Читать книгу The Forgotten - Faye Kellerman - Страница 8

What’s the address?” Webster asked.

Martinez gave him the number while taking a big bite out of his turkey, tomato, and mustard sandwich, rye bread crumbs sprinkling his steel-wool mustache. He had been thinking about shaving it off now that it was more gray than black. But his wife told him that after all these years of something draping over his mouth, he probably had no upper lip left. “Any particular reason why Decker is using Homicide Dees for this?”

“Probably because I was in the squadroom.” He looked at his partner’s sandwich. “You carryin’ an extra one, Bertie?”

“Oh, sure.” Martinez pulled a second sandwich out of a paper bag. “You didn’t eat lunch?”

“When did I have time?” He attacked the food, wolfing half down in three bites. “Decker cornered me just as I was hangin’ up on the widow Gonzalez. The loo has a boner for this one.”

“Yeah, it’s personal.”

“It’s personal. It’s also very ugly, especially after the Furrow shooting at the JCC and the murder of the Filipino mail carrier. I think the loo wants to show the world that the police are competent beings.”

“Nothing wrong with us bagging a bunch of punks.” Martinez finished his sandwich and washed it down with a Diet Coke. “You know anything about these jokers?”

“Just what’s on the printout. They’ve been around for a while. A bunch of nutcases.”

Webster slowed in front of a group of businesses dominated by a 99 Cents store advertising things in denomination of—you guessed it—ninety-nine cents. The corner also housed a Payless shoe store, a Vitamins-R-Us, and a Taco Tio whose specialty was the Big Bang Burrito. Cosmology with heartburn: that was certainly food for thought. “I don’t see any Preservers of Ethnic Integrity.”

“The address is a half-number,” Martinez said. “We should try around the side of the building.”

Webster turned the wheel and found a small glass entrance off the 99 Cents store, the door’s visibility blocked by a gathered white curtain. No address, but an intercom box had been set into the plaster. Webster parked, and they both got out. Martinez rang the bell, which turned out to be a buzzer.

The intercom spat back in painful static. “We’re closed for lunch.”

“Police,” Martinez barked. “Open up!”

A pause, then a long buzz. Webster pushed the door, which bumped against the wall before it was fully opened. He pushed himself inside. Martinez had to take a deep breath before entering, barely able to squeeze his belly through the opening. The reception area was as big as a hatchback. There was a scarred bridge table that took up almost the entire floor space and a folding chair. They stood between the wall and the table, staring at a waif of a girl who sat on the other side of the table. Her face was framed between long strands of ash-colored hair. She wore no makeup and had a small, pinched nose that barely supported wire-rim glasses.

“Police?” She stood and looked to her left—at an interior door left ajar. “What’s going on?”

Martinez scanned the decor. Two prints without frames—Grant Wood’s American Gothic and a seascape by Winslow Homer—affixed to the walls by Scotch tape. Atop the table were a phone and piles of different-colored flyers. Absently, he picked up a baby-blue sheet of paper containing an article. The bottom paragraph, printed in italics, identified the writer as an ex-Marine turned psychologist. Martinez would read the text later.

“A synagogue was vandalized earlier today.” Martinez made eye contact with the young woman. “We were wondering what you knew about it.”

Her eyes swished like wipers behind the glasses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s all over the news,” Webster said.

“I don’t watch the news.”

“You’ve got a radio on. I b’lieve it’s tuned to a news station.”

“That’s not me, that’s Darrell. Why are you here?”

“Because we know what this place is all about,” Martinez said. “We’re just wondering exactly what role you had in the break-in.”

A man suddenly materialized from the partially opened door. He was around six feet and very thin, with coffee-colored frizzy hair and tan eyes. He had a broad nose and wide cheekbones. Martinez wondered how this guy could be an ethnic purist when his physiognomy screamed a mixture of races.

“May I ask who you all are?” he said.

