Читать книгу Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 17

He awoke the next morning with an elephantine arm and cursed his stupidity at not going to an ER last night. He’d been too damn tired and now he was paying the price. Fever burned in his brain and his radial nerve shot spasmodic pain into his arm. Rousing slowly from a fitful sleep, he got up and went to the bathroom to change the dressing.

The arm was swollen a dark purple and gouged by deep red, crusty lacerations. He found some alcohol in the medicine cabinet and began to swab the wound, his flesh sizzling at each application of the astringent. The skin turned bright red and cracked open, oozing blood and pus. He washed his arm several times and took out a packet of sterile gauze, a couple of extra-strength aspirins and four leftover penicillin pills. He downed the tablets and wrapped the wound.

Once the bite had been dressed, he phoned the station and told them he’d be in later. A call to Mrs. Bates was next. Erin would be home at four, but the father wouldn’t arrive until seven—after the start of Shabbos. Decker told Mrs. Bates he’d see Erin and reschedule her husband for sometime next week. The third call he made was to Chris Truscott. No one answered, so he figured he’d take a drive out to Venice and check out the boyfriend’s place personally.

He slipped on a shirt gingerly, wincing at each movement of his arm. It even hurt to breathe. Goddam it, he told himself. What the hell is wrong with you? So she looked like Cindy and it startled you. You’ve been a cop for almost twenty years. How could you let her get to you like that?

It was time for shacharis. He put on a kipah and took out his tefillin. Kissing the two small prayer boxes, he fitted one atop his head, the seat of man’s intelligence, and the other on his left bicep, the symbol of his strength. He wound the leather strap down his arm, across his hand and around his middle finger. He looked at both arms. One was encased in black as a symbol of religious devotion, the other in white, thanks to a whore.

Opening the siddur, he began the morning prayers, mumbling them in English by rote, his mind darting between the holy words he was uttering and the hellish images of last night. Thirty minutes later he closed the siddur, took off the phylacteries, and slipped on his shoulder harness. It was tight, the gun weighing heavily on his sore flesh.

The phone pierced his eardrums. But the voice on the other end was balm.

“Good morning, Peter.”

“Hi, Honey,” he answered.

“How was Hollywood?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Peter, you sound bad.”

“I’m just tired.”

“But are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“I had a call from Sarah Libba this morning. She invited the boys and me over for Shabbos lunch. She said you’re coming.”

“Yeah.”

“That’ll be nice, Peter.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you send her anything?”

Shit.

“Not yet.”

“How about for Rebbitzen Shulman?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to get them something for you?”

“I’ll call a florist if you’re too busy.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s no bother.”

“Thanks.”

“Peter, are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah. I’m really looking forward to Shabbos.”

“So am I.”

“I love you, Rina. Thanks again for the watch. No one has ever given me anything that beautiful.”

“It’s well deserved. I’ll let you go now.”

“See you tonight in shul.”

“Bye, Peter.”

She hung up. For a moment, he felt a strong urge to call her back, but resisted it and walked out the door.

Chris Truscott lived in Venice Beach. Two blocks to the south was the Oakwood ghetto, two blocks the other way was upscale Santa Monica. Truscott’s apartment house was orphan property waiting to be adopted by either prospective parent, depending on economic conditions.

The building was three connected bungalows shaded by tall overgrown eucalyptus rooted in crabgrass. Judging from the fresh white stucco, the units had been recently painted, but gang graffiti already marred the walls. Vines of bougainvillea coursed through the obscene messages and exploded into a hot pink cloud when they hit the roof gutters. The air was moist and cool and tinged with brine from the ocean.

Decker entered the unlocked gate, checked for clogs, then scanned the addresses on the units. Truscott’s was the rear one. He knocked on the door, but no one answered. Going around to the side of the building, he peeked inside the window. The curtain was partially drawn, allowing him a fair view.

The place was furnished but the walls and tables were bare. He was wondering how strong the locks were when a voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Who the hell are you?”

