Justice

“Anything else in his file?”

Again, Kathy plowed through racks of folders. Finally she shut the file and shook her head, a troubled expression on her face. “There’s nothing else listed under his name.”

“In other words, the boy’s a cipher.”

Kathy gave him a sheepish smile. “We have lots of kids here, Sergeant.”

Decker said nothing. He went back into Gordon’s office and gathered up the Polaroids still resting on his desk. The rigor-laden corpse had turned into a person named Cheryl Diggs, a victim snuffed out by a madman. Since she could no longer speak for herself, Decker would have to be her voice.

He regarded Sheldon Gordon. Elbows resting on his desk, the principal sat with his head in his hands.

“This is going to be so traumatic for the kids.” He raised his eyes. “It’s going to scare the wits out of the girls here. Every single boy is going to be seen as a potential rapist/murderer.”

Decker thought of his daughter. For a decade plus, Decker had worked juvenile and sex crimes in the Foothill Substation of LA’s San Fernando Valley. Every so often, he had unwittingly exposed his daughter to the horrors of angry, unbalanced men. He often wondered if he had skewed her perception of the male gender.

He glanced at a Polaroid of Cheryl Diggs. At the moment, with Cindy being alone in New York, a campus rapist on the loose, he wondered if her skewed perception wasn’t an asset.

Whitman lived on a nondescript side street populated by twenty-year-old apartment buildings that had made it through the earthquake. Sundays were usually quiet, but to Decker’s eyes, the neighborhood seemed exceptionally sleepy—perfect camouflage for a secret narcotics agent. After giving Whitman’s door a firm knock, Decker waited a beat, then pounded the sucker until his fist turned red.

Either no one was home or Whitman wasn’t answering. Decker left a business card with his phone number, instructing Chris to call the station house immediately. Then he rode the elevator back to the first floor and studied the place’s directory.

No on-premises manager, just a small-print phone number that had been inked out and replaced with a set of new digits that were written in barely legible pencil. Decker copied the phone number down, called and got no answer.

He took the staircase down to the apartment’s underground parking lot. Whitman drove a red Trans Am. Ten minutes of searching produced no such animal.

He left the building, walking over to his unmarked Volare, cramming his legs under the steering wheel. Left hand drumming the dashboard, he put in a call to Devonshire Detectives. Luckily, Scott Oliver answered the Homicide desk—working Sundays to avoid his wife.

“Hey, Rabbi,” he said. “I hear you bagged a good-looking babe.”

“Good-looking but dead, Scotty.”

“Bring her over anyway. She couldn’t be any worse than my last girlfriend.”

“I need you to run a name through department files for me. Christopher Sean Whitman. Find out if he’s working Vice. If nothing pops, see if he has a yellow sheet. If you still draw blanks, run the name through NCIC.”

“Why are you running a name through Vice, Pete? Was the stiff a hooker?”

“Whitman was the victim’s boyfriend. I think he might be a narc. Also, do me a favor and put a lookout call for Whitman’s red Trans Am.” He gave Oliver the license number. “Call me if you come up with something. If not, I’ll call back later.”

From his jacket, Decker pulled out the address list of Cheryl’s friends. He’d check them later. Unfortunately, there was dirtier work to be done first. Though no one had called in to ask about Cheryl Diggs’s whereabouts, the girl wasn’t an orphan.

It was time to pay the dreaded call to her mother.

12

The apartment house was an iffy—one of those buildings that suffered cosmetic cracks from the earthquake but was still structurally sound. Unfortunately, the landlord didn’t think enough of the place to give it a face-lift. It was coated with dingy brown stucco, large chunks missing at corners and window frames. The planter boxes held more weeds than flowers. The directory was posted on the outside of the building, but Decker knew Cheryl’s unit number. He took the staircase up to the second floor, knocked on the corresponding door. He heard shuffling, but that was all. Someone was taking their own dear time.

Weekends. Everyone slept late except him. On Shabbos, it was up early for shul. Since he worked his schedule around his Sabbath, he picked up the slack on Sundays. Which effectively meant he worked six days a week.

Not that he minded his job. In fact, he got antsy if he stayed away too long. But everyone needed a break. Especially from dreaded things like grievance calls.

He knocked again. Finally, someone answered. As soon as he saw her face, he knew what had caused her delay. She was either newly drunk or nursing a bad hangover. Watery blue eyes, puffy lids and mouth, and a nasal drip. She sniffed, then rubbed her nose. Medium-sized, voluptuous build. Not unlike her daughter except Mom had gone to seed. She wore loose cotton shorts and an oversized T-shirt that did little to hide her unbound pendulous breasts.

