Conflict of Interest

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “Handing over my files is the limit, Eli,” Joanne said, stopping in the parking lot. “I might sneak you into my office one night and let you pick through the evidence. But I refuse to let you take anything out of the building. This is a first and last for me, understand? When it comes to my work, I play by the rules.”

  “Good,” he said, grabbing the umbrella out of her hand and holding it over both their heads as they huddled together in the rain. “Then we’re in the same ballpark.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I have my limits too. I don’t steal, and I don’t kill people.”

  “What about everything else?”

  Eli hit the button to disarm the alarm on his truck, then held the door open for her. “Everything else is up for grabs.”

  NINETEEN

  Wednesday, February 14, 2001, 11:12 A.M.

  ELIZABETH DECKER exited her red-and-bronze Chevy Blazer on a farm road approximately ten miles from Magic Mountain. Already soaked, she didn’t bother with an umbrella. The plastic visor would keep the rain out of her eyes, and she’d borrowed some of her daughter’s ski clothes. Dressed in a black jumpsuit with red stripes on the sleeves and four zippered compartments, her feet were encased in red insulated snow boots.

  In the rear of the vehicle were two sturdy shovels, a hoe, two rakes, and a grocery bag containing Elizabeth’s gardening tools. The day before she’d lopped off the metal portion at the end of one of the rakes. At the moment, all she needed was the wooden pole. If she found something that appeared to be evidence, she would return for the other rake. On the drive over, she had checked her phone messages from her cell phone. Dreiser had called her, Joanne Kuhlman had left a message, and a detective at the Valencia Sheriff’s Department had tried to get in touch with her. She didn’t need to speak to them. She knew why they were calling.

  Since three o’clock that morning, Elizabeth had been working at her dining-room table, mapping the area where she believed her son’s grave was located on large sheets of white paper, then dividing the area into grids. To distinguish one grid from another, she’d purchased fifty yellow plastic stakes at Home Depot the previous evening. She placed a small hammer into one of the zippered compartments of the ski suit, a hand shovel into the other. Her plan was to insert the plastic stakes into the muddy soil to establish the outer perimeter of the grid. She picked up the stakes and placed them in one of the heavy blue plastic garbage bags the sanitation department distributed, knowing she would have to return to the car and retrieve more once these were positioned. Even though the stakes were plastic, they were cumbersome and she couldn’t carry them all at one time.

  Elizabeth had hoped to receive another phone call from the anonymous informant. But now that the police had set up the wiretaps at her home, she felt certain that the man who had told her about her son’s murder would never be heard from again.

  She rubbed her hands together, wishing she had remembered to bring along a pair of gloves. Already her fingers were stiff and cold. It couldn’t be more than forty degrees. When she exhaled, she could see her breath.

  Elizabeth didn’t mind the flashes of lightning, though, the drumrolls of thunder, the transparent sheets of rain, the slippery streets, the traffic-clogged roadways. In a way, she found it gratifying. Her son’s cries for help had been heard. The storm was her affirmation. An unspeakable act had been committed against a holy and treasured soul.

  Heaven was outraged.

  Elizabeth compared life to an unending series of examinations. When asked to find an adjective to describe Ian Decker, the majority of people would check the boxes marked “pathetic,” “retarded,” “burdensome,” “useless,” “annoying,” “stupid,” “blundering,” along with hundreds of other words with negative connotations. The box they should have checked was “none of the above.” What one saw with the human eye or heard with the human ear did not always constitute reality. Ian Decker was a special soul, a vessel, a bridge from the past to the future. Even in death, he would be eternally cherished and protected. His mother no longer attempted to explain the inexplicable. Some knowledge was not meant to be shared.

  Trudging out into the open field, Elizabeth poked the ground with the wooden pole, making certain it reached a depth of at least twelve inches. The Rubinsky brothers were lazy Her son’s grave would be shallow. In addition, the rain had made her task easier. The day before the ground had been dry and hard. Physical stamina, however, would not be a problem. To others she might appear to be on the verge of collapse, her face haggard with dark circles etched under her eyes, yet she would be given the strength to work tirelessly until her mission was accomplished.

