Читать книгу Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 14

At the time of the Missing Persons Report three and a half months ago, Lindsey Bates had been sixteen years and two months old, five feet four inches tall, 108 pounds, with blue eyes, blond hair—American pie turned vulture fodder. Last seen by her mother after announcing that she was going to the Glendale Galleria to find a hot pink blouse to match her new yellow baggies. She’d planned to be back around four, and when she hadn’t returned by five, Mrs. Bates began to worry. Forty-eight hours later, Lindsey was considered an official Missing Person. There were several other entries in the file—interviews with parents and friends—but nothing had proven useful.

The Glendale detective assigned to the case had been Don Oldham, an energetic, overweight man of fifty, who had reached twenty-five biggies a month ago and hung up his shield. After the Bates identification was made and the parents notified, Decker visited him in his condo that overlooked the smoggy San Gabriel mountains. Some say retirement kills the spirit, but if there existed a happier man than Oldham (Donnie as he insisted on being called) Decker hadn’t met him. Oldham was an avid tropical fish breeder, and he reminded Decker of a mad scientist as he tested water samples and added chemicals to the fifty aerated aquariums that filled his living room. The tanks gurgled and bubbled like boiling cauldrons. It took Donnie nearly twenty minutes to get down to business.

He remembered the case. His conclusion was profound: Either an abduction or a runaway.

Did he favor one over the other, Decker asked.

Oh, probably the abduction, said Oldham. None of the girl’s personal effects seemed to be missing. Her car was still in the parking lot. People don’t leave without taking some memento along.

But then again, he added gleefully, she still could have been a runaway.

Decker thanked him. As he turned to leave, he saw Oldham taking off his shirt and dipping his bare arms into a tank of guppies. A caved-in patch of glossy scar tissue decorated the man’s right shoulder. Decker wondered how he’d caught the bullet.

He arrived back at the squad room shortly after noon and found Marge at her desk, looking sick.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“Chug-a-lugged too many beers,” she answered, pushing hair out of her eyes. The blond strands hung limply down to her shoulders. Her complexion was wan.

“You don’t look hungover; you look sick. As in the flu. Why don’t you go home?”

She dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. “The aspirins’ll kick in. I’ll be all right.”

“What are you working on now?” Decker asked.

“I just got another weenie wagger. Third one in a week. Seems this particular dude just loves to excite himself in the movie theater, preferably kiddy films. They caught him at the climax—his—buttering some little girl’s popcorn at the Brave Li’l Mouse Movie.”

Decker groaned.

“Mama went bonkers,” Marge continued. “Started screaming in front of a full house. ‘Did you see what that man just did! He ejaculated in my daughter’s popcorn!’ Meanwhile, the perv’s just sittin’ there with this smug grin plastered across his mug. No resistance to the arrest. Too damn wasted.”

“I hope they got their money back,” Decker said.

“Yeah, they did—and a free popcorn to boot—but Mama was none too pleased.”

“Do you have any other cases—besides the wagger—that are pressing?”

“My load’s pretty light. What’s up?”

“We got a name to match a set of bones that we dug up.”

Marge nodded approval. “Not too shabby, Pete.”

“Sometimes you get lucky. A sixteen-year-old white female named Lindsey Bates. Disappeared around four months ago.”

“Want me to talk to her mother?”

“If you can. I need someone with a soft touch.”

“When?”

“Right now, if you feel up to it. I figured I’d take a peek at the kid’s room while you interviewed Mrs. Bates.”

Marge stood up. In heels, she was nearly eye level with him. Her shoulders, housed in a padded jacket, appeared immense.

She picked up her bag and said, “Let’s go.”

The Bateses lived in La Canada. The house was on a tree-lined street at the end of a cul-de-sac—a split level with a wood and stone facade. The lawn had been newly planted and was bisected by a stone walkway lined by manicured rose bushes bursting with Day-Glo colors—hot pinks, scarlet reds, and sunshine yellows—a wreath for the house of mourning. Marge gave the door a hard rap, and a moment later a wisp of a blonde appeared in the doorway.

“Mrs. Bates?” Decker asked, showing his shield.

“Come in, Sergeant … Sergeant’m sorry I forgot your name.”

“Decker, ma’am.” He handed her his card. “This is Detective Dunn.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bates,” Marge said, gently.

