Justice
Justice
Faye Kellerman
The eighth book in the hugely popular Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus series from New York Times bestselling author Faye KellermanThe cruel and bizarre slaying of a beautiful teen leads Detective Decker into the dark heart of an exotic subculture: the seamy, sometimes violent world of Southern California's rootless, affluent youth. But even the confession of a disturbed kid with cold "killer eyes" cannot soothe Decker's inner torment. For he knows in his gut this crime goes much deeper and higher than anyone expects – and that true justice, brutal and complete, has yet to be done.
Faye Kellerman
Justice
A Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus Mystery
To my own teenagers, my tweener and my toddler.
Please G-d, just keep them safe.
Contents
Cover (#udaadc97e-1a3c-56db-9ff1-463c3e35fe8f)
Title Page (#u0d5c4280-d628-51d3-be80-5325fa1965da)
Dedication (#ubfc116b2-2b43-51db-943b-1a49eb82742d)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
About the Author
Also by Faye Kellerman
Predator (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
He saw the flash before he heard the pop. The percussive ppffft that almost drowned out the moan. The head snapped back, lolling from side to side, then finally found a resting place slumped over the right shoulder. As blood dripped from between the eyes, he wondered if the bastard had ever felt a thing, he’d been so dead drunk.
The thought didn’t quell the shakes, his hands clay cold and stiff. For a while he heard nothing. Then he became aware of his own breathing. He crept out from his shelter and swallowed dryly. Tried to walk, but his knees buckled.
He melted to the floor.
Stayed that way for a long time. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. Time was a black hole, a stupor of sleep and restlessness. Everything was shadowed and fuzzy.
Slowly, things came back into focus. The room, the floor, the bound body, the hole between the eyes. Blood had seeped onto the carpet, pooled around his shoes.
He stared, hoping tears would come. But they didn’t. They never did.
With great effort, he hoisted his gawky frame upward, nearly tripping over spindly legs. The curse of being tall at such a young age: He was all height, no muscle. Light-headed, sick from the smell of gunpowder, he let go with a dry heave.
He tried to walk but again fell forward.
He needed air—clean air.
He crawled on his hands and knees out the back door, pushing open the squeaky screen. Wrapping his hands around the porch column, he raised himself to his feet. His bicycle was still resting against the apple tree, leaning against the trunk because it didn’t have a kickstand.
He knew he had to tell someone. Even though she hated the jerk, Mom would still freak. That left only his uncle. Joey would take care of him. He had to get over to Joey.
He straightened his spine and inched his way over to his transportation. He gripped the handlebars, swung his leg over the seat. Pressing down on the pedal. Propelling himself forward.
Down the driveway and out onto the street.
Faster and faster, harder and harder, until wind whipped through his platinum hair.
He did a wheelie. He felt all right.
1
Pages 7 and 8 of the paper were missing. National news section. Specifically, national crime stories. Decker laid the thin sheets down, his stomach in a tight, wet knot. “Rina, where’s the rest of the paper?”
Rina continued to scramble eggs. “It’s not all there?”
“No, it’s not all there.”
“You’ve checked?”
“Yes, I’ve checked.”
“Maybe Ginger got to it,” Rina said casually. “You know how the dog loves newsprint. I think she uses it for a breath freshener—”
“Rina—”
“Peter, could you please distract Hannah from the dishwasher and get her seated so I can feed her? And take the plums out of the utensil basket while you’re at it.”
Decker stared at his wife, got up, and lifted his pajama-clad two-year-old daughter. She was holding a plum in each hand.
“You want a plummer, Daddy?”
“Yes, Hannah Rosie, I’d love a plum.”
“You take a bite?” She stuffed the fruit in her father’s mouth. As requested, Decker took a bite. Juice spewed out of the overripe plum, wetting his pumpkin-colored mustache, rills of purple running down his chin. He seated his daughter in her booster and wiped his mouth.
“You want a bite, Daddy?”
“No thanks, Hannah—”
“You want a bite, Daddy?” Hannah said, forcefully.
“No—”
“You want a bite, Daddy?” Hannah was almost in tears.
“Take another bite, Peter,” Rina said. “Eat the whole plum.”
Decker took the plum and consumed it. Hannah offered him the second plum. “Honey, if I eat any more plums, I’ll be living in the bathroom.”
Rina laughed. “I’ll take the plum, Hannah.”
“No!” the baby cried out. Her face was flushed with emotion. “Daddy take the plummer.”
Decker took the second piece of fruit. “Why do you keep buying plums?”
“Because she keeps asking for them.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to buy them.”
“As if you can resist her requests? I noticed the other day she was playing with your gold cuff links—”
“She likes shiny things,” Decker interrupted. “I like how you skillfully changed the subject, darlin’. What happened to the newspaper?”
Rina set a dish of eggs in front of Hannah and poured her orange juice. She shrugged helplessly. “What can I tell you?”
Decker felt nauseated. “Bastard struck again.”
Rina nodded.
Decker said nothing. But Rina could see his jaw working overtime. She said, “Cindy called this morning. She asked me to hide it from you. I shouldn’t have done it. But she sounded so desperate for an ally. She couldn’t handle you and her mother’s hysteria at the same time. Besides, there’s nothing anyone can do—”
“What do you mean, ‘There’s nothing anyone can do’?” Decker snapped. “I can do something. I can bring her back home out of that hellhole.”
“LA’s not a haven from crime—”
“It’s better than New York.”
“Not all of New York is like the area around Columbia, Peter.”
“Well, that’s just fine and dandy except Cindy happens to go to Columbia.” Decker got up from the dining-room table and walked into the kitchen, staring out the back window at his acre’s worth of ranchland. The riding corral was now a foot-deep mud pit; the stables had been battered from the recent storms. Behind his property line stood the foothills bleeding silt. His house was fine so far, the gunk at least five hundred yards away. But who knew? He had plenty of garbage to deal with here. He didn’t need problems three thousand miles away.
“Did you talk to her at all?” Decker asked.
“For a few minutes,” Rina answered.
“How’s she doing?”
Rina glanced at Hannah. “You want a video, muffin?”
The little girl nodded, licking egg-coated fingers. “Mickey Mouse.”
“You’ve got it.” Rina slipped the tape into the VCR, then walked into the kitchen. To her husband, she whispered, “How’s she doing? She’s shaken up, of course.”
“Goddamn police! This is the third one and they don’t seem one ounce closer to finding this maniac. What the hell are they doing?”
“That’s an odd thing for you to say.”
“I know incompetence when I see it.”
“So what do you propose to do, Peter? Go out to New York and handle the investigation yourself?”
“I’ve seriously thought about it. I was in sex crimes for over a decade—”
“Peter—”
“Maybe I’ll call the principal investigator—”
“You don’t have enough work at home?”
“It’s been a slow month.”
“Baruch Hashem,” Rina said, blessing God.
“Baruch Hashem,” Decker repeated. “Besides, this is my daughter we’re talking about. I want to make sure everything possible is being done.”
“I’m sure they’re working overtime. Just like you’d be doing.”
“Right. Overtime on doughnuts.” Decker grimaced. “I know I’m not being fair. Frankly, I don’t care.”
Rina sighed. “Peter, why don’t you go visit Cindy? I’m sure she’d be thrilled to see her six-foot-four detective father. She and all the other girls in the dorm. But go out as a protective father, not as a cop.”
Decker drew his hand across his face. “Son of a bitch! Preying on young girls like that. God, I swear, Rina, if I come face-to-face with that sucker, I’m gonna shoot off his you-know-whats.” He looked at his wife. “Was the latest one hurt? Of course she was hurt. I mean, was she beaten or anything?”
“No. Same MO.”
