Faye Kellerman - Decker 13 - The Forgotten

by The Forgotten

  29

  CTV7'e finally tracked down Darrell Holt's old man,' Mar-\ tinez said. 'Philip David Holt. He just got back into town about three hours ago, according to his private secretary, but he's willing to meet with us. He lives in one of the high-rises in the Wilshire Corridor. His unit takes up the entire twelfth floor.'

  'What does he do?' Decker asked.

  'Investment banking/money manager,' Martinez answered. 'His main offices are in Encino and Beverly Hills. Does the name Holt Investments sound familiar?'

  'No, but I'm not in the league where I need a money manager.'

  'You probably wouldn't know him even if you were in the league. He runs one of the largest West Coast mutual funds for African-Americans. He manages assets of close to a billion dollars. That's a billion... with nine zeros.'

  'Okay, I'm impressed.' Decker shifted the cell from one ear to the other. 'Does his clientele imply that Mr Holt is African-American?'

  'Darrell says he has black blood in him, so I'd say that's probably a good assumption.' Martinez paused. 'He didn't really look African-American to me. Darrell's lighter than I am! And I'm not all that dark.'

  'When did he say he'd meet with you two, Bert?'

  'I told him we'd be there in about an hour. We're still in the Valley.'

  'So he's home now.'

  'Yes, he's home.'

  'Okay,' Decker said. 'This is the deal. I'm already on the 405, almost at Sunset.'

  'So you're right around the corner,' Martinez said.

  'Yes, I am. Give me the gentleman's phone number and I'll give him a call. In the meantime, since you did such a good job with locating evasive people, I want you to go back and pump Alice Ranger. I need to find out where Ruby is.'

  Silence on the line.

  Then Martinez said, 'I really don't like that girl.'

  'You're not alone. But this isn't about congeniality. Just do the job.'

  First, Decker had to get past the doorman whose uniform resembled that of a bandleader. Then he had to get past a desk clerk in a three-piece suit. Then an elevator operator - uniformed as well as white-gloved - took him up to the twelfth floor. The doors parted, and Decker stepped into a hallway that snaked right, then left. He walked about fifty feet until he came to a set of brass doors. He rang the bell and a tuxedoed butler answered the chimes. Once the man had been tall, but age had stooped his shoulders. He was hollow-cheeked with milky gray eyes and a complexion the color of a dull penny. His head was bald except for the curly pewter hair that neatly ringed his scalp in back - from one ear to the other.

  Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony could be heard in the background. Decker held out his badge. 'Lieutenant Decker from the LAPD. I believe Mr Holt is expecting me.'

  The butler moved aside. 'Yes, sir. Come in.'

  Upon entering, Decker was immediately hit with a sense of flying, then falling, because he faced a wall entirely constructed from glass. With no framework around the panes, it appeared as if he were stepping directly into the ethers of city lights. The great room's ceiling was high - at least twelve feet - with coffers and carved beams. The floor was polished black granite, covered with Persian rugs that had enough wear on them to look

  valuable. The furnishings, upholstered in lame fabrics of bronze and silver, were sinuous shapes, oversized enough to fill the space, but not bulky enough to overpower it. A floor-to-ceiling granite fireplace took up a second wall, and a third was hung with enormous oil canvases - de Kooning's squiggles, Mother-well's abstracts, Bacon's distorted bodies, and a single Jackson Pollock number that dripped red.

  Inside, the music had become louder... loud, actually. The symphony was still on the first movement, and Decker could picture little satyr centaurs chasing nubile female centaurs. As a young man, he had taken Cindy to see Fantasia at least twice.

  'This way, this way.' The butler beckoned.

  Down a foyer, passing another room that was almost identical to the first one. Same ceiling and floor, the same suspended wall of glass. But this spacious region held a smaller fireplace that shared the wall with a space-age entertainment unit. A built-in wet bar serviced the thirsty on the opposite side of the territory. In the center stood a grand piano, hood up and gleaming black.

  Opposite the entertainment room was the dining room that held a black lacquer table with seating for eighteen. The same all-glass view except it was a different part of the city. The table had been set, complete with layers of dishes, shiny silver, and crystal stemware for white and red wine as well as for water. Not a speck of dust marred the table dressing. It was as if Holt were expecting the dinner party any moment, except there were no kitchen smells, no sign of life, period.

  The butler bade him forward until the hallway ended in double brass doors. The butler pushed a button and they were both buzzed in.

  The master's bedroom suite appeared to be a thousand square feet, having the same views and more artwork. A self-contained unit, it had its own minikitchen complete with fridge and stove as well as its own entertainment unit. It had couches and chairs and loveseats and chaises. But its centerpiece - literally in the center - was a platform king-size bed topped with a brown suede cover. King-size suede pillows leaned against an ebony

  headboard. Against the pillows lay Holt, clad in blue silk pajamas. They hung on his thin frame. His mocha-colored face was small and round, the skin stretched over prominent cheekbones and a wide-bridged nose. He had dark brown eyes and black hair that was cropped close to the scalp. Fuzzy socks were on his feet. Around him were piles of papers, two laptop computers, several cell phones, one plugged-in land phone, and an electronic ticker-tape machine - neon green symbols flying past Decker's eyes.

