“Can’t I go over to Alex’s house?” Mike asked. “There’s nothing on TV tonight. I’m bored out of my skull.”
With her free hand, Joanne turned the key in the ignition of the Lexus. Except for two black-and-whites, the emergency vehicles had all cleared. She saw Lieutenant Vogel giving instructions to the officer who would stand guard over the crime scene.
“Don’t leave the house,” Joanne told Mike. “I’m worried about your sister. She should have been home by now. Have you eaten?”
“I ate a bunch of junk,” Mike grumbled, an empty sack of potato chips on the sofa beside him. He’d waited until seven to see if his sister would show up. By then, he’d been ravenous. He’d wolfed down two ham and cheese sandwiches, an entire package of chips, seven cookies and guzzled three Cokes. “My stomach hurts now.”
“Take some Rolaids,” his mother said. “I’m on my way home. If Leah comes in, make certain she calls me. I’m worried about her.”
“You should be.”
“What does that mean?”
“Like, she took the car without asking,” Mike said. “Like, she lies to you about talking to Dad. She screamed at you and said mean things. She even found the key to Judge Spencer’s secret closet. Then she went on the Internet and told all her friends about it. You think she acts bad around you, you should see how she treats me. She’s driving me nuts, Mom.”
Joanne reached into her backpack, hoping she might have some Tylenol. Finding nothing, she said, “You think something’s seriously wrong?”
“Duh,” Mike said. “I know we were gone for a couple of years, and you’re busy with your work and everything. Yeah, I think she’s got a problem. I can’t tell you what it is because she doesn’t talk to me. Leah yells at me, she slams the door in my face. The other day, she even tried to kick me. But she doesn’t talk to me. She used to talk to me when we were living with Dad. We were pretty close back then. Leah’s not the same. Mom.”
“I agree,” Joanne said, trying to remember what she herself had been like at fifteen. Perhaps Leah was suffering from PMS. On top of the psychological problems related to her father, this might explain her mood swings and unusual behavior. Joanne would take her daughter in for a checkup as soon as possible. “Did you call me earlier?”
“No,” Mike told her. “You said to call if Leah didn’t come home. She didn’t come home.”
“Let me go,” his mother said. “There’s a message on my cell phone. I just assumed it was Leah and called home.”
Mike tried to tell her something else, but Joanne cut him off and disconnected. Playing back the message, she discovered that it was Arnold Dreiser who had called her. She stepped on the gas and headed toward the freeway. Eli had warned her that Doug might try to take the children again. Since Mike had been giving his father the cold shoulder, Doug could have paid someone to pick up Leah. Deep in her thoughts, she realized she’d made a wrong turn. She opened the window. She could smell the ocean, but she couldn’t identify any landmarks. How far had she driven? The fact that there weren’t any streetlights didn’t help. After driving around for another thirty minutes, she finally pulled over and parked, getting out of the car to stretch her legs. Knowing she needed to calm down before she got behind the wheel again, she returned Arnold’s call. “Where are you?”
“I just handed your friend ten grand,” Dreiser told her. “Have you had dinner? Why don’t we meet somewhere? Eli said there was a homicide in Ventura, that the police had recovered the stolen Chrysler. I called your house and spoke to your son. He gave me this number. Is this your cell phone?”
“Yes.” Joanne was puzzled. “How did Eli find out so quick? I didn’t see any reporters around.”
“Have you forgotten?” Dreiser said. “News travels at the speed of light these days. Everyone knows everything. With this OnStar system I have in my car, I can even have my e-mail read while I’m on the road. You need to catch up. You’re still living in the past.”
“Don’t pick on me,” Joanne told him. “I’m lost on the outskirts of Ventura, and my daughter didn’t come home from school today”
“Sounds terrific,” Dreiser joked. “Isn’t this where we started?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Forget it,” Dreiser said, hearing the tension in her voice. “Tell me what street you’re on. I’ll get directions for you.”