He turned around.

She was a young Latina—pretty but toughened—dressed in a housecoat and mules, with an infant in her arms.

“Police officer.” He took out his badge and showed his ID.

“If you’re looking for Chris, he’s gone.”

“When do you think he’ll be back?”

“I mean gone for good. Took off a couple of days ago. I shoulda known something was up when he sold his bike. Man, he loved that thing, working on it all the time. Claimed he needed a quick buck. He paid me his last month’s rent, so his taking off is no skin off my nose. I’m the manager of this place.”

“Did he leave a forwarding address?”

“Not with me. Wait a sec. Hold the baby.”

She handed him the infant—a boy around six months, black-eyed and toothless. Decker smiled at him and the baby proceeded to drool on his jacket. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have minded the extra weight, but his bad arm was killing him. Luckily, she returned a few minutes later and reclaimed her charge. Pulling out a ring of keys, she unlocked the door.

“Have a look.”

Decker stepped inside. The place was devoid of any personal effects.

“See,” she said, pulling back the curtain on the closet. “His clothes are gone.”

“Do you still have his rent check?”

“Cashed it.”

Damn.

“Any idea where he went?”

“Nope.” She ran her fingers over the dusty kitchen countertop. “I’ve gotta clean up this sty. I can get four fifty a month for this place cause it’s so close to the beach.”

Decker nodded.

“Mind if I take a look around?” he asked.

“Nope. Mind if I stick around?”

He shrugged.

“Fine with me.”

He opened empty drawers, searched through bare cabinets and shelves, sorted through junk mail.

“Which post office do you use?” he asked.

“The main one on Venice Boulevard.”

He picked up the phone and was surprised to find a dial tone.

“The line’s still connected.”

“Man’s coming out tomorrow to pick up the phone.”

“Mind if I use it? I want to buzz the post office and find out if he left a forwarding address there.”

“Be my guest.”

He called. As far as the post office was concerned, Truscott hadn’t moved. He also called the DMV and ran a check through registration; no change of address listed.

“No luck, huh?” she said, after he hung up.

“No. Any idea why he split?”

“You want my personal opinion?” She leaned in close. “I think it was his girlfriend. She’s dead.”

Decker raised his brows.

“What else did you hear?”

She frowned. “Ain’t that enough?”

“You ever meet his girlfriend, Ms …”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Let me see your badge again.”

He pulled it out and gave her his business card also.

“Sergeant, huh?” She handed him back his shield. “My name is Alma Sanchez, and yes, I met her once. She seemed like a nice kid. Very pretty—in an Anglo way.”

“He bring her here a lot?”

“I’m no snoop, but I’ve seen her here maybe a half dozen times.”

“He have lots of friends?”

“Chris? You’ve got to be kidding. He was a real loner. Always hid behind the camera, if you know what I mean. He took some good shots of his girl though. Even the nudes weren’t sleazy.”

Nudes.

“He was going to make her a Playboy centerfold, he once told me. You know like that movie with Dorothy Hemingway, where the boyfriend kills the girl in the end …” Her eyes got animated. “You think she was ripped off, don’t you?”

Decker closed the last of the empty drawers.

“What day is trash pick-up?”

“Tomorrow. Why?”

“And when did Truscott split?”

She eyed him. “You’re kidding.”

“They haul away the garbage yet, Ms. Sanchez?”

“You’re in luck, Sergeant.”

Real luck! The three units shared a common dumpster. Plenty of trash and it smelled ripe. But at least the searing pain in his arm was beginning to abate. He hoisted himself upward, vaulted in, then thought of something.

“Mrs. Sanchez,” he called out.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Could you do me a favor?” He pulled out his pocket-sized siddur. “Could you hold this for me?”

She took the book.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s a Jewish prayer book. I don’t want to get it dirty.”

She skimmed through the pages.

“May God be with you.” She laughed. “I’ll wait in the house. The kid needs his diaper changed.”