Mrs. Bates acknowledged the condolences by lowering her head. Under a different set of circumstances she might have been pretty, but sorrow had washed out her face, blurring her features. Her eyes were sunken, the blue iris faded. The cheeks sagged, the mouth was slack and pale. Her coloring was fair, as her daughter’s had been, but her hair was stringy and unwashed. She seemed to wilt under the detectives’ eyes and made a futile attempt to straighten her housecoat.

“Forgive my appearance,” she said in a whisper.

Decker placed a hand on her small, bony shoulder.

“Mrs. Bates, I’m very sorry to intrude upon you at a time like this. Thank you for your cooperation.”

The woman’s eyes filled with tears.

“Please come in.”

They were led to the living room sofa—white velvet, and spotless. Everything in the room was spotless. She asked them if they wanted some coffee, but they both declined.

“If it’s all right with you, Mrs. Bates,” Decker began, “I’d like to take a look at Lindsey’s room.”

“What … What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Nothing specific,” he answered.

That was the truth. But it was more tangible than that. He was trying to get a feel for Lindsey so he could relate to her as a living entity. Her room would be a logical starting place. Rooms and luggage. Ever want to do a quick analysis of a person, find out what he packs for a weekend jaunt.

“I guess that would be okay,” Mrs. Bates said hesitantly. “It’s down the hall, the third door to the left. The one that’s … s’s closed.”

Decker thanked her and left the two women alone.

Marge waited until Mrs. Bates spoke.

“I don’t know what I could possibly tell you that I didn’t already tell the police the first time around,” she said.

“If you’re ready,” Marge said. “I’d like you to recount what happened the day of Lindsey’s disappearance.”

Mrs. Bates peered into her lap and Marge took advantage of the opportunity to slip out her notepad.

“It was a Saturday,” she began. “I can’t believe that she’s actually …”

She paused to catch her breath, then asked imploringly.

“It is possible they made a mistake? After all, how could they make such an important decision based on teeth?”

“They seem to be sure—”

“But it’s only teeth!”

“I wish I could tell you differently, Mrs. Bates,” Marge said, quietly. “If I had any doubts, I wouldn’t be here. But we seem to be quite certain that we found your daughter. I’m so sorry. It must be so hard to accept that.”

“I hope you’ll never know.” Mrs. Bates dropped her head in her hands and sobbed. Marge offered her a Kleenex and she blew her nose. Then she tried again.

“As I started to say, it was a Saturday …” She started crying again.

Marge put down her pad. “Maybe we came too soon for you to do this. It’s not because we’re callous. It’s just that every second we let slip by is less time for us to do our job and more time for your daughter’s murderer to get away. But if this is too hard on you, we can come back tomorrow.”

Mrs. Bates dried her tears and shook her head no. “I’m all right.”

“Sure?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Bates said. “What was I saying?”

“It was Saturday,” Marge answered, taking up her pad.

“Yes, Saturday,” Mrs. Gates repeated. “Lindsey said she was going to the Galleria to shop, to look for a blouse … blouse’d just started driving and the mall was close to home …” She threw up her hands. “What else can I tell you? That was the last anyone ever heard of her … her now.”

“Do you know if she was planning to meet someone?” Marge asked.

Mrs. Bates’s face turned livid.

“The original detective asked me the same question. Don’t police ever read each other’s reports?”

“I like to be thorough,” Marge explained.

The woman sank back into her chair. “I’m terribly sorry for my behavior—”

“No, don’t apologize. You’re doing fine.”

“As far as I know,” Mrs. Bates said, “she wasn’t going to meet anyone. I can give you a list of all of her friends and you can ask them if Lindsey called them.”

“Thank you. That would be helpful.” She continued. “Do you know the stores your daughter routinely shopped at?”

“Bullocks, Broadway, May Company, Robinson’s. She like Contempo, although I always thought they were a little on the high side.”

“Did she follow a certain routine when she shopped? Park in the same place? Comb the stores in the same pattern?”

“Not that I know of. Her friends could tell you better than I can.” Her facial expression became wistful. “We used to shop together years ago, but you know kids … kids like to be with their friends … friends loved my taste in clothes. People often mistook us for sisters.”

Marge couldn’t see it. But the woman had probably aged ten years since her daughter’s disappearance. She consulted the notes Decker had prepared for her.

“Lindsey has a younger sister, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Were they close?”

