Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 16

by The Burnt House

  Priscilla looked at the list of the cities and then sorted through the photographs, this time studying them with a determined gaze. “Hmm…this narrows it down a little. We did play Galveston. Start at around 1973.”

  SITTING AT HIS desk, Decker looked at the jacket from Priscilla and the Major’s America the Beautiful tour, comparing it to the forensic photographs taken off the piece of fabric. He specifically liked the way the configuration of cities had been handled, how the s in Galveston was over the p in Indianapolis, but was just slightly to the left of the p. If he had an overlay of the fabric—the next step—he was sure the letters would have lined up perfectly.

  “So if we’re correct, the body is no older than 1974. But that doesn’t mean the murder was committed in 1974. Our victim could have been wearing the jacket long after the tour.”

  Marge said, “It still shaves a couple of years off the front end. The building was put up in 1971. As far as the back end, I give it maybe five years to own a jacket like this.”

  “Let’s get a list of all women in the area who went missing since 1974. Our next step is to find out which ones are still missing. Of those verified as still missing, first concentrate on the women who lived near the apartment or had a boyfriend, friend, or relative who lived near the apartment. It’s going to mean calling families and opening up wounds. Sorry, but it has to be done. Also, we need that list of all the tenants who have ever lived in the apartment. Did we do that yet?”

  “Bontemps is working on it,” Marge said.

  Oliver said, “It sure would help if we could put a face on the body. Are you sure there’s no way we can use the facial bones to create soft tissue?”

  “You heard the pathologist,” Decker said. “The facial bones are way too delicate. We’re working on a computerized model, but that’s going to take time also because we need measurements. All we can do is be patient.”

  Oliver said, “On to the other missing person in our lives.”

  “Roseanne Dresden,” Marge said. “Did her stepfather call today?”

  “Like clockwork. I’ve got to say that his theories are sounding a lot less loony now than they did a few months ago.” Decker began to tick specific incidents off his fingers. “WestAir has not helped us substantiate that Roseanne was on flight 1324. Also, the first victims list that the paper received did not include Roseanne’s name on it, and no one at the paper remembers who called in Roseanne’s name as a victim. Furthermore, according to you, Margie, the desk attendant at WestAir…what’s her name?”

  “Erika Lessing.”

  “Right. She swears that Roseanne did not board the flight from Burbank. Now, Roseanne could have come on board from an earlier flight from San Jose, but so far no one’s verified that. Then, when we add to the mix a cheating husband as well as a cheating wife who had an ex-boyfriend in San Jose, we come up with a lot of unanswered questions. We need to start retracing Roseanne’s last steps. It’s time to pull a warrant for her phone records and her credit cards, her ATM accounts…any paper that might give us ideas about her last days on the planet.”

  “Any specific judge in mind, Loo?”

  “Try Elgin Keuletsky.” Decker spelled it out loud. “Present what we have and I think he’ll be simpatico.”

  “What about Ivan Dresden?” Oliver asked. “I thought we were going to interview him and ask for his help in locating Roseanne.”

  Decker said, “We will, but later. Right now let’s stay clear of him. Don’t even let him know we’ve got suspicions. After we get a better handle on Roseanne’s final days, maybe we’ll be lucky and something will point to Ivan as the bad guy.”

  “We’ve interviewed some of Roseanne’s friends,” Oliver said. “How about if I talk to a few people who know Ivan…discreetly, of course.”

  “Discreetly?” Decker answered. “Do you have someone in mind, Scott?”

  “Well, we can’t talk to any of his friends or coworkers without him getting wind of our poking around. But as I recall…there was a lap dancer that Ivan put the make on.”

  “You have a name?”

  “No name, but I have a club—Leather and Lace.”

  Decker smiled. “And you’re familiar with the establishment?”

  “I’ve been there a couple of times.”

  “And you want to go down to the club and find this elusive lap dancer?”

  “I think it would be negligent not to.”

  Marge said, “I might have a name. Try Melissa or Miranda.”