The MO. Bastard sneaked up on the girls, brought them down from behind, placed a large paper bag over their heads, and raped them from the back. The victims had described the violation as strong and painful but mercifully fast. Before they could utter boo, the monster had been upon them. Equally quickly, he seemed to vanish into the miasma. Cindy was a big girl, almost five nine, and in good shape because she worked out. But a five-nine girl could easily be bested by a five-six man in equally good shape. Daughters. Thank God his other two teens were boys—Rina’s sons. Not that he didn’t worry about them. At nearly fifteen, Sammy had height but he was still thin. Jake still had some growing to do, but he was just thirteen.
Decker’s head hurt. Thinking about his kids always gave him a headache. “I need to go out there, Rina.”
“I understand. I love Cindy, too. I think it’s a great idea.”
“Come out with me.”
“It would probably be better if she had you all to herself.”
“So go out and visit the relatives in Borough Park. The boys haven’t seen their grandparents in over a year.”
The boys’ grandparents, Rina thought. Her late husband’s parents. It was always a heartache to see them. But the boys meant so much to them. And then there were Peter’s recently discovered half siblings. “Everyone’s going to want to see you. At least to say hi.”
“Scratch the thought from your mind!” Decker paced. “You’ll just have to explain why I’m not there. I can’t handle Cindy and your little religious crowd at the same time.”
“They’re your relatives.”
“But they were your friends before they were my relatives. Don’t push me on this, Rina. Oh, just forget the whole thing. Stay home!”
Again, he glared out the back window, hands leaning against the kitchen tile. Welcome to Decker’s mud baths. He should sandbag the ground again, anything to sop up the moisture. On top of that, the sky looked threatening.
Seven years of drought followed by two years of floods. Not to mention earthquakes, fires, and riots. Decker wondered what plague was next. City was getting too damn biblical for his taste.
Rina walked up to her husband, slipped her arms around his waist, and rested her head on his back. “What do you want, Peter? Tell me.”
“Make it stop raining.”
“No can do. Next?”
He turned around. “What do I want?” He took his wife’s hands and kissed them. “I want you to come with me. I miss you terribly when I’m away from you and long plane rides make me depressed. So come with me to New York. But once we get there, leave me alone so I can deal with my daughter and my own anxiety.”
“So I’m to be your therapeutic escort.”
“And a damn pretty one, at that.”
Rina laughed. “I’ll come with you.”
Decker said, “Thank you. And … if I’m up to it … if I have the energy … I’ll come visit the relatives.”
“You look like you just sucked lemons.”
“It’s been a rather sour morning.”
Rina stroked her husband’s cheek. “I’m sorry you have to go through this, that we have to go through this. I’m very concerned, also. Kids. A life sentence in terror if you think about it. I’ll be happy to help you out. And yes, it has been a while since the boys have seen their grandparents. It’s very considerate of you to think of them.”
“I’m just a saint.”
“I believe the appropriate response to a compliment is a simple thank you.”
Decker smiled. “The boys can miss school?”
“Of course. How about we leave next Wednesday? I can still get discount tickets if I buy them a week in advance.”
“Fine.”
“You’ll call Cindy?”
“Yes.”
“And phone Jan, too,” Rina said. “Just to let her know you’re going.”
Decker looked pained. “Is that really necessary?”
“Peter, she’s Cindy’s mother. She’s worried sick about her.”
“I know, I know. She’s very angry I haven’t insisted that Cindy come home. As if she’s insisted. She just wants me to be the bad guy. Well, screw that! If she wants a—”
“Peter—”
“All right, all right. I’ll call Jan. I’ll even be civil.”
“A big stretch for you, dear?”
“A very big stretch for me, darlin’.”
2
The red Trans Am was following me. I’d known something was up from the look Chris had given me in orchestra. We’d been in the same class for over a year, and today’s stare had been a first. Only one reason why boys like him were interested in girls like me. Guess this one didn’t want to approach me in public.
The car slowed and honked. I stopped walking. Since parked vehicles were occupying the far right lane, the Trans Am was blocking traffic. The Jeep on Chris’s heel blasted its horn. He turned around, threw the impatient driver a dirty look, then sped up and pulled the car curbside a half block up. I jogged over. He rolled down the passenger window, told me to hop in.
“I’m not going straight home,” I said. “I’ve got to pick up my little sister.”
“Last I checked the car’s not a two-seater.” He waved me forward. “Come on.”
I opened the door and got inside, dumping my backpack on the floor. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Where are we going?”
“Just go straight.” My eyes were fixed on the front windshield.
Cars were bumper to bumper. Since the ’94 earthquake and the recent flooding by overzealous rain clouds, the West Valley had become a snarl at rush hour. Chris waited for a nonexistent opening. Headbanger music was screaming from his car stereo. It suddenly seemed to annoy him. He punched it off.
A Jetta stopped and waved Chris in.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said to himself. To me, he said, “How far are we going?”
“’Bout two miles up.”
“And you walk that every day?”
“It’s good exercise.”
“What do you do when it rains?”
“I take an umbrella. Sometimes, if it’s convenient, my stepmom will let me have the car.”
Chris paused. “You live with your dad and stepmom?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your mom?”
I hesitated. The question was way too personal, but I answered anyway. “She died when I was born.”
Chris waited a beat, then raised his brow. “Your dad’s a good Catholic, huh?”
I looked at him, stunned. His face revealed nothing.
“The unbaptized before the baptized.” He pulled a crucifix from under his T-shirt. “Takes one to know one.”
I didn’t answer. In this city of religious nothingness, it was rare to find an overt Catholic boy, let alone one who looked like Christ.
He said, “What about you? Are you a good Catholic girl?”
“Good enough to feel guilty about my mother’s death.”
“The nuns must have had a field day with you.”
“Mostly my father.”
“What’d he say?”
“It’s what he didn’t say.”
He turned quiet. I stared at my lap.
“You still go to Mass?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
“I go sometimes, too. Old habits are hard to break.”
I smiled and nodded. He was determined to talk. That being the case, I steered the conversation from myself. “You live by yourself, don’t you?”
“Yep.”
“So where are your parents?” I asked.
“They’re dead.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes, both of them.”
I felt my face go hot. “That was stupid.”
“No such thing as a stupid reaction.” He tapped on the steering wheel. “My mom died of breast cancer when I was thirteen. My father was murdered when I was almost ten. A gangland thing. I was hiding in the closet when the hit went down, witnessed the whole thing—”
“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “That’s dreadful!”
“Yeah, I was pretty scared.”
The car went silent.
“Only the upshot of the mess was I hated the son of a bitch.” He scratched his head. “So after the shock wore off, I was kind of happy. My dad was a two-fisted drunk. He’d get soused and pummel anything—or anyone—in his way. That’s why I’d been hiding in the closet. Lucky for me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have made it into double digits.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he said. “Must be your confessional aura. How far is this school, Terry?”
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. We passed it.” I looked over my shoulder. “Turn left at the next light.”
Chris inched the Trans Am forward. “Distracted by our stimulating conversation?”
“I think the operative word is morbid.”
Out of nervousness, I started to laugh. So did he. He turned on the radio, switching to a classical station. Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony—good commuter music.
“So what’s your middle name?” he asked. “Mary or Frances?”
“Anne.”
“Ah, Teresa Anne. A respectable Catholic name.”
“And you?” I asked.
“Sean. Christopher Sean Whitman. A respectable Irish Catholic name. Is that the school up ahead?”
“Yeah. You’ll have to pull over. I have to fetch her.”
He parked curbside and I got out. In all fairness to my stepmom, Jean treated her biological daughter with as much apathy as she displayed toward me. Poor Melissa. I worked my way through the school yard until I spotted her. Usually when I arrived, I was tired, anxious to get home. But with Chris driving, I had the luxury of observing her at play.