“Yes,” she answered, with a defensive note to her voice. “We’re a very close family.”

“And she’s at school now?”

“Yes. Erin’s at school.” As if she were reassuring herself.

“I’d like to talk to her, also.”

The woman’s eyes darkened.

“Why? Do you think the girls were keeping secrets from me?”

“It’s routine, I assure you, Mrs. Bates.”

Mrs. Bates bit her lip.

“If you think it’s necessary.”

Marge nodded.

“The girls are … are very different,” Mrs. Bates mumbled.

“In what way?”

“I’m … m was closer to Lindsey. We shared more interests. She was the sweetest thing on two feet, Detective. And beautiful inside and out.”

“And Erin?” Marge prompted.

“Erin’s more of an individual. But she’s a good girl also.”

“I’m sure she is,” Marge said. “The Glendale police interviewed Lindsey’s friends. She seemed to have had a lot of them.”

“What can I tell you, Detective? She was very popular.”

“Did you know most of her friends?”

“Yes. Our home was their hangout.” Again eyes welled up with tears. “I miss the noise.”

“Did Lindsey have a boyfriend?”

She shook her head. “Her father and I discouraged her from getting too involved with anyone special. A sixteen-year-old girl doesn’t need an immature boy breathing down her neck, monopolizing her attention. That’s how kids get into trouble.”

The irony wasn’t evident to her, and Marge talked quickly to keep it that way.

“But she dated?”

“She went out in groups with her friends. We knew all her friends, Detective. They’re nice kids.”

“What kind of student was she?”

“She didn’t have a head for academics, but she passed her classes.” She sighed. “We had tutors, but we decided against college for her … her charm was her kindness and beauty. You’ve seen her picture. A lovelier girl never existed.”

Marge agreed with her.

“She was head junior cheerleader,” Mrs. Bates continued. “She had to compete with one hundred girls for that spot, but she knew she’d win. That’s the type of girl she is.”

Marge didn’t correct her tense.

“Was she involved in other extracurricular activities besides cheerleading?”

“She was on the tennis team. What a backhand!” The woman came alive, revitalized by the memory.

“What was her weekday routine, Mrs. Bates?”

“School at 8:10. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, tennis team from 3:15 to 4:30. Cheerleading practice was every day from five to seven. On Wednesday and Thursday nights at eight she had patch—ice skating, Once a week, on Tuesday, piano lessons. She loved to be active. She has an incredible energy level, unlike Erin who’s a—.”

She fell silent. Tension between Erin and Mom, Marge noted in her pad. She asked, “Did Lindsey go out on weekends?”

“Yes. But she had to be in by ten.”

Marge smiled, trying to look benign.

“Mrs. Bates, how would you describe your relationship with your daughter?”

“We were very close,” she said. “My daughter was not a runaway.”

“I’m sure she wasn’t,” Marge said quickly. She noticed Mrs. Bates was digging her nails into her hands.

Keep her talking.

“Do you happen to know if Lindsey kept a diary?” Marge asked.

One nail broke skin. There was blood.

“She did, didn’t she?” Marge said.

“I know she kept one,” Mrs. Bates admitted. “I haven’t been able to find it. Everything else is the way it always was. Her clothes, her money, her records, her jewelry—and most of it isn’t cheap, costume junk—sentimental mementos, her awards. But I … I can’t seem to find her diary.”

Because she ran away from home and took it with her, Marge thought. That’s why you haven’t been able to find it.

She asked her some wind-down questions about Lindsey. What emerged from Mrs. Bates’s answers was a shell of a girl, a sweet kid who never disobeyed her mother. Marge decided to wrap up the interview since nothing enlightening was likely to come out of it.

“After the police failed to find her, did you try to locate her yourself, Mrs. Bates?” she asked. “Did you and your husband hire anyone to try and find her?”

The woman lowered her head.

“Who’d you hire, Mrs. Bates?”

“It was a reputable firm. The Marris Association.”

Marge agreed they were reputable.

“And expensive,” Mrs. Bates grumbled. “They wasted thousands of our dollars and came up with nothing.”

“Who was the private investigator assigned to the case?”

“His name was Lee Krasdin. And older, fat man with a disgusting red face. Didn’t do a damn thing! I don’t think he ever left his office.”

“I’d like to talk to him. Would you do me a favor? Would you ask him to release your daughter’s report to me? Otherwise I’m going to have to get a subpoena—”

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll call him up right now.”

