Читать книгу The Forgotten - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 10

Driving up to Foreman Prep, Decker was sorely reminded of the difference between parochial private schools and preparatory private schools. The acreage of Foreman was vast and green, shaded by specimen willows and stately sycamores. Behind the layers of arboreal fence were sprawling, Federalist-style, brick buildings. Or probably brick-faced, because architects did not design solid brick structures in earthquake-prone Los Angeles. Whether they were brick or brick-faced, the edifices were impressive and sufficiently ivy-covered to evoke dreams of the eastern universities. Decker didn’t care about the form, but he did care about the content. Foreman Prep had a course catalogue that could rival those of most colleges. Both Decker’s stepsons could have gotten in, but Rina wouldn’t hear of it. Religious education was paramount even if the current yeshiva had minimal grounds and rotating teachers. For her—and for the memory of her late husband—some things were nonnegotiable.

The headmaster, Keats Williams, was a double for Basil Rathbone except for the bald head—a topographic map of veins and bumps pressing against shiny skin. His eyes were hazel green, and his speech held a slight British accent. Affected? Probably. But at least he allowed Decker to present his scheme without sneering. As the headmaster lectured back his response, Decker’s eyes sneaked glances, trying not to widen at the richness of Williams’s office—something that Churchill would have been comfortable in. He wasn’t just a headmaster. Nor was he just a doctor of sociology as indicated by his Ivy League diploma. No, Williams was more. Much more. Williams was a friggin’ CEO.

“We just had an all-school drug check,” the headmaster informed Decker. “We have a zero tolerance for drugs at the school. Drugs, weapons, and explicitly sexual material. Even the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated is not to be brought to school, although it isn’t grounds for suspension—the first time. It’s impossible to keep teenage boys from thinking about sex. It’s always there just like a pulse. Still, that doesn’t mean it has to be addressed all the time. We’re out to train progressive minds.”

Decker said, “I heard about that. I’ve also heard that your school offers a very liberal freedom-of-speech policy, including platforms on abortion, legalization of opiates and prostitution, and euthanasia.”

“You’ve heard correctly.”

“You don’t shy away from controversy.”

“Indeed. But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that these are but some of the issues that have come before our legislative body. We like to keep our students up-to-date … topical if you will. However, controversial issues do not extend to hate crimes, which are odious and against the law. I know you’re using drugs as an entrée to students’ lockers, but if you find any … and I do mean any evidence … that any of our boys are behind this heinous event, I want to know about it immediately. Proper remedies will be taken to assure that this issue will be addressed.”

“Doctor, if I find proof that one of your boys was part of this morning’s vandalism, he will be arrested.”

Williams was silent. It was one thing for him to reprimand and even to punish the students involved. It was quite another for their felonies to be broadcast over airwaves—not the PR that Foreman Prep liked. “Exactly how do you determine proof?”

“It varies.”

“If you should find proof … or perhaps the correct word might be ‘evidence’?”

“‘Evidence’ is fine,” Decker said.

“And if it should be necessary … for you to take appropriate action, is there a way that this can be handled … without a tremendous amount of fanfare?”

“I have no intention of calling up the press.”

“And if the press should call you?”

Decker was silent.

The headmaster placed his hands, fingers fanned out, on his highly polished walnut desktop. “Our boys are minors. If their names are released to the press, there will be problems.”

“Dr. Williams,” Decker chided. “Surely you don’t advocate suppression of the public’s right to know.”

“Innocent until proven guilty,” Williams stated.

Decker smiled. Spoken like a true American with his ass against the wall.

“I’m Dr. Jaime Dahl—special services administrator.”

Decker stuck out his hand. “Thank you for taking the time—”

“I didn’t volunteer for this witch-hunt, it was foisted upon me.” A swish of blond hair. “Let’s get that straight. I don’t approve of any kind of searches. I believe it’s a violation of civil rights.”

His day to get grief. Yet it wasn’t entirely her fault. At Decker’s behest, Dr. Williams hadn’t informed her or anyone else of the true purpose of the search. She’d probably be appalled by hate crimes, though she’d no doubt retort with, “One violation doesn’t excuse another.”

