Street Dreams (25 page)

“Know anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

“Of course not. That would imply that someone
cares
enough about them to kill them.” He bit his lip. “These are the discards of humanity. If it weren’t for Mr. Klinghoffner’s
dedication, the city would have closed us down many moons ago.”

“Her brother said that someone from the center had called her, offering to take her back to Fordham.”

“Who?”

“We’re in the process of checking phone records. Any ideas?”

“No. I’m not here on weekends. I have an administrative job. But of course, someone was here. Check with them.”

I eyed him. “Where were you Sunday night?”

Buck broke into a savage smile. “Oh my!” He brought his hands to his chest. “Am I under suspicion?”

“Can you answer the question?”

“Let’s see.” He cleared his throat. “What time are we talking about?”

“Three in the morning. Monday morning.”

“At three
A.M.
? I was sleeping.”

“Do you have a roommate?”

“My dog.”

“What’d you do last Sunday?”

“Hmmm. I went out to brunch with a good friend … Café Romano. That was until … hmmm … three, three-thirty. Do you want her
name?”

Her
name. “Girlfriend?”

“On good days.” He sneered at me. “Jealous?”

“Green with envy. Go on.”

“Hmmm … I went home. I read. Watched TV. Played with my computer. … Oh, I went to a video store. I rented
In the Bedroom
… something light and breezy.” He rolled his eyes.

I smiled.

Buck pointed to the stairwell. “Your interviewee awaits.”

I looked in the direction of his pointed finger. Klinghoffner was coming down the steps.

“Anything else?” Buck asked me.

I stood up. “Not at the moment.”

“Does this mean you’re going to pester me again?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh goody!” He graced me with a sour smile. “I’m rather enjoying this
bad-boy
image.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I whispered as I passed his desk.

We went into a private office, away from Buck’s prying eyes and ears, and away from distractions. Klinghoffner was wearing
a rumpled brown jacket, a wrinkled white shirt, and creased brown cords. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. His eyes
were sunken and his skin had a sick pallor that usually accompanied bad news. He mirrored my own internal turmoil.

“They’re children,” he told me. “Little kids, Officer Decker. That’s all Belinda was … just a little kid.” He sank into a
chair, motioning for me to sit as well. “I just can’t believe the bastard didn’t stop!”

“It was terrible.”

He regarded me with sympathetic eyes. “Did you get his license plate?”

“There’s an ongoing investigation. But actually that’s not why I’m here.”

“No?” He sounded surprised.

Before I started to explain myself, I said, “Have the police contacted you in regard to Belinda’s death?”

“No. Frankly, that’s what I thought this call was all about.”

I had no business asking about Belinda, no business investigating the hit-and-run. Not only would it have been unprofessional,
it might mess something up in the future. And to that, I said to myself:
So what?
I said, “Her brother told me that someone had phoned her, offering to take her back to the center. Know anything about that?”

“No.” He thought a moment. “How odd. I have no idea who that could have possibly been. We’re on a skeleton staff over the
weekend, just a couple of our teachers, sleep-in caretakers, and the janitor.”

“We’re in the process of checking phone records from her brother’s house. We’d like to look over your phone records as well.”

“Of course. Anything to find this monster.”

“Her brother said that she was boy crazy. Maybe she was on a secret tryst. Could she have been seeing someone without you
knowing about it?”

“Like a boyfriend?”

“Yes, Mr. Klinghoffner, like a boyfriend.”

“It couldn’t have been anyone from here. None of our students have driver’s licenses.”

“And since when has that ever stopped a determined teenager from getting behind the wheel?”

Klinghoffner said, “It doesn’t, but these kids don’t have access to a car.”

“She was hit about five miles away from here. She could have taken a bus.”

He was straining with thought. “I’ll look into it.”

“Thank you,” I told him. “As I said before, I’m also here for another reason.”

Klinghoffner waited.

“I’m interested in Sarah Sanders … her baby’s father, actually. I think he might have been a student here. She mentioned a
boy named David. Probably black. Possibly Down’s syndrome … or maybe mosaic. That’s when—”

“I know what mosaic is,” Klinghoffner interrupted. “Why do you ask?”

“Am I on the right track?”

“David Tyler … twenty-four, black, and yes, he was mosaic. Again, why do you ask?”

“And why do you refer to him in the past tense?”

“Because he dropped out of sight about six months ago. I tried very hard to locate him.” He was pained. “Did Sarah tell you
something about him?”

“This is her story. They used to meet in a park and fool around. One day, about six months ago, a gang of boys caught them
in the bathroom. They raped her, beat him up and dumped him in the trash. Sarah left the bathroom not knowing if David was
dead or alive. She’s been keeping this inside, too scared to tell anyone. It only came up because we asked about the father
when we interviewed her about the baby.”

It took him a while to answer. “And you think that this is true?”

“Would she have a reason to lie?”

“Yes, if she was having sex. That’s against the rules here. Maybe she felt a rape would get her off the hook.”

“But then what happened to David?”

Klinghoffner sat back and sighed heavily. “David never lived here, Officer Decker. He was pretty high functioning, as mosaics
often are. He had his own apartment, knew the bus lines, and was able to get from point A to point Z pretty well. He was able
to do this because his life was very circumscribed.”

“If he was high functioning, what was he doing here?”

“He had a job. We used to have an art therapist, but budget cuts put a stop to that. David could draw and didn’t demand much
in the way of salary. And being who he was, he worked well with the other residents. He was well liked.”

“By Sarah Sanders?”