“How about if I call him up and you write me out a release statement for your daughter’s records?”

“Fine.”

“And I’ll need that list of your daughter’s friends.”

“Of course.”

Marge called the Marris Agency and said someone would be there in an hour to pick up the file. She was putting the final touches on her notes when Mrs. Bates returned with a few sheets of paper.

“Here,” she said, standing over the detective. She smelled slightly stale, as if her clothes hadn’t been washed recently.

“This is the list and this is the release statement. Does it say what you want it to say?”

“It’s fine,” Marge said. “I appreciate your taking the time out to talk to me, Mrs. Bates.”

“That’s all right,” she answered softly. “If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”

“That would be fine.” Marge saw Decker standing off to the side. How long he’d been there, she didn’t know. It was good that he didn’t intrude. His size could sometimes be intimidating. Marge thought that this was one of the times.

She said, “Oh, Sergeant Decker’s back.”

“Just about done?” he asked, entering the room.

“Yes,” Marge answered, winking at him. “Perfect timing.”

“Did you find anything illuminating?” Mrs. Bates asked Decker. He noticed anxiety in her voice.

“Not really. It’s just a teenage girl’s room,” he said; then added quietly, “not unlike others I’ve seen.”

Like my own kid’s, he thought.

Mrs. Bate’s eyes began to swell with tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Decker said.

She nodded.

“Mrs. Bates,” he asked, “did your daughter ever know someone who was deaf or hard of hearing?”

The question took her by surprise.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“It may be important.”

“How so?”

“I’m not really sure. But as soon as I am, I’ll let you know.”

“A hearing aid?” the woman asked.

Decker said yes.

“No, I don’t believe so,” she answered, deep in thought. “Maybe I can ask Erin … Erin does she get home? … Let’s see, it’s Wednesday … Wednesday? … I think it’s Thursday …”

She realized she’d been talking to herself and gave an apologetic smile.

“Also, I’d like to talk to your husband when it’s convenient for him,” Decker said. “May I call him at home tonight to arrange an appointment?”

“Certainly.”

Marge flipped her notebook shut.

“You’ll keep me abreast?” Mrs. Bates asked.

“Of course,” replied Marge.

Mrs. Bates wrapped herself in her arms and began to knead them like dough.

“I loved my daughter,” she said. “I want you to catch the monster that … that killed her. But perhaps you can understand if I tell you that maybe I’m better off not knowing everything.”

Decker flashed to his own daughter.

“I understand,” he said.

“What’d you find out?” Decker asked Marge. He turned on the ignition, let the motor idle for a moment, then backed out of the driveway.

“Mom liked to shop with her daughter,” answered Marge.

“The usual denial?”

Marge nodded. “Not my kid! She couldn’t have run away.” She rubbed her hands together. “They fix the car heater yet? Day’s turned nasty.”

“No, but the air-conditioner works perfectly.”

“Terrific. Why don’t we chill up the inside so the outside’ll feel warm by comparison?”

Decker laughed. “You’re looking a little better,” he said.

“You talk to people with real problems, you all of a sudden don’t feel so sick,” she said. “What’d you find in Lindsey’s room?”

Decker said, “I found an average, nice kid. Not too deep, but not angry, either. Her records were standard top forty stuff, no heavy metal or rebellious punker crap. Her clothes were a bit more adventurous than preppy, but definitely not punk, either. She was into her nails in a big way. Found at least a half dozen nail kits.”

He pulled onto the freeway and floored the gas pedal. The car protested, bucked, then surged ahead.

“Girl didn’t read at all. Her book shelves were filled with knick-knacks and stuffed animals. Not a single book.”

“Posters?” Marge asked.

“Rock stars, a few of the top New York models. A few framed homilies—Love conquers all … all is the treasure of kings, Love is the treasure of life. Stuff like that.”

“A nice kid,” Marge said.

“A nice kid,” Decker said.

“Pictures of boyfriends?” Marge asked.

“Couldn’t find any. Couldn’t find any snapshots in her room. The family probably keeps photo albums in a different place.”

“You didn’t by any chance happen to come across a diary?”

Decker shook his head. “She kept one?”

“Mother says she did. She couldn’t find it. She said everything else in the girl’s room was left untouched.”

“If Lindsey was a runaway, she traveled light,” Decker said. “It didn’t look like the room of an unhappy girl.”

