Sacred and Profane (6 page)

“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…When does she get home?…Let’s see, it’s Wednesday…Thursday?…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…Money 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…anger…teenage hostility. And you know what else it lacked? Individuality. There wasn’t anything in there that seemed different…that 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…That 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?”