Faye Kellerman - The Forgotten

“It’s run by a guy named Darrell Holt, who is a mixture of lots of races,” Martinez said. “So I can’t figure out how he reconciles his own genetic variety with his ethnic purity crap. Anyway, he’s wrangled endorsements for his cause from some token minorities—one Filipino, one Hispanic, one African-American, one Asian, one Jew, and for sake of completion, one Anglo.”

“What kind of endorsements?” Decker asked.

“You can see for yourself, sir.” Webster handed him the flyers. “It’s all the same crud. Y’all can’t pin them down just by reading the articles. They play the separate but equal over and over and over.”

Decker thumbed through the pages, scanning the paragraphs. “Here’s one that recommends an English-only policy.”

“Yeah, that’s the one by the Marine.”

“Hank Tarpin.” Decker scanned the printed material. “Superficially, there’s lots here that my wife would agree with. She would kill her sons if they married outside the religion.”

“She isn’t the only one,” Wanda said. “I’d like my daughter to marry a good African-American man. Life is hard enough. At least in your own community, you can go around without getting stares and snickers. I talk from experience. About three months ago she had a Hispanic boyfriend.” She looked at Martinez. “People gave them looks.”

“What happened?” Martinez said.

“They broke up, but not because of the race … although I’m sure that didn’t help. He was a cop and she’s a cop and that wasn’t good.”

“One of my kids married an Anglo,” Martinez said. “The other married a nice kid whose family was originally from Cuba. I’m from Mexico, and that’s another ball of wax. I can’t say I feel more comfortable with one son-in-law over the other. But that’s not the case with my parents, who don’t speak English all that well. There’s a language barrier. Which is why, personally, I’m big on an English-only policy in school. If you don’t speak and write the language of the country, you’re second class. No way my kids and grandkids are going to be second-class citizens.”

“I agree with you, Bert,” Webster said, “but I reckon that you and the Marine are coming at it from different angles.”

“That’s true, but it’s irrelevant.” Decker put down the papers. “But the only pertinent question now is, do we have anything to link Holt to the vandalized synagogue?”

“Nope,” Martinez said. “But we talked to Holt before you arrested Golding. Maybe if we went back and mentioned Golding—”

“And then maybe Golding’s lawyer would be all over our asses for giving out the name of a minor,” Decker interrupted. “Pulling the Ernesto card is out. If the Preservers of Ethnic ‘Racists’ is involved, we’ve got to get them without asking about Golding.”

“How about harboring a fugitive?” Bontemps said. “Tell the loo what you told me about Ricky Moke.”

“Who’s Ricky Moke?” Decker asked.

Webster explained. “Supposedly Moke has been implicated in blowing up university animal laboratories. Supposedly Holt knows Moke. Supposedly Moke has dropped by their office. Supposedly Moke is an ardent racist.”

“That’s an awful lot of supposedly,” Decker said. “Does this bad guy have a sheet?”

“Nothing I could find,” Martinez said. “But I’ve only checked locally.”

“If he’s implicated with bombs, the FBI would have information on him. Make a couple of calls tomorrow.” Decker sat back. “What about Darrell Holt? Does he have a sheet?”

Webster shook his head.

“Any information on him?” Decker asked.

“The Preservers have a Web site,” Webster said. “But that’s all fluff.”

“Find out what you can about him.” Decker scanned through the leaflets. “Are these the only papers you found? I’m wondering if Golding ever wrote anything for them.”

“I’ll check it out tomorrow.”

Decker thought about what Golding had told him, about his German grandfather and his dubious past. “While you’re looking up people in the computer, find out what you can about Jill and Carter Golding. I want to know everything I can about Ernesto, and it doesn’t hurt to start with the parents. Since they’re well known, it should be easy to find information about them. Also do a search with Golding and Holt and/or Golding and Ricky Moke as a common subject and see if the computer throws out any association.”

Webster said, “The Preservers also have a girl working there. She looks about twelve.”

“Name?”

“Erin Kershan.”

“Look her up.”

Wanda said, “Should we put a watch on them, Lieutenant?”

Decker considered the idea. “Are they local?”

“Yes, they are,” Martinez told him. “Matter of fact, they live in the same building although different apartments. I’ll do it.”

“I’ll do it, Bert,” Webster volunteered. “I got the two A.M. feeding anyway.” He looked at Decker. “Could I leave at about one?”

“Sounds fine, Tom. You can put in for overtime.”

“I can use the money, sir. Thank you.”

Decker started writing down a schedule. “While you’re doing stakeout, I’ll drop by the Goldings and run Holt, Moke, and the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity by Ernesto. The boy isn’t going to admit to anything, but a good nuance is worth a thousand words.”

The Goldings weren’t home, leaving Decker to wonder if they were hiding out somewhere. Just as likely, they were out to dinner. It was only a little past eight. Decker called Jacob and was apprehensive when no one picked up the phone. He tried Jacob’s car phone. The boy answered after two rings. “Yo.”

“Are you two all right?”

“Oh, hi, Dad. We went out for ice cream.”

In the background, he heard Hannah scream, “Hi, Daddy!”

“Hi, Hannah Rosie.” To Jacob, Decker said, “Is she in the backseat?”

“Backseat with her seat belt on,” Jacob replied. “We’re on our way home.”

“I was thinking about stopping by the shul to see Eema.”

“That’s fine. Don’t worry about us. I can put Hannah to bed.”

“Could you do me another favor?”

“What?”

“Before you put her to bed, can you two come down and bring me some junk clothes and my sneakers from home in case I want to help paint later tonight.”

“No problem.”

“Or maybe I should just go home, so Hannah won’t be subjected to—”

But the line had already gone dead. He thought about calling Jacob back. He didn’t want Hannah reading all that hate-filled graffiti or seeing those dreadful pictures. Then again, Rina had been there for a while: the shul was probably somewhat sanitized by now.

He arrived at the shul by seven and parked on the street because the tiny lot was full. A few broken windows had been boarded up, but light shone through the translucent curtains covering the intact glass doors. When he went in, he entered a construction site. Tarps and drop cloths had been laid down everywhere. More than a dozen people were working, brushes and rollers in hand. The walls had been primed, and open paint cans were everywhere. Rina was wearing overalls and a big red bandana over her head. Her face was dotted with Navaho white. She gave him an air kiss.

“How’s it going?” Decker asked.

“Baruch Hashem!” She was smiling and it was genuine. “Let me introduce you to some of our volunteers that you don’t know.” She walked over to two African-American women. One was tall and skinny, the other was short and fat. Mutt and Jeff. “This is Letitia and this is Bernadette. They’re friends of Wanda Bontemps from her church. As soon as she called them, they came right down to help.” She patted Decker’s shoulder with a paint-splattered hand. “This is my husband, Peter.”