“Maybe the kid got tired of being a saint,” Marge suggested.

“She wasn’t a saint,” said Decker. “She had her fun. I found a small stash, birth control pills and a roach clip.”

“Mother didn’t mention them.”

“Wonder why,” he said. “I discovered them inside a stuffed animal—a big turtle with a hidden zipper.” Decker thought a moment. “But that doesn’t change my impression of the girl. The room lacked … lacked … teenage hostility. And you know what else it lacked? Individuality. There wasn’t anything in there that seemed different … different seemed unique.”

“Those are usually the types to suddenly pull up stakes,” Marge said. “They keep it all inside.”

“Seems strange to leave without your stash and birth control pills,” Decker mentioned.

“You could pick those up anywhere. But a diary … diary you’d take along.”

“True,” Decker said. “Could be she walked away with just her diary and the clothes on her back.”

“I’ve got a list of her friends,” Marge said. “They’ll flesh her out. Also, someone should talk to her sister.”

“How’s the rest of your day holding up?” Decker asked.

“Court appearance in the afternoon.”

“Give me the list of her friends,” Decker said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Also, Mrs. Bates hired a private detective. Someone at the Marris Agency. I got her to sign a release. They’re expecting someone down there in about an hour.”

“No problem,” Decker said. “Did they come up with anything?”

“According to Mrs. Bates, they came up with an enormous bill.”

“Probably didn’t tell her what she wanted to hear,” Decker said.

“No doubt,” she said. “I think you should interview the kid sister, Pete. I got the feeling that she and Mama don’t get along so hot. Maybe she relates better to men.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “But I want you to come with me. I don’t want to be alone with a teenage girl who likes men.”

“Good point,” Marge agreed, then smiled to herself. “You sure as hell don’t need that.”

Marris was a slick operation. Lee Krasdin was even slicker. He had a face like a Toby mug and Decker didn’t like him. Mrs. Bates had been right about him. He hadn’t done anything.

“Is that all?” Decker said when he was done with the report.

Krasdin spread his fingers and placed them palm down on the desktop, as if he were going to hoist himself upward. The effort turned him purple.

“There was nothing left to do, Detective,” he said nervously.

“You didn’t think she might be a runaway?”

“From everyone we talked to, she seemed like a sweet kid. They do exist, Sergeant—sweet kids who end up in trouble.”

Decker threw him a disgusted look.

“You didn’t interview her sister.”

“Her sister was broken up. You can’t intrude upon people like that and expect cooperation.”

Decker remembered the Hippocratic oath: Above all, do no harm. That was the only compliment you could pay an incompetent like Krasdin.

“Do you know how many runaways we process in a week?” Krasdin said defensively.

“Not as many as LAPD.”

“Let me tell you,” the man said indignantly. “I can spot a runaway situation with my eyes closed, and this wasn’t a runaway. We talked to friends, we talked to relatives, we talked to church leaders, we talked to teachers. The kid was a random abduction, and that left us nowhere.”

“Mr. Krasdin, when someone is missing, I look for them. If they don’t show up at a friend’s or relative’s house, I look outside the neighborhood. You didn’t do anything except knock on a few doors. A Fuller Brush salesman could have done better.”

“If you would read the report carefully, Sergeant Decker, you’d notice that we did pursue a runaway assumption. We went into Hollywood and talked to the police. They hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the girl.”

“You talked to the police to find out about runaways? That’s about as worthwhile as talking to runaways to find out about the police. You want to find out about street kids, you talk to street kids.”

“Assuming they’ll talk to you.”

“They’ll talk.”

“I resent your implications about the thoroughness of our investigation,” the man sputtered.

“That’s your prerogative. In the meantime, I’m going to keep this Xerox of the report.”

“Certainly. Despite the adversarial tone of this conversation, I want you to know that I’ll help you in any way I can, Sergeant. At Marris, we believe in cooperation with law enforcement.”

Decker immediately took him up on it. “You interviewed Lindsey’s friends. Happen to notice if anyone was hard of hearing?”

“Not that I recall. Of course, I don’t routinely check for hearing aids. Why do you ask?”

“Never mind.”