  “Where’d you get that from?” Oliver asked her.

  “Erika Lessing. Apparently he was two-timing Erika and his wife with someone with a name like that.”

  “I’ll check it out.” He looked at Decker. “What do you say, Loo?”

  “Okay, Scott, you win. I’m assigning you a trip down to Leather and Lace.”

  “So I can put in for charges like drinks and the cover?”

  “As long as they’re reasonable and part of the assignment.”

  Marge said, “You must be in hog heaven…or in your case pig heaven.”

  Oliver tried to look wounded, but in actuality he was feeling no pain. A lap dancer paid for by the LAPD. If that wasn’t paradise, what was?

  14

  DECKER COULD SMELL the aroma from the driveway, the undeniable scent of garlic, onion, and herbs: a sure indication that something good was going on in the kitchen. Involuntarily his mouth started to water. Although he wondered why Rina was cooking midweek, he didn’t question her decision. He was famished and tired and delighted that dinner or some facsimile was minutes away. When he came through the door, the background noise of conversation abruptly stopped and he found that there were several sets of eyes focused in on him—Rina, Cindy and Koby, and their elusive teenage daughter of late, Hannah Rosie.

  His wife looked put together, her long black hair in a ponytail and covered with a bandanna, although there was moisture on her brow, meaning the kitchen was probably hot. Cindy and Koby had on jeans and T-shirts. Hannah was dressed in a jean skirt over leggings, a scoop-neck T-shirt, and combat boots. She had beads around her neck, her earlobes jeweled in big white hoops, and her wrists were bedecked in multiple bangles. No piercings or tattoos, but only because tattoos were forbidden by Jewish law and Hannah had a fear of needles. Thank God for small favors.

  “Hi, kids,” Decker began cheerfully. He kissed his wife and his daughters, and hugged his son-in-law. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “We’ve finalized the plans, Dad. I thought that maybe you could take a look at them tonight…if you have a moment.”

  “I think we can work that out. How do they look?”

  “The plans are beautiful,” Koby said. “The cost is not.”

  Decker poured his son-in-law a scotch. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “He means that and so do I.” Rina had inherited some paintings from an old lady whom she had befriended. A half-dozen of them turned out to be valuable, one of them extremely valuable. That one constituted their retirement, giving the Deckers a lot of emotional freedom and flexibility.

  “You are always generous, but I do worry.” Koby took a nice-size shot. “We are living in a nutshell barely big enough for the two of us. Now we have big plans for eighteen hundred square feet of living space.”

  “Eighteen hundred seems reasonable, especially if you’re thinking about starting a family…hint, hint.”

  Cindy smiled. “Eventually, hint, hint.”

  “Reasonable if we had a bigger budget.” Another sip. “This is good.”

  “Thank you,” Decker said. “Another?”

  “It sounds tempting, but no.”

  Rina clapped her hands. “Shall we sit down?”

  “I’ll serve with Cindy, Eema,” Hannah volunteered.

  “Good idea, Hannah Banana.” Cindy made a face. “Does it bug you when I say that?”

  “Nah, but only you can get away with it.”

  The meal was copious. Rotisserie chicken over rice
pilaf, green beans, and, of course, the requisite salad. Hannah had also grilled some corn and red peppers. Everyone sat down at the table, dishes were passed around, and the meal began. For the first five minutes, there was little talk except to relay compliments to Rina and Hannah for cooking such a delicious feast. Halfway through his dinner, Decker made a stab at conversation.

  “So tell me about the plans?”

  “They are lovely and costly,” Koby replied.

  Cindy said, “They look terrific.”

  More eating.

  Decker said, “Well, anytime you want me to help you get started…knocking out walls, just give a ring.”

  Koby said, “That may be sooner than later. How about this weekend?”

  Cindy cleared her throat. Koby said, “I was thinking only about the kitchen.”

  “Koby and I have been having a little debate on this.” Cindy’s smile was tight. Uh-oh, Decker thought. “I don’t want to do things piecemeal. I think we need to hire a contractor because the plans have become more complicated. Koby would rather gather up a crowd and do it all himself—like a barn raising.”