It paid off. A half hour’s worth of searching produced a bank deposit slip, several credit card receipts, and a newspaper classified page with seven “Apartments for Rent” ads circled in red. The manager saw him come out and greeted him with a glass of lemonade.

“Whew,” she said. “You stink.”

He let the remark pass and thanked her for the drink.

“You wanna take a shower or something?”

“No, thank you,” he declined. “Can I have my book back?”

“Don’t you think you should wash your hands first?”

She was right. He looked around and spotted a garden hose.

“I have a sink in the house,” she said.

“This is fine.” He flapped his wet hands in the air and when they were slightly damp finished drying them on his pants.

“Find anything?” she asked.

“Little of this, little of that. If you hear from Truscott, please give me a call.”

“I will.” She gave him the siddur. “You really pray outta that thing?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Bet you feel like you need it in your occupation.” She thought a moment. “Nothing meant by that. Everyone can use a little help from time to time, right?”

Once home, he showered quickly and changed his dressing. Although his arm was still swollen and painful, it had loosened a bit. He flexed his shoulder, winced, and dressed again. He wouldn’t have time for the Bateses, the phone calls, and the doctor, so the doctor would just have to wait.

He went into the kitchen and gulped down the quart of milk standing alone in the refrigerator. Finding a box of crackers in the cupboard, he grabbed a handful and stuffed them in his mouth. Still chewing, he headed out the door and to the station.

Truscott’s checking account was at Security Pacific. He called up the bank only to get a busy signal, so he tried Visa and MasterCard. Not only hadn’t Truscott reported a change of address, but he was delinquent in his payments by a substantial amount of money. They had no idea where he was, and could Decker please give them a call if he located Mr. Truscott?

Fuck you, he thought. Do your own detective work.

Calling back the bank, he found out that Truscott had closed his account two weeks before and left no forwarding address. Alma Sanchez was going to be pissed.

He placed the slips in the Bates file and opened the classified ads to the “Apartments for Rent.” Of the seven numbers circled, two had never heard of Truscott, but three remembered him. Although they hadn’t rented to him, Decker knew he was on the right track.

Did he give you a number where he could be reached?

Yes, but I threw it away.

Was Truscott alone?

Yes.

Has the trash been collected?

Yes.

Thank you very much.

No one answered the two remaining numbers. It was nearly four. Time for sister Erin.

She wasn’t what Decker had expected, looking older than fourteen but not because of cosmetics. On the contrary. She was deliberately understated. Her long blond hair hung poker straight and was parted in the middle. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and a necklace of wooden beads. Barefoot, she sat cross-legged on her bed and twirled her hair absently. Tiny wet circles had formed under her armpits, staining her sweatshirt, and she was breathing rapidly.

Marge stood in a far corner and tried to appear preoccupied. Decker pulled up a desk chair to sit opposite her. Turning the chair around, he straddled the seat, leaning his elbows against the back. He glanced around the room.

The two sisters were opposites. Whereas Lindsey’s room was a monument to conformity, Erin’s room resonated with iconoclasm. Antinuclear posters were plastered to the walls, along with quotations from Thomas Jefferson, Aristotle, Thomas Mann, and Nietzsche. An erotic Aubrey Beardsley pen-and-ink was thumbtacked to her closet door. Her bookshelves were crammed with paperbacks on philosophy, art, and social sciences. A Bach organ fugue thundered from a compact disc player.

“Mind if we turn the music down?” Marge yelled out.

“Go ahead,” Erin answered.

“I don’t want to touch the equipment,” Marge said.

Erin bounced up and turned off the system. The room fell quiet. She plopped back onto her bed and took out a pack of cigarettes.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked.

“If it’s okay with your mom, it doesn’t bother me,” Decker said.

Erin plucked out a Benson and Hedges from her packet.

“I really shouldn’t,” she said, lighting up. “It’s a filthy habit.” She inhaled deeply. “Oat cell carcinoma here we come. But all of us have our vices, I suppose. It’s better than boozing, or heavy doping … doping the hell, let’s be honest, huh? It’s a type of dope, right?”

