Faye Kellerman - Justice

Nude, white female—late teens/early twenties.

He stopped.

Cindy’s age. And the bastard was still at large.

No, don’t even think about it, Deck. Because once personal crap starts interfering with work, you’re a goner.

He shook away his daughter’s image and went back to the victim. Her head was slumped to the side, her hands had been bound to the headboard by a bow tie and a stocking, her feet were untethered but crossed at the ankles. No visible gunshot or stab wounds, but fresh, deep bruises colored her neck. No distinct ligature marks: She’d probably been strangled by someone’s hands. Decker took in the silky ashen face, the silvery gray skin, the full but cyanotic lips. A pretty girl—a Picasso painting in his blue period. Her eyes were closed. Made it easier to digest the horror.

She was so damn young!

His eyes traveled to her hands dangling in the constraints. Graceful hands with long, tapered fingers. He wondered if she had ever played an instrument—piano or maybe violin. The nails were bright red as were the fingertips. Lividity. Blood pools to the low spots.

“I got room!” Benny, the lab man, stretched. “You want me to bag the hands and feet first, Sergeant? Or do you want to wait until the coroner cuts her down?”

“Do the bagging first,” Decker said. “Don’t want to lose any nail scrapings. Coroner will work around you. Lynne, you almost done?”

The police photographer looked up. “Just a few more snapshots and I’m out of here.”

Decker returned his attention to the lone pair of uniforms still in the room. Russ Miller was tall with broad features. His partner, Billy Crock, was a recent southern transplant who’d joined the force a week before the earthquake. His apartment building was now a vacant lot. Everything he owned had been buried under rubble. Crock had shrugged it off. Decker figured this was a guy with a future.

His eyes went back to his notepad. “Shoot, Russ.”

Miller cleared his throat. “Call came through dispatch at eight-oh-eight; Crock and I arrived on the scene at eight-twelve. First one we talked to was Dave Forrester, the front-desk clerk. He directed us to the room, and to Adela Alvera, the maid who found the body. She discovered it around eight this morning, doing routine cleaning.”

“Opened the door and wham.” Crock slammed his fist into his palm. “First thing the lady did was throw up. Then she called the front desk. Forrester called nine-one-one.”

Decker scribbled notes as he looked around the room. Typical cheap hotel room—a queen bed, a TV equipped with pay-per-view channels resting in a particle board dresser stained to look like wood, a small writing table and chair, two flimsy nightstands and a house phone that charged an arm and a leg for a local call. There was a menu on one of the nightstands. The place had a coffee shop downstairs. Evidently it provided room service.

Decker rolled his tongue in his mouth. “Does the victim have a name yet?”

Crock said, “No personal belongings found in the room. So it looks like we got a robbery/murder.”

“What about registration cards at the front desk?”

“No cards, nothing on computer,” Crock answered. “Forrester doesn’t understand how that coulda happened.”

Decker wrote: No reg card or computer entry. Clerk took bribe? Why? Victim young girl—Affair? Prostitute? “Did Forrester work the desk last night?”

Crock shook his head. “No, that would be Henry Trupp. We’ve called him, Sarge. Guy isn’t home or isn’t answering.”

“Either of you pull the cards for the rooms adjacent to this one?”

“Sure did,” Crock said. “A Mr. and Mrs. Smith to the left. Mr. and Mrs. Jones on the right.”

“Terrific,” Decker said. “I’ll call Vice. Find out if this place is a hooker palace.”

He gave the room another sweep with his eyes. Something pink and shiny lay crumpled in the corner. He walked over, gloved his hand, and picked it up. A sequined party dress. He thought a moment.

First Saturday night in June.

Prom night.

Man, did that kick in a few buried memories. Especially since Saturday had ceased to be a day in his vocabulary. Saturday had turned into Shabbos. On his pad, Decker wrote down the names of the three local high schools—West Valley, North Valley, and Central West.

“Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and Mr. and Mrs. Jones.” He raised his eyes. “I think we had some after-prom festivities here last night. Kids getting a head start on being sleazy adults. Something went awry. They all probably panicked and fled.”

“I’ll second that theory,” the lab man said. “Lookie what I found under the covers.” With a pair of pincers, Benny held a condom aloft, then slipped it into an evidence bag. “Guess she believed in safe sex.”

Decker regarded the body. “Up to a point.”

Crock drawled, “A lot different from my prom night back home.”

“Mine, too,” Decker said.

Not that he’d been a paragon of virtue. After the party, he and his buddies had taken their dates to an isolated park for a night of petting and binging bar vodka. Afterward, he had thought he’d been doing just fine! Then he had turned on the motor of his dad’s truck, smiled at his girl, and proceeded to heave his guts inside the cab. His date had joined him for the barfathon. Lyle Decker’s punishment had been simple but effective. Decker remembered all too well scrubbing tuck and roll with a toothbrush, cleaning scraps of detritus stuck in God-awful places.

He checked his watch. Eight-fifty-two. “Anyone check Missing Persons to see if a parent has called, wondering where the hell his or her daughter might be?”

Crock said, “I’ll call Devonshire.”

“Call Foothill, Van Nuys, and North Hollywood as well. And while you’re on the horn, Billy, find out the names of the principals and the girls’ vice principals of the three major high schools out here.”

“West Valley, Central West, and …”

“North Valley. Call them all up, tell them police need to meet them at their respective schools within the next hour, maybe two hours tops.” Decker turned to Miller. “You go back to the maid. Get her story again, along with her name, address, and phone number. And search her purse. She may have vomited initially, but after the shock wore off, she may have lifted something from the room.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, go down to the clerk and have him check the phone records. Maybe someone made calls from this room.”

“Got it,” Miller said. Then he and Crock left.

Decker ran his hand through thick, carrot-colored hair, stroked his chin and felt grizzle. Wakened from a rare morning of sleep, he hadn’t had a chance to shave. He had said a shortened version of his morning prayers, then rushed off to work, throwing a kiss to Rina and the boys. Hannah was still sleeping.

Little Hannah. At that age, they were easy because your eyes never let them out of your sight. Not so with the big one. Please God, just keep Cindy safe!

Again he studied the victim. The poor kid hadn’t had a chance to grow up. Decker felt low, wished Marge was here. But he was glad his partner finally had taken some time off. He hoped the Maui sun was being kind to her, hoped her new friend Roger was being kind as well.

The police photographer closed her camera case. “I’m all done, Sergeant. Meat wagon’s outside. You want me to call in the boys for you?”

Decker nodded. “Snap me a couple of Polaroids of the face, Lynne. We don’t have a name. I’ll need them for ID.”

“Certainly.” Lynne took out a camera and aimed. “Pretty thing, wasn’t she? Natural good looks, but not a natural blonde.”

Decker looked at the body, at a dark bush of pubic hair. He wrote: Condom in sheet. Sex. Good pubic comb.