Through designer eyeglasses, she was slinging wicked looks his way. What made it worse was she was a fox—around twenty-five, with lush lips and knockout legs. She was wearing a black business suit and looked more like an actress playing the part of a school administrator. If this were a Hollywood script, they’d be in bed an hour from now. He must have inadvertently smiled, because her eyes grew angrier. She sneered at him. Too bad. He hated being dissed by anyone, let alone a fox.

She spoke in a clipped cadence. “Follow me.”

She led him down a flight of stairs, through a long, wide Berber-carpeted hallway, designated the student locker area. They were waiting for him—rows of adolescent boys standing next to their little bit of privacy, their hands at their sides. Two uniformed guards were watching them. The scene made Decker feel as if he were the aggressor, and that didn’t sit well with him. He stopped. “Is there any specific place I should start?”

“One is as good as the next.” Jaime tapped her toe, her left buttock moving with each rhythmical click of the shoe. “Let’s go from freshmen to seniors. They know what to do. They just went through the routine drill a few weeks ago.”

“They may know the drill, but I don’t.”

Jaime sighed impatiently. “One boy at a time will open his locker, swing the door all the way out, then take two steps back. Then you do your search and seizure. When you’re done, you step away and let the boy close his locker. Give them back a little piece of their stripped dignity.”

“That sounds fine—”

“I’m glad you approve,” Jaime snapped back. “Shall we get on with it?”

“The quicker I’m out of here, the happier I am.”

“I suppose that about sums it up for me, as well.”

“Why are you so unhappy about this, Dr. Dahl? Drug checks are part of standard operation in this school. You had to have known that when you took the job.”

“For the administration to do what’s necessary to maintain standards—that’s one thing. We don’t need the gendarmes telling us how to run our school.”

“Ah—”

“Yes, ah!”

Decker’s smile was wide. He tried to hold it back and that only made her angrier. She stomped over to the first lad—a fourteen-year-old moonfaced kid with a sprig of freckles across the nose—and asked him to open his locker.

He did, following Jaime Dahl’s drill to a tee. Decker was impressed.

Inside were papers, notebooks, pens, a few car magazines, and lots of candy wrappers.

“Thank you,” Decker said, taking a step backward.

The boy closed his locker. Jaime told him that he could go.

The boy left.

One down, about three hundred to go.

The tenth kid had a locker containing two bottles of pills. They looked to be prescription. He asked Jaime about them.

“As long as the medicine is from a doctor, we allow it into the school.”

“Can I pick up the bottles?” he asked her.

“Why are you asking me? You’re in charge.”

He picked up the bottles. “It’s all the same medicine.”

“I have a note,” the kid said anxiously. “You can call my mom.”

Decker looked him over. A stick of a kid: he was shaking. “I’m just wondering why you need sixty pills of any kind at school when the dose is one a day … at night.”

The kid said nothing.

Decker put the bottle back inside his locker. “Something you might want to think about. Someone could get the wrong idea … like you were selling off the excess. Of course, I know that’s not the case. But … it kinda looks bad.”

The kid mumbled a pathetic “Yessir.”

“It’s all right, Harry,” Jaime comforted him. “We can talk about this later.”

“Yes, Dr. Dahl.”

Decker went on to the next one, then the next. Over the course of the next hour, he found lots of bottles that looked suspect. Either they were genuine pharmaceutical containers with pills that didn’t match the prescribed medicine, or they carried counterfeited labels altogether. Since medicine was allowed, Decker left it up to Jaime to discipline. Usually, a stern look from the beautiful doctor was enough to send the boys into paroxysms. Decker felt for the kids, just like he had felt for Jacob after the boy had confessed his drug use. Kids had a way of doing that to him, making him feel bad even when he was just doing his job.

Rooting through the trash of rotting food, old papers, wrappers, and garbage. Not to mention old, wet gym clothes that smelled riper than decayed roadkill. Besides the pills, Decker found more than a fair share of cigarette butts—tobacco and otherwise. He pretended not to notice them. He also came upon packages of condoms—most of them unopened. There were also lots of pinups—mostly female, but there were some studly males as well. All of the posers wore smiles and adequate amounts of clothing. He also found several indiscreet Polaroids that he conveniently overlooked. It didn’t take long before Jaime Dahl became acutely aware of his omissions. It didn’t make her friendlier, but it did make her curious.