My sister was attacking a tetherball, dirty blond pigtails flying in the wind. She had an intense look of concentration, little fists socking the leather bag, turning her knuckles red. Her opponent was a second-grade boy and she was clearly outmatched. But she put up a valiant struggle. After her defeat, she shuffled to the back of the line. I called out her name. She looked up and came running to me.
“You’re early!” she shrieked
“I bummed a ride home. Come on.”
“Will we be in time for Gornish and Narishkite?”
Melissa’s favorite cartoon show. It was off-limits by my stepmom and not without logic. The characters were a fat crow and an over-plumaged macaw. They had nothing better to do than peck out each other’s body parts.
I checked my watch. “If we hurry.”
“Yippee!” She jumped up and down. I picked up her backpack—an amber thing emblazoned with Simba from The Lion King—and slipped it over my shoulder.
She took my hand, half skipping as we walked, tugging on my shoulder. But I didn’t mind. Her hand was soft and warm. She smelled sweaty, but it wasn’t an unpleasant odor.
“I can’t believe I get to see Gornish and Narishkite. You won’t tell Mom?”
“I won’t tell Mom.”
“Who’s taking us home? Heidi?”
“Someone else,” I said. “This way.”
I led her over to the car, opened the door, and got her settled into the backseat. “This is Chris,” I said. “He was kind enough to offer us a ride home. Say thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Chris answered.
“Is he going to pick us up tomorrow, too?”
“Don’t press it, Melissa.” I closed the door. “Besides, you have gym class tomorrow. Put on your seat belt.”
“I can’t do it. It’s too hard.”
I turned around, hanging over my seat as I looped the belt around Melissa’s waist, securing the metal into the latch. As I straightened up, I accidentally brushed against Chris and felt him immediately stiffen. I sat back and scrunched myself in my seat.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“What for?”
“I accidentally … never mind.” I looked out the window. “You need tutoring, Chris?”
“Yeah.”
“You could have just called.”
“I’ve got a unique situation. I’ll explain when we get to your house.”
I was quiet and so was he. Mozart, however, was working himself up into a lather. Chris parked the car in front of my two-story claptrap. It wasn’t a bad house, just in need of repair. The siding needed paint, the stucco was chipped, and the roof was old and leaky. We’d gone from two buckets last winter to five the last time it rained. The roof upgrade was supposed to be my father’s weekend project. Instead, he opted for hooch and sports on TV. My father was a passive lush—the kind who’d drink himself into a coma, gradually slipping away until Jean’s nagging became elevator music.
Chris helped Melissa out of her seat belt. Liberated, she sped to the front door, then raced upstairs as soon as I undid the lock.
“Uh, excuse me, young lady,” I called out to her. “The dishwasher is still full.”
“I’ll do it later,” she shouted from the top of the stairs.
“Famous last words,” I muttered. I shouted back, “Never mind. I’ll do it.” I turned to Chris. “Have a seat at the dining-room table. Can I get you something to drink? Juice? Soda? You know, I can even make you coffee I’ve got so much time.”
“Coffee would be great.”
I marveled at my good fortune, having gained the better part of an hour. I put up coffee, then looked in the fridge. Jean had prepared a chuck roast. I took it out.
“This’ll be shoe leather if I cook it now,” I said to myself. “Maybe I’ll turn down the heat and roast it slowly.” I said it into the oven and turned the temperature to 300 degrees. Then I went into the laundry room and threw the wet clothes from the washer into the dryer. I came back into the kitchen and took out lettuce and tomatoes from the vegetable bin. I washed them under the tap, shook them dry, then started making the salad. I glanced up and saw Chris staring at me from the dining room. I was so caught up in my routine, I had forgotten about him.
I put down the lettuce and dried my hands. “Coffee’s almost done.”
He came into the kitchen. “Do you do this every day?”
“Do what?”
“The cooking, the laundry … child care?”
“They wrote a story about me. It’s called ‘Cinderella.’” I fetched down two coffee mugs. “Tell you one thing, though. I’m not waiting for Prince Charming. I’d rather have a maid.” I turned the coffeepot off and took out some milk and sugar. “How do you like your coffee?”
“Just black.”
“A real man.”
“Very macho.”
I loaded my coffee with the accoutrements, went back into the dining room, and took my datebook out of my backpack. “I’ve got an opening on Monday at eight. Or I can give you an hour on Thursday at eight—”
“Terry, why don’t you sit down and let me tell you what’s going on?” He showed me the chair. “Please.”
I sat, then wondered why I was listening to him. It was my house, but he was playing host.
He took a sip of coffee and looked at me earnestly. “If all goes well, I’m slated to go to the Eastman School of Composition in New York next fall. I squeaked by my junior year. This time I don’t know what’s flying. I’m not a great student, but I can pass tests if I concentrate.”
I nodded.
He flipped a chunk of blond hair out of blue eyes. “Also, I’m away a lot. I play gigs.”
“Gigs?”
“I do fill-ins for ensembles, orchestras, small chamber groups. Once in a while, I even do solos in some of the smaller towns for special occasions. It’s usually for only one or two performances. But my time away includes another day or two for practice beforehand. So I can be gone as much as a week at a time. I miss a lot of class.”
He sipped more coffee.
“I talked to Bull Anderson. He says you charge fifteen an hour.”
“That’s right.”
“Then you’re going to make out like a bandit from me. ’Cause I figure I need five days a week, ’bout two hours a day. I need a teacher as well as a tutor. Are you up for it?”
He stopped talking. I stared at him. “That’s one hundred fifty a week.”
“You can add.”
“Classical music must be a high-growth industry.”
“Money’s not a problem. You save your dollars, Terry, you can earn yourself a fine set of wheels by spring break. What do you say?”
I paused. “Sounds great in theory.”
“The money won’t be theoretical.” He stood. “We can start tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at ten to seven, take you to my place, and have you back here by a little after nine.”
“That’s a big commitment for me, Chris. I need time for my other students. Plus there’s my own studying.”
He sat back down. “How about this? I’ll pick you and your sister up from school every day. That’ll save you five hours just like that.”
“I still have other students—”
“Terry, why don’t you open your appointment book and we’ll go through it together. Find a schedule that suits both our needs.”
I was being pushed, but the money was too tempting to protest. I opened my datebook. With some rearranging and haggling, we decided on four days a week—two hours a day, with Wednesday our day off.
“Mondays and Fridays I can come to your place at seven,” I said. “But Tuesdays and Thursdays it would be better if you just came here right after school. Melissa goes to gym so we’d have privacy. Sound okay?”
He took a pen and a sheet of paper from his backpack. “Tell me the schedule you want.”
I dictated. He wrote. “You’re left-handed,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t you play cello right-handed?”
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t it hard?”
He looked up from his writing. “I don’t know any differently. I play all my instruments right-handed.”
“What else do you play?”
“Anything with strings.”
“Violin?”
“Yep.”
“Are you a prodigy on violin like you are on cello?”
“Why? You want to exchange violin for French lessons?”
“No, Chris. I think I’m hopeless.”
He studied at my face. “Violin’s a hard instrument.”
“You’re diplomatic. What else do you play?”
“Viola, bass, mandolin, guitar. I started guitar when I was about twelve. Picked it up like that.” He snapped his fingers. “But then my mother died and I was taken into custody by an old-fashioned aunt. She thought electric guitar was a very rude invention. I was instructed to find a more suitable instrument. You want to do Tuesdays and Thursdays here?”
“It really would be more convenient. Are you still in contact with your aunt?”
“Nope. She died two years after my mom.” He looked up. “Natural causes, Terry. She was in her sixties.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You had a look on your face.”
“Just because a sixty-year-old woman seems old to be your aunt.”