“I’m lost, “Joanne told him. “If I knew where I was, I wouldn’t be lost.”
“Listen,” Dreiser said, “everything will be fine. I’ll stay on the line with you. Get in your car and drive to the closest intersection. Are you east or west of Ventura?”
“I don’t know,” Joanne said, embarrassed. I’ll call you back.”
She finally made her way to a well-lit road, jotted down the names of the streets so she wouldn’t forget, and was about to call Dreiser when her phone rang.
“It’s me,” Leah said. “Mike said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Where have you been?” Joanne exploded. “I told you to be home by seven at the latest. I was going to call the police if I didn’t hear from you in the next five minutes.”
After Nathan had abandoned her, Leah had missed the bus. She’d had no choice but to take a taxi. Once she got to the house, she’d coerced her brother into giving her twenty dollars to pay the driver. “Nathan’s aunt got sick,” she lied. “We had to wait around for his mother to come and get us. I’m sorry. I should have called you. What’s the big deal? It’s only eight-thirty.”
“This has got to stop,” Joanne said sternly. “I want to know what’s going on, why you’ve been acting the way you have lately. Are you feeling okay?”
“Nothing’s going on,” Leah shouted. “It’s not my fault the stupid woman didn’t show up. Are you going to blow this out of proportion like everything else?”
Joanne felt like hurling the cell phone out the window. She couldn’t deal with her daughter’s disrespectful attitude—not even over the phone. “We’re going to have a long talk when I get home.”
“Not tonight,” Leah said haughtily “I have a history exam tomorrow.
I have to ace this test, or I’m going to get a D in the class. You don’t want me to get thrown out of school, do you?”
Her daughter was manipulating her. And like her father, Leah was shrewd. She knew Joanne had to pinch pennies to send her to Waldorf, that the money would have been squandered if her grades were poor. “Put your brother on the phone.”
A few moments later, Mike picked up the extension from his bedroom. “I’m watching a movie,” he told her. “Can’t you stop bothering me? Go hang out with the lawyer who called here a few minutes ago. The guy with the funny last name. He must be the dude you’ve been fixing yourself up for.”
“Don’t be silly,” Joanne said. “Mr. Dreiser and I are working on a serious case right now.”
“High heels, perfume, short skirts,” Mike said. “Since when do you wear high heels to work? You told me they give you a backache. I think you’ve got a crush on this guy. What’s the big deal? You’re not married to Dad anymore.”
Joanne had skipped lunch. No wonder she had a headache. She hadn’t been eating right lately Dreiser’s suggestion that they have dinner together was beginning to sound appealing. “He asked me to go to dinner,” she said. “You really think I should go?”
“You need a man around here,” Mike told her. “He didn’t sound half bad. I mean, I would have preferred a movie producer, a doctor, or maybe a rocket scientist. But hey, if he can kick Leah’s ass, we’ll take him. Oh, one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Make sure he can cook.”
“Cute,” Joanne said, smiling. “I love you, kid.”
“I know,” Mike said. “Now can I finish watching the movie?”
TWENTY-FIVE
Friday, February 16, 2001, 9:45 P.M.
DREISER AND Joanne were nestled in a secluded booth at the Bayside Bar and Grill in V
entura. “Would you like another gin and tonic?” Dreiser asked.
“How many have I had?” Joanne asked, her speech slurred from the alcohol.
“What difference does it make?” he said, having watched her consume three cocktails in less than thirty minutes. “Don’t worry, I can always drive you home. You’ve had a tough week.”
Joanne raised her glass in the air, peering at the contents. “I usually drink wine. This isn’t bad. My headache is gone, and I’ve almost forgotten my daughter’s obnoxious behavior.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Joanne told him, tapping her fingernails on the table. “That’s the problem. As hard as I’ve tried, I haven’t been able to get through to my own child.”
The waitress, a young brunette, whisked past their table. Dreiser asked her to bring them another round. “When children rebel,” he said, brushing shoulders with Joanne, “it isn’t always just a stage they’re going through. Is she seeing someone? You know, a psychologist?”
