Читать книгу Justice - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 18

Running down the list of Cheryl’s friends, Decker underlined the name Steve Anderson, the ape of a guy with big tits whom, according to Mom, Cheryl had dated. He fit the description of a steroid popper, and anabolic users were notoriously unpredictable in their behavior.

Unlike Decker’s old haunt of Foothill, the West Valley was a predominantly white middle-class area. Apartment streets like the one Whitman lived on weren’t unusual. Nor were blocks of sensible, one-story houses. But the eighties land boom had given the area a new face—gated housing developments composed of million-dollar estates meant to attract a more desirable—i.e., moneyed—population.

Anderson lived in a two-story colonial set on a sweeping mound of rolling lawn. There were a Mercedes, a Jaguar, and a Ford Explorer stacked up in the long sloped driveway. Decker parked on the street and walked up the herringbone-brick pathway lined with white impatiens and pink begonias. The entrance was double-doored, the bell on the right. Decker pressed the button and deep chimes could be heard from inside the house. A female voice asked who was there. Decker identified himself.

There was a pause. The woman said, “Just a minute.”

Clacking sounds inside—heels reverberating against a hard surface. A moment later, the door opened, giving Decker a view of a man with a tanned face, dark, curly hair, and uncertain eyes. Behind his broad shoulders, Decker could make out a petite form with styled platinum hair. The missus had faded into the background.

“You’re the police?” the man asked.

Decker took out his badge and ID. “Detective Sergeant Peter Decker, Devonshire Homicide. Are you Mr. Anderson?”

“Yes, I am. Did you say Homicide?”

“Yes, sir, I did. May I come in?”

“Do you have a warrant?”

Decker stared at him. “No, Mr. Anderson, I don’t have a warrant. Do I need one?”

Anderson rubbed his hands together, his frame still blocking the doorway. He wore gray designer sweats and running shoes with no socks.

Decker said, “I’d like to talk to your son, Steven.”

The woman gasped. Anderson crossed his arms in front of his chest and rocked on his feet. “What about?”

“Do you want to continue talking in the doorway, Mr. Anderson? Neighbors might think it’s kind of funny.”

Slowly Anderson ceded space, allowing Decker entrance into the large marble hall, then leading him into the living room. It was as light and cold as vanilla ice cream. The carpeting was spotless. Decker checked the bottoms of his shoes. The missus caught it. She was neat and nondescript.

“Don’t worry, Sergeant. The Berber is Scotch-garded.”

“Susan, why don’t you bring in some coffee?” her husband suggested.

“No thanks on the coffee.” Decker took a seat on a cream-colored modular sofa. “Is Steven home?”

Anderson remained mulish. “What do you want with Steven?”

“Bring him down,” Decker said. “You’ll find out.”

Anderson kneaded his hands. “Is he going to need a lawyer?”

“I can’t tell you that until I’ve talked to Steven.”

The man turned to his wife. “Get him down here.”

She obeyed without question. A minute later, a compact boy entered the room. He wore a tank shirt and shorts, the muscles and veins of his arms and legs inflating the skin like stuffed sausages. He wasn’t bad-looking—dark curly hair like Dad, square face and a strong chin. But his complexion was bad, acne pitting his cheeks.

“Sit down,” Anderson ordered his son.

The boy rubbed his nose and sat.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Peter Decker—”

“He’s from Homicide, Steven. What the hell is going on?”

“Homi …” The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Dad, I … I … I …”

Decker said, “Mr. Anderson, please sit down and let me ask the questions.”

Reluctantly, Anderson sat down. Decker thought a moment, wondering how to play it. Straightforward came to mind. Eyes on Steven, he took out the Polaroids and spread them on the glass coffee table. The boy took a look, jerked his head back, and turned white. The missus gasped. The old man froze.

Decker said, “Do you know this girl, Steve?”

In the background, Decker heard a dry heave. Susan had run out of the room. Decker returned his attention to Steve. The boy had his massive arms wrapped around his barrel chest. “It’s … it’s … Cheryl, isn’t it?”

“Cheryl who?”

“Cheryl Diggs.”

Decker regarded the boy. “Do you need a glass of water, Steve?”

He nodded. Anderson screamed out, “Susan, Steve needs some water. Make it two.”

She didn’t answer. No one seemed perturbed by her lack of response.

Decker took out his notepad. “When was the last time you saw her, Steven?”

“Don’t answer that,” Anderson interrupted.

“Dad, I didn’t do any—”

“Shut up!”

“But I didn’t do—”

“I said shut up!” He turned to Decker. “We want a lawyer.”

“I don’t need a lawyer,” Steve protested. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Go to your room, Steven. Right now!”

“But—”

“NOW!” Anderson bellowed.

The boy stood, walked a couple of paces, then turned around. “No.”

Anderson stood up. “Steve, get out of here—”

“No, Dad, you get out of here. You get out of here. What the hell do you know about me? Or my friends or my life, you goddamn prick—”

“Steven—”

“Don’t you Steven me! You were never around. Only around to put me down—”

Anderson moved closer to the boy. “If you don’t shut up—”

“You shut up! I’m over eighteen, Dad. I don’t need your permission to talk. So you shut up!”

The boy gave his father a slight shove. Decker moved quickly between them and held out his arms. “BACK OFF NOW! BOTH OF YOU! BACK OFF!”

The room fell quiet except for heavy breathing. Decker seized the moment. “I need your help, Steven.”

The boy seemed suddenly deflated. He glanced at his father. That was all the room the senior Anderson needed to horn in. “You don’t have a warrant, Sergeant, I don’t want you in my house! Now, you do what you have to do, but my son isn’t talking until I’ve talked to him.”