“Police,” Webster said. “We’d like to ask y’all a few questions, if that’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay,” the man said. “Because no matter what I say, my words will be twisted and distorted. If you have warrants, produce them. If not, you can show yourself to the door.”

“That’s downright unneighborly of you,” Webster said.

The man turned his wrath toward the girl. “How many times do I have to tell you that you don’t let anyone in unless you’re sure of who they are!”

“They said they were the police, Darrell! So what do I do? Just leave them there, knocking?”

“And since when do you believe everything someone says? You know how people are out to get us. Did you even ask for ID?” Darrell turned toward them. “Can I see some ID?”

Webster pulled out his badge. “We’re not interested in your philosophy at the moment, although I reckon we’re not averse to hearing your ideas. Right now, we want to talk about a temple that was vandalized this morning. Y’all know anything about that?”

“Absolutely not!” Darrell insisted. “Why should we?”

“Is there anybody who can vouch for your whereabouts last night or early this morning?” Martinez asked.

“I’ll have to think about it,” Darrell said. “If I knew I was going to be raked over the coals, I would have established an alibi.”

“S’cuse me?” Webster said. “This is being raked over the coals?”

“You barge in—”

“She buzzed us in,” Martinez interrupted. “And you haven’t answered the question. Where were you and what were you doing last night?”

“I was home.” Darrell was smoldering. “In bed. Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Alone. Unless you count my cat. Her name is Shockley.”

“And this morning?” Webster inquired.

“Let’s see. I woke up at eight-thirty … or thereabouts. I don’t want to be held to the exact time.”

“Go on,” Webster pushed.

“I exercised on my treadmill … ate breakfast … read the paper. I got here at around ten-fifty, ten-thirty. Erin was already here.” His eyes moved from the cops’ faces to the pitchfork of the Grant Wood classic. “What exactly do you want?”

“How about your complete names for starters.”

“Darrell Holt.”

Martinez looked at the woman. “You’re next, ma’am.”

“Erin Kershan.”

Holt tapped his foot, then released a storage cell of aggression. “I had nothing to do with the vandalism of a synagogue! That isn’t what this group is all about! We don’t hate! We don’t persecute! And if you were told that, you’ve been misinformed. We do just the opposite of persecute. We encourage ethnic integrity. I applaud Jews who wish to congregate with one another. Jews should be with other Jews. African-Americans should be with African-Americans, Hispanics with Hispanics, and Caucasians with Caucasians—”

“And what exact ethnicity are you?” Webster asked Holt.

“I’m Acadian, if you must know.”

“You don’t sound like any Cajun I ever met,” Webster said.

“The original Acadians came from Canada—Nova Scotia specifically.” Holt gave off a practiced smile. It was condescending and ugly. “I am proud of my heritage, which is why I feel so strong about preserving cultural purity. And it has nothing to do with racism, because as you can see for yourself …” He pointed to his hair and nose. “I have black blood in me.”

“So you admit to being a mutt,” Webster said.

Holt bristled. “I am not talking about bloodlines, I’m talking ethnicity. My ethnicity is Acadian and it is my wish to preserve my ethnic purity. It is our opinion that the mixing of ethnicities has ruined civilization and certainly the individualization and pride of too many cultures. Immigration has turned everything into one big amorphous blob. Look at cuisine! You go out to a French restaurant when you’re in the mood for French food. Or perhaps a Mexican restaurant when you want enchiladas. Or Italian or American or Southern or Tunisian whenever you want the various cuisines. Imagine what it would be like if you mixed up all these nuances, all the flavors. Individually they work; together, they’d make for one horrible stew.”

“We are not beef Stroganoff, sir,” Martinez said. “Food isn’t the issue. Crime is the issue. Vandalism is a crime. What happened today at the synagogue constitutes a hate crime. The vandals will be found, and they will be punished. So if you know something, I suggest you get a load off now. Because if we come back, it’s going to be bad for you.”

