Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 11

by Jupiter's Bones

  “I don’t have them,” Bob said. “But I remember reading them. That’s how I know the contents. Maybe Venus has them.”

  Decker tried to keep his face neutral. “How’d you get hold of these letters in the first place, Bob?”

  “Jupiter showed them to me,” Bob answered.

  “Jupiter?” Pluto bellowed. “He showed you letters written to the Order?”

  “Yes, he did, Pluto. Anything else I can answer easily?”

  “Did Jupiter routinely go through the mail here?” Decker asked. “I take it you censor mail on a regular basis?”

  “I don’t censor anything,” Pluto said.

  “Well someone must censor it,” Decker said. “This isn’t a public institution. It’s a private place and you have strict rules. Something’s not adding up. You would never allow Lyra to read a letter from her grandparents that spells out plans for her abduction.”

  “It could have been hand-delivered without our knowledge,” Bob said.

  “Who could sneak inside and hand-deliver letters to a thirteen-year-old girl?” Decker asked. “This is crazy. For all I know, this entire kidnapping is a ruse—”

  “Then why is Lyra missing?” Venus appeared in her full glory. She paused, posed, then promenaded to the front of the temple wearing her festive robe. This one was more elaborate than the other—all sparkles, beads and embroidery. Like a haute couture evening gown. She stopped in front of Decker. “I’ve been talking to Moriah—”

  “You’re kidding me,” Bob said.

  “No, I’m not kidding,” Venus said. “The woman talks—”

  “She babbles. She’s incoherent—”

  “Coherent enough to cry for her daughter—”

  “You told her?” Bob was aghast. “I thought we agreed—”

  “I thought she may have some insight as to where the child was taken.”

  “And did she?”

  Venus sat down in the front row of pews and smoothed out her dress. Her gaze fell on the portrait—a stern Jupiter casting his disapproving eyes over his constituents. “Unfortunately, no. We let the poor woman down.”

  “You shouldn’t have told her,” Bob stated. “By the way, has anyone seen Nova? I can’t seem to find him.”

  Absent looks all around.

  “You know, I’m getting a really weird feeling about this.” Bob looked at Decker. “You show up and suddenly people start disappearing.”

  Pluto smiled meanly. “Well stated, Guru Bob.”

  Bob turned to Terra. “Go find Brother Nova.”

  She looked scared. “Me?”

  “Yes, you,” Bob insisted. “Last I checked, you have eyes and legs. Go find him now!”

  The young woman ran off, the hem of her white robe dragging on the ground.

  To Decker, Bob said, “You have two missing persons, both associated with Asnikov—”

  “I beg your pardon,” Decker said. “We have nothing to tie Asnikov to the missing persons. For all I know, Andromeda and Lyra could have run off together. If you expect me to go after Asnikov, get me something concrete.”

  “Why can’t you question him?! What’s the holdup?”

  Decker gave Bob a slow burn. “Let’s get something clear, sir. I am running this investigation. And just like the Order, I have an established procedure. You want to help your own cause, find me those letters.”

  “What letters?” Venus asked.

  “The ones that Lyra’s grandparents wrote to the Order, threatening to file suit against us,” Pluto said. “Do you have them?”

  “I don’t have them,” Venus said. “I don’t even remember seeing them.”

  Decker asked, “Where would Jupiter have kept his important files?”

  Venus asked, “I don’t recall any files—his or otherwise.”

  Decker asked, “Hey, what about that chicken ranch? Could he have kept files there?”

  Pluto and Bob exchanged quick looks, but said nothing.

  Decker said, “Mind if we look around out there?”

  Bob said, “How’d you know about the chicken ranch?”

  Because Webster told me about it, that’s how. Decker ignored the question. “Any objection to us poking around? For all you know, Andromeda may be hiding out there with Lyra.”

  Pluto said, “Absurd! She doesn’t even know of its existence.”

  “I know it exists,” Decker said. “Maybe you don’t keep secrets as well as you think. Can I go out there and look around? Yes or no?”