  Every fifty feet, Elizabeth would bend over and hammer a yellow stake into the mushy soil. She then turned to the right and counted off another fifty feet, continuing in the same pattern until she had established a grid. Back and forth she marched, plunging the plastic stakes into the ground. When she struck something solid, she dropped to the ground and scooped out the object with the small hand shovel. She dug up rocks, soda cans, and hubcaps, and wasted half an hour unearthing the remains of a rusted-out hibachi grill.

  Her hands raw and bleeding, her clothes and face smeared with mud, Elizabeth climbed inside the passenger seat of the Blazer at precisely five o’clock. She circled the area she had covered on her hand-drawn map with a black Magic Marker, then folded the paper carefully and stored it inside the glove compartment. Once she got home, she would bathe, eat, sleep, then get up in the morning and return. She would continue expanding the radius until she found Ian. Were it not for the rain, she would have used flashlights and continued to search until dawn.

  After dinner that evening, Joanne asked Mike to go to his room, then sat down at the kitchen table to have a serious talk with her daughter. “Where did you go yesterday?”

  “I didn’t go anywhere,” Leah told her “I forgot one of my books. I needed it to do my homework so I went back to my locker to get it. I thought I had enough time, but by the time I got back, the bus had already left.”

  “How did you get home?”

  “My friend’s aunt drove me.”

  “What friend?”

  “His name is Nathan.”

  “Is he a boyfriend or a friend?”

  “A friend,” Leah said, deciding it was time to smooth things over with her mother. “There’s a group of kids. We all hang out together. I’m not going out with him or anything.” Nathan had already made an appointment for her to see a doctor tomorrow afternoon in Santa Barbara. The doctor was a woman, and Nathan said she was a friend of the family. Leah had been shocked that he would take her to a doctor who knew his parents. It was okay, he told her. This was a person they could trust. At first, Leah had thought he was arranging for her to have an abortion, but she’d been mistaken. Nathan only wanted the doctor to verify that Leah was pregnant. After that, they would decide how to proceed. Although she was anxious, she was also relieved. Her secret was out. She no longer had to carry the burden alone.

  Once they’d reached his house, Nathan had made them a snack and spread a blanket out on the lawn. He’d been exquisitely gentle, stroking her face and telling her that no matter what happened, he wouldn’t abandon her. Maybe it was only an act, but Leah needed to believe his statements were genuine. Had she not passed out that night at Trent’s party, she would have consented to have sex with him. Even before the evening had begun, she’d set out to seduce him. Most of her girlfriends had already had sex. She envied the attention they received from their boyfriends. Her father had always made a fuss over her, but now he was no longer around.

  “Nathan’s a nice guy. Mom,” Leah told her, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. “A bunch of kids are going to a movie tomorrow after school. Nathan asked me to go with them. Mike and I were stuck in the house all day today. Can I go?”

  Joanne rolled her neck around. A person knew they were getting old when their bones ached every time the weather changed. “Does he
drive?”

  “No,” Leah said. “Nathan’s aunt is going to drive us. His parents are away on a ski trip. Don’t worry. We’re not going to be alone in his house or anything. Like I said, we’re going with a group.”

  “You’re supposed to be grounded,” Joanne told her, wondering what had caused Leah’s disposition to change so drastically. She hadn’t been this bubbly in months. “You had no right to go in my purse and unlock the room behind the closet. And taking the car was wrong. You also hurt my feelings when you told me you hated me. I’m certain you didn’t mean it, but ‘hate’ is a terrible word.”

  “I’m so sorry. Mom,” Leah said, walking over and kneeling on the floor by her mother’s chair. “Please,” she pleaded, holding her hands in a praying position, “I’m begging you to forgive me. I know I’ve acted terrible lately. It’s been tough because of Dad. I promise. I won’t ever disrespect you again.”

