Authors: Faye Kellerman
“I’m going back to the station house.”
“Fine with me. Go back to the station house, go run your division. We
both
have jobs to do.”
With that, Strapp turned around and jogged back to the apartment.
Oliver said, “We
ordered a full toxicology, including a blood-gas chromatography. See if David Garrison had any tranquilizers in his system—things like roofies or ludes—”
“Things that might have put him under,” Marge said. “We’ll also test to see if the junk was cut with cyanide, arsenic, thallium, or any other heavy metal or poison.”
Oliver raked his hair with his hands. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything unusual though.”
“Why’s that?” Decker asked.
“First off, from our search, it appears the guy had his own private stash. Yeah, it could have been planted, but to my eye, it looked like it’d been dipped into before.”
“Also Garrison reeked of booze,” Marge added. “We did a quick blood analysis at the scene. BAL was point two five.”
“Jesus!” Decker rotated his shoulders. “Guy was a pickled specimen.”
Oliver nodded. “He probably did half the dirty work for her. Drinking himself comatose. Then all Jeanine would have to do is come in the house and pop him in the vein.”
“No forced entry,” Marge said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. Jeanine has a key.”
“She admitted it?”
“Right away.”
Decker rubbed his forehead. “You have a point two five
BAL, you can’t focus, let alone find a vein.”
“He had two pokes in the arm,” Oliver said. “Maybe he didn’t get it on his first try.”
“He wouldn’t have gotten it
period
!”
Marge said, “Maybe he shot up first. Then he started knocking off the shooters. Scott and I were going over this very thing. We both decided that Jeanine would have to have been really stupid to pop him at this moment—”
“Casting even more suspicion on herself—”
“And we know Jeanine’s not stupid,” Marge said, “so if she
did
do it, she must have had a pressing reason.”
“Like what?” Decker asked.
“Maybe David stumbled onto something,” Oliver said.
Decker perked up. “Such as?”
Marge said, “Maybe David found out that Jeanine was planning shenanigans with his trust.”
Oliver paused. “Like what if Garrison wanted the money invested one way and Jeanine wanted to invest it another way?”
“Or what if she just wanted his money before he got a chance to spend it?” Marge said.
Decker said, “Farrell Gaynor and I talked about that. That’s why I sent Scott out to see David Garrison in the first place.”
“Talked about what?”
“That if Jeanine worked quickly—meaning if Jeanine offed David quickly—before the cash from the trust was distributed, she would probably inherit his cash as well as her own.”
Webster walked into Decker’s office, pulled up a chair next to Oliver. “Maybe she figured it like this. Her cash would go to her, his cash would pay her estate taxes.”
“And the fact that she got away with Estelle’s…” Marge paused. “That kind of lust for power…makes you arrogant.”
“We all know about Jeanine’s arrogance!” Oliver whispered. “And that bastard Strapp feeding right into it.”
“Whole thing sucks!” Marge said.
“Sucks big time!” Oliver agreed. “Cunt may be able to
shut
you
down. But she can’t shut down the entire Homicide Division.” He paused. “Though she’s making a gallant effort.”
Webster said, “Jeanine’s getting pretty brazen…popping her brother like that.”
“Or maybe the OD was a lucky accident for her,” Marge said. “They do happen, even to evil people.”
Decker said, “Neighbors see or hear anything suspicious?”
“Nothing.”
Decker turned to Webster. “What’s going on with Sean?”
Webster said, “He went to school, he went home.”
“Did he pick up on your tail?” Decker asked.
“If he did, I don’t reckon he cared much. The boy just went about his business…buried in school most of the day. He could have been plotting murders, but I wasn’t privy to his conversations.”
Decker sank into his chair. “We’re going nowhere fast.”
Martinez walked into the office. Webster was annoyed. “Where’ve you been, Bert?”
Martinez stood against the wall. “Checking out the license numbers. How’re you doing, Loo?”
“All right,” Decker said. “Thanks for asking. What license numbers are you talking about, Bert?”
Webster said, “Sean chatted with half a dozen kids after school…as he walked to the parking lot.”
Martinez said, “At that point, we split assignments. Tom took Sean, I checked out some of the other kids.”
“And?” Decker asked.
Martinez said, “Tracked down three of them. First, the buxom blond girl who drives a Mercedes three hundred. She and Sean gabbed for a few minutes, he gave her something, she drove off. Then Sean talked to another girl for a minute or so. She was part Asian and maybe part black. Beautiful thing. She drives a Range Rover. He held the door open for her and she took off. The last person Sean talked to was a guy—a rangy Caucasian kid wearing jeans and a ski cap. He drives a ten-year-old Saab.”