  “For what purpose?” Pluto asked.

  “To find these letters,” Decker said. “How about this, Pluto. Take Detectives Oliver and Dunn out there with you. If we find the letters, we’ll have something concrete—”

  “I don’t see why Jupiter would keep files out there,” Pluto said. “I’m against it…strangers poking around our business.” He looked at Bob.

  The lanky man said, “Don’t matter to me.”

  Venus said, “The kitchen is getting low on supplies. One of us needs to go out there anyway—”

  “I’ll do it.” Pluto threw a distasteful look toward Marge and Oliver. “Get the inevitable over with.”

  Bob smirked. “Yeah, you do have a way with Benton.”

  “Who’s Benton?” Decker asked.

  “A good man,” Pluto answered. “Let’s get this fiasco over with.”

  Decker said, “I’ve done everything I can do here. It’s time to hit the pavement. I’ll need the names of the grandparents. And I’ll need a good photograph of both Andromeda and Lyra.”

  Venus took out a snapshot from her dress. “Funny you should ask. Moriah just gave me this.”

  It was a black-and-white snapshot of a girl with that preteen crooked smile—big upper and lower incisors followed by spaces and gaps where adult teeth should be. The girl in the picture must have been around ten or eleven. She had big, dark eyes, a broad nose, pronounced cheekbones and thickish lips. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She had a wide forehead and arched eyebrows. Adorable.

  “Is she black?” Decker asked.

  “Half-black,” Pluto answered. “Her father was black.”

  “So these grandparents…Moriah’s folks…they’re white?”

  “Moriah’s white,” Venus said. “Stands to reason her parents are.”

  “So if Lyra’s in the neighborhood, she’s going to be noticed. What are their names and address?”

  “Their names are Herbert and Cecile Farrander,” Bob said. “I’ve got the address written down in my cell. As far as a photograph of Andromeda, Terra can probably dig one up…”

  Decker hit the photograph with the back of his hand. “This is a start.” He turned to Pluto. “When can you take them out to the ranch?”

  Pluto said, “I usually lead the fold in evening meditation.” He checked his watch. “We’re going to get a very late start.”

  Giving someone a jump-start and a chance to rifle the files. Not a chance. “Can’t Bob lead the prayers?” Decker asked.

  “It’s not my job,” Bob answered.

  “So let someone else fill in,” Decker said. “The ranch is what—about an hour…hour and a half away? If you start out now, you can probably make it back before ten. When’s your prayer session?”

  “Ten-thirty.”

  “Then let’s hustle,” Marge said.

  Pluto growled, “You’re not leaving me any choice.”

  Decker said, “You’re catching on.”

  Marge swung her purse over her shoulder. To Decker she asked, “Call you when we get back?”

  “Absolutely,” Decker said.

  Venus asked, “And we’ll be hearing from you if there’s good news?”

  Decker said, “Madam, you’ll be hearing from me no matter what.”

  16

  Beyond Pasadena and the Rose Parade, beyond Southwest University of Technology lay the dowager city of Santa Martina—an old-moneyed town of towering magnolias, canopied sycamores, manicured emerald lawns and two-storied manses.
Wide, shaded streets quiet enough to host a stickball game if the neighborhood had had any children. Instead, it served golf-playing grandparents who took lunch at the club, garbed in brightly colored polo shirts and pressed white trousers. The home of the Republican Party, Episcopal churches, martinis before dinner and cardigan sweaters. The enclave might have been considered exclusive except that bad topology had condemned it to a smog-laden basin choked with ozones during the summer months. But that was okay with the residents. Hot weather meant donning cruise wear and sailing for cleaner pastures.