“By everyone.” Klinghoffner’s lower lip trembled. “David was independent … but he was less than completely responsible. He
often missed days … one day, two days. When he missed a week, I grew concerned. I went over to his place, knocked on the door,
and when he didn’t answer, I opened it with the key.”

“You had a key.”

“I had a key. I insisted David give me a key, just in case. His place … food in the refrigerator … some things on the shelves.
But his closet was empty. It seemed to me he had packed up and left.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Yes, of course. We’re still talking about a compromised individual. I told them about David’s condition. But since he was
living on his own, and since it
looked
like he moved out voluntarily, they said their hands were tied.” He gave me an accusing eye. “The police threw it back in
my lap.”

I didn’t respond.

Klinghoffner went on. “I made phones calls to some local shelters, also to his conservator. He hadn’t heard from David, either.
This was worrisome. David got his money from him. David doesn’t really have skills to hold down a normal job. Without his
money, he can’t survive.”

“Tell me about the conservator.”

“David comes from a well-to-do family. He was an only child and was born when the Tylers were older. Joe was sixty, Betty
was forty-six. Down’s syndrome, or in his case the variant mosaic, is associated with maternal age.”

I nodded.

“Naturally, when they realized he had special needs, they set up a trust fund. When Betty died six years ago, all the money
went to David. He’s been living off that fund.”

“And the conservator pays the expenses.”

“Yes,” the director replied. “David was high functioning, but he required help balancing a budget.”

“And you haven’t heard from David in about six months?”

He nodded. “Honestly, I stopped looking in earnest about three, four months ago. But I did make phone calls. And of course,
I called up his conservator, asked him to keep me posted if he did hear from David. I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“But you never heard from the conservator?”

“The last time I spoke to Mr. Paxton was about … let me think. Around two months ago.”

“You suspect the worst?”

Klinghoffner just shook his head. “It has been a terrible year.”

I said, “Have you considered a connection between David’s disappearance and Belinda’s death?”

He gave my question some consideration. “I don’t see how. The incidents were months apart. And I’m sure Belinda’s death was
nothing but a terrible accident.”

I didn’t think so, but I kept my opinions to myself.

“No, no, no,” Klinghoffner insisted. “It’s all just a coincidence. A terrible, terrible coincidence.”

“Sir, do you know what happens to David’s money if he dies?”

“I haven’t any idea.”

“I take it that this Mr. Paxton is a lawyer?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Do you have his business address?”

“Of course.” He stood up. “I’ll get it for you. Would you like me to call him?”

“No, sir, I’ll do that. As a matter of fact, it would be better if you didn’t tell him about this discussion. He might not
think kindly about your relaying all this information.”

“Why not? We all have David’s interest at heart.”

“You have David’s interest at heart. Where the lawyer’s interests are remains to be seen.”

Klinghoffner smiled. “Hold on. I’ll get you the address.”

He returned a few minutes later and handed me a slip of paper— Raymond Paxton, with a Century City address for his business.
“I understand your suspicion, Officer Decker. But I must say that Mr. Paxton paid faithfully for David’s care for six years.
I don’t see it, but …” He threw up his hands.

“Probably he’s as concerned as you are. I just want to talk to him.”

“I must attend to other matters now, Officer Decker. I must say I’m glad that the police are finally taking David’s disappearance
seriously. But of course, it’s a bit late in the game, isn’t it?”

I answered with an enigmatic smile.

“I hope you pay more attention to the hit-and-run. As I said, I’m sure it was an accident, but since the driver didn’t stop,
he must be apprehended. It’s been a very big blow.”

“I know. I was there.”

Klinghoffner turned red. “Of course … I am so sorry—”

“It’s fine, sir. I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

“It must have been a terrible shock to witness something so terrible.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, but I do have to go.”

“Of course.”

“Not that I mean to dismiss you—”

“No, no, I understand.”

But it seemed that everyone was dismissing me these days.

I
f there were D.T.’s
from too much food, Decker was experiencing the phenomenon. Rina had learned cooking from a pro, but over the years, she
had lightened the cuisine. Her sauces weren’t as heavy, her side vegetables barely blanched and often served plain except
for a little salt. Mama was still in the old country, serving mass quantities of
heavy
food. But that didn’t stop Decker from stuffing his face. If he had eaten any more chicken paprikash, his face would have
turned red and blotchy. But self-loathing had an upside: His mother-in-law was very pleased with his gustatory enthusiasm.

“It’s always a pleasure to serve you,” she told him. It came out:
Eets alvays a pleasurrrre to serrrrve you.
Her Hungarian accent was light and lilting.

Magda Elias was wearing a blue pullover sweater and white jeans. She was still beautiful and trim—a woman who took pride in
her appearance. Her dyed black hair was always coiffed and she always wore makeup. Rina was a simpler, younger version of
her mother.

They were eating in the formal dining room—a paean to porcelain. Magda’s breakfront was filled with her good dinner china,
figurines, decorative plates, and vases. There were also a dozen pieces of expensive European silver. The woman could have
opened up an antique shop.

“It’s always a pleasure to eat your cooking, Magda,” Decker parried.

Magda smiled. “You are being very charming tonight.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

She hit his shoulder. He and Rina’s parents got along well, although it hadn’t always been that way. It had taken a dozen
years and the production of a granddaughter to get to this level of congeniality. He thought about that as Cindy came to mind.
Decker had slipped up with Koby. He was still smoldering from her relationship with Scott Oliver and maybe that was the problem.
He was too involved. Black, white, purple, old, young, female, whatever—he should have done better with her date. He made
a pledge to mind his manners in the future, regardless of whom she brought home.