“Yeah, she was old and old-fashioned.” He flipped his hair back again. “But she wasn’t without her good points. She fancied herself a real classy lady. I was a punk when I went to live with her. She reinvented my life. Sent me to private school, taught me about music and art. She even gave me diction lessons. I useda towk like a real Noo Yowkeh.”
I smiled. “You should have given your accent to Blake Adonetti.”
That got a laugh out of him. Encouragement. I was on a roll. I said, “Yeah, Blake’s trying very hard to be the resident street guy. Someone should tell him that street guys don’t drive Porsches, they don’t have neurosurgeons for fathers, and they don’t live in ten-thousand-square-foot houses. They also don’t mousse their hair.”
He said, “How do you know Blake?”
“I tutored him for a couple of months—chemistry. His dad harbors hope that Blake’ll be a doctor.”
Chris said, “You tutored him, you tutored Bull.”
“Yeah, also Trish and Lisa for a while. I went through most of your group—”
“They’re not my group.”
His vehemence took me by surprise. I looked away. “Sorry I pigeon-holed you. It’s just that our class is so large, one is more or less defined by one’s clique.”
He said nothing.
I kept blathering on. “I mean everybody has to hang out with someone. Being a B.M.O.C. is infinitely better than being president of the nerd squad, the honored post occupied by yours truly.”
He was still stone-faced. I gave up. “I’ll need your backpack … to see what classes you’re taking.”
He dropped his knapsack to the floor. “Funny how we see ourselves. Guys I know don’t find you nerdy. Matter of fact, they think you’re very pretty. Just a little … frosty. But that’s okay. It’s good to be picky.”
I felt myself go hot. He told me he’d see me tomorrow. I nodded, keeping my eyes on my shoes. I knew he’d left when I heard the screen door slap shut.
3
In school, Chris stayed with his crowd, I stayed with mine. I’d have liked to talk to him, but one never crosses party lines unless invited to do so. And Chris didn’t hand me the scepter. So I looked on from afar, seeing him laugh with the beautiful people, Cheryl Diggs giving him neck rubs. A righteous-looking troop—both girls and guys being lean and lovely—typecast for a syndicated TV school serial. I guess I would have played the odd girl out. Because that was what I was.
The dismissal bell rang and he made it to my locker before I did. He waited as I rearranged my books, then carried my backpack as we walked to his car. I reminded him that we didn’t have to pick up Melissa today. She went to gym with a friend whose mother drove them both. Jean did the pickup.
By six in the evening, I was expected to have finished the laundry, set the table, and prepared dinner. Afterward, Jean would load the tableware in the dishwasher. Unless, of course, she and my father had plans for that evening. Or Jean had a date at the health spa. In that case, my stepmother assigned cleanup to Melissa. Which meant she assigned it to me. When Jean yelled at me, I shined her on. But I hated it when Jean yelled at Melissa.
As talkative as Chris was yesterday, he was quiet as we rode to my house. Last night, I had gone through his backpack, scanned his textbooks, and flipped through his spotty notes. He wasn’t much of a student, but he was a great artist. His sketches seemed to be a cross between Matisse and Picasso. Just a few well-placed lines and there was an image. Amazing to me because I couldn’t draw a straight line.
I also discovered that he smoked and believed in safe sex, judging from the loose packets of condoms. He might be a practicing Catholic, but he was practicing other things as well.
As soon as we settled in, I made coffee. Sipping java, we went through his subjects one by one. He was way behind in his classes, and it took me some time just to find out his level. Once I did, we started with Geometry. My gift was numbers. I’d already completed advanced-placement calculus for seniors, and was doing studying on my own. His level of math was a cakewalk for me.
Chris wasn’t a terrible student. His attention tended to wander, so we took frequent breaks, but at least he was methodical. After two hours, he thanked me, paid me, and left.
The next evening I drove to his apartment. I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect what I saw. His unit was on the top floor of a four-story building. He had a balcony that looked out on a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the Valley. It was something out of an uptown movie set.
In actual size, the place was compact. The living area was a small open pocket separated from the kitchen by a bar-top counter. Under the counter were two high leather stools. The place had white carpeting and was furnished with a five-foot black leather sofa, a glass coffee table, and one skinny-looking modern red chair. The walls held two large, abstract canvases—one was minimalist, the other was covered in color. In another world, I might have asked about them. But I wasn’t here in that capacity. I came to do a job.
As he put up coffee, he gave me spare details of his life. He had moved out to Los Angeles a year and a half ago. Initially, his guardian had helped him financially. But now his work was enough to support him. He was completely independent, having turned eighteen around six months ago.
We studied at the countertop, sitting on stools. He asked me if he could smoke while we worked. I told him yes and thanked him for his consideration. He not only smoked, he also drank. Not much, just a couple of shots of Scotch over a two-hour period, but it bothered me. I didn’t like it, but it was his house. I was only hired help.
The next week went smoothly. He was always on time and always respectful. I would have liked more, but it was obvious he didn’t. That might have been painful, but rejection was nothing new to me.
A couple of times, I somehow got sidetracked, found myself telling him my dreams. I wanted to be a doctor, do top-notch research. I wanted independence and respect. He was a good listener. He’d missed his calling as a shrink.
After a few weeks of tutoring, he called me, saying he had a gig, he’d be away for a few days. When he came back, we were back to square one. Two weeks later, he was almost caught up with his classes and I was three hundred and sixty dollars richer. Five more sessions passed and my earnings topped the five-hundred-dollar mark. Chris placed three tens on my dining-room table.
I pocketed the money and thanked him. He stood and stretched. He was not only very tall, but also long-limbed. Fully extended, he could palm my eight-foot ceiling with little effort.
He said, “Tomorrow’s our free day, right?”
“Right.”
He gathered his backpack. “Then I’ll see you on Thursday.”
“Chris?”
“What?”
“I need a favor.”
He looked at me. “Shoot.”
“Can you keep the money you give me? Hold it for me at your place?”
He stared at me.
“I have my money hidden upstairs,” I said. “I’m afraid Jean’s going to find it and start asking me questions.”
“She doesn’t know you’re tutoring me?”
“She doesn’t know you’re here on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On Fridays, I’ve been telling her that I’m out with friends. She thinks I’m tutoring you once a week. Like I do with most of my students.”
“Why the subterfuge?”
I rubbed my hands together. “I’m afraid she’ll hit me up for some of the cash. You know … family obligation. I’m trying to save as much as I can for college.”
“She’d ask you for your money?”
I looked at the ceiling. “My father was laid off from work a couple of years ago. He started drinking heavily—”
“This sounds familiar.”
“No, no, he’s getting better,” I said, defending him and not knowing why. “He has a job now, but it doesn’t pay much. Jean’s as nervous as a cat.”
“So what does that have to do with you?”
“You don’t understand my stepmom. She won’t demand it. But she’ll … you know … the guilt. Look, if it’s too much—”
“Why don’t you just put it in the bank?”
“They’ll send the statements here. If I don’t get to the mail before she does, she opens my stuff.”
“Jesus!”
“Look, Chris. I don’t like her. But she takes care of my dad, keeps him sober enough to be respectable. So I don’t want to anger her. If it’s too much of a problem—”
“Give me the money. I’ll keep it for you.”
“Thanks.” I ran upstairs, retrieved my wad, and handed it to him. I laughed nervously. “One of the reasons why I never took drugs. I knew Jean would find my stash.”
He stared at me.
“I’m kidding!” I said. “I don’t do drugs. Actually, I don’t do anything except study. I’m a grind. It’s pretty pathetic.”
He kept staring at me.
“Look, just forget it.” I made a grab for my money but he pulled it out of my reach, then pocketed it.
“You want to go out for a hamburger or something, Terry?”
