to it,” Oliver whispered.
“What?”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Marlowe, you’ve been a big help.”
11
THE KINDLING OF the candles signified the onset of the holy day of rest, welcoming the Shabbat bride with song and food. Showered and shaved, Decker felt clean and renewed. Since he’d decided not to go to synagogue, he dressed casually—a pair of khaki pants, a black polo shirt, and sandals. His stomach rumbled from the aromas emanating from the kitchen, and his mouth was watering by the time he sat down at the table. Seven place settings of china and crystal: Rina had done the centerpiece herself, the arrangements courtesy of her new hobby. She had turned their backyard into an English garden. The colors and the bouquets were dizzying. Insects and birds abounded. She called it their personal Eden.
Tonight, Rina had elected to wear an emerald-green A-line dress and silver flats. Her hair had been tied up in a knot, covered by a lacy mantilla that fell gracefully down her back. Hannah had two girlfriends over for the weekend, and Cindy and Koby rounded out the guest list. Whenever she had company, Rina and her cooking gene went haywire. Dinner started out with fresh-cured gravlax with a mustard dill sauce. The fish course was followed by a puree of squash-and-carrot soup spiced with cinnamon and ginger, on its heels an arugula salad with grapefruit and orange segments. By the time the entrée was served—turkey breast stuffed with wild rice, with green beans amandine and baby carrots for sides—no one was really hungry. But that didn’t stop anyone at the table from eating. Nor did it dissuade the guests from polishing off the plum cobbler and a bowl of the season’s first cherries.
After they’d stuffed themselves silly, Rina tried to make everyone feel more virtuous. “It’s mostly fruit except for the crumble topping.”
“That’s the best part,” Koby told her. “I’ll have another piece.”
“I can always count on you, Yaakov,” Rina told him, spooning another scoop of the streusel-topped concoction onto his plate.
“That’s because I have no stop button when it comes to food.”
“Lucky you,” Decker muttered.
Rina tossed her husband a “behave yourself” look, even though she knew what he meant. At six two, one-fifty, Koby was as thin as grass. A wiry man, but deceptively strong. Like Decker, he was also handy around the house. In honor of Shabbat, he wore a white shirt and black slacks and loafers without socks. Cindy wore a black knit skirt and a turquoise sweater that set off her red hair, courtesy of her father’s DNA. Hannah and Cindy had nearly identical coloring, red hair, red eyebrows and eyelids, and clear alabaster skin that freckled in the summertime. The difference was only in the eye color: Cindy’s eyes were brown whereas Hannah’s were green. The sisters resembled each other even though they had clearly come from different mothers.
“Are you two getting any vacation time?” Decker asked his older daughter.
Cindy said, “Nothing definite yet.”
Koby said, “We’re trying for a weekend in Santa Barbara.”
“Do you need help clearing?” Hannah asked her mother. She and her two friends had finished dessert ten minutes ago. They were itching to leave and talk about important issues—school, poetry, alternative rock, Gossip Girl books, and boys, boys, boys.
Rina said, “Just bring in your plates and load them in the dishwasher. I’ll do the rest and call you when it’s time to bench.”
“Are you sure?” Hannah asked. But it was clear the girl was grateful to be dismissed.
“Positive.” Rina turned to Cindy. “Your father installed a new Shabbat dishwasher that has been an absolute godsend. I don’t know what in the world took us so long to buy it.”
“Those built-in dish drawers?” Koby asked.
“Yes, from the same company. We bought the full-size dishwasher for meat and a dish drawer for dairy. I lost a bit of cabinet space, but what we save on time spent doing dishes more than makes up for it.”
“We’re thinking of pushing out the kitchen,” Cindy said. “That’s why we’re asking.” When she noticed her father’s face, she smiled. “No, I’m not pregnant, but we do want a family. And it would be nice to have a genuine room for our future progeny.”
Koby added, “With home prices so expensive, we both think it is better to remodel.”