“You have us all wrong.” Holt picked up a handful of leaflets and handed them to Martinez. “You’ll probably throw them away. But should you care to enlighten yourself enough to give us a fair shake, you’ll see that what we say makes a lot of sense.”

Erin broke in. “We have all kinds of members.”

“All kinds of ethnicities,” Holt added. “We cater to the disenfranchised.”

“Like who?” Martinez asked.

“Read our flyers. Our members write the articles.” He plunked a few from the table. “This one—on the ills of affirmative action—was written by an African-American, Joe Staples. This one is on English as a second language in America, written by an ex-Marine turned psychologist.” He focused in on Martinez. “Mr. Tarpin is just elucidating a well-known point. That in the United States we have only one official language and that language is English. If you read it, you’ll see that he has nothing against Hispanics. Everyone who lives in the U.S. should speak English.” He smiled. “Just like you’re doing right now.”

“I’m glad Mr. …” Martinez looked at the flyer. “Mr. Tarpin would approve of my English skills.”

“Which makes sense, being as Detective Martinez is American,” Webster stated. “Which means, if you’re Canadian, Mr. Holt, Detective Martinez is more of an American than you are. And if you advocate people staying with their own kind, maybe you should go back to Canada.”

Webster was florid with fury, his hands bunched into fists. Martinez, on the other hand, was completely impassive, glancing at Mr. Tarpin’s words on why English was such a wonderful, expressive, and large language. That was certainly true enough. Compared to Spanish’s blooming buds, English was an entire bouquet of flowers because it used words from a variety of other languages. The irony was lost on the author.

Martinez said, “Did you print these flyers yourself?”

“The PEI did. Absolutely.”

“Things were left behind in the synagogue,” Martinez said. “Nazi slogans that were printed on flyers just like these.”

“There’s a Kinko’s about a mile away from here,” Holt retorted. “Why don’t you ask them about it?”

Webster said, “And if we were to download your computer files, we wouldn’t find neo-Nazi groups bookmarked on your favorite places?”

“No, you would not,” Holt said confidently. “But even if you did find anything you deem as offensive, it still proves nothing. I did not vandalize anything!”

“There were also photographs left behind at the temple,” Martinez said. “Horrible pictures of holocaust victims—”

“That’s terrible,” Erin piped up. “That’s not our thing.”

“What is your thing?”

“Erin, I’ll handle this,” Holt said.

She ignored him. “Our thing is keeping ethnic identity pure. Gosh, we do it with animals—purebred this and purebred that. So what’s so wrong about wanting people to stay pure? You call it racism, but like Darrell stated, we are not racists! We are preservationists. We have nothing against Jews as long as they stick with Jews, and stop controlling the stock market—”

“Erin—”

“I’m just saying what Ricky says. He says the Jews control all the computers. Just look at Microsoft!”

“Erin, the head of Microsoft is William Gates III,” Holt said. “Does that sound like a Jewish name?”

“No.”

“That’s because William Gates III is not Jewish. If Ricky told you that, Ricky is full of shit!”

Erin’s mouth formed a soft O.

“Who’s Ricky?” Martinez asked.

“Some jerk …” Holt made a face at Erin. “Why do you bring him up?”

“You said he was your friend. Didn’t you go to Berkeley together?”

Holt rolled his eyes. To the cops, he said, “Ricky Moke is to the right of Hitler. Why don’t you go hassle him?”

“Where can we find him?”

“That’s a good question,” Erin said. “He hides out a lot.”

“Erin, shut up!”

“Don’t yell at me, Darrell. You were the one who gave the cops his last name.”

“Is this Moke a fugitive?”

Erin and Darrell exchanged glances. Holt said, “Moke tells lots of stories. Among them is this tale about his being a wanted fugitive.”

“What is Moke supposedly wanted for?”

“Bombings.”

The cops exchanged glances.

“Bombing what?” Webster asked. “Synagogues?”

Holt shook his head. “Animal laboratories. Not the actual cages, just the data centers. Ricky, by his own admission, is an animal lover.”