  No one spoke.

  “I like building things,” Koby said.

  “Kobe, you’re working a full-time job and moonlight as it is. It’s a lot of weight to hold.”

  “I have strong shoulders.”

  “I’m sure you’ll work it out,” Rina said.

  Decker snapped his fingers. “You know what? I have an idea.”

  Uh-oh, Rina thought. She said, “I’m sure they’ll work it out, Peter.”

  “I’m sure they will, but just let me run this by you,” Decker said. “Remember Mike Hollander?”

  “From Foothill?” Rina said.

  “Yeah, you know he retired about ten maybe twelve years ago from police work. He has a construction company—”

  “Peter, he must be like seventy now.”

  “Just listen. What he does is get all these old-time construction pros—plumbers, plasterers, electricians, air-conditioning guys—who have retired, calls them up, and gets a crew together. They’ve done quite a few renovation projects for the elderly in their neighborhood.”

  “If Mike is seventy, how old are the old guys, Daddy?” Cindy asked dubiously.

  “They’re probably all around Mike’s age.”

  Hannah wiped her mouth. “Uh, this is not of interest to me. Mind if I check my e-mail?”

  Decker told her to go ahead. Rina said, “Do you think Mike’s up to it, Peter? How long has he been at this?”

  “They’re experienced guys, Rina.”

  “Didn’t Mike have bypass surgery?”

  “Last time I spoke to him, he told me he never felt better.”

  “How much do they charge?” Koby inquired.

  “I have no idea, but I’m sure he’ll be reasonable,” Decker told him.

  Rina said, “I don’t know about this, Peter. Maybe they should ask the architect for some recommendations.”

  “What would it hurt if I called Hollander up?”

  No one answered. Koby looked at Cindy. Cindy looked at Koby. They both shrugged. Koby said, “I think it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

  Decker got up from the table. “It’ll only take a minute.”

  “Now?” Rina said. “We’re in the middle of dinner.”

  “It’ll only take a few minutes.” Decker dashed inside the kitchen before Rina could continue to protest.

  Cindy said, “Let him make the phone call, Rina. Otherwise we won’t hear the end of it.”

  Rina said, “He means well, but sometimes he doesn’t think things through.”

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Koby said. “There is wisdom in age.”

  Cindy said, “There’s also angina and arthritis in age.”

  Koby said, “The food is excellent as always.”

  “Delicious,” Cindy concurred.

  Decker returned looking very pleased. “We’re having lunch tomorrow.” He looked at Koby. “I’ll bring the plans with me as long as you brought them here. Anyone want to join me?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m on shift,” Koby said.

  “I’m working,” Cindy said. “But I’d like to meet him before we start. No offense, Daddy, but he is a little on the old side.”

  “None taken.” Decker looked at his wife. “I thought of someone else. How about Abel Atwater?”

  Rina said, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “The man knows his way around a toolbox.”

  “Peter, he’s an amputee!”

  “So I won’t put him on a ladder.” To Koby, Decker said, “He’s a terrific jack-of-all-trades.”

  “When was the last time you talked to Abel?”

  Decker shrugged. “I don’t know. About six, seven years ago. Doesn’t matter. We have that kind of a relationship.”

  “How’d he lose a limb?” Koby asked.

  “War injury in Vietnam.”

  “So it wasn’t from a construction accident.”

  “No, no, no,” Decker said. “He’s actually quite agile—”

  “Peter, the man is not only an amputee, he has demons.”

  “Last I heard, he doesn’t drink anymore.”

  “The last you heard as of six years ago,” Rina said. “What about his chronic depression?”

  “So what’s better than making him feel useful?”

  Cindy said, “Uh, Daddy, I appreciate your help, but I think we might need something more than an amputee and old men with heart conditions.” She shrugged.

  Koby said, “He already called up Mike. He might as well keep the lunch date.”

