Authors: Faye Kellerman
“I’m not shy about anything!” Carol countered.
“This is the truth!” Olaf said.
The waitress studied Decker’s face. “You’ve been shot?”
Decker nodded.
“In the line of duty?”
Again, Decker nodded. “Hardly the same circumstances.”
“You bleed just the same.”
Decker smiled. “Yes, you do.”
A woman butted in. “What’s going on down here?”
Carol said, “This is Lieutenant Decker. He was at…at the scene.”
The brash woman stuck out her hand. Petite with short dark hair and penetrating eyes. “Brenda Miller. Nice to meet you.”
Brenda was cute. No wonder Scott Oliver had liked her. Decker took the proffered hand. “You’re from Ashman/Reynard Realty…Wendy Culligan’s boss, correct?”
Brenda jerked her head back. “Someone prep you?”
Decker smiled. “I’m good with names. Is Wendy here?”
Brenda cocked her thumb upward a couple of rows. Decker’s eyes climbed with her finger, rested upon a frail woman. “She lost a lot of weight.”
Brenda said. “That’s what happens when you don’t eat.”
“Who’s next to her? Is that Adelaide Skinner?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe I’ll go over and give them my regards.”
“Better if you left Wendy alone. She’s still…” Brenda extended her fingers, rocked her wrist back and forth.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Decker said.
“She should take lessons from the Garrison lady.”
Brenda raised her brows. “Man, that woman knows how to party.”
“Photo op, photo op,” Carol mimicked.
Tess sighed, shook her head. “What a mob!” She smiled tearfully at Decker. “Wanna know the real sad part, Lieutenant? Kenny woulda loved this…just woulda ate it up. Anything that made him feel special.”
Brenda said, “Have a seat, Lieutenant. Tell me something. How’s Detective Oliver?”
“He’s fine—”
“I said sit down,” Brenda said. “That means you’ve got to bend the knees.”
“I can’t stay—”
“Doughnut break calling?” Carol said.
Tess chided, “Stop being so rude to him. He’s the reason I’m walking today.”
Carol became quiet, sullen. Decker said, “I’m very sorry I can’t stay. But I’ll be happy to meet with any of you—anytime, anyplace, anywhere. Just give me a little advance notice, that’s all.”
Olaf said, “We tank you for your offer very much.”
No one spoke. Decker said, “Honestly, I don’t know why Captain Strapp isn’t here. You people were the
only
reason he had chosen to come.”
“Obviously we just weren’t that important!” Carol barked.
“On the contrary.” Decker took out a portable phone and dialed Strapp’s house. A few minutes later, he cut the line, paused, looking down at his feet. He said, “I just spoke to his wife. He’s sick at home with the flu—”
“
Right!
” Carol said.
Decker said. “If she says he’s sick, the man is bedridden. Trust me on this one.”
Again, Carol studied him. “Why do I believe you? I don’t
want
to believe you.”
Decker said, “You’re clenching your arm again.”
Carol dropped her arm. “Why can’t you stay?”
Decker said, “I have a very
pressing
matter. So pressing, I’m going to drag the captain from his sickbed.” He shook
hands all around. “I know money’s not compensation for human life. But none of you should have to worry about paying the bills. I hope the games raise lots of cash.”
“It would help.” Tess paused. “I got the job, you know.”
Carol said, “You did! When?”
Olaf said, “That’s great, Tess! Congratulations.”
“No big deal. Just answering phones. But it’s better than nothing. And it’s simple, too. So I can study for my real estate license when it’s quiet.” She looked at Brenda. “If the offer’s still open.”
Brenda said, “Of course. It’s an open-ended offer.” She stalled a moment. “So how is Detective Oliver anyway?”
“He’s fine, Ms. Miller. I’ll tell him you send regards.”
“Do that.” She sighed. “I’ve got to get back to Wendy.”
“Give both Wendy and Adelaide Skinner my best.”
Carol said, “I’ll walk you out.”
“Not necessary.”
“I know that. I’ll do it anyway.”
The two of them left, walking silently as they steered through the stars, fans, and cameras on their way out. Then, as if conjured up by a demon, Jeanine appeared, the smile on her face widening when she saw Carol and Decker. Immediately, she wedged herself between them, linking her arms around theirs. She bubbled, “Photo op!”
A Nikon clicked and flashed.
Decker jerked away from Jeanine’s hold, grabbed the camera, slapped open the back cover, and yanked out the roll of film, exposing it to the light.
The photographer was irate. “Da
fuck’er
you doing?”
Decker handed him back the camera, reached into his wallet. Four ones, two fives, and a hundred-dollar bill. He stuffed the Franklin into the photographer’s hand.