  Farrander’s address put Decker in front of a putty-colored hacienda set back on a rolling hill of kelly green. Two forty-foot weeping willows framed the house, and the front plantings included coral, red and white azaleas so resplendent with blooms as to be gaudy. He parked curbside, walked down a flagstone pathway up to an arched and recessed doorway. He rang the bell; deep chimes emanated from inside the house. A bubble-coiffed blond woman in her late sixties or early seventies answered the door without asking who it was. She had a wide face with ironed skin that had been stretched over pronounced cheekbones, and ultra-thin lips painted rose-colored. Her brown eyes were rimmed with lifted bags. Her neck was the dead giveaway of her age; it held wattles set into cracks and creases. She wore knitted beige pants and a white cable-knit sweater. Her sockless feet were housed in brown leather loafers.

  “Yes?”

  “Cecile Farrander?” Decker asked.

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  Decker took out his identification billfold. “Lieutenant Peter Decker from the Los Angeles Police Department. May I talk to you for a minute?”

  She checked her watch, although she didn’t act as if she were in a hurry.

  “Are you in the middle of something?” Decker asked. “I could come back.”

  “What is this about?”

  “It concerns your granddaughter.”

  Her mouth made an O shape. “Which one?”

  “Lyra.”

  A blank stare.

  “Lyra…Moriah’s daughter…”

  Another vacant look.

  “Moriah?” Decker repeated.

  “Mori…” The lightbulb went off. “Oh, you mean Maureen.” She blushed from embarrassment. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine,” Decker said. “Actually, I’d like to talk to you about your granddaughter. May I come in?”

  But the woman was tentative. “My husband isn’t home right now…maybe I shouldn’t be saying that. You could be anyone. He always says I’m very naive.”

  “I could come back,” Decker said. “When would be convenient?”

  “How about Wednesday?”

  “Today is Wednesday.”

  “I meant Wednesday of next week.”

  Putting off her grandchild’s welfare for seven days. She certainly didn’t appear like the obsessive, letter-writing, suit-threatening relative that the Order had made her out to be. Decker tapped his foot, trying to figure out his next step. From inside, he could make out the slow ticks of a grandfather clock. “It would be better if we talked sooner.”

  Again, the O-shaped mouth. “Well, all right. Come in.” She hesitated. “Maybe I should look at that billfold again?”

  Decker handed it to her. She studied it at extended—arm’s distance. “Well, you certainly look like the man in the picture.” She nodded. “A bit grayer.”

  Decker smiled. “That’s true.”

  “When was this picture taken?”

  If she had anxiety about Lyra, she was hiding it very well. “About two years ago.”

  She looked at the picture, then scrutinized Decker. “A hard two years, Lieutenant?”

  “I’ve paid my dues,” Decker said. “May I come in?”

  Finally, she stepped aside.

  Decker walked into a two-story entry hall, which housed the audible grandfather clock, then entered a living room filled with light and accumulated dust. Tall multi-paned windows, clouded with particles, had been cut into the textured stuccoed walls, providing Decker with a view from wherever he looked. Through the grime, he could make out the backyard—a parklike area of green bleeding into a copse of thickly planted specimen trees. The floors of the room had been constructed from thick oak planks stained coffee brown. The furniture must have been decades old—overstuffed couches and chairs upholstered in a faded pattern of green-leafed red roses weaving through a white trellis. The coffee and end tables—made from glass set into walnut frames—held year-old magazines and out-of-print art books.

  “You can sit anywhere,” the woman said.

  Decker chose one side of the couch, Cecile chose the other. He said, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mrs. Farrander. I wouldn’t impose except I do think this is important—”

  “You can call me Ceese.”

  Decker paused. “Okay.” He took out his notebook. “This concerns Lyra…your granddaughter.”

  The woman clasped her hands and remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

  “She’s missing,” Decker said.

  No response.

  Decker asked, “Does that concern you?”

  “Well, I don’t know if it does,” Ceese said. “I’ve never met Lyra. I haven’t talked to Maureen in years.”

  “Do you know where your daughter and granddaughter have been living?”

  “Oh yes,” Ceese responded. “In some hippie community in the West San Fernando Valley.” A sigh. “She has been there for a while, hasn’t she?”

  “Around nine years.”

  “I’m glad she’s found some stability.” A pause. “Has she had any more children?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

  “So the little black girl…that’s the only one?”