By the time he left Marris, it was nearly four. Decker slid into the unmarked and pulled out the list of Lindsey’s friends. He had time to see one or two before heading back to Bates’s. The first one on the list was a boy named Brian Armor. After thirty minutes on the Golden State Freeway North, he swung onto 134 East—wide open lanes of asphalt that cut through the San Gabriel mountains. The air was crisp, the sky a brilliant blue; a beautiful smogless day not atypical of L.A. winters. He passed the La Crescenta city line and ten minutes later pulled the Plymouth into a circular driveway. He killed the motor.

The house was a graceful two-story colonial—a downscale replica of an antebellum mansion. During Decker’s childhood, family vacations had often included excursions into the deep South, where majestic plantations loomed larger than life in the little boy’s eyes—the stately scrolled columns; the massive, two-story double entrance doors; the porticoes dripping flowers, set into acreage that expanded to the horizon. As he grew older, Decker’d lost his lust for mansions, but he had always retained a love of land.

He walked up to the door and pushed the bell, which chimed resonantly. The kid who answered had a football player’s build and a very cocky expression on his face. The look was tempered a second later when he realized he was looking up at Decker.

“Whaddaya want?” he asked, in a voice surprisingly high and squeaky.

Decker flashed his badge.

“I’m looking for Brian Armor.”

The last remnants of cockiness disappeared.

“He’s not home.”

“Who are you?” Decker asked.

“Listen, I don’t have to talk to a cop without a lawyer.” He started to slam the door shut, but Decker was ready and caught him off balance. The door flew back open and the boy went stumbling backward. The detective stepped inside.

“You can’t come in without a search warrant,” the boy said, stunned.

The smell of marijuana was overwhelming. Decker opened his jacket and gave the kid a view of his shoulder holdster. The boy licked his lips.

“Hey man, no trouble.”

Decker made his way through the formal living room and into the den. Four teenagers stopped talking and looked up. Bruce Springsteen provided the background music.

Even if he had a warrant, and even if he had been from narcotics, it still wouldn’t have been much of a bust. A lid or two of grass—who gave a fuck? But image was all-important. He scooped up the bag and motioned Brian over.

“Where’s the john?” he asked.

“Third door to the left.”

Decker turned to the other teens.

“I’m a police officer,” he said. “You kids stay right where you are. Understand?”

They nodded solemnly.

“C’mon, buddy,” Decker said. He gave Brian a slight shove forward and prodded him down the hallway into the bathroom. When they were both inside, Decker locked the door.

The boy’s hands squeezed into tight, white-knuckled balls.

“You’re not going to try anything stupid, are you?” Decker asked.

The boy didn’t answer.

“Unclench your fists, son. I’m not about to duke it out with you.” Decker smiled. “In a john of all places.”

The boy’s fingers slowly relaxed.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Decker said, “this never existed.” He dumped the contents of the bag down the toilet and gave it a flush. “I gave you a break. Now you give me one.”

The kid stared, amazed.

“Whaddaya want?” he repeated, his tone of voice deferential this time.

“I’m looking for Brian Armor.”

“I’m Brian.”

“I want to talk to you about Lindsey Bates.”

The boy stared at him.

“Lindsey? … This is about Lindsey?”

“Yep. Your bad-ass attitude lost you your stash for nothing.”

“Aw, shit.”

“But look at it this way. I’m not gonna bust you.” Decker took out his notepad. “You wanna talk in here or you wanna go out there?”

“All my friends out there—they were friends of Lindsey’s.”

Decker grinned. He had just saved himself a mess of legwork.

“Let’s go.”

The gang was waiting, stiff and grim. When they saw Brian smile, their posture loosened.

Brian cocked a thumb at Decker.

“He wants to talk about Lindsey.”

“Why should we talk to you?” said a sulking brunette in torn clothing. He knew from Cindy what those rags cost.

“You’re a friend of Lindsey’s?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“Then maybe you give enough of a fuck about her to help me find her murderer.”

She lowered her eyes.

“What’s your name?” Decker asked the girl.

“Heather.”

Decker consulted his list.

“Heather Hanson.”

Her head jerked up.

“That’s right.”

The detective checked her name off.

“I’m going to read some names,” he said. “Answer me if it’s you.”

They were all there. Decker marveled at his good fortune.

“So what do you want to know about Lindsey?” asked a big blonde with purple lips. She was Lisa O’Donnell.

“She left home at eleven A.M. Saturday morning, September tenth. Did she call any of you earlier that day?”

“She called me,” Heather answered. “I was her best friend.”