To a shocked Jeanine, he said, “If you ever,
ever
touch me again, I’ll sue you for assault. Like I should have done the first time. And notice that I’m talking in front of witnesses.”
He stalked off, forgetting about Carol until she called out
to him. He stopped abruptly, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. She was panting by the time she reached him. She breathed out, “Are you okay?”
Decker counted to ten, said, “I’m sorry for stomping off like that. Are you all right?”
“Winded but fine.”
Decker shook the waitress’s hand. “Call me in a couple of weeks. Let me know how you’re doing. Enjoy the matches.”
Carol stared at him. “Lieutenant, what was that all about?”
“Not important.”
The waitress smiled. For the first time today, it seemed genuine. “You hate her guts, don’t you?”
Decker was quiet.
Carol said, “Seems we have more in common than just a bullet in the arm. C’mon, Lieutenant. You’ve got me curious. What’s going on?”
“Talk to me in a couple of weeks.”
“That’s the
best
you can do?”
“For now, that’s all I have to say.”
“You sound like you’re taking the Fifth.”
“It’s a good amendment.” Decker started to walk off. “Not a bad commandment either.”
Carol remained rooted as she yelled out to him. “What
is
the fifth commandment anyway?”
“To honor your parents,” Decker shouted as he trotted off. “Go do God a favor. Call up your mom.”
The woman stepped
aside, let Decker in. He said, “How are you, Susan?”
She cocked her hip. A tall, shapely woman with auburn hair and bright green eyes. She wore a white blouse, denim capris, and flats. “He’s got a hundred-and-three-degree fever. He says you cursed him.”
Decker smiled. “I think the fever’s gone to his brain. I do need to talk to him.”
“He’s dressing…going to the tournament.” Susan eyed him. “I don’t suppose you could talk him out of it.”
“Me?”
“He respects you.”
Decker waited a beat. “How about if I drive him?”
Susan said, “He doesn’t need a chauffeur, he needs rest.”
Strapp walked into the room, his complexion ghostly, with a sweaty sheen. He had on a black jacket, a turtleneck sweater, and wool slacks. Boots on his feet. Still he shivered. He viewed Decker through sunken eyes. “Marge just called here. She was looking for you. Something about a kid named Joachim Rush who called her. What the hell is going on?”
“I’ll tell you on the way over to the tournament, sir. How about a lift?”
Susan scolded, “No shop talk on Sunday.”
“This better be important,” the captain groused.
“Just ignore me,” Susan muttered.
Decker said, “Yes, sir, it’s very important.” To Susan, he said, “I’ll take care of him.”
Susan shook her head, adjusted her husband’s collar, and kissed his cheek. “Try to make it home in one piece, Strapp.”
He kissed her back. To Decker, he said, “Let’s go.”
Strapp said, “Who’s pulling the warrants?”
The light turned green. Decker depressed the accelerator. The Volare shot out. “Dunn and Oliver.”
“For where? The party house?”
“The party house, Malcolm Carey’s car—”
“How about Carey’s house?”
“We don’t have enough probable cause to justify a search. After we’ve pinned something on Malcolm, then I figure we can move to the house. I’ve got the papers written up, just waiting a signature.”
Decker tapped the wheel nervously.
“If things go well, we shouldn’t have a problem nailing them. I told Webster and Martinez to hold off with Narcotics until you’d okayed the operation. They’re waiting to hear. Sir, I’d like to move on this as quickly as possible—”
Strapp interrupted, “Give me the damn mike.”
“Thank you—”
Strapp cut him off with a wave of the hand. Phoned Narcotics and gave permission. Then he handed Decker the mike. “You’re clear.” He coughed into a tissue. “You got me in a weakened state, you son of a bitch. Otherwise, I’d really be pissed at you.”
He paused.
“You’d better pray Joachim is legit. Which brings up another point. Last I heard the kid was a suspect.”
“Not anymore. We’ve cleared him.”
“How’d you get the info on him?”
“What do you think? I hired out.”
“You spent from your
own
wallet?”
“With my own blood, sweat, and tears.” Decker gripped
the wheel. “I hope it pans out. If not, we nail a pusher. Good PR if nothing else.”
“Also makes us the target of some very rich parents,” Strapp complained. “Fuck them. They start making noise, we tell them to keep their own houses in order first. Slow down. Your driving is making me nauseous. You put the whammy on me, you son of a bitch.”
Decker said, “Me?”
“Telling me not to show up at the tournament. Telling me to get myself sick…to come down with the flu. You help it along with some voodoo dolls?”
Decker smiled, then grew serious. “For what it’s worth, Captain, you were right. LAPD did have an obligation to the survivors to show up at the tournament.” He sighed. “No matter who sponsored it.”