I became aware of my heartbeat.
“Just as friends,” he amended. “Nothing else.”
Crushed, I averted my eyes before my blighted hope slapped him across the face. “I have to make dinner.” I turned to walk away, but he held my arm.
“Believe me, Terry, it’s not you. It’s me. I can’t. I’m engaged.”
My eyes met his baby blues. “You’re what!”
“I’m engaged to be married.”
“You’re eighteen years old!”
“I know that.”
I couldn’t find my words. Finally, I managed to ask him who the girl was.
“Someone I’ve known forever. She lives back east.”
“And you’re serious?”
“Am I ever not serious?”
This was true. Chris had a good sense of humor, but he was a grave boy. Always organized and completely controlled. Just like me. Two hyperadults—had turned out that way because our families were nests of insecurity.
I threw up my hands. “I appreciate your honesty.” I bit my lip. “I guess I also admire your loyalty. That’s unheard of in this day and age. You must be deeply in love.”
“She’s okay,” he said.
“She’s okay? That’s it? She’s okay?”
“She’s okay,” he repeated.
“Chris, why are you marrying a girl that’s just okay?”
He shrugged.
Suddenly, it dawned on me.
Chris caught my look. “No, she’s not pregnant.” He patted his pocket. “I’ll keep your bread safe. Bye.”
He left before I could ask another question. And maybe that was good.
As usual, he was waiting at my locker after school. We walked to his car, neither one speaking. But he didn’t drive to my house. Instead he drove to the bank. He pulled into the parking lot and shut the motor.
“I feel funny keeping your cash. What if you need it and I’m not home?”
“I told you I can’t put it in the bank.”
“We’ll open up an account together. I’ll make sure the statements come to my house.”
I paused. “How cute. Like playing house.”
“Terry—”
“I still don’t understand why you’d marry a girl you don’t love.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t love her.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
I slumped in my seat. “This is none of my business, right?”
“Right.” He opened the car door, but I held his arm. Instantly, he stiffened. I jerked back my hand.
“Sorry.”
He closed the car door, looked at his arm, then looked at me. Without embarrassment, he said, “I have a problem with being touched.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“I’d like to go into the bank now. How about you?”
I didn’t move.
He raised his eyebrows. “Would you prefer to wait out here, Terry?”
“You’re very polite.”
“I was trained with manners—yessir, nossir. I wasn’t polite, I got the shit kicked out of me.” He started the car. “Bad idea. Let’s forget the whole thing.”
I started to place my hand on his arm, but caught myself and pulled it back.
“Sorry. I’m a touchy person.”
He killed the motor. “Terry, anyone touches me, I tense. It doesn’t mean I’m mad. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t mean much of anything anymore. It’s just a habit. So don’t worry about it, okay?”
“Doesn’t it get in the way?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean with your fiancée … if you don’t like being touched …”
He stared at me. I should have cut my losses and shut up, but I didn’t. “I noticed you carried … stuff … in your backpack.”
“Stuff?”
I felt my face go hot. “Never mind.”
“Do you mean condoms?”
If the earth had opened up, I would gladly have jumped in.
Chris said, “Are you asking if my peculiarity about being touched gets in the way of sex?”
My face was on fire.
“The answer’s no.”
I covered my face. “God, I am such a jerk!”
“You want to go into the bank now?”
I opened the car door and so did he. We sat at a desk titled NEW ACCOUNTS. The woman in charge wore a crepe wool suit of deep purple, with contrasting black velvet collar and cuffs. It was beautiful and I wondered if I could remember it well enough to copy it. I was very handy with pattern paper and a sewing machine.
She handed me an identification card. I started to fill it out. It had been at least eight years since I opened a bank account. By now, I had a driver’s license number as well as a Social Security number. I felt very important.
I was racing through my personal data when my eyes suddenly blurred. Small typed letters mocking me. I blinked hard, then moved on, but with less bravado. I handed the card back to Ms. Beautiful Suit, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
But she did.
“You forgot to fill out your mother’s maiden name,” she told me. She poised her pen, ready to catch my pitch.
I sat paralyzed.
Chris looked at me. “What’s wrong, Terry?”
My eyes darted between him and her. “I … don’t know it.”
Ms. Suit stared at me.
My eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I forgot it.”
“Forgot it?” Ms. Suit asked.
I felt so stupid. Chris said, “Can we phone it in?”
Ms. Suit was still staring at me. Finally she returned her eyes to Chris. “Certainly.”
Chris gave her the cash. Ten minutes later, she handed him a bank book. Transaction completed. I got up slowly, feeling like a fool.
Once seated in his car, I found my voice. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Chris waited a beat. “Maybe we should call it quits for today. You look upset.”
“Her first name was Amy,” I said. “And I really did know her last name.”
“Terry, she died a long time ago. It’s only natural—”
“No, you don’t understand. I really knew it. I just forgot it!” I stared out the window but saw nothing. “There were grandparents. I don’t know what happened to them.”
“Why don’t you ask your dad?”
“If I ask him anything about my mother, he gets weird. And if Jean overheard …”
I turned to face him.
“I was five when he met Jean. Soon after, he went through the closets and threw my mother’s stuff out—pictures, clothes, mementos, anything that reminded him of her.” My eyes widened. “Except …”
“What?” Chris asked.
I didn’t answer. We rode back to my house in silence. When we got there, I leaped out of the car and dashed into my father’s den. Chris found me rummaging through the drawers like a bag lady sorting through garbage.
“What are you looking for, Terry?”
I barely heard him, kept digging until I hit success. The brittle newspaper clipping had yellowed with age, but it was still legible.
“It’s Reilly. Her name was Amy Reilly.” I showed him the obit. “It’s such an easy name, I can’t believe I forgot it.”
I read aloud. “… survived by her husband, William McLaughlin, infant daughter, Teresa Anne, and parents, Mary and Robert Reilly of Chicago, Illinois.” I stopped reading. “I wonder if they still live there.”
Chris said, “Why don’t you call and find out?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I just couldn’t.” I searched my brain for images to match the names. None came. “They must have had their reasons for breaking off contact with me.”
“I doubt that, Terry. I’m sure they’d love to hear from you.”
“I’m not going to call them.” My eyes settled back onto the obit. With shaking hands, I held it out to Chris. “Can you keep this for me, too?”
He took the clipping. “Are we on for tomorrow night?”
I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I can work now if you want.”
Chris studied my face. “All right. I’ll get my books from the car.”
“Chris?”
“What?”
“What’s her name?”
He rolled his eyes. “You ask a lot of questions. It can get you into trouble.”
I said nothing, continued to wait him out. Finally, he said, “Lorraine.”
4
The next evening, as soon as I walked inside Chris’s apartment, he handed me a slip of paper—the name of my grandparents with an accompanying phone number. He closed the door, beckoning me forward with a crooked finger. He pointed to the countertop.
“I found the number, but you make the call. There’s the phone.”
My eyes returned to the slip of paper. “I can’t do it.”
“Terry, just pick up the phone and punch in the numbers. Underground cables will do the rest.”
I couldn’t move.
Chris blew out air, then snatched the number from my trembling hands. “It’s a good thing you’re smart. Because you’d never make it on aggression.”
He lifted the receiver, but I ran to the phone and depressed the hang-up button. “Please don’t.” My voice cracked. “It’s probably too late over there anyway.”
“It’s nine in the evening Chicago time. I’m sure they’re up.”
As soon as he started pressing the numbers, I tried to grab the phone again. But this time he held it above his head, out of my reach.
My stomach was suddenly a wave pool of acid. I could hear the phone ring, I could hear someone pick up. Chris started talking and I started dying.
“Hello, my name is Christopher Whitman, and I’m a friend of your granddaughter, Teresa McLaugh—Hello?”