He took out his badge. “Police, ma’am. I’m looking for Mrs. Janna Diggs.”

“Gonzalez,” the woman answered. “Janna … Gonzalez! You got the name wrong.”

“I’m looking for Cheryl Diggs’s mother. Would that be you, ma’am?”

“Depends on what you want.”

Decker said, “May I come in, Mrs. Gonzalez?”

“’Pose so.”

Janna cleared the doorway; Decker stepped inside the living room. Though he kept his face impassive, his stomach did a back flip. It was almost impossible to see furniture because it was covered with garbage—dozens of empty beer bottles, squashed aluminum cans, crumpled newspapers, rotting food, discarded paper plates and utensils, and heaps of dirty clothes. The couch had been opened into a bed. The pillowcases were uncovered, sheets wet and stained. The woman scratched her cleavage.

“You want some coffee, Mister …” She looked confused. “Or is it Officer?”

“No coffee, thank you, ma’am.”

Janna pushed aside the unwashed sheets and sat on the open mattress. “Okay then. Whattha little bitch do?” She sniffed deeply. “How much is it gonna cost me?”

Decker tried to keep his voice gentle. “Ma’am, early this morning, police discovered the body of a young teenaged girl. We have reason to believe that it might be your daughter, Cheryl.”

Janna froze, then blinked but didn’t speak. Decker waited for another reaction but nothing came. He said, “Mrs. Gonzalez, if there’s someone you’d like to be with, someone you’d like to call, I can do that for you.”

Janna remained silent. With great effort, Decker forced himself to park his butt on the dirty bed. “Is there something I can do for you right now, Mrs. Gonzalez?”

She still didn’t answer.

“Maybe pour you a drink?” Decker offered.

The woman nodded mechanically.

Decker went over to a small card table. Among the scattered debris was an open bottle of Wild Turkey. He held it up. “Is this all right?”

Janna looked in his direction but said nothing. Decker found a dirty cup, rinsed it in a food-encrusted porcelain sink, and poured her a shot of bourbon. He brought it over to her. She took it, then raised it to her lips. She wiped her nose on her T-shirt.

“Howchu … you know it’s Cheryl?”

“Someone has initially identified your daughter from photographs taken at the crime scene. When you’re ready, and feel strong enough, we’d like you to come down and make a definitive identification.”

“You want me to look at the body?”

“Yes,” Decker said. “We want you to look at the body.”

Janna rubbed her nose. “From pichures, you could tell it was Cheryl?”

“Somebody thought it was your daughter, yes,” Decker answered.

“You have the pichures?”

Decker kept his face flat. “I think it would be better if you witnessed the body in person. Less chance for a mistake.”

“But you have pichures.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You have them on you?”

Inane to lie. Decker said, “They’re in my pocket.”

Quietly, Janna said, “Lemme see.”

Decker paused. “Mrs. Gonzalez, they were taken at the crime scene. They’re hard to look at even for a veteran like I am.”

“That bad, huh?” Janna rubbed her eyes. “I’m stronger than I look. Lemme see.”

Decker hesitated, then reached in his pocket and pulled out the Polaroids. Janna stared at the first one. Instantly, tears ran down her pallid cheeks. She went through the snapshots one by one, her eyes overflowing each time she studied another pose. Finally she blotted her face with her T-shirt and handed the pictures back to Decker.

“It’s her … Cheryl.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded, her lower lip quivering.

“Can I get you a glass of water, Mrs. Gonzalez?”

“Nothin’.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. She touched her mouth, then pulled her hand away. “Is that it?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Though she shrugged indifference, her face had set in a mask of grief. “Go ahead.”

“Do you know where your daughter was last night?”

Janna shook her head no. “I haven’t talked to Cheryl in …’bout a week.”

Decker took out his pad. “What do you know about your daughter’s friends?”

“Not much anymore. Cheryl and me haven’t been getting along so hot.” She blinked rapidly. “Not that I didn’t try, but … you do the best you can, you know? Sometimes it’s not enough.”

“Has Cheryl been living with you, Mrs. Gonzalez?”

“In and out.” Again, the tears started flowing. “She’d eat my food, steal my booze … then she was gone. Sometimes, when I would go away or be with my boyfriend, she’d bring her friends over. Cheryl had lots of friends.”

“Tell me about her friends.”

“Wild like she was.” Her chin touched her chest. “Wild like I am. The fruit’s the same as the tree or somethin’ like that.”

“Do you know her friends by name?”

“Some. Lisa and Jo and Trish. Trashy girls. I think Lisa got caught shopliftin’. Jo was picked up once for turning tricks.”