“Swell,” Strapp grumped. “In the meantime, I’m feeling like a truck ran over me and you’re decking photographers—”
“I didn’t deck anyone.” He paused. “We’ll ignore the pun—”
“Nor do I like your shit fit in front of Jeanine.”
“Sir, the photographer isn’t going to make noise. I slipped him a hundred…in front of witnesses.”
“You hire out from your own pocket, you slip some jerk a C-spot in exchange for a roll of film….”
Nobody talked for a moment. Then Strapp said, “Were you planning to interview Malcolm Carey? Because, technically, you’re off this case.”
“Look, sir, you want to keep me off Estelle’s, do that. This isn’t about Estelle’s, it’s about David Garrison.”
Decker organized his thoughts. “I realize we have to keep the chain letter going to make this work. Using the busts to get something on Malcolm Carey. Then using Malcolm Carey to get to Sean Amos. Lastly, Sean to get to Jeanine. And then, if we’re extremely lucky, maybe…just maybe, we’ll be able to bring charges against her.”
“For her brother’s murder only,” Strapp said. “Nothing about Estelle’s.”
“Right. We have nothing to tie her to that…so far.”
“Maybe she didn’t do it,” Strapp said.
“Okay. Assume that Estelle’s was the sole work of Harlan Manz. Could be that after her parents died, she got greedy. Fine. If that’s the case, then we’ll box her for the one murder—”
“Of which you have no proof other than rumors.”
“Even if the rumors don’t play out, we’ll have busted a pusher. And if they do play out…if she took out her brother, using Malcolm to pump poison into David’s veins…let her fry.”
Strapp shook his head. “Greed. Gets ’em every time.”
For a wild party, things seemed subdued. A couple of dozen cars outside, distant thrash metal music leaking from the windows, an occasional yelp and fit of laughter. No kids heaving on the lawn, no untamed screams of abandon, nothing to suggest a
scene
. Narcotics didn’t like it. But something intuitive kept Decker calm, confident.
The hard part had been getting the vehicles inside the gated community without arousing suspicion. The cars had filtered in slowly to their prearranged spots. Staggered around the streets to make it look more natural. Clandestine meeting places for foot patrol. Waiting for the signal. Waiting to raid.
Quiet streets. Dim lights guarding sinews of private roadway. Lots of black patches amid gray forms. The target was a two-story Colonial sitting on a hill of grass. Magnolia trees cast gnarled shadows. Muted lights coming through the windows. They’d have to move fast. Narc would handle the entry, the initial busts. Decker’s team would come in for arrests, evidence, and cleanup.
And Malcolm Carey belonged to him.
The countdown. The signal. The sudden spurt of activity. Officers running, pounding on the doors. Identification.
“Police! Open up!”
The ensuing shouts, the screams, the dull thuds of wood splintering as the hand-held ram butted against the locked door. The final shove. And then they were in.
Decker closed his eyes, prayed. Atavistic response. But at least it was proactive. He counted to one hundred, sprinted over, charged into the house.
Eyes skittering across the room. A dozen teens sprawled out on the floor, several boys attempting to bolt out windows and through back doors. Hauled in by agents, pinned against the walls.
The screaming.
The crying.
The smell of fresh piss.
A sofa table holding cellophane bags of powder, scattered loose pills, and brown clumps of rock crystal. A hookah oozing fumes. Used needles on the floor along with several handguns for good measure.
Thank you, Joachim.
Thank you, God!
Dashing through the house, Decker shouted, “Where’s Malcolm Carey? I need Malcolm Carey!”
Two loud pops.
Gunfire.
Someone grabbed his arm.
Marge shouted, “Upstairs bathroom.”
“Christ!”
They raced up the stairs, just as the bathroom door caved in. A body halfway through the second-story window, another figure desperately stuffing junk down the toilet. Narcs pulled him down first—to the ground, kicking open his legs, jerking his hands behind his back, intoning Miranda as they secured him for arrest. He wasn’t the challenge. He melted like ice cream in the Sahara.
Decker’s eyes went to the floor, to the white face. “Hello, Sean.”
The kid retched, gagged. Decker said, “Turn his head to the side. Don’t let him aspirate. And careful with his hands. I want them paraffin-tested. See if he fired the revolver—”
“I swear, I didn’t shoot—”
His words were drowned out by screams.
The body out the window.
Officers trying to grab on to a set of kicking legs. Fighting with all their strength. The sounds emitted. Animal sounds. Grunts, growls, snarls. Agents sweating as they tried to pull his body back through the window and into the bathroom. As if reeling in the big one. Too bad no one had a gaff. Among the group was Niels Van Gelder, the detective who had called Decker earlier in the day. Big bull of a guy with big hands. All six of them talking at once.