  Abruptly, Cindy burst into genuine laughter. “All right. There’s nothing wrong with having lunch with an old friend. I do, however, have my reservations about Abel and his battle with the bottle.”

  “Okay. Abel’s out but Mike’s in,” Decker said.

  Cindy threw up her hands. “Deal.”

  Rina began to clear dishes, but Decker told her to sit down. “I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll help you,” Koby said.

  “Bring in dessert while you’re at it,” Rina told them.

  When the men left the room, Cindy said, “I married my father. Mr. Do-It-Himself.” She shrugged again. “What the heck. I figure when the house is torn apart, Koby will come to his senses.”

  “That’s very smart of you.”

  “Sometimes, it’s useless to make plans,” Cindy said.

  Rina smiled. “There’s an old Yiddish expression: Mann macht und Gott lacht.”

  “Which means?”

  “Man makes plans and God laughs.”

  THE RECTANGULAR STAGE was in the center of the room, the mirrored floor lit up from underneath. Surrounding the stage were bar stools of sweaty, boisterous men shouting encouragement to sinuous, wet female forms that pirouetted from four corner poles. Beyond the stage were sets of tables and chairs. A horseshoe-shaped bar spanned three walls. It was hot and moist and dark except where the spotlights hit the supple women.

  There was a three-drink minimum at fifteen bucks a pop, whether it be water or booze. The clients were served by dancers wearing high-cut, black leather thongs and sheer lace bustiers.

  Scott Oliver had chosen a corner table, and nursed a beer while taking it all in. He recognized three girls so far and that surprised him. He hadn’t been to Leather and Lace in over two years, and with the high turnover of dancers, he hadn’t expected to see anyone familiar. The dropout rate in these establishments was higher than a midcity school, some girls leaving because they had amassed enough money, others leaving because drugs and alcohol finally got the better of them, ravaging the faces as well as the bodies. It was a hard life, made more difficult by the constant onslaught of boors the women catered to. Oliver liked to think of himself as a respite for the women. He tipped big and dispensed legal advice free of charge. Of course, it wasn’t really free. The women would often do him favors in exchange, but in his mind the barter was a fair one.


  A man was approaching him—midthirties, black T-shirt, black jeans, and leather motorcycle boots. He had a round face, small lips, thick brow, and dark curly hair. Dante Michelli was the owner of Leather and Lace and five other gentleman’s clubs. Oliver had heard that Michelli was a self-made man, a third-generation Italian-American from Brooklyn. As far as Scott knew, Michelli ran a clean and safe environment, the security of his patrons and girls ensured by a half-dozen bulldozer-looking men parked at strategic places about the floor. He took a seat at Oliver’s table without asking permission.

  “What can I get for you, Detective?”

  “I’m fine with my beer, Mr. Michelli, but thanks.”

  “Call me Dante.” He waved a finger in the air and a leggy woman with a platinum crew-cut hairstyle was there within moments. “Get the man a fresh beer, Titania.”

  “Not necessary, but thanks,” Oliver said.

  Dante said, “You look like you’re here on business.”

  “I am, but it has nothing to do with your business.”

  That was exactly what the owner wanted to hear. The beer came a minute later, cold and premium quality. Oliver reached into his wallet, by Michelli put his hand over Oliver’s. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “I won’t argue.” Oliver put away his billfold. “It’s either you pay or I have to file a forest’s worth of paperwork just to get reimbursed.”

  The two men returned their eyes to the stage. Michelli spoke, still looking over his undulating ladies. “What do you need besides a beer?”

  “I’ve got a problem, Mr. Michelli. I need to speak with one of your girls, only I don’t know her exact name. It might be Miranda or Melissa.”

  Michelli shook his head. “Not familiar. What does she look like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So what do you know about her?”

  “Only that she knows a man named Ivan Dresden.” Oliver sneaked a quick peek at Dante before returning his eyes to the stage. The man’s face was a blank. “I’m way more interested in Dresden than I am in the woman. Maybe you know him?”

  “What does he look like?”