“Of course,” Joanne told him. “She hardly says two words to the woman. The point of taking her to a psychologist was for her to talk out her problems. She goes for an individual session and we go in together too. Her behavior is getting worse though. Even her brother is concerned about her. I’m going to take her in for a physical checkup. It could be something as simple as PMS. I’ve also considered switching over to a psychiatrist. Maybe she needs to be on some type of medication.”
“Try everything,” Dreiser told her, his eyes misting over. “Look at the positive side. At least your daughter is sending you signals that something is wrong. Jake kept everything bottled up inside. If I’d known he had any thoughts whatsoever of killing himself, I would have moved the universe for him. I didn’t get that chance. Everyone that knew him…teachers, friends, relatives…they all saw him as a happy, well-adjusted young man.” He paused, shifting in his seat. “If only I knew why. I’ve accepted his death. All I want to know is why”
“Things sometimes happen for no reason,” Joanne said, wishing she’d kept her problems to herself. Leah was alive. Nothing else was important. “From what you’ve told me, I doubt if there was anything you could have done.” She hesitated, trying to think of a way to change the subject. Since they were already there, she decided to ask a question that had been nagging at her since he’d told her about his son’s death. “Did they do an autopsy?”
“I wanted them to conduct an autopsy,” Dreiser said. “I’m surprised you mentioned it. This was a major point of contention between my wife and me. An autopsy would have prolonged things. I was afraid Susan might have a breakdown. She’s the one who found him. We were already divorced then. Jake was living with her.”
Once the waitress brought their drinks, a thought-filled silence ensued. Joanne sipped her gin and tonic. “Let’s get out of here,” Dreiser said, tossing some bills down on the table. “Right now, I want to hold you. Keep drinking, and I’ll end up carrying you.”
Joanne’s stomach fluttered in excitement. She grabbed her backpack and scooted out of the booth. Her knees felt like rubber. After staggering a few feet, Dreiser’s strong arm encircled her waist, steadying her. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. He was only inches away. She was certain he was about to kiss her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, motioning toward the front of the restaurant, “I’m not one for public displays of affection.”
“Oh,” Joanne said, shaking her head, “neither am I.”
They stepped into a dimly lit entryway A separate door led to the parking lot. Dreiser blocked the door to the restaurant with his body, then scooped her up in his arms. Joanne felt his hands pass from the center of her back to her hips. His hands swept over the curves in her body like a person admiring a sculpture. Every nerve ending in her body sprang to life. Her head fell back as she gasped, feeling as if a river had rushed into her. Time was suspended. Her heartbeats seemed miles apart. She could count the beats, feel the air rushing in and out of her mouth. She realized she was listening to her body as each part worked to keep her alive. For the first time, she understood the complexity of the human body.
Had they kissed? Whatever had occurred was already forgotten and a pulse of panic seized her. With a glance, Dreiser instantly calmed her.
Joanne started to say something. This wasn’t the time for words, she decided, placing her forehead against his as they gazed down at the floor. She found herself nodding in agreement to unspoken words. He was a good man, a very good man. Nothing inside him was evil or twisted. She had nothing to fear and much to experience. He might be wounded, but wounded she could handle.
She was wounded as well.
TWENTY-SIX
Friday, February 16, 2001, 11:15 P.M.
OFFICER ROGER Turnbill had just come on duty at the Ventura County jail when he saw an enormous man peering through the glass window. “Detective Marvin Brown,” Eli said, holding up a phony ID encased in a leather holder similar to a wallet. “I need to see Tom Rubinsky.”
The man was carrying a detective shield from the Ventura PD. Turnbill had never seen him before, yet the name sounded familiar. Brown was certainly not the type of person he would forget. “Put your ID in the bin,” Turnbill said into the microphone.
Eli tossed the badge and ID into the bin, grunting in annoyance. “I don’t have all night, my friend.”