Niels shouted, “Anyone find the gun?”
“Watch the hands! Watch the fucking hands!”
“No gun?”
“Watch the
fucking
hands—”
“Slow, slow…slow down!”
“Is he packing—”
“Does he have anything in his hands?” Niels asked.
“It’s dark, man. Can’t see a fucking thing—”
“Look at the hands!”
“Careful—”
“If you stick your hand out—”
“You wearing a vest, Condor?”
“Yeah, I’m covered.”
Condor was Arnold Myerhoff. Five eight, one seventy, and bald. Five years with L.A. Narc, ten years prior with Miami Narc. He grunted, “Someone grab the fucker’s arm while I hold the legs—”
“I can’t see—”
“Watch your face. Pull back—”
“Go for the arms. The arms. You got the arm?”
Silence.
“Got it?”
“I…got it.”
“Yank it inside—”
“It’s in a bad position. Don’t want to break the suck—”
“Just pull it inside, Marc.”
Marc Kirby, a fifteen-year veteran Narcotics officer, pulled an empty fist into the room.
Niels said, “Now get the other hand so we can pull—”
“Check the pockets—”
“Hold this hands while I get the other—”
“Shit, bastard’s trying to scratch me—”
“Wrap the hand up, Marc.”
“In what?”
“Just push it up his back.”
“Got the other arm?”
“No.”
“Got it?”
“Yeaaaa…got it!”
“The hand, the hand—”
Finally, Marc brought up a second empty fist.
“
All right!
” Condor called out. “Pull the fucker up!”
First came the legs, then the torso, then the face.
A feral face. The mouth opened, a gaping hole, like a snake unhinging his jaws.
Decker screamed, “He’s gonna bite!”
Marc jerked his face away, swore as he looped his arm around Malcolm’s neck.
Coiled muscles popping from the teen’s neck. Arms as stiff as wood. He continued to kick and flail, tried in vain to land punches using anything he had—including his head. Though he didn’t have a chance against six grown adults, he fought as if he did. The ear-piercing screeches resonated throughout the room as the body was brought onto the floor.
And then it was over, the kid was down. Cuffed and shackled.
Decker recognized the boy. “Yo, Malcolm. What’s up, dude?”
The kid’s shriek seemed to emanate from his bowels.
Decker said, “Who’s doing the booking?”
“Yo,” Condor answered.
Decker said, “Arnie, before either one is washed down, paraffin-test the hands to see who fired.”
“Where
is
the gun?”
“Fucker probably dropped it.”
A sudden stench filled the small room. Decker looked down at Sean Amos’s soiled pants. The kid had lost total control.
Niels said, “Who wants to play plumber in the john?”
“It’s Gayola’s turn,” Marc stated.
Gayola Weyman was six one, one eighty, with a size-sixteen neck. Her specialty was hand-to-hand combat. She started gloving up. Malcolm screamed again.
“Will someone shut him up?”
Condor said, “Man, it
stinks
in here.”
To Decker, Marge said, “I’ll go look for the gun. Maybe he dropped it on the lawn while he was out there hanging.”
Marc searched through Malcolm’s pockets. “Got a nice packet of powder…two of them—”
Gayola moaned. “God, the toilet’s backing up—”
“All the shit thrown inside. Might be needles there. You double-glove?”
“I double-gloved.” Gayola stuck her hand down the plumbing, brought up the first load. Looked it over. A couple of packets of rock crystal, some packets of milky liquid—powder diluted by water. She went down for a second dip, brought up some melting pills and crinkled paper.
“What in the world is
this
?”
“What?” Decker asked.
Gayola handed Decker several crumpled, toilet-soaked glossy pictures, a sheet streaked with runny ink.
Decker smoothed out the snapshots. Neck-up portraits. Familiar face. It took a few moments to give it a name.
Wade Anthony.
“What the hell?” Decker looked at the paper, eyes scanning the writing. Appeared to be someone’s schedule, the activities listed by the hours.
Gayola brought up another picture of Anthony. This one was a full body shot. He was sitting on a couch, looking quite content, smoking a big fat stogie. A nice picture except for the dart board bleeding ink over the snapshot. A big red heart drawn over the chest was the bull’s-eye.
Suddenly the events of the day came into knife-edge focus. Decker grinned. Couldn’t have planned it better had he tried.
Malcolm screamed once more.
Decker said, “Take them back in separate cars. Separate bookings, separate cells, and separate lawyers. No interchange between them. And don’t forget about the hands.”
To Condor, Marc said, “You want the screamer or the shitter?”