“She hung up?” I whispered.
Chris waved me off. Into the phone, he said, “Yes, I’m still here … you can ask her yourself. She’s standing right next to me. Would you like to speak with her?”
Chris held the receiver out to me.
“She’d like to speak with you.”
Slowly, I took the handset. My hand was cold and clammy and I almost dropped the phone. I leaned against the counter for support and cleared my throat. “Hi.”
“Teresa?”
The voice on the other end was frail and choked with emotion.
“How are you, Grandma?”
“Oh, my God!” She paused. “You sound just like … excuse me … I think I’m going to cry.”
I beat her to it. Tears started streaming down my face. My past had been closed for so many years. And suddenly, without warning, the door had swung wide open. We both started talking at the same time, then we both started laughing, then crying.
I heard a beeper go off. I looked up. I hadn’t realized that Chris carried a pager. He put on a leather jacket.
“I’ll be back.”
“What?” I suddenly started shaking uncontrollably. “Wait. Don’t leave.”
“Teresa, are you all right?” my grandmother asked.
I spoke into the phone. “Grandma, can you hold for a moment?” I covered the receiver and said, “Chris, don’t leave me alone.”
Chris walked up to me and held my face, wiped my tears with his thumbs. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back. Talk as long as you like. Good-bye.”
He was out the door.
I put the receiver back to my ear. Actually, it was good that he did leave because the conversation became very emotional. We laughed, we cried; I asked questions and so did she. Then my grandfather got on the extension and soon we were all talking so fast, it was hard to understand anyone. But it didn’t matter. Because within minutes, I was talking to family. Eleven years of emptiness vanquished in a single stroke, all because someone had cared enough to make a phone call.
I gleaned a history of what had happened to them. They had faded into the breeze at my father’s request. He had felt that as long as my mother’s memory was kept fresh in my mind, I would never develop a close relationship with my new stepmother, Jean. They had wanted only what was best for me, so they had pulled away. They related my history, defending my father at every twist and turn. But I could feel only anger and resentment.
Did I ever receive the Christmas cards and presents they had sent me?
I told them I hadn’t.
How about the birthday cards and presents?
Not them, either.
I told them I would write. I told them I would send pictures. I told them I would call whenever I got the chance. If they wanted to send anything or write back, I told them to address the letters in care of Chris, then gave them his address. After forty-five minutes of nonstop dialogue, I finally relinquished the line to a dial tone.
I was so exhausted, I sprawled out on Chris’s leather couch and closed my eyes. He came back ten minutes later. His face looked drawn, his eyes looked dead.
I stood up. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He brushed hair out of his eyes. “How’d it go?”
I smiled. “Great … it went …” The tears came back. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you.” I moved toward him, then stopped.
He laughed. “Come here.”
I ran to him and hugged him tightly. It was like embracing granite. His arms wrapped around me, his fingers in my hair. He kissed my forehead. “I’m glad it went well.”
I burrowed myself deeper into his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. After a few moments, I became aware of something hard pressing into my hipbone. I adjusted my position in his arms, then went warm with embarrassment when I realized what it was. I giggled out of nervousness.
Chris whispered, “Yes, I have an erection.”
“At least I know you like me.”
“I like you very much.”
My eyes found his. “Then why—”
“Not now, Terry. Please.” He broke away and took off his jacket. Poured himself a shot of Scotch and drank it in a single gulp. “We’re going to have to forgo the lesson. I have a gig lined up. I have to pack.”
His voice was calm but his posture was tense.
I clapped my hands once. “If you need help, I’m a really good packer. I do all of my stepmom’s packing whenever she goes out of town.”
He smiled but it lacked warmth. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” I shrugged. “Thanks again. I’m going to owe you money for a very long phone conver—”
“Forget it.”
“I also told them to write to me in care of you. I gave them your address. I hope that’s okay—”
“It’s fine, Terry.”
He was very anxious for me to leave. But I couldn’t get my feet to move. “When will you be back?”
“Don’t know. Maybe Thursday or Friday.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back east.”
The room turned quiet. I said, “Are you going to be seeing your fiancée?”
Chris raised his brow. “You really like to torture yourself, don’t you?”
“I feel very comfortable on a cross.”
“Yes, I’ll probably be seeing her.”
“You’ll be seeing Lorraine?”
“Probably. It’s getting late.”
Actually, it wasn’t, but he wanted me out. I said, “I’ll leave now. Thanks again.”
“Take my books.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to fall behind and you’ll need to prepare lessons to catch me up.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out three fifties. Showed them to me. “For the week I’m gone. I’ll deposit them in your bank account.”
“Christopher, it won’t take me ten hours to prepare your lessons.”
“Think of it as a retainer.” He brushed my nose with the corner of the bills, then pocketed the money. “You’re now in my employ.”
“You say that with such glee.” I laughed softly. “Must be nice to be rich.”
“I wouldn’t know. I work for every dime I have.”
I turned hot, glanced at him, then averted my eyes. “God, that was an awful thing to say. Of course you do. I’m very sorry.” I picked up the books. “Thanks for everything, Chris.”
He held my arm. “Terry, look at me.”
Quickly, my eyes swept over his face.
“Nuh-uh,” he persisted. “Look at me.”
I managed to meet his eyes.
Chris said, “You didn’t offend me. I knew what you meant.”
“You don’t need to pay me—”
“Terry—”
“All I’m saying is, I’d tutor you for free.” I felt my eyes get wet and looked away.
“I know you would, Terry. And that means a lot to me. But it’s not necessary.” He kissed my forehead. “Go home.”
A very good idea. He’d been full of them this evening. Quietly, I shut the door behind me. I thought my grandmother had taken away all my tears. But I was wrong.
5
The trips had become so routine, he wondered why he didn’t keep a prepacked valise. Same inventory every time. Two white shirts, two black shirts, two pairs of black pants, couple of ties, underwear, socks, shoes, and a suit in case he decided to see Lorraine. Her daddy liked things nice and formal. Proper. He didn’t want things to get out of hand before the wedding. Not a problem for him. But daughter had undergone a severe case of hot pants over the past year.
She had detested him when they were first introduced. And she had taken every opportunity to tell him so. He was immature, ugly, stupid, unmannered (that was a lie)—and worst of worst, he was a mick. It had been an insult to her intelligence that her father had ever agreed to the arrangement. She’d go through with it because she knew she had to. But he shouldn’t ever, ever, expect anything!
Her words had stung his cheeks like a blustery day. But eventually he had learned to tune them out, just like everything else. His apathy to her had been so complete, it took him months before he realized her change of attitude.
At first, he had wondered why. He hadn’t changed. He was the same person. Until he looked in the mirror one day for a self-portrait. His cheeks had been thick with grizzle, toughening the flawless skin that had once been speckled with teenage blemishes. His eyes had deepened in color and in intensity; his mouth had turned sensual and hungry. His body had hardened from pumping iron. His forearms were developed from hours of cello playing. Suddenly he realized what had happened. Hormones and genetics had finally worked in his favor. They had turned him into a man.
A vengeful person might have reacted with hostility. But since emotions weren’t part of his equation, he reacted as he always did. With control and calculation.
He regarded himself through her eyes. It must have been hard for a rich, spoiled Italian princess to accept a gawky fourteen-year-old mongrel three years her junior. Her former boyfriends had been older than she—nineteen or even in their early twenties, with deep voices and developed muscles. He must have looked like a worm in comparison.
So he decided to be gracious with her. Kind but never attentive, closed but not cold. Physical affection, of course, but only the obligatory kind if you please—a peck on the cheek, his hand on her arm as they strolled through the family’s vast country acreage.