She tried to smile, but wasn’t successful.

“Are you a little nervous, Erin?” Decker asked.

She shrugged.

“I’m ready if you are,” she said.

“We’re kind of starting from scratch, Erin,” Decker said. “The Glendale police interviewed your mom and dad before, so I sort of knew a little bit about them. But I don’t know anything about you.”

“There’s not much to know,” she answered.

“Well for starters, you’ve got pretty sophisticated taste in books.”

“I try,” she said, embarrassed but pleased by the compliment.

“You’re interested in philosophy?”

“Only as a sideline. I’m veering more toward economics.” She giggled. “A little more money in it, no pun intended.”

“Makes sense,” Decker said, straight-faced. “Ditto.”

Erin smiled, then dipped her head coquettishly. The mannerism softened her face. She glanced at Marge, then back at Decker, and became serious once again.

“Lindsey and I didn’t have a lot in common,” she volunteered.

Decker nodded.

“We like talked different languages. I mean we both talked English, but often it was hard to discern a path of communication between the two of us. I mean I loved my sister, but our interests were diametrically opposite … opposite I coherent?”

“Yes,” Decker answered.

She looked at Marge again, then whispered to Decker.

“She was my mother’s daughter. I mean, understand my mother and you’ll understand Lindsey. Except …”

Her eyes went to Marge, then back to Decker.

“Except …” she said, “my mother is a bitch and Lindsey was Earth Mama. I mean, my sister was nice to everyone, even some reeeel turkeys—the kind that deserve to be stuffed on Thanksgiving.”

“She seemed to have been very well liked.”

“She was wonderful to me,” Erin said, her eyes watering. “And I’m no day at the beach. She was very proud of my head, you know. She wasn’t bright, but she was never, never jealous of my achievements. And another thing, I mean most older sisters would be embarrassed to ask their kid sisters to help them. Not Lindsey!”

“No?”

“Not at all!” Erin said. “I mean, I’d die if I had to ask someone younger than myself for help. I mean, it really kills me to ask Josh Berenson to help me with my algebra, but at least he asks me for help with his compositions so it all like balances out.”

“I can see that.”

“But Lindsey didn’t care a fig. Just walked right up to me and said, ‘Erin, I’ve got a little problem with the book report.’” She sighed. “Lindsey and I, we liked each other but didn’t talk too much. Mostly when we did, it was she trying to set me up. I wasn’t interested in the guys she’d get for me, you know. I like older men. I need someone mature.”

She leaned forward.

“I’ve had men in their forties come on to me.”

Her eyes swung from Marge to Decker, settling somewhere below Decker’s belt.

“I can handle that, too,” she whispered.

Thank God for Margie.

“Did Lindsey like older men?” Decker asked.

“Hell, no. Her boyfriend was a nothing. A nice guy but a nothing. I realize that’s a value judgment.”

“Did you ever meet her boyfriend?”

“Sure. She used to bring Chris around when my mom wasn’t home. Mom didn’t like him.”

“You know why?”

“Because he was a nothing. But my definition of a nothing is different from hers. A nothing to me means empty in the skulleruno. Mom’s nothing is synonymous with no money.”

“Do you think it’s possible that Lindsey and Chris took off together?”

“It’s possible.” Her voice had dropped an octave and she winked at him. “Anything’s possible.” She glanced at Marge. “Does she have to be here?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Departmental rules,” he lied.

She frowned.

“So you think that Chris and your sister ran away together?” Decker asked.

“I didn’t say that. I just said I thought it was possible.”

“Ever see Chris get violent?”

“No.”

“Did Lindsey ever tell you that Chris was violent or mean or had a bad temper?”

“No. Nothing like that. The two of them were madly in love—Hero and Leander, or something out of Bullfinch’s Mythology. He wouldn’t have hurt her.”

She sounded sincere.

“Did Lindsey ever mention Chris taking nude photographs of her?”