  'Foreign markets.' Holt typed as he spoke. He also had to scream because the music was so loud. 'God made twenty-four time zones so that there would always be some stock market to watch.' He looked up and smiled. 'I'm being humorous. Have a seat, Lieutenant Decker. You don't mind if I work while we talk? I'm quite adept' - type, type, type - 'at juggling multiple tasks. Besides...' A cell phone rang. He answered it, whispered orders, then hung up. 'I don't think we'll have a lot to talk about.'

  'I can barely hear you.'

  'I can hear you just fine.'

  The man had no intention of turning the music down. Decker yelled, 'Can I sit on the edge of the bed?'

  'Certainly.'

  Magically, the music dropped a notch. Surprised, Holt looked up and saw the butler a few feet from the entertainment area. Holt was about to speak, then thought better of it.

  The butler said, 'Anything I can get you, sir?'

  'Uh, yes, George. Two teas...' To Decker, 'Is tea all right?'

  'It's fine.'

  'Earl Grey, George. Decaf please. It's late-ish, isn't it? I have no idea what time zone I'm in. But I see it's almost dark. What time is it?'

  'Eight-thirty, sir.'

  'Throw in a couple of butter cookies.' Holt continued to type on his laptop. 'Tea and butter cookies. Excellent.'

  'Very good, sir.'

  The double brass doors opened, then closed.

  'No, I don't know where...' Holt typed vigorously. 'Yes! Let me...' Again he typed and waited. 'Just a moment. I want to make sure this order goes through... There. Very good. I don't know where Darrell is, Lieutenant. I've completely lost track of him. I haven't seen him in a good three to four years. At one time, he did have a trust account, so I could suggest tracing him through the bank. But I believe he had gone through it as of a year ago.'

  'So you last had contact with him four years ago?'

  Holt took another phone call, turned, whispered, clicked off that cell, then took another call. Whisper, whisper, whisper. He typed, called, then whispered, then typed some more. Several minutes later, he said, 'Yes, I believe it was that long ago. Right when he came back to Los Angeles from up north. When he started getting involved with that ridiculous supremacist group.' A laugh. 'Darrell is a light boy by African-American standards. But the child is not white, that
's for certain.'

  'From what I understand, he never claimed to be white. He told my men that he was Acadian.'

  'Oh, that's a good one.' Another laugh. 'Darrell the Cajun. My, my. Darrell has reinvented himself many times over. He is not Acadian although his mother was from Louisiana. What Darrell is... is a little psychopath. Not surprising considering his genetics.' He looked at Decker. 'Hers, not mine.'

  'His mother.'

  'His mother was a slut.' The nostrils fumed. 'I'm not even sure Darrell is mine. But I took him on as if he were such because...' He paused, typed furiously, then resumed conversation. 'Because I felt I had no choice. I was too ashamed and too embarrassed and too stupid and too enthralled with the woman's sexual prowess to question. And some humanitarian part of me felt sorry for the little bastard. Maybe he was mine. Whatever seed penetrated that woman's ovum produced an offspring that had some smarts. The boy is not stupid. Just amoral... and lazy. Very, very lazy. He wanted all the trappings...' Holt swept his hand across the room. 'But never

  lifted a finger to work for them.'

  'Has he called you within the last four years even if he hasn't seen you?'

  'Maybe. I certainly haven't talked to him. He'd only want money so why bother speaking to him? But you can check the phone records if you'd like, Lieutenant.'

  'Any idea how he's been supporting himself?'

  'He's twenty-four and computer-sawy.' Holt checked the electronic ticker tape. 'Very, very good. What were we talking about?'

  'How Darrell is supporting himself.'

  'The boy has skills. He had two years in Berkeley. Not to mention the fact that he is highly manipulative. I don't fret for him.'

  'Do you know if he held down any kind of a job?'

  'No, I do not.'

  There was a knock at the door.

  'Ah, the tea.' He reached around and pushed the buzzer. The double doors opened. 'Just in time. Can you pour for us, George?'

  'Certainly, sir.'

  'George, maybe you can help the lieutenant out. He wants to know about Darrell.'

  The old man stopped pouring for a moment, then continued. 'Yes, sir?'

  'Have you seen him lately?'

  'No sir.'

  But the hesitation told Decker a different story.

  'Any calls from the lad?' Holt asked his butler.

  'No, sir.'

  Holt held up his hands. 'If George isn't aware of Darrell's whereabouts, then no one is. Darrell always liked George, isn't that so?'

  'I would hope so, sir.' George handed Holt a gold-rimmed china teacup, then served an identical one to Decker. As soon as he was relieved of the cups, he passed around a tray of butter

  cookies. Holt took two, but Decker declined.

  'Oh, do take a cookie, Lieutenant,' Holt advised. 'Life needs to be sweetened from time to time.'

  'The tea is fine, sir. What else can you tell me about Darrell?'