Oliver said, “A ten-year-old Saab? I didn’t think Westbridge allowed them.”
Martinez said, “Ran all the plates through DMV. The Mercedes belongs to Barry and Susan Door. Range Rover is registered to a Jane Highsmith—”
“Jane Highsmith…why do I know that name?” Oliver snapped his fingers. “Got it! Family dispute ten years ago. Terence and Jane Highsmith. He’s some kind of English lord, she’s also from Brahmin background. Literally. Some upper-crust Indian family—”
“Upper caste,” Webster punned.
The group groaned.
Oliver clucked his tongue. “Man, they were both skunk drunk…throwing things at each other—plates, dishes, flower vases, magazines. More things flying in that room than at O’Hare. And the kids.” He shook his head. “Two little girls. Hiding in bed together, covers pulled up over their faces. Hugging each other. Scared shitless. Big blue eyes poking out of dusky skin. Beautiful girls.”
“One of them still is.”
“What about the Saab owner?” Marge asked.
“Doctors Kenneth and Elizabeth Rush,” Martinez said. “But they’re not MDs. Mr. Doctor is a professor of mathematics at Northridge, Mrs. Doctor is a professor of physics at UCLA. Their son, Joachim, is a senior at Westbridge. He’s on scholarship.”
Oliver said, “And you found this out from DMV?”
“Not quite.” Martinez smiled. “Since Tom was on Sean, I figured I’d go for Joachim. Only I didn’t know he was Joachim then. I followed the kid to Mycroft and Cranepool—”
“The new bookstore on Devonshire,” Marge said.
“The one with the café and espresso bar,” Oliver added.
Marge stared at him. “You’ve actually been to a bookstore, Scott?”
“Stick it in a dark place, lady,” Oliver snapped back. “Yes, I’ve been to a bookstore.”
“Singles night, Marge,” Webster said.
“Fuck you, Uncle Tom,” Oliver said. “And for your
information, lots of hot-looking babes were at the Jack Kerouac reading.”
Martinez went on, “I followed Joachim to Mycroft and Cranepool. Kid got out of the car, carrying a bunch of papers. I didn’t follow him into the store, but I could see what he was doing because the entire front is one big glass window. He didn’t go there to browse. He left the papers on the store’s counter, then came out again. I tailed him back to his house. Rather than just hang around there, I returned to the bookstore…picked up one of the leaflets.”
Martinez took a breath.
“An advertisment for a Scrabble tournament. I asked one of the clerks about it—a kid named James Goddard, who goes to public school. But he knows Joachim from the Scrabble matches. Once a month, they’re held at Mycroft’s. But games are hosted at other places as well. Seems that Joachim’s a hot dog in the National Scrabble Association. A ranked player and an absolute fanatic. At the matches, he’s known as Cyberword because he plays like a computer. Goddard was the one who told me about Joachim being on scholarship at Westbridge. He also told me that Joachim was accepted to Yale under an early admissions program. That’s supposed to be impressive.”
“I’m impressed,” Webster said. “A formidable kid.”
Decker said, “Is James Goddard a good friend of Joachim’s?”
Martinez shook his head. “Didn’t get that impression. Just that they knew each other. Then again, I didn’t want to pry too deep. Mostly we chatted. Talked about the store’s special events.” He looked at Oliver. “Like singles night—”
“Fuck you!” Oliver said.
“Stop being defensive, Scotty,” Martinez answered. “He told me that except for major author signings and children’s bedtime story evening, the singles night is the store’s biggest draw.”
Oliver didn’t say anything, appeared to be mollified.
“Anyway, that’s how I found out about Joachim’s parents,” Martinez said. “They’re not only regular customers
but also faithful members of Mycroft and Cranepool’s sci-fi book club. You join, you get discounts on sci-fi books and a monthly newsletter talking about upcoming sci-fi events, the whole nine yards.”
“Beam me up, Scotty.” Immediately, Marge followed with “That’s a trekkie saying, Oliver, not a come-on.”
Oliver looked crushed.
Webster asked, “Is Joachim a member of the sci-fi book group?”
“James didn’t say, I didn’t ask.”
Marge said, “Is Sean a Scrabble player?”
“I didn’t ask that, either. Sounded too inquisitive.”