“Yep. I’ve seen them. Man, she had it all.” She lowered her head. “I was real jealous of her looks and her body. God just wasn’t fair when He doled out the physical attributes. I used to say mean things to her to get even. It hurt her. She never said anything, but I know it hurt her.”

“All sisters find something to fight about, Erin. That’s normal.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Hell, I spent plenty of nights doctoring up her essays.”

“I’m sure you did,” Decker said. “Erin, do you think Lindsey would ever do more than just pose in the nude?”

“Like do porno?”

“Yeah, like do porno.”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t think she’d do it.”

“Do you think Chris could have talked her into it?”

“No. He wouldn’t do something like that. Nudes are one thing. Being fucked like a baboon in heat is quite another.”

She gave him a suggestive smile. Decker ignored it.

“Did you know that Lindsey kept a diary?” he asked.

The girl didn’t respond.

“Erin?”

“What?”

“Did you know that Lindsey kept a diary?”

“Oh?”

“Do you have it, Erin?”

Again, she didn’t answer.

“Why don’t you level with me?” Decker said gently.

“Yeah, I have it,” she said. “I took it when it was clear Lindsey wasn’t coming back. I didn’t want my mother to find it. Are you gonna tell her?”

“I’m afraid I have to,” Decker said.

The girl angrily squashed her cigarette into an ashtray and clenched her jaw.

“Oh shit! Grounded for weeks. I mean, Mom asked me if I knew where it was and I out and lied to her. But my motivation was altruistic, you know?”

“How so?”

“I knew what was in there—her and Chris. I mean, she read passages to me, the lovemaking passages. It was pretty graphic. I didn’t want my mom to be mad at Lindsey, you know? ’Cause she was really a nice sister. And I kept on thinking Lindsey would come back home, so why have Mom on her case as well as my own? Also, I didn’t want Lindsey to think I was a snitch and a snoop and be disappointed in me. Shit, I can’t believe she’s really … really. I keep thinking she’s away at summer camp and’ll be home any day now.”

She sniffed back tears.

“But she won’t, will she?”

Decker shook his head.

She threw the pack of cigarettes across the room.

“Friggin’ awful,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you going to do with the diary?” she asked.

“We hope it’ll help us out in our investigation.”

“It won’t. I know what’s in there. Just a lot of very personal stuff.”

“Sometimes something very minor turns out to be very important.”

The girl went over to one of her books, pulled out a false spine and extracted a pink vinyl-covered pocket book trimmed in gold.

“Here,” she said, giving it to Decker. “She wrote a couple of nasty things about Mom and Dad and me. But she wasn’t really like that at all. They were written in anger and I’ve forgiven her. I mean really, I know I’m not beautiful, but I’m no bag-lady either.” She looked to Decker for confirmation.

“You’re a very pretty teenager, Erin,” he said calmly.

She blushed. “No, really … really do you really think?”

“I think you’re a very pretty teenager,” he repeated.

“Mom’s always bugging me to do more with myself. Like Lindsey. I mean Lindsey was just much more into the superficials than I am.” The girl grew pensive. “She was also flesh and blood, not just private thoughts scrawled on a piece of paper. Remember that when you read this, Sergeant,” she said, tapping her finger on the diary.

“I will, Erin.”

“I’m gonna miss her,” Erin said to herself. At last the tears came pouring out. “Oh God, I miss her so much already.”

A toss of the coin put Decker in the driver’s seat as Marge delved into the diary. After ten minutes of reading, she chuckled out loud.

“The kid had a sense of humor,” she said. “Listen to this. It’s dated about a year ago. ‘We made love again last night.’ She’s referring to Chris. ‘I did something I’ve never done before. I opened my eyes and looked at him while he was doing it. He looked like he was going to sneeze but it never came out so I guess that’s just how he looks when he’s into it. I like to make love, I like the closeness to Chris, but I kept wanting to offer him a tissue when I watched him. From now on, I think I’ll keep my eyes closed.’”