She knew something was off, but she couldn’t call him on it. Because he behaved like the perfect gentleman that Daddy had ordered. They played tennis together. He always won, but not by too many points. They went to the symphony together. He knew the pieces by heart, could have conducted them if push came to shove. She had a hard time staying awake. He teased her about her strong New York accent, but it was always in good humor. They went to Mass together. He prayed fervently as she sneaked him sidelong glances, her leg rubbing against his thigh.
He jerked her around like a rag doll, kept her off balance. After the official engagement had been announced, she waited … and waited and waited. Finally, she came to him. To his amazement, she was still a virgin. So he’d been gentle with her. Gentle but dispassionate. Their first nighttime tryst, which she had arranged to cement their relationship, had only served to increase her anxiety.
What was wrong?
Nothing, it was fine.
What could she do to please him more?
Nothing, he was fine.
What could she do to make herself better?
Nothing, she was fine.
He had finally gained the upper hand.
He pulled a suitcase down from his bedroom closet. He didn’t feel like packing, so instead he lit a cigarette.
What he really wanted was another drink.
But that was the wrong thing to do.
It was time to use logic, analyze why he wanted the drink so bad.
Was it the gigs? After all these years was he finally getting performance anxiety?
No, he never was anxious about anything.
Was he worried about failure?
No, he was a pro.
Was the thrill gone?
He sucked on his smoke.
That was part of it. Just wasn’t as thrilling as it used to be. Truth be told, he was just going through the motions. So what? That was life, buddy. Everybody had to earn their keep. Besides, he needed the bread now more than ever because he was doling out so much of it to her.
Her.
Still the same thrill every time he thought about her. At least that much hadn’t changed. How she’d slipped by him in orchestra was still beyond his comprehension. He chalked it up to the way he was. He never went after girls. They had always come to him.
Just like Cheryl.
Not that he hadn’t noticed Cheryl. How could he not have noticed Cheryl? And yeah, he had wanted her. But Cheryl had been business as usual. He’d sent her “the vibes” and she had responded quickly … satisfyingly …
Terry had been different. He hadn’t noticed her because she’d been buried in the back of the second violin section. They’d been playing Rossini’s William Tell Overture. The beginning of the piece, Hedding purposely dragging the tempo, milking the cello solo—his solo, of course. Then Hedding had stopped the orchestra. Apparently, someone had been making loud snoring noises in the background.
Lack of sleep, Miss McLaughlin, or do you have a problem with the tempo?
Lots of giggling now … at least, two or three girls.
No, sir. Sorry, sir.
The voice had been sultry. He had craned his neck, but hadn’t been able to make out the person.
Perhaps you’d like to come up and conduct the piece at a tempo more to your liking.
By then the entire orchestra had gotten into the act. Egging her on. Red-faced, she stood up. But she did it. Conducted the entire piece. Did a pretty good job of it, too.
All he had remembered was his heart pounding out of his chest. Good thing he was such a natural, because he hadn’t known what he’d been playing. His mind racing, his thoughts a jumbled mess.
Where the fuck had she been hiding?
So mind-boggling gorgeous, and best of all, she didn’t even know it.
Immediately, he started sending her “the vibes.” But they hadn’t worked and he figured out why. She was a good girl. Well, that wasn’t so bad. Because he knew all about good girls. They weren’t hard to catch, but you had to do it indirectly. Then she walked by one day, and Bull made some lech comment. They had all laughed about it. Bull also mentioned that she’d been his tutor.
The opening he’d been waiting for.
But it wasn’t working out as planned. She was supposed to be a blow and go. Instead, something got messed up in his head.
He closed his eyes, allowing his brain to flash up her image. He studied the purity of her oval face, the arch of her cheekbones, the liquid in her exotic, amber eyes, the sweep of her long, auburn hair.
Though he tried to fight it, he knew he was going under.
He was falling in love.
His groin ached. He realized he was rock hard.
So that’s why he had wanted to drink. He had wanted to suppress his arousal. God, he wanted her.
But that was out of the question.
He grabbed his rubbers, a handful of old neckties, and headed for the streets.
6
Rina realized the bed was empty. Not an infrequent occurrence of late. Ever since Peter had returned home from New York, he’d been hit with bouts of insomnia. The nightstand clock read two A.M. Stomach still awash in sleep-laden nausea, Rina rose slowly from the bed, donned her robe, and slipped her feet into mules. Moving slowly through the darkened house, she found Peter seated at the kitchen table, fingers running through his mop of red hair, his shoulders hunched over the Formica top.
“What are you doing?”
Startled, Decker pivoted around to face her. “I didn’t hear you get up.”
She sat next to him. Immediately, Decker began stacking papers in front of him. Once they were piled up, he covered them with his elbows, hiding them from Rina’s eyes as if she were trying to cheat off him.
“Peter, what are you doing?”
“Just going over loose ends.”
“What loose ends?”
“Just business stuff. Not important.” He scooped up the papers and stood. “Come on. We’ll both go back to bed.”
Rina pointed to his chair. Decker sat back down. “Tell me the truth. Are you working on the shopping-bag rapist?”
Decker didn’t answer.
“Peter, just what do you hope to accomplish from three thousand miles away?”
“So what should I do? Sit by while this asshole picks off women? He got another one—”
“I’m aware of that—”
“Rina, I sat with my daughter and her friends for two friggin days. Hearing them cry … they may be women on the outside but inside they’re frightened little children. I spoke to Cindy this afternoon. This time, she wants to come home.”
“So she’s coming home?”
“I told her no.” Decker began to pace. “I told her, give it a little more time. Because if she comes home, the bastard wins. And what will that do to her psyche? Chased away by a phantom. Know what, Rina? He is winning!”
“It’s wretched, but—”
Decker blurted out, “You ask me what I can do three thousand miles away? The sad truth is nothing. But if it makes me feel better reading some detective’s case notes, then indulge me!”
Abruptly, he threw the papers across the room and looked at Rina.
“Do you think I did wrong by telling her to stay?” Decker began to pace again. “As her father, I really want her home. But I don’t want her to leave because someone is chasing her away. I raised her to feel she was strong enough to conquer the world. Now this SOB …” He sank back in his chair and rubbed his face. “I think I’m going nuts!”
Slowly Rina got up and began assembling the papers. She set them in front of her husband, then placed a kettle of water on the stove. “Do the police have any ideas?”
“They think it’s someone on the inside because he knows the secluded areas of the campus. College! Perfect breeding grounds for weirdos and perverts. You’ve got hyper-hormoned kids with poor judgment thrown together unsupervised. Bastard rapist. He knows they’re easy fodder.”
“Cindy’s twenty-one.”
“When she cries in my arms, she’s a kid. I can’t stand this. Screw it! I’m sending her a plane ticket tomorrow—”
“Peter, you did the right thing by telling her to stay. You can’t protect her forever.”
“So I’ll protect her as long as I can.”
“If the monster strikes again, then you and she can reevaluate. In the meantime, if she can stick it out until he’s caught … handling this situation will give her a sense of mastery. That this maniac didn’t scare her away. Believe me, I know what it’s like to live in fear.”
The kettle began to boil. Rina brought out two mugs and made tea. Decker was quiet, remembering how they’d met. Rina had been a witness to a rape, Decker had been the cop assigned to the crime. During the course of the investigation, they had found out that Rina had been the intended victim. Even with that knowledge, Rina had held firm, refused to be scared away by a madman’s perversions. In the end, she had come away the better for it.
But this was his daughter.
“So you think I did the right thing?” Decker asked.
Rina placed a cup of ginger tea in front of her husband. “I think so, yes. Drink.”
“Okay, you’re a smart person.” Decker sipped boiling tea. “I’ll trust you.”
“Thank you.”
“I trust you, you trust me. Isn’t that what this whole thing’s about?”
“You mean love?”