“Who’s going to do the work?” Decker asked.
“I am…and whoever else wants to help,” Koby answered.
Three pairs of eyes focused on Decker’s face. “Like I don’t have enough to do?” But he knew he’d cave in. That’s the way it was with children.
Cindy said, “We’re a ways off from lugging around two-by-fours, Dad. We’re still gathering information.” She turned to Rina. “The food was delicious. I’m stuffed.”
“Thank you. Can I make you a care package?”
“I was hoping you’d offer.” Cindy stood up and began to clear.
“You sit,” Decker told his daughter. “I’ll help.”
“Age before beauty,” she replied. “Actually, Dad, I am so full that it feels good to move.”
Decker said, “You know what? Why don’t you and I clear together and let Koby and Rina relax?”
Koby said, “It is an offer I won’t refuse.”
Rina smiled. He was trying to get time alone with his girl. “Great. I haven’t read the paper yet.”
“Neither have I.”
“Then we’ll share,” Rina said. “I’ll even pour you a scotch, Yaakov.”
The two of them retreated to the living room while father and daughter cleared the dining-room table of dishes and brought them into the kitchen.
“I wash and you dry?” Cindy offered.
“All you have to do is rinse them and put them in the dishwasher. Why don’t you let me do that?”
“You put away the food. I don’t know where it goes.”
“Deal.”
Cindy turned on the tap. “This is nice. Doing dishes together. Like old times but better.”
“Yeah, the old times were pretty good, too.” He gave her a brief smile as he scraped food into the garbage. “How’s GTA?”
“Busy. You know how it is. The weather starts getting warmer, it’s open season on cars.”
“Crime in general. When it’s wet and nasty outside, no one wants to work—even the psychos. How do you like teaming with Joe?”
Joe Papquick was her partner. “He’s fine. Not exactly loquacious, but he tells me what I need to know. It’s pretty routine, actually. You wind up investigating the same shops, the same junkyards, the same people. It seems the thieves rotate through twenty or so auto yards and it’s just a matter of the choppers getting caught with their pants down.”
“Be careful,” he warned her. “Routine doesn’t exclude bad surprises.”
She smiled. “Joe has this saying. If you don’t treat every call like it’s your first, it could be your last.”
“He is so right. If you’re feeling too comfortable, you let your guard down.”
“I’m careful. And it’s not always routine. Every once in a while, you make a good guess, and because of it, you get another sleaze bucket off the streets.”
“Makes you feel pretty good.”
“Very good, even though most of the time it’s grunt work.”
“That’s being what being a detective is.”
“I would think homicide’s a little more exciting.”
“It is more exciting, even though you get your obvious smoking gun cases. Then you spend lots of time trying to extract a confession.”
“There’s an art to that.”
“Absolutely. But sometimes no matter how skillful, you don’t get what you want. Then you hope forensics will buttress the case. And when that doesn’t work…that’s when it’s really frustrating. The ‘what did I miss?’ second-guessing game. First question is always Did I get the right person? You go through the file over and over, trying to find the magic bullet.”
Cindy said, “How often do you actually find something you missed when you look through an old case?”
“More than you think. The key is to put it away for a while so you review it through fresh eyes. Even with that, I’d say the success rate is maybe…I don’t know. I’d say you have a fifty percent chance that you find something that’ll jump-start something dead in the water.”
“Not a bad baseball percentage.”
“But dismal in murder,” Decker said. “It’s always hard to watch a case go cold. Then there’s the occasional cold case that falls in your lap.” He told Cindy about the sudden appearance of a disinterred body. As he spoke, she listened carefully, adding a word or two at the right spots. If she hadn’t chosen to be a cop, she would have made a hell of a shrink.
She said, “And forensics is sure that the body isn’t the flight attendant?”
“I went down to the Crypt and saw the sets of radiographs myself. So now instead of a solve, I’ve got two open cases.”
“That’s a pisser, but it’s really interesting. Did the apartment building have a basement?”
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