  “Lyra, yes. I believe so—”

  “And it’s this little black girl who’s missing?”

  “Yes. Her name is Lyra. Any idea where she might be?”

  “Me?” She shook her head. Her sprayed-stiff hair didn’t move with the motion. “Why would I have any idea?”

  Decker cleared his throat. “You haven’t written to the commune asking for Lyra’s custody?”

  Ceese looked shocked. “Now why would I do that?”

  Why indeed. Decker said, “For starters, she is your granddaughter.”

  Ceese stared at him. “Lieutenant, do you have children?”

  “Yes.”

  “More than one child?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know how children can vary.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve raised three daughters, Lieutenant. Mo was the youngest. From the day she was born, I couldn’t control her. She was collicky, irritable, a raw bundle of random energy. As she grew older, she just grew worse—obstinate and sassy. She smoked, drank, she engaged in promiscuous behavior with black boys. She took drugs which ruined her brain. She turned very strange. Even so, I didn’t abandon her, Lieutenant. I tried! I really tried!”

  Her face became animated with determination.

  “I enrolled her in drug rehab, not once but twice!” Holding up two fingers. “Twice! How did she react to my acts of kindness? By escaping responsibility, by calling up her father and me and screaming obscenities. Then, after all that, she had the nerve to show up here—at the house—asking for money, holding this little black baby in an obvious play for sympathy. Well, she got nothing. She was filthy…smelled like garbage. I wouldn’t let her in the house!”

  Ceese made a face.

  “When that hippie commune took her in, I was grateful even though my husband and I knew it was nothing but a scam to get her money—”

  “Maureen has money?”

  “She had money. I’m sure the hippie commune’s got it all now. Thank God my father’s dead. It would have killed him if he knew what had happened to the trust fund he gave her.”

  “Maureen had a trust fund?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Can I ask how much?”

 
“A lot. At one time it was over a hundred thousand dollars. I’m sure she spent most of it on drugs. But I bet there was a little left over for that hippie commune. Why else would they take her in? Those cults only want money so their leaders can buy Rolls-Royces.”

  Decker rubbed his eyes. “So you haven’t been in contact with Maureen, Mrs. Farrander?”

  “Ceese, please! And no, I haven’t been in contact with her. Neither with her nor with her child.”

  The door opened. A stocky, elderly man shuffled into the room. He had stooped shoulders and a bent spine—probably Herbert Farrander. He had a bald pate that was ringed with gray. He wore a white polo shirt and blue serge pants. He regarded Decker with watery, smog-soaked eyes.

  Ceese stood up. “Herbert, this is Lieutenant Decker from LAPD—”

  “LAPD?” Herbert’s voice was shaky. “What’s LAPD doing out here?”

  “It’s in regard to your daughter, Mo—”

  “Her?” Herbert made a face and waved Decker off. “I don’t even want to know.” He turned to his wife. “You want to go out with the Harringtons for dinner?”

  “Where?” Ceese asked. “At the club?”

  “They were thinking about the Grillway.”

  “The Grillway sounds nice for a change.”

  Herbert regarded Decker. “Are you still here?”

  “Herbert!” Ceese chastised. “Be polite.”

  “Not when it comes to Maureen.” He plopped down into one of the armchairs. “What’d she do?”

  Decker ran his tongue against his cheek. “She didn’t do anything. Her daughter is missing. Your granddaughter—”

  “That black baby isn’t any relative of mine,” Herbert pronounced. “Not that I wish her any harm. Just don’t get me involved.”

  “Still, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “I suppose you would,” Herbert said. “Ceese, how ’bout a gin and tonic?” He faced Decker. “And for you, sir?”

  “I’m fine—”

  “How about a beer? You look like a beer drinker.”

  Decker resisted the temptation to size up his gut. It was flat…relatively. At least his pants were still the same size…although he had let his belt out a notch or two.

  “No, I really am fine. I’d just like to ask a few questions about your daughter—”