She said, “You’re not taking notes.”

“Pardon?”

“I see you’re not making note of any of the material you’re finding.”

“I haven’t found anything significant.”

“What would you consider significant?” The blue eyes narrowed. “You’re obviously not from Narcotics. Why are you here?” Suddenly, she took his arm and pulled him aside, out of earshot of the waiting students. She whispered, “Surely a police lieutenant has better things to do with himself than to hassle young minds in the throes of experimentation for freedom.”

“Surely.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

It was Decker’s turn to narrow his eyes. It seemed to unnerve her. “If we can’t be buddies, maybe we can try civility?”

“I know your type. Don’t even think about asking me out!”

He stared at her, then laughed. What’s on your mind, honey? He said, “My wife would have a few choice words to say to me if I did.”

Her eyes went to his hand.

Decker said, “Not all married men wear wedding rings.”

“Only the ones who don’t want women to know they’re married.”

“Dr. Dahl, I’ve got a wife, four kids, three stifling private-school tuitions, a choking home mortgage, and car payments on a Volvo station wagon that’s already out of alignment. I’ve got the whole nine yards of suburbia. And I’m still smiling because deep down inside, despite my cynical view of this entire planet that we call Earth, I am a very happy man. Can we move on, please? I have a schedule and I bet you do as well.”

She regarded his face but said nothing. Decker took the silence as an invitation to finish up. He was up to the senior class, and had gone halfway through its roster without finding anything incriminating. He was discouraged by his failure, but encouraged by it as well. Maybe the school was really the best and the brightest.

He was almost done, finishing the last row of lockers. One of them belonged to a good-looking boy of seventeen—around six feet tall and muscular. He wore his brown hair in a buzz cut and had storm-colored eyes—electric and very dark blue. His locker was free of contraband and very neat. No pictures, nothing chemical, nothing out of place. Yet there was something on the kid’s face, a smirk that spoke of privilege. Decker met the kid’s eyes, held them for a moment.

“Let me see your backpack—”

“What?” The boy blinked, then recovered.

“This isn’t the procedure,” Jaime stated.

“I know,” Decker said. He turned to the boy. “Do you object?”

“Yes, I do.” The muscular boy tapped his foot several times. “I object on principle. It’s an invasion of my civil rights.”

Again, Decker met the kid’s eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Do I have to answer that?” the boy asked.

Decker smiled, turned to Jaime Dahl. “What’s his name?”

Putting her in a bind. It was beginning to look like the stud was hiding something. If she didn’t at least minimally cooperate, she’d look like she was hiding something as well. Reluctantly, she said, “Answer the question.”

The boy’s name was Ernesto Golding.

Decker said, “Let me make a deal with you, Ernesto. I’m not interested in drugs, pills, weapons … well, maybe weapons. You have a stash in there, and tell me it’s fish food, I’ll believe you.”

“Then why do you want to look in his backpack?” Jaime asked.

“I have my reasons.” He smiled. “What do you say?”

The boy was silent. Jaime looked at him. “Ernie, it’s up to you.”

“This is clearly police abuse.”

Decker shrugged. “If she won’t make you do it, I don’t have any choice. But you’ll hear from me again, son. Next time I may not be so generous.”

Ernesto stood on his tiptoes, attempting a pugilistic stance. “Are you threatening me?”

“Nah, I never threaten—”

“Sounds like a threat to me.”

“Shall we move on, Dr. Dahl?”

But Jaime didn’t move on. Instead, she said, “Ernie, give him your backpack.”

“What?”

“Do it!”

The boy’s face turned an intense red. He dropped the pack at his feet, the storm in his eyes shooting lightning. Decker picked the knapsack up and immediately gave it to Jaime. “You look through it. I don’t want to be accused of planting anything. Tell me if you see anything unusual.”

“What am I looking for?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

What Decker expected to find were obscene photographs of concentration-camp victims. What Jaime Dahl pulled out was a silver kiddush cup.