Faye Kellerman - Sacred and Profane

“Nothing.”

“He’s been notified about his father’s death. You can question him about Cecil if you want.”

Decker cleared his throat and told Morrison about his Jack Cohen alias. As he talked, he could see the captain’s expression waver between admiration and disapproval.

“What do you hope to find out?” Morrison asked.

“If Dustin’s making sicko films on the side, maybe I could get him to strike a deal with me as an interested investor. He does legit film syndications, which would make it awfully easy to launder some dirty stuff. I’d like to keep my cover and let Hollander continue with the interviewing.”

“You leaned on Cecil Pode,” Morrison said. “What if he described you to Dustin? You’re a pretty noticeable guy. Your cover would be worthless.”

Decker groaned inwardly. How could he be so fucking dumb!

“Yeah, that’s true,” he said. “Look at it this way, Captain. If Dustin makes me for a cop, then we’re back to square one. If he doesn’t, we’ve got an advantage. I’ll get a better feel after I meet with them.”

In the end Morrison agreed it was best for Decker to stay undercover.

The mountain air was biting. Decker buttoned up his overcoat as he watched the teams dig up the hillside. Hard to believe that a month ago he’d camped in this graveyard with Jake and Sammy. The day had been bright and warm, not like today, which was overcast.

The ground became pocked with potholes-aborted digs-but Decker was sure the bones were there. It just didn’t make sense to dump the girls out here and leave the guy at another location.

Unless the killer was smart.

“Sergeant Decker!” one of the lab men shouted.

“Yeah?”

“We’ve found something-a foot bone.”

“Attached to anything?”

“No, just a foot bone.”

He walked over, bent down, and saw the burnt remains of a foot.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute…I think we struck gold,” the man said, digging deeper into a mesa of hard-packed soil.

Gradually, the entire remains were exposed. The skeleton appeared to be large-a male. Had to be the Blade. Decker was reassured. Most of the time killers weren’t that smart.

Mrs. Bates was in the front yard pruning roses. She raised her head when Decker got out of the car but made no attempt to rise from her squat. He went over to the flower bed and knelt beside her.

“Hello,” she said softly. “What do you want, Sergeant?”

“I was in the neighborhood. I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing.”

She snipped off a rose hip and shrugged.

“I like those red ones,” Decker said. “Olympiads, aren’t they?”

She nodded.

“My mother has a bed of them,” he said. “She’s a big gardener.”

Mrs. Bates said nothing.

“She says it’s her therapy,” Decker continued. “Claims the world wouldn’t need shrinks if everyone would just grow things instead.”

“I can understand that,” Mrs. Bates whispered.

He watched her trim the bushes for a minute.

She asked, “Does your mother live out here?”

“No. Florida.”

“There’s plenty of sunshine over there also.”

“That’s true,” he said. “But Gainsville also has a lot of humidity. You can’t beat L.A. for weather. I’ve tried to tell my mom that, but she and my dad are settled where they are.”

“It’s hard to…adjust…to new things,” Mrs. Bates said in a cracked voice. “What…” She swallowed back tears. “What brought you out to Los Angeles?”

“My ex-wife’s family and a job in a law firm. I thought I wanted to be a lawyer. I’d been a cop in Florida for eight years and I’d convinced myself that it was time for a change.”

“You didn’t like law?” She blushed. “I don’t mean to pry-”

“You’re not prying,” Decker said, smiling. “No, I didn’t like law. Not the kind I was practicing anyway. But I’m glad I moved. It’s worked out well for me here.”

She pricked her finger on a thorn, said “ouch,” stuck the finger in her mouth, and sucked.

“I’m distracting you,” Decker said.

“No,” she protested. “Really, I’m fine. I should have worn gloves.”

“How’s Erin?” Decker asked.

“She’s…fine. More subuded. More serious.” She faced him. “Have you…learned anything new?”

His throat became dry. The police had reported the ordeal of last night to the press as a drug bust-an officer-involved shooting during the raid on a rock house. Decker had insisted upon it. The thought of the Bateses waking up to front-page headlines that splashed out the gory death of their daughter nauseated him.

But he could break it to her now. Tell her gently. Ease the shock of the horrible news to come. She’d have to know eventually. That was originally why he’d come out to visit her. But now, seeing her like this…To tell her what he knew, what he’d seen…He couldn’t do it.

He cursed his cowardice.

“Just bits now,” he answered. “But don’t you worry, Mrs. Bates. I’m going to nail the bastard.”

“My husband would like that. Justice and all that kind of thing. I don’t think much about justice. It drives me crazy when I think of how unfair it all is, so I don’t think about it. I just want to pick up the pieces and go on. But my husband…he’s consumed with the idea of revenge.” She went back to snipping. “I suppose I shouldn’t tell you this, but he’s trying to solve this thing himself.”

“What has he come up with?”

“Nothing. He’s fixated on the idea that Chris…Did I tell you about Chris?”

The boy’s sobs echoed in Decker’s head. “I know who he is,” he said.

“My husband seems convinced that Chris is guilty.”

“What do you think?”

“I think my husband needs someone to blame and Chris is convenient. I never liked the boy, but…”

“You don’t think Chris had anything to do with it?”

“No. And I think my husband is driving the boy crazy. He calls him all the time, writes him letters, follows him all weekend and on his lunch hours. I can’t seem to convince him that this is all wrong. He’s obsessed, Sergeant. My husband is going insane.”

Decker placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She continued her gardening. Neither spoke for a while. Then Decker stood up.

“I’ll keep in touch,” he said. “Take care, Mrs. Bates.”

She snipped off a long-stemmed Olympiad rosebud. Without looking up, she handed it to him.

Praying didn’t cut it. He slipped the pocket siddur in his jacket and took off to a house of refuge he’d used in the past.

It had once been a topless joint, but for the last five years it was a cop’s bar. He waved to a few of the off-duty uniforms sitting at a corner table laughing, then seated himself on a stool at the far end of the counter. A two-year hiatus since he’d last been here, and he’d come back to the same damn bartender polishing the same damn glasses. He acknowledged Decker with a nod.

“What’ll it be, Pete?” he asked.

“Double scotch straight up.” Decker took out a cigarette. He was smoking too much, he was going to drink too much, and he didn’t give a shit. “How’s it going, Pat?”

“Nothin’ much has changed since you been here last.”

Decker looked around. The walls had been repainted a dark red and the linoleum was new. The honey oak tables and chairs were the same, a little more worn. Same plastic light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. The pool table had been refelted-red this time. Country music wailed from a corner jukebox-Bocefus moaning about an attitude adjustment. The place was still a bar.

Decker took a sip, then a healthy swig of his scotch. He glanced up at the TV set-a soccer game from Mexico. He’d never liked soccer much, but after watching Rina’s boys play, he’d developed an appreciation for it. He leaned against the bar and listened to the TV announcer rattle off a blow-by-blow of the previous quarter. Decker understood it all, his Spanish as fluent as ever. He had first learned the language as a beat cop in Miami in order to decipher all the bullshit the Cubans gave him. Man, could they bullshit!