“Did Cheryl turn tricks?”

“Wouldn’t put it past her. Anything for money. But if she did, she never got caught. Least she never had me bail ’er out.”

“Tell me about boyfriends. Did Cheryl ever talk about her boyfriends?”

“Oh, she had lots of boyfriends, Detective.”

Decker wasn’t sure if he heard jealousy or disapproval in Janna’s voice. “Ever meet any of her boyfriends?”

“A couple. I remember one of ’em. An ape of a guy with big tits. Not real tall but real pumped.”

“Chris Whitman?”

“No, I never heard that name before.”

Decker took out his list. “Blake Adonetti, Steve Anderson—”

“That’s the one. Stevie, she called him. She went with him for a while, but he wasn’t the only one.”

A look of anger spread across her face.

“She liked the boys, Officer. She saw something in pants that pleased her eye, she took it. Even if it belonged to her mother. First time, I forgave her. After I caught her with another one of my friends, I kicked her out.”

The room became silent.

“Course I’m not good at being mad. Truth was I missed her. So I said she could come back. And she did whenever she needed a place to crash.”

Her mouth turned downward.

“She was a very pretty little baby. And smart, too. Could do the ABCs forward and backward at three years old. Isn’t that something?”

“Yes, it is.”

“So damn smart. Too smart for her own good.”

Janna laid her head on Decker’s chest and wept openly. Decker enclosed her heaving body and patted her back gently. But that wasn’t enough comfort. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her chest deep into his.

“Hold me,” she whispered as she sobbed. “Hold me, please.”

Decker continued to pat her back. “Who can I call for you, Mrs. Gonzalez? You mentioned a boyfriend. Can I ring him up for you?”

The woman kept him locked in a bear hug. “Hold me please … love me please.”

As Janna raised her mouth, Decker jerked his head back and broke her hold. The rejection caused her to weep even harder. She sobbed into her hands, her shoulders bouncing with each intake of breath. Decker stood, trying to keep his posture relaxed, but inside he was a bundle of coiled nerves. “May I use the phone?”

She didn’t answer. Decker took that as an affirmative. He called the station house and asked for a cruiser, requesting that one of the uniforms sent over be a female. Then he just waited it out. Five minutes later, Decker answered the loud, distinct police knock at Janna’s door—Linda Estrella and Tony Wilson. That was good because both had been to the hotel this morning. They had seen the body; hopefully, they could empathize with Janna’s misery.

He whispered, “This morning’s victim was Cheryl Diggs. This is her mother, Mrs. Janna Gonzalez. I think she has a boyfriend, but hasn’t given me a phone number to call him. Let her compose herself, then if she’s up to it, take her down to the morgue for the definitive ID.”

Linda said, “You don’t want to be there?”

“Not necessary.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “We know the victim. Let’s get the perp.”

Using the unmarked radio mike, Decker called the station house. Oliver was still manning Homicide.

“I can’t believe you’re working this hard on Sunday,” Decker said. “Your old lady must really be pissed off.”

“It ain’t easy living with a junkyard dog.”

“You might try throwing her a bone now and then.”

“You mean a boner.” Oliver laughed over the line. “Actually, she’s out of town. Just my fortune that my girlfriend’s down with a bad case of herpes. What’s a poor pussyhound to do?”

“It’s a cruel world out there, Scotty. Did you get a chance to run Christopher Whitman through the computer?”

“I did do that, Pete. The guy has no sheet locally or nationally. I’ve also checked with Narcotics in Devonshire and the other Valley divisions. They deny having a mole at Central West Valley.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“Could be you’re right. You know how Narcotics can be. Codespeak. Getting info outta them is like using a foreign dictionary. You’re speaking the same words, but not talking the same language.”

Decker opened his thermos and drank lukewarm coffee. “Whitman didn’t happen to call in by any chance?”

“Nope. You need anything else, Rabbi?”

“Got some time on your hands?”

“What do you need?”

“In the abstract, it would be nice if someone could pull Whitman’s tax forms—state and federal for the last two years. Kid’s an enigma. He’s hiding something. He’s got an apartment, he’s got to pay rent. I want to know where the money’s coming from.”

Oliver paused. “I’d like to help. But we all know that hacking his papers on-line would be an invasion of Whitman’s privacy.”

“Of course,” Decker said.

“Still, if I were you, I’d check your mail in an hour. Never know what could show up unexpectedly.”

Decker smiled to himself. “Today’s Sunday, Scott.”

Another long pause. Then Oliver said, “There’s always special delivery.”

13

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.”

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