Rina whispered, 'Once word gets out, I'm sure you'll have plenty of willing volunteers.'
'Hope so.' Decker stamped his foot. An infantile gesture but he was so damn angry. 'Man, I am pi— mad. I'd love to swear except I don't want to further desecrate the place.'
'What's the first step in this kind of investigation?'
'To check out juveniles with past records of vandalism.'
'Aren't records of juveniles sealed?'
'Of course. But that doesn't mean the arresting officers can't talk. A couple of names would be a good start.'
'How about checking out real hate groups?'
'Definitely, Rina. We'll work this to the max. Nothing in this geographical area comes to mind. But I remember a group in Foothills - the Ethnic Preservation Society or something like that. It's been a while. I have to check the records, and to do that properly I need to go back to the office.'
'Go on. Go back. I'll be okay.' She turned to face him. 'Who's coming down?'
'Wanda Bontemps. She's from the Hate Crimes Unit. Try not to bite her head off. She had a bad experience with Jews in the past.'
'And this is who they bring down for a Jewish hate crime?'
'She's black—'
'So she's a black, and an anti-Semite. That makes it better?'
'She's not anti-Semitic at all. She's a good woman who was honest enough to admit her issues to me early on. I'm just... I shouldn't have even mentioned it.' He looked around and grimaced. 'I should learn to keep my mouth shut. I'll chalk it up to being a little rattled. Wanda's new and has worked hard to get her gold. It hasn't been an easy ride for a black forty-year-old woman.'
'I'm sure that's true,' Rina answered. 'Don't worry about her, Peter. If she just does her job, we'll get along just fine.'
The pictures of the concentration camp victims had to have come from somewhere. It was possible that they were downloaded from a neo-Nazi on-line site and enhanced to make them look like real photographs. Still, it was equally likely that they had come from some kind of local organized fascist group. The fringe group that Decker had remembered from his Foothills days had tagged itself the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity. When he had worked Juvenile, it hadn't been much more than a post-office box and a once-every-six-months meeting in the park. A few quick phone calls told him that the group was still in existence and that it had evolved into something with an address on Roscoe Boulevard. Decker wasn't sure what they did or what they espoused, but with that kind of a name, the hidden message had to be white supremacy.
He checked his watch, which now read close to eleven. He got up from his desk and went out into the squad room. There were lots of empty spots, signifying that most of Devonshire's detectives had been called into the field, but luck placed Tom Webster at his desk, and on the phone. The junior homicide detective was blond, blue-eyed, and spoke with a good-ole-boy drawl. If anyone could pose as an Aryan sympathizer, it would be Webster... except for the dress. Neo-Nazis didn't usually sport designer suits. Today, Tom had donned a navy suit, white shirt, and a maroon mini-print tie - probably Zegna. Not that Decker wore hundred-dollar ties, but he knew the brand because Rina's father liked Zegna and often gave Sammy and Jake his cast-off cravats.
Webster looked up, and Decker caught his eye, pointing to his office. A minute later, Tom came in and closed the door. His hair had been recently shorn, but several locks still brushed his eyebrows, giving him that 'aw shucks' look of a schoolboy.
'Sorry about this morning, Loo.' Webster took a seat across Decker's desk. 'We all heard it was pretty bad.'
'Y'all heard right.' Decker sat at his desk and sifted through his computer until he found what he wanted. Then he pressed the print button. 'What's your schedule like?'
'I was just doing a follow-up on the Gonzalez shooting. Talking to the widow...' He sighed. 'The trial's been delayed again. Perez's lawyer quit, and they're assigning him a new PD who is not at all familiar with the case. Poor Mrs Gonzalez wants closure and it isn't going to happen soon.'
'That's too bad,' Decker stated.
'Yeah, it's too bad and all too typical,' Webster answered. 'I have court at one-thirty. I thought I'd go over my notes.'
'You're a college grad, Webster. That shouldn't take you long.' Decker handed him the printout. 'I want you to check this out.'
Webster looked at the sheet. 'Preservers of Ethnic Integrity? What is all this? A Nazi group?'
'That's what you're going to find out.'
'When? Now?'
'Yes.' Decker smiled. 'Right now.'
'What am I inquiring about? The temple vandalism?'
'Yes.'
'Am I supposed to be sympatico to the cause?'
'You want information, Tom; do what you need to do. As a matter of fact, take Martinez with you. You're white, he's Hispanic. With racists, you can do good cop, bad cop just by using the color of your skin.'
From the synagogue, Bontemps called Decker and told him about the three kids she had hauled in for prior vandalism. All of them had sealed records.
'How about a couple of names?' Decker asked.
Bontemps said, 'Jerad Benderhurst — a fifteen-year-old white male. Last I heard, he was living with an aunt in Oklahoma. Jamal Williams - a sixteen-year-old African-American male -picked up not only for vandalism, but also petty theft and drug possession. I think he moved back east.'