Decker smiled, but it was edged with sadness. Marge caught the melancholy in his eyes.

“This is very ghoulish,” she said, flipping the page.

“At least we’re on the side of truth and justice.”

“You forgot the American way.”

The Plymouth hooked onto the 210 Freeway, the major thoroughfare that linked the Foothill pocket communities with intercity urban sprawl. Dusk coated the mountains, obscuring their hard edges. Marge took out a penlight to augment the dwindling light.

“Did she write about boys other than Chris?” Decker asked.

“Nope. At least not so far.” She read a few more pages to herself. “Lindsey was wild about Chris. Gushing. True love.”

“Get a feel for him?”

“He liked sex.”

“That’s the majority of the diary?”

“Oh no, not at all. Most of it is very mundane—one-sentence entries. She didn’t even write every day. Here—the whole weekend is summed up as ‘I bought a pink blouse.’ Two days later she writes, ‘I got a new pair of sandals.’ The next weekend it’s, ‘I gotta get to a beach. My tan’s fading. I look like Ghostwoman.’”

Marge went back to reading. The police radio spat out calls that concerned neither of them. Decker lit a cigarette to break the monotony of the ride.

“Listen to this,” Marge said. “Dated around six months ago. ‘Erin came home dressed in her bag-lady getup.’”

“Aha.”

“‘Honestly, she’s just hopeless! And she could do so much more with herself if she’d just try. God, I’m sounding like Mom. How gross!’”

Decker laughed. “Insight at fifteen.”

“Hey, some never achieve it in a lifetime.”

“That’s true. Did she write about posing for Chris in the nude?”

“Yeah. Let me find the entries … entries, here’s one. ‘Cris took more nude pictures of me. Like always, we made love afterwards, this time doggie style. Man, he’s big, I like it the best when I’m on top.’” Marge smiled. “Adventurous little thing, wasn’t she.”

“Can’t hold back raging hormones.”

She looked at him. “Is it hard being the father of a teenaged daughter?”

“It has its moments.” He definitely didn’t like the tenor of this conversation. “Is there anything to suggest that Chris coerced her into posing nude?”

“Not that I can tell.”

Decker checked his watch and floored the accelerator. Even at high speeds, he wasn’t going to make it in time for the start of the Sabbath. He wondered if Rabbi Schulman would say anything. Probably not.

“She was sensitive, Pete,” Marge said. “She got her feelings hurt a lot.”

“Such as?”

She skimmed a few of the back pages. “Like Heather didn’t notice her new dress … dress didn’t call when he said he would … would was her usual sharp-tongued witch. I can sure believe that. Here’s another—Brian embarrassed her in front of her English teacher.”

“Brian’s a jerk.”

“Yeah, she knew that too. Wait a minute, let me find …” She turned to the back pages. “Here it is. She writes, ‘Brian got drunk and threw up in his dad’s car again. I know he’s a loser, but I feel sorry for him. His dad is completely disgusting, always trying to put the make on girls Bri brings home. It’s no wonder he scams all the time.’”

“Did she mention the dad coming on to her?”

“Not specifically.”

Marge read further.

“She has her share of catty digs in here. It really pissed her off when someone looked better than her. She was vain.”

“Never met a teenager who wasn’t self-absorbed in some way,” Decker said.

Ten minutes later Decker shot the amber light at the end of the freeway off-ramp and sped toward the station house.

“In a hurry?” Marge asked.

“A little.”

She closed the diary and handed it to him.

“You take a look at it and tell me what you think,” she said. “I don’t find anything unusual in here. Nothing that spells an unhappy kid about to run away. And nothing to suggest that Truscott was weird. She was gaga over him—wrote about following him to the end of the universe.”

Decker felt a burst of anger. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, or his growling stomach, or his arm beginning to awaken from its analgesic dormancy. Whatever the reason was, the case suddenly infuriated him. The waste of a young girl’s life.

Through clenched teeth he said, “It’s a damn shame that she fell so short of her destination.”