  'I told you everything I know about him.' He smiled. 'He's a psychopath. There is nothing else to tell. George, do you have anything to add?'

  'No, sir.'

  'When was the last time you talked to him?' Decker asked.

  'Years ago.'

  'How many years?'

  'I believe I stopped talking to him when he got involved with that crazy group.'

  'Preservers of Ethnic Integrity?' Decker said.

  George made a face. 'Nothin' but a bunch of lunatics.'

  'Well spoken,' Holt agreed.

  'Anything else I can get you, sir?' George asked.

  'No, George, I'm fine, thank you.'

  George left. Decker waited a few moments, then rose from the bed, still holding the teacup. He took a card out of his pocket. 'You will phone if he contacts you?'

  'Of course.' Holt looked up from one of his laptops. 'What did he do, by the way?'

  'I can't say, Mr Holt. It's an ongoing investigation.'

  'Then remain tightlipped if you please.' Holt typed away. 'Whatever you think he did' - type, type, type - 'I'm sure he did it.'

  Decker waited. Then he said, 'I'll just close the door behind me.'

  'Fine, fine. Take a butter cookie on the way out.' 'Thank you.' Decker opened one of the brass doors and shut it softly. The teacup in his hand gave him the perfect excuse. Quickly, he walked down the hallway, passing the entertainment/ piano room and then the living room, on to the other side of the house, where his journey ended with another pair of brass double doors. Decker rang the buzzer and a moment later he

  was allowed to walk into a cavernous kitchen. It held black and white lacquer cabinetry - smooth doors without handles. There was an eight-burner Wolf range in the center with a slab of metal suspended from the ceiling to act as an exhaust vent/hood. Even in the off position, the range emitted a sizeable amount of heat. The countertops were fashioned from jet-black granite and were completely empty - devoid of any appliance, breadbox, canisters for flour or sugar, flowers, knickknacks, cookbooks, or anything a human being might use in the process of cooking - except for a block of steel-handled knives. About as homey as the county morgue.

  George stood in front of a stainless-steel sink, rinsing out the teapot. Slowly, his bent, arthritic hands turned the china over and over. He spoke with his eyes on the water. 'He wasn't all bad.'

  'I'm sure he wasn't,' Decker said. 'There's always other sides.'

  'He had it tough. A tough father, a bad mother. He had it tough, Darrell did.'

  'How long have you been working for Mr Holt?'

  'Sixty years.'

  Philip Holt looked to be in his early fifties. Decker said, 'You worked for Mr Holt's father, then?'

  'Yes, sir. Ezekial Holt. A smart man, Mr Holt was. And a good man, but he had his problems. He spoiled that boy rotten. Both him and his mama - Inez. They spoiled that boy.'

  'Spoiled Darrell?'

  'No, spoiled Philip. When Philip married that woman, Inez was tore up from limb to limb. She could tell that that woman was no good from day one. But Philip wouldn't listen to his mama. Philip... he just saw what he wanted to see.'

  'Did Philip have words with his parents about the woman... what was her name?'

  'Dorothy. Everyone called her Dolly Sue.'

  'What happened after Philip married Dolly Sue?'

  'He had words with both his mama and his papa. Both were against the marriage. The woman was bad from day one.'

  'Promiscuous,' Decker said.

  'She liked all the boys - and had them, too. Her with her pretty blue eyes and corn silk hair. Acting all flirty. Talking with that Southern talk. Philip couldn't help himself.'

  Blue eyes, blond hair, Southern talk. Decker said, 'She was white.'

  'Yeah, she was a white woman. Philip met her when he was down in Shreveport, doing some work at the college. She worked at the college as a secretary. As soon as she found out that Philip had some money from his papa, she took him into her bed. After that... psssss... can't fight that kind of temptation.'

  'Philip's father had money?'

  'For a colored man, Ezekial had lots of money. Y'see, he was a trucker for Coca-Cola in Atlanta, Georgia. Every penny he got, he put into the Coca-Cola stocks.'

  'That was very forward thinking.'

  'It wasn't EzekiaPs thinking. Ezekial did it to impress a white girl he liked. Y'see, her brother... he was buying up the stock. So Ezekial did the same thing. But back then, it was hard for a colored man to buy stock. No broker would see to the Negroes. So the white boy did it for him. Told him it would make him money. Ezekial bought the stocks for pennies during the depression. He did real well.'

  'A white boy bought stock for Ezekial and put it in EzekiaPs name?'

  'Yes, sir, he put it in Ezekial's name. That boy was a fine white boy. He did right by Ezekial. Not all white people hated the colored. Most did, but not everyone.'

  'Interesting.'

  'After the war... in the fifties... Ezekial bought himself a fine house in Atlanta in the old colored area. A big house. And he still had
stock left over. Philip grew up like a rich boy. Got hisself a good education. Went to the university. That boy got everything he wanted. Trouble is, he wanted things that weren't good for him. Now remember, this was the sixties. The black

  man started getting power... started getting a taste for things that he shouldn't have no taste for. The white girls were giving it to them in free love. It made the black man think he was one of them. It was disgusting.'