  Joanne placed her head in her hands. She hoped her daughter’s newfound attitude was sincere and not merely an act to get what she wanted. “Okay,” she said, peering at Leah. At few moments later, Joanne reached over and clasped her daughter’s face in her hands. “You can’t possibly know how much I love you, how terrible it was for me during the time you were gone. How could you believe the things your father said were true?”

  “It wasn’t easy for Mike and me, either,” Leah told her. “Dad told us you never wanted to see us again. We didn’t believe him at first. We called the house. We called the courthouse. We didn’t know that Dad had fixed it so the phone numbers we were calling rang in his office, and that he’d told some lady what to say Since you never got in touch with us, we decided Dad must have been telling us the truth.”

  “But it still seems like you resent me,” Joanne told her. “Don’t you know that what your father did was terribly wrong? He didn’t just hurt me, Leah, he hurt all of us.”

  Leah got up and returned to her chair at the table. “He’s still my father,” she said, a spark of defiance surfacing. “Dad didn’t want to go to jail. He didn’t stab or rob anyone. I know what it feels like to be afraid. People make mistakes when they’re scared.”

  “I want you to be happy,” Joanne said, “but I can’t let you walk all over me. The next time you disrespect me, the penalties are going to be severe. I’ll take your computer away forever, understand?”

  “I need it to do my schoolwork.”

  “No chat boards,” her mother said, standing. “They tried to call me from the courthouse several times and the line was busy. I don’t want you to use the modem. Things will be different once we move. Right now, I need to keep the line open for emergencies.”

  “You mean I can’t use the modem ever again?” Leah asked. “Why don’t we just go live in a cave? You can’t be serious.”

  “You can use it now and then,” Joanne told her. “But only with my permission.” She started to leave the room, then stopped in the doorway, turning back around. “If you defy me this time, I’ll disconnect the phone.”

  “You can’t do that!” the girl said, her eyes widening. “What would we do if there was an emergency? They could charge you with child abuse.”

  Joanne laughed, the first pleasant moment of the day On the drive home, she’d tried to figure out a way to curtail Leah’s rebellious behavior. An idea had popped into her mind that just might work. She would be able to tell by her daughter’s reaction if it was worth pursuing. The child abuse comment was classic.

  “Listen carefully,” Joanne told her. “I adore you, but I also want you to understand my position. A parent is obligated to feed you, clothe you, educate you, and put a roof over your head. They don’t have to provide you with a computer, a modem, a phone, an allowance, even your own room for that matter.” She leveled her finger at her. “Disobey me again, and I’ll do exactly what I just said. I’ll have the calls forwarded to the Spencers’ other number, and buy Mike a cell phone. Then if there’s an emergency, your brother will handle it.”

  “Buy Mike a cell phone!” Leah shouted, throwing her hands in the air “That’s the lamest thing I’ve ever heard. He’s only twelve. I’m the one who should have a cell phone, not my stupid brother.”

  “You’re the one who’s been acting immature,” Joanne told her, slapping open the door leading out of the kitchen. From the other room, she shouted, “Don’t forget to clean up the kitchen.”

  TWENTY

  Wednesday, February 14, 2001, 7:15 P.M.

  ARNOLD DREISER navigated the steep hill leading to his home on Crest Drive in the foothills above Ventura. He noticed that the city had already placed sandbags in strategic locations. The previous year, several homes had been damaged by mud slides. Arnold had purchased the house from his ex-wife after their son’s suicide. Susan had found Jake. He was only thankful he’d been spared that agony.

  Having already made plans to take Jake to brunch at the country club that morning, Susan Dreiser had knocked on her son’s door around ten o’clock. When he didn’t respond, she had no reason to be concerned. Like most teenagers, Jake often slept in on the weekends. Once he’d reached puberty, though, he’d demanded a lock on his bedroom door. She’d misplaced the spare key, and Jake’s lock was the type that couldn’t be picked with a paper clip or some other sharp object. Deciding to have another cup of coffee and finish reading the Sunday paper, she waited forty-five minutes and then tried calling his private number. When the voice mail picked up, she became alarmed.