“And?”

“And she asked me to meet her at the Galleria at 12:30. She didn’t show up.”

So she had run away or had been abducted somewhere between eleven and 12:30. Amazing that no one had picked up on something so simple.

Heather went on: “I didn’t think anything about it. We change our plans lots of times.” She twirled her curly hair. “I mean, I didn’t tell the police about her phone call the first time around.”

“You’re not going to get into any trouble. I’m only interested in Lindsey now. Were the two of you supposed to meet anyone else?”

“No,” she said quickly.

Decker stared at her.

“Like maybe she was supposed to meet her boyfriend that her parents didn’t know about and you were supposed to meet your boyfriend that your parents don’t know about,” Decker pushed.

The girl studied her fingernails.

“Who was her boyfriend, Heather?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” she said weakly. “Is she really dead?”

Decker nodded.

Heather swallowed hard and looked away.

“It matters, Heather,” Decker said, “if it was her boyfriend who ripped her off.”

“Hey,” Brian butted in. “He wouldn’t do something like that. Man, he was torn to shreds when Lindsey took off. He thought she dumped him.”

“How long had they been sneaking around together?”

“They were in love!” Heather protested. “It wasn’t anything raunchy.”

Decker backed off.

“Okay, they were in love. Nobody’s saying they weren’t. How long were they going together?”

“Over a year,” Lisa volunteered. “He was a nice guy, but sort of a dropout. You know, free-lance photographer, a one-day-at-a-time person.”

“What’s his name?”

The room was silent. Decker waited.

“Chris Truscott,” Lisa blurted.

“Snitch.” Brian muttered.

“Listen, jerk,” the girl yelled, “if he had anything to do with Lindsey’s death, I don’t want him to go unpunished.” She looked to Decker for approval.

“It was okay to protect him before,” the detective said. “After all, if the two of them ran away together, it’s not your business. But now you know Lindsey has been murdered. She was probably burnt alive and suffered a lot of pain. No sense letting Chris walk away as innocent as a newborn babe if he lit the match.”

Stunned silence. Decker hated this. Bullying people with misery to get what he wanted. Tears fell down Lisa’s cheek.

“He lives in Venice,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I forget the exact address. I think it’s Fourth and Rose.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty,” Brian answered. “I don’t know how the rest of you feel, but I feel shitty talking about Chris like he was a criminal. He was in love with Lindsey.”

“Do you think she took off with him, Heather?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Decker could barely hear her.

“Tell him about the gig, Heather,” Lisa prompted.

“What gig?” asked Decker.

“Photography gig,” Lisa answered. “See, Chris didn’t get it together with Lindsey that day—”

“Why don’t you let Heather tell it, since Chris made the friggin’ phone call to her?” Brian interrupted.

All eyes went to Heather. She drew her knees into her chest and rolled herself up into a tight ball.

“He had this photography gig,” she began in a small voice. “I think it was a wedding or a baptism. I forget. Anyway, he said that’s why he didn’t make it. He asked me to pass the word to Lindsey. See, he was off-limits to her. Her parents hated him even though they’d only met him once. Lindsey didn’t want to upset them by telling them that she was in love with Chris, so she lied and said that she broke up with him. But she didn’t. Anyway, she never showed up and I thought she’d just made other plans. Sometimes Lindsey’d forget things if she’d get real involved with her makeup or nails.”

Decker told her to go on.

“Anyway, much later that night,” Heather continued, “her mom had called me, all freaked out. Lindsey hadn’t come home. Was she at my house? God, I got all freaked myself. I didn’t know what to think. Where was Lindsey? She didn’t show up at the mall, she wasn’t at home … home she really did take off with Chris and he just told me he didn’t meet her at the Galleria to throw me off base. So I called Chris and asked him. But he swore no. I didn’t think he was lying. I mean, he really, really loved her.” She paused, then said. “God, I’ve thought about the whole thing over and over. What went wrong? What really happened to poor Lindsey? I’ve had a ton of nightmares. I just don’t know what to think anymore.” She buried her face in her knees and began to sob. “I don’t feel so good.”

Lisa threw her arms around her and rocked her back and forth.

Peter, you callous asshole, thought Decker. He comforted himself by saying he was on the right side.

When Heather seemed to have calmed down, he asked, “Have any of you had contact with Chris since Lindsey’s disappearance?”