'That's not promising. Anyone else?'
'Carlos Aguillar. I think he's fourteen, and I think he's still at Buck's correction center. Those are the ones I remember for vandalism. If you check with Sherri and Ridel, they might have others.' A pause. 'Then again, Lieutenant, you might want to consider the bigger picture when it comes to tagging.'
Decker knew exactly to whom she was referring - a specific group of white, middle-to-upper-class males who were not only testosterone laden, but also terribly bored with life. Recently, after having been caught, the kids had secured their daddies'. highly paid lawyers before they had even been booked. The entire bunch had gotten off, the tagging expunged from the records, and in record time. Most of the kids were enrolled in private schools. For them, even drugs and sex had become too commonplace. Crime was the last vestige of rebellion.
'There was a group of them last year,' Wanda said. 'Around twenty of them dressing like Homies and trying to act very baaaad. They defaced a lot of property. If I thought about it, I could remember some names.'
'You could also have your ass sued for giving me the names,' Decker said. 'As far as the records are concerned, they don't exist. But I know who you mean.' A glance at the wrist told him it was eleven-twenty. 'How's it going over there?'
'Photographers are almost done. So are the techs. Your wife is waiting with a crew of people - all of them armed with soapy water pails, cleaning solutions, rags and mops. They are ready to start scrubbing, and they are angry. If the police don't hurry up, someone's gonna get impaled on a broomstick.'
'That sounds like Rina's doing,' Decker stated.
'You want to talk to her? She's hanging over my shoulder.'
'I am not hanging,' Rina said, off side. 'I am waiting.'
Wanda handed her the phone. Rina said, 'Detective Bontemps has offered to spend her lunch hour helping us clean.'
'Is that a pointed comment?'
'Well, you might want to take a cue.'
Decker smiled. 'I'll be there as soon as I get off work. I will paint and clean the entire night if necessary. How's that?'
'Acceptable, although by the time you get here, it may not be necessary.'
'I hear you have quite a gang.'
'Specifically, we've got the entire sisterhood here with brooms and buckets. Someone also made an announcement over at the JCC. Six people came down to clean and paint - one guy actually being a professional painter. Wanda, who's been a doll, actually called up her church and recruited several volunteers. Even the people from the press have offered to help. We'd like to start already.'
'Detective Bontemps told me they
're almost done.'
'It's just so... ugly, Peter. Every time I look at it, I get sick all over. Everyone feels the same way.'
'Who is down there from the press?'
'L.A. Times, Daily News, there are some TV cameras, but Wanda isn't letting them in yet.'
'Good for her.'
'Have you narrowed down your suspect list?' Rina asked.
'I'm making a couple of calls. I'll let you know if I have any luck.' He waited a moment. 'I love you, darlin'. I'm glad you have so much support over there.'
'I love you, too. And those mumzerim haven't heard the last from me. This isn't going to happen again!'
'I admire your commitment.'
'Nothing to admire. This isn't a choice, this is an assignment. Have you checked out the pawnshops?'
'What?'
'For the silver kiddush cup. Someone may have tried to pawn
I
'You should do that right away. Before the pawnbroker gets wind of the fact that he has something hot.'
'Anything else, General?'
'Nothing for the moment. Someone's calling me, Peter. I'll give you back to Detective Bontemps.'
Wanda said, 'She's quite the organizer.'
'That's certainly true. Thanks for helping out.'
'It's the least I could do.'
Decker said, 'The taggers you were referring to, Wanda. Most of them went to private school.'
'Some of them did - Foreman Prep... Beckerman's.'
'That could work in our favor. I'd have a hard time doing search and seizure with kids in public school. But in private school, they are subjected to different rules. Lots of the places have bylaws allowing the administration to open up random lockers to do contraband searches.'
'Why would a private school administrator agree to do that for us, sir?'
'Because it would look bad if they didn't help us out. Like they were hiding something. Chances are I won't find much... a secret stash or two.'
'What specific contraband would you be looking for, sir? Anti-Semitic material?'
'A silver wine cup.'
'Aha. That makes sense.'
'It's worth a try,' Decker said.
But one not without controversy or consequences. Because in order to appear objective - and the police needed to appear objective - he'd have to search several of the private schools, including Jacob's Jewish high school. He'd start with that one.
it.'
'Actually no, I haven't checked out the pawnshops.'
'What's the address?' Webster asked.
Martinez gave him the number while taking a big bite out of his turkey, tomato, and mustard sandwich, rye bread crumbs sprinkling his steel-wool mustache. He had been thinking about shaving it off now that it was more gray than black. But his wife told him that after all these years of something draping over his mouth, he probably had no upper lip left. 'Any particular reason why Decker is using Homicide Dees for this?'