Webster loosened his tie. “You got Sean Amos. Mr. Hip Guy with the hip clothes and the hip convertible. Mr. Tennis Player who roughs up women…knocks up his girlfriend, then dumps her—”
“He paid for her abortion,” Marge said.
“The kid’s rolling in dough,” Webster said. “Besides, betcha the boy’s philosophy is God giveth, God taketh away. Because guess who he thinks
is
God.”
“Tommy, tell us how you really feel about Sean,” Marge said.
“You should have seen the way he treated his sister. Like garbage.”
Decker said, “So you’re thinking, why is a hip guy like Amos talking to Cyberword Joachim Rush? Mr. Poor Boy with the torn clothes and the old Saab.”
Webster said, “The two don’t exactly seem like blood brothers.”
Martinez added, “Who says they’re friends? I just saw them talking to each other.”
Decker said, “So why did you bother looking into him, Bert?”
“Good question.” He gathered his thoughts. “I think it was the fact that Sean approached Joachim instead of the other way around.”
Decker pulled out his notebook. “And?”
“Nothing much. They walked to Joachim’s car together.
Talked for maybe a minute with Sean doing most of the speaking—”
“Sean look nervous?” Marge asked.
“More like animated,” Martinez said. “He talked with his hands, with his face. Joachim, on the other hand, appeared lost in thought except for the occasional nod. Apathetic. When the boys got to the Saab, Sean kept talking, even after Joachim was inside the car. But the driver’s window was rolled down. Finally Sean reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, passed it through the open window—”
“A transaction?” Marge was animated.
“Looked that way to me,” Martinez said. “Because afterward, Sean stuck his arm back into the car. I guess they shook hands. Then Joachim drove off.”
“A payoff,” Webster said.
Oliver said, “Okay. Here’s what we got. We got Joachim, who’s a nerd—”
“More like a weirdo,” Webster interjected. “A guy called Cyberword, who’s a Scrabble fanatic—”
“My kids play Scrabble,” Decker said. “I play Scrabble. I’m not a nerd, I’m not weird, and I’m not a hit man. We don’t know a friggin’ thing about this kid. We’ve just made leaps that could traverse the Grand Canyon.”
No one said anything.
Decker gave a slight smile. “Still, if I were TV typecasting for an outcast, theoretically Joachim Rush would fit the bill—a scholarship boy in a rich prep school. A loner because he’s out of the social loop. Then both of his parents are not only math and science professors but also fanatic sci-fi readers. He’s a fanatical Scrabble player. I’m always skeptical of fanatical anything—”
“Even religious fanaticals?” Oliver said.
“Especially the fanatically religious,” Decker countered. “The Rushes don’t sound like part of the typical Westbridge population. Neither the kid nor the parents.”
Oliver said, “You add to your pot that a wad of money was exchanged between Sean and Joachim.”
“Who said it was money?” Martinez said. “I just said an envelope.”
“What else could it be?” Webster said.
“Lots of things—”
“Including cash for a hit made to look like an OD that happened just last night—”
“Whoa,” Decker said. “We’re getting
way
out there with our theories. But it
is
an interesting postulation. Too bad we won’t be able to check it out.”
“Why not?” Martinez asked. “I can tail Joachim for a couple of days, Loo.”
“It’s okay by me except I’m off the case now.” Decker felt his jaw tighten. “You’ve got to take it up with Strapp.”
Oliver frowned. “You know what he’ll say, Loo.”
Martinez said, “Just let me tail him tomorrow.”
“I’m not authorized to give you the go-ahead, Bert. Talk to Strapp.”
“He’ll bury it,” Webster said.
“Probably.”
Oliver said, “That means all our work—hell, all
your
work—it’s all gonna be shitcanned. You know that.”
“I know that,” Decker said.
Marge said, “Aren’t you frustrated?”
“I’m very frustrated.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“At this moment, I’m grinning and bearing. But as for the future…” Decker shrugged. “I hear Montana’s beautiful at this time of year.”
Marge said, “If you don’t mind militia men and Nazis.”
“Margie, I’ve been a cop for twenty-five years,” Decker said. “I’m used to nutcases with guns.”
Freed by Strapp from the Estelle’s shooting…the tragedy’s persistent nagging…Decker polished off his paperwork by seven. He thought about his work, he thought about his life. What had happened to all the dreams? All the vacation fantasies? Hand and hand with Rina, running barefoot on empty beaches, toes tickled by the waves. Or hiking through pristine mountains, smelling clean air. Why
had he allowed himself to become mired in the muck? His words to Strapp this morning crystalized his dissatisfaction. Openly admitting that the end might be near.