“A little. Like the first week after she split,” Brian said. “He kept coming to the neighborhood, trying to find her. Then, nothing.”

“Chris and I used to ride in a bike club together,” answered a boy with lank dark hair and a huge Adam’s apple. His voice was a rich baritone and his name was Marc. “I saw him a couple of weeks ago, first time since Lindsey disappeared. He had sold his bike to someone at the club; said he was hard up for cash. I believe it. He looked terrible, totally wiped out. Asked me if I had heard from Lindsey. ’Course I didn’t.” The boy’s black eyes were sharp and alive. “He couldn’t have killed her, Officer. I’m not saying they didn’t take off together, but he couldn’t rip her off. He was really wild about her.”

“Any of you know his phone number by heart?”

“He’s listed,” Lisa said.

“Did Chris and Lindsey hang around you guys or did they have their own set of friends?”

“They hung around us sometimes,” Heather said. “Sometimes, me and my boyfriend would double with them. But they tried to be alone as much as possible. I don’t know much about his friends.”

“Did Lindsey ever talk about knowing a deaf girl?”

“Dead?” Brian asked.

“Deaf,” Lisa snapped. “Like you can’t hear.”

“Huh?” Brian joked.

“Get serious, Armor. This isn’t the time,” Marc scolded. He looked back at Decker. “She never mentioned any deaf girl to me.”

“To me either,” said Heather.

“Any friend of Chris’s deaf?”

Blank stares.

“So none of you heard a thing about Lindsey after she disappeared.”

They all shook their heads.

“Did Lindsey ever talk, even jokingly, about running away with Chris?”

“Lindsey may have dug the guy,” Marc said, “but she wasn’t the type to do something like take off. She had lots of plans for the senior year.”

“What kind of plans?” Decker asked.

“The prom. Varsity cheerleading,” Heather said.

“She was really into cheerleading,” added Lisa. “And modeling. She wanted to be a model. She certainly had the body for it.”

“I’ll say,” Brian said lecherously. The other kids gave him reproving looks. The boy blushed.

“Lindsey seemed to be a nice girl,” Decker said. “Considerate of her parents, not wanting to hurt their feelings by going with Chris. Enthusiastic about cheerleading. Anybody want to add anything?”

“She was a doll,” Lisa said. “Not real heavy on the gray matter—”

“Like you are?” Brian said.

“Shut up, Armor.”

Suddenly Brian became enraged. “Will you quit picking on me!” he screamed, turning crimson.

The room fell silent. A minute passed, then Brian let out a hollow laugh.

“She was a great kid,” he said in a cracked voice. “She was nice to everyone … everyone me.”

“She was real sweet,” Marc said softly. “The world could use more positive people like her.”

Decker had to admit it; she didn’t sound like a prototypical runaway. No evidence of heavy drug use, she didn’t seem to hate her parents, she had a supportive peer group and was involved in school activities. It was beginning to smell like an abduction. Which meant either the boyfriend was involved and Decker would have a substantial lead, or the boyfriend wasn’t and he was up shit’s creek without a paddle.

Decker folded his notepad and distributed his cards.

“If any one of you thinks of something that might help, give me a call.”

Lisa squinted and mouthed the word “Decker.”

“You got a daughter on the intramural track team?” she asked.

Decker nodded. “You know Cindy?”

“Not personally. I just remember this long-legged redhead named Decker who competed last year. Ran like lightning. She should go into the Olympics or something.”

Despite himself, Decker swelled with parental pride.

His watch said 6:15. Hard to believe that he’d been in there for over an hour and a half. He was supposed to meet with the rabbi at eight, so he had plenty of time to fix himself dinner. But he wasn’t hungry.

A nice girl disappears and turns up a corpse, murdered gruesomely. The scenario suppressed his appetite. Making matters worse, the case had little to go on.

It became all too clear to him why he had transferred out of Homicide. Any victim was better than a dead one. True, he’d seen his fair share of assholes getting blown away in sour drug deals and junkies who kicked themselves. The memories didn’t keep him up at night. It was cases like this one that left the bile in this throat.

A nice girl.

He thought of his own daughter. She was safe, he assured himself. She was careful. But the words seemed empty. Careful wasn’t enough.

His daughter. Alone in New York.

He took out a cigarette.

He’d call Jan the minute he got home. Cindy and Eric living together? He thought that was a fine idea.