'Probably because I was in the squad room.' He looked at his partner's sandwich. 'You carryin' an extra one, Bertie?'
'Oh, sure.' Martinez pulled a second sandwich out of a paper bag. 'You didn't eat lunch?'
'When did I have time?' He attacked the food, wolfing half down in three bites. 'Decker cornered me just as I was hangin' up on the widow Gonzalez. The loo has a boner for this one.'
'Yeah, it's personal.'
'It's personal. It's also very ugly, especially after the Furrow shooting at the JCC and the murder of the Filipino mail carrier. I think the loo wants to show the world that the police are competent beings.'
'Nothing wrong with us bagging a bunch of punks.' Martinez finished his sandwich and washed it down with a Diet Coke. 'You know anything about these jokers?'
'Just what's on the printout. They've been around for a while. A bunch of nutcases.'
Webster slowed in front of a group of businesses dominated by
a 99 Cents store advertising things in denominations of - you guessed it - ninety-nine cents. The corner also housed a Payless shoes, a Vitamins-R-Us, and a Taco Tio whose specialty was the Big Bang Burrito. Cosmology with heartburn: that was certainly food for thought. 'I don't see any Preservers of Ethnic Integrity.'
'The address is a half-number,' Martinez said. 'We should try around the side of the building.'
Webster turned the wheel and found a small glass entrance off the 99 Cents store, the door's visibility blocked by a white, gathered curtain. No address, but an intercom box had been set into the plaster. Webster parked, and they both got out. Martinez rang the bell, which turned out to be a buzzer.
The intercom spat back in painful static. 'We're closed for lunch.'
'Police,' Martinez barked. 'Open up!'
A pause, then a long buzzer. Webster pushed the door, which bumped against the wall before it was fully opened. He pushed himself inside. Martinez had to take a deep breath before entering, barely able to squeeze his belly in through the opening. The reception area was as big as a hatchback. There was a scarred bridge table that took up almost the entire floor space, and a folding chair. They stood between the wall and the table, staring at a waif of a girl who sat on the other side of the table. Her face was framed between long strands of ash-colored hair. She wore no makeup, and had a small, pinched nose that barely supported wire-rim glasses.
'Police?' She stood and looked to her left - at an interior door left ajar. 'What's going on?'
Martinez scanned the decor. Two prints without frames -Grant Wood's American Gothic and a seascape by Winslow Homer - affixed to the walls by Scotch tape. Atop the table were a phone and piles of different colored flyers. Absently, he picked up a baby blue sheet of paper containing an article. The bottom paragraph, printed in italics, identified the writer as an ex-Marine turned psychologist. Martinez would read the text later.
'A synagogue was vandalized earlier today.' Martinez made eye contact with the young woman. "We were wondering what you knew about it.'
Her eyes swished like wipers behind the glasses. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'It's all over the news,' Webster said.
'I don't watch the news.'
'You've got a radio on. I b'lieve it's tuned to a news station.'
'That's not me, that's Darrell. Why are you here?'
'Because we know what this place is all about,' Martinez said. 'We're just wondering exactly what role you had in the break-in?'
A man suddenly materialized from the partially opened door. He was around six feet and very thin, with coffee-colored frizzy hair and tan eyes. He had a broad nose and wide cheekbones. Martinez wondered how this guy could be an ethnic purist when his physiognomy screamed a mixture of races.
'May I ask who you all are?' he said.
'Police,' Webster said. 'We'd like to ask y'all a few questions, if that's okay.'
'No, it's not okay,' the man said. 'Because no matter what I say, my words will be twisted and distorted. If you have warrants, produce them. If not, you can help yourself to the door.'
'That's downright unneighborly of you,' Webster said.
The man turned his wrath toward the girl. 'How many times do I have to tell you that you don't let anyone in unless you're sure of who they are!'
'They said they were the police, Darrell! So what do I do? Just leave them there, knocking?'
'And since when do you believe everything someone says? You know how people are out to get us. Did you even ask for ID?' Darrell turned toward them. 'Can I see some ID?'
Webster pulled out his badge. 'We're not interested in your philosophy at the moment, although I reckon we're not averse to hearing your ideas. Right now, we want to talk about a temple
that was vandalized this morning. Y'all know anything about
that?'
'Absolutely not!' Darrell insisted. 'Why should we?'
'Is there anybody who can vouch for your whereabouts last night or early this morning?' Martinez asked.
'I'll have to think about it,' Darrell said. 'If
I knew I was going to be raked over the coals, I would have established an alibi.'
"Scuse me?' Webster said. 'This is being raked over the coals?'
'You barge in—'
'She buzzed us in,' Martinez interrupted. 'And you haven't answered the question. Where were you and what were you doing last night?'
'I was home.' Darrell was smoldering. 'In bed. Sleeping.'
'Alone?'
Faye Kellerman - Decker 13 - The Forgotten Page 2