Turnbill studied the ID, then peered up at Eli again. The man’s credentials appeared legitimate, but he still had a strange feeling. He’d been a correctional officer for seven years. Why had he never seen this man? “Are you new?”
“Transferred in from L.A. about five months ago,” Eli said, stifling a yawn. “L.A. is the pits.”
“You realize it’s past lockdown, don’t you?”
“This is an emergency,” Eli told him. “You think I want to be here? I’d rather be at home with the missus. We’ve got a double homicide working, in case you haven’t heard. Looks like Rubinsky’s brother killed someone else today.”
“I’ll have to get permission from my watch commander,” Turnbill said, recalling another officer mentioning a murder on the west side of town. “I’m not authorized to pull an inmate out of his cell after lockdown.”
“Do whatever you have to do.” Eli walked over and flopped down in a chair. Out of the comer of his eye, he watched the officer pick up the phone. He’d used the name of a Ventura PD detective he met several years ago. Unless the supervisor knew Marvin Brown personally and wanted to chat with him, there shouldn’t be a problem. He stared at the large clock mounted on the wall. His timing was perfect. The evening watch was heading for home; the graveyard shift just reporting for duty. Turnbill would have trouble finding any supervisor during shift change, let alone finding one who was concerned enough to come down and shoot the breeze with a detective.
He saw Turnbill replace the phone in the cradle, then curl his finger at him.
“The only way I can let you see Rubinsky is in an interview room,” Turnbill told him. “We’re running on a skeleton crew tonight. Captain says we don’t have the manpower to place a guard in the regular visiting area. You’ll be locked inside with the inmate. There’s a buzzer, of course, but…”
Dressed in tan slacks and a short-sleeve black sweater, Eli removed his parka and tied it around his waist. He stretched his arms over his head, then purposely flexed his biceps, watching as the officer behind the glass gawked in amazement. “I think I’ll be fine, don’t you?”
Turnbill instantly depressed the buzzer. Eli yanked open the door and stepped through. Piece of cake, he thought. Since weapons were not allowed inside a detention facility, he reached down and pulled out a Smith & Wesson .45 he had strapped near his left ankle, placing the gun and his jacket in a locker. Impersonating an officer was a serious offense, but Eli was an impatient man. He’d spent all day searching for Ian Decker’s body in a muddy field near Magic Mountain. For all he knew, the body might be burie
d in someone’s backyard. When he’d heard about the new killing over his police scanner, he’d decided to go straight to the source. Considering his operating expenses, twenty grand wasn’t a great deal of money. Even if he put the Decker matter to bed within the next twenty-four hours and collected the remaining ten thousand from Dreiser, he’d still be in the hole financially. Money wasn’t his primary concern, however. Gary and Tom Rubinsky had killed the wrong man. After going over Ian Decker’s files, including the information his mother had provided regarding his disability, Eli was as outraged as Elizabeth Decker For all practical purposes, the Rubinskys had murdered a kid. He didn’t know much about the new victim, but he refused to allow Gary Rubinsky to take another life.
“I’ll need to take a look at his property,” Eli said, standing at the counter now.
Several of the phone lines were blinking, and Turnbill yelled to another officer in the back of the room, instructing him to handle the phones while he dealt with the detective. “Look,” Turnbill said, “pulling a prisoner out past lockdown is one thing. Now you want us to find his property? Is this really that urgent a situation?”
“Sure is,” Eli answered, seeing a gold wedding band on Turnbill’s left hand. “Maybe the guy’s brother is out there looking for his next victim. Is your wife home alone? Have you talked to her tonight?”
Turnbill stepped a few feet back from the counter. “Give me five minutes,” he said. “I’ll run down to the property room myself.” He turned to the other officer. “Hold down the fort, Kip. Things get out of hand, give Captain Olson a call and he’ll send someone to spot you.”
“Here we go,” Eli said, handing the plastic bag containing Tom Rubinsky’s personal property back to Turnbill. “Thanks for being so cooperative.”
Conflict of Interest Page 20