  Returning to her son’s room, Susan shouted his name repeatedly and beat her fist against the door. Certain now that something was wrong, she went to the garage for a hammer and flew back up the stairs in a panic. She pounded on the lock until she broke the door handle.

  The bed had been soaked with blood. Jake’s body was cold and rigid, his eyes were open and fixed on the ceiling. Their son had slit both of his wrists with a razor blade, bleeding to death while his mother slept only a short distance away. The coroner had fixed the time of death between eleven and twelve the night before. The two boys Jake had gone out with that evening claimed he’d been quieter than usual, yet they didn’t notice anything about his behavior that gave them any indication that he was considering taking his own life.

  Everyone had told Dreiser he was a fool to move back into the house. For sixteen years, however, Jake Dreiser had lived inside the three-story yellow adobe house at the top of the hill. His father couldn’t abandon the structure that had once been filled with his son’s laughter. Perhaps in the beginning, Dreiser had been looking for answers, thinking that if he remained in the house long enough, he’d find something, anything that would explain why Jake had committed suicide. Two years ago, Dreiser had reached a level of acceptance. To bring additional closure, he’d hired a contractor to knock out the ceiling in his library and raise it to the second floor where his son’s room had been located. Dreiser thought it was somehow appropriate that the site of such horror and sadness was now an open, airy space surrounded by lovely cherry-wood shelves and leather-bound books.

  As a labor of love, Dreiser had done most of the carpentry work himself. His father had been a finish carpenter, and Dreiser had worked in his shop after school until he’d graduated from college and entered law school. For the past nine months, he’d spent every weekend in his garage, carefully cutting, sanding, and finishing the shelves for the new library. The top shelves could only be reached by means of a ladder, so this is where Dreiser placed his collection of first-edition books, each encased in plastic dustcovers. Most of them were family heirlooms that he had intended to pass on to Jake. In another symbolic gesture, Dreiser had refused to purchase or build a library ladder. The books could be reached with a metal work ladder he kept in the garage but once the volumes had gone up, he’d never taken them back down. They were Jake’s books now, he’d decided, and they would remain in the open space that would forever belong to his son.

  The first floor of the house was divided into two sections separated by a stairway On one side
was a two-car garage, on the other was a home gym. He opened the door to the gym, then quickly closed it, ascending the stairway to the main floor. Last year, he’d sold off the antiques and redecorated, choosing light Danish woods and contemporary designs. Since most of the fabrics were in neutral tones, he’d painted the walls in an assortment of colors, mixing the paint himself. The living room was a robin’s-egg blue, the kitchen a cheerful yellow, and the dining room was what he called a serious shade of green. He seldom had people over for dinner, but whenever the crystal chandelier was lit, the dark green walls and his collection of battleship etchings provided a warm, masculine atmosphere.

  Dreiser headed to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and staring inside. Twice a week, a woman came in to clean and prepare food for him. Removing a plate of chicken, vegetables, and a baked potato covered in plastic, he popped it into the microwave, then opened the door to the liquor cabinet. His fingers closed around a bottle of Bombay gin. Yanking his hand back, he quickly closed the cabinet. Today was the anniversary of his son’s death. For the past five years, he’d spent these evenings alone, drowning his sorrows in alcohol as he sorted through old photographs. Outside of an occasional glass of wine or a few beers.

  Dreiser usually wasn’t much of a drinker. With the Decker situation, he couldn’t afford to nurse a two-day hangover. He glanced at the stack of photo albums by the fireplace, then forced himself to go upstairs. What good did it do to put himself through such misery?

  Jumping in the shower, Arnold decided he would forget about eating in, and would call a friend and go out instead. The phone rang just as he stepped under the hot water and began lathering his body with soap. He started to let the answering service pick up, then became concerned it might be Elizabeth.

  “Arnold?”

  “Joanne?”

  “I was expecting to get your voice mail,” she said. “What are you doing? Am I disturbing you?”