“Yeah, love and the whole nine yards.”
“The whole nine yards?”
“You know what I mean. Love, marriage, kids, dogs, mortgages, responsibility, life—”
“Poor Peter. You’re feeling so burdened.”
“I’m not feeling burdened, I am burdened.”
Rina took his hand. “You want to go out to New York again?”
Decker shook his head no. “What does that say to Cindy? That every time there’s a crisis, Daddy’ll come to rescue her? No, I’ve got to let her deal with it and just pray for the best.” He looked at the kitchen clock. “Is it too early to say Shacharit?”
Rina thought a moment. There were entire sections of Talmud written about the permissible times to say the morning prayers. Rina looked at the kitchen clock. A little before three A.M.
“It’s never too early or too late to pray. And Peter, add your own private wishes at the beginning of Shemonah Esreh. Ask Hashem specifically to look after Cindy, to watch over her and keep her safe. Make your requests as detailed as you want.”
Decker smiled. “I can do that?”
Rina smiled back. “You can do that.”
7
In the dead of night, I wrote letters to my grandparents, all the while growing even more aloof from my father and stepmother. Jean tried to cut through my secrecy with insipid stabs into my personal life. It became clear that she thought I was sequestering a boyfriend. I answered her politely, but revealed nothing. My father never even picked up on my change of attitude. To him, I was a house pet. As long as I was healthy and didn’t pee on the carpet, I was left to benign neglect.
The school week rocketed by. With Chris gone, I was back to walking home. On Tuesday, Bull—né Steve—Anderson met me at my locker after school and offered me a ride. The school’s star halfback, as did Chris, ran in the fast lane of booze, drugs, and sex. Steve was handsome and buffed with a con-man smile. He’d been cordial to me the year I’d tutored him. But beyond that, he had never given me a second glance.
On the lift home, I sensed a change—the wolfish way he looked at me. I sat rigidly in the passenger seat of his Camaro, showing scant interest in his conversation. When he parked in front of my house, he told me I needed to loosen up and have some fun. He invited me to a party that night. I declined, citing schoolwork. When I closed the door to my house, I turned the deadbolt.
The next day, when Steve saw me in the halls, he acknowledged me with the barest of courtesy. I was relieved.
Chris called me up the following Friday morning. Hearing his voice sent ripples of pleasure down my spine. He wasn’t coming to school but he told me to come to his place tonight at the usual time.
I was weak-kneed when he answered the door that evening. He wore a black silk jacket over a black tee and faded jeans. His hair had been stepped in back, but it was long and loose in front. A gold crucifix hung from his neck. He took the lead-filled backpacks I was carrying.
“Welcome back,” I said.
“Thank you.” He hefted the book bags onto his kitchen counter. “These are heavy. Next time, just leave them in the car and I’ll get them for you.”
He poured me a cup of coffee and told me to take a seat. I pulled up a stool. “How’d your gig go?”
“Without a hitch,” he said. “I never have any problem with work. How’ve you been?”
“Fine. A little nervous actually.”
“Why’s that?”
“Mr. Hedding announced an orchestra test this Monday.”
“Which piece?”
“Brandenburg Number Two. I’m embarrassed to play in front of you.”
“Why?” He poured himself a shot of Scotch. “I’ve heard you play before.”
“Yeah, but now it’s different. I know you.”
“You see me struggling in my studies all the time. I’m not embarrassed. You shouldn’t be either.”
“But this is different.”
“Why?”
I leaned on my elbows. “Because my bad playing is so … visceral. It’s so … out there … public.”
“You never cared before.”
“Because I never had to look you in the eye afterward.”
Chris held a finger in the air, disappeared, then came back a moment later with a violin case. He took out the instrument, tuned it, then motioned me up from the stool.
“Play for me.”
He offered me the fiddle. I regarded it as if it were an evil talisman. “I don’t have the sheet music.”
He sat on his leather couch and sipped his drink. “Play what you know by heart.”
“I don’t know anything by heart.”
“So just draw the bow across the strings. Get a sound from it, all right?”
I sighed. I got As in orchestra only because I showed up on time and took all the tests. It was no reflection of my skill as a musician. Red-faced, I started bowing open strings. My hands were shaking. I made sounds akin to a strangling cat’s. I stopped and giggled, but Chris kept his expression flat.
“Keep going.”
“I know how sensitive your ear is. How can you stand it?”
“Keep going.”
I played the test piece as best I could by heart. I made mistakes. I sounded terrible. I was almost in tears. I kept waiting for him to grimace, but he sat stoically.
“Play it again.”
“Chris—”
“Play it again.”
“This is torture—”
“Play it again.”
I did. I sounded a bit better and Chris gave me a compliment to that effect. “Can I please stop now?” I asked.
Chris got up from the couch, took the violin.
“It’s a beautiful-sounding instrument,” I said. “I wish I could do it more justice. Why don’t you play the piece?”
He shrugged, tucked the violin under his chin, and came up with a concerto that was note-perfect as well as sound-perfect. I told him I hated him.
He smiled, put the violin away, then patted his jacket pockets. “Where’d I put … ah, here we go.” He pulled out a small wrapped package. “Maybe this’ll make you hate me less.” He handed it to me.
I looked at it, then at him.
“For me?”
“Yes, for you. Open it.”
I ripped open the paper. The box held a set of pearl studs for pierced ears. My eyes went from him, to the earrings, then back to him. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Thank you is fine. Try them on.”
I replaced my gold hoops with milk-white orbs. “How do they look?”
“They look beautiful. Rather, you look beautiful in them.”
“I don’t understand …” I lowered my eyes, then raised them to his face.
“What can I say, Terry?” Chris spoke softly. “You know I’m engaged to someone else. But the heart has a mind of its own.” He walked over to me and slipped his arms around my waist. “Do you love me, Terry?”
Without hesitation, I told him I did.
“I love you, too. So now what do we do?”
I leaned against his breast, soothed by his heartbeat. “I don’t know.”
He said, “Usually, when two people love each other, they express their love in intimate ways. But I can’t ask you to sleep with me. Because I’m going to marry someone else.”
“Do you want me to tell you that it’s okay?”
He held me tightly. “Is it okay?”
I didn’t answer him. He said, “Since we last saw each other, I haven’t been able to get you off my mind. And that’s saying a lot. Because I’m usually very good at compartmentalizing. I don’t want to sleep with you because it will hurt you in the end. But there are other ways we can be intimate with each other.”
I lifted my head and met his eyes. He read my confusion.
“Let me draw you,” he said. “Completely.”
Completely. As in the nude. My heart started racing. I closed my eyes and buried myself in his embrace.
“Look at me, Terry,” he said. “Do you trust me?”
I opened my eyes but said nothing.
“Do you?” he repeated.
I smiled weakly. He picked up my hands and kissed my fingers. “Terry, I know what they’ve taught you, so I know what you’re feeling.” He placed my hand on his cheek. “Embarrassment, shame—”
“I’m not that pious anymore, Chris.” I pulled my hand away. “I haven’t been to confession in over six months.”
“But the crap’s still there, right?”
“It’s not crap.”
He waited. When I remained silent, he drew me close and said, “You know the Italians have it over the Irish in their Catholicism. I mean the guilt’s still there in the Italians, but they’re more … flexible. God, even my aunt Donna, who was an old, old-fashioned Catholic woman, could look the other way. She once caught me drawing these pictures.”
He smiled at the memory.
“Real explicit pictures … of guys and girls … Anyway, I was thirteen and suicidal over my mother’s death. What else was I supposed to do?”
I hugged him hard.
Chris said, “The lady was smart. Know what she did?”
“What?”
“She took me to the Met. The art museum, not the opera house. We covered the place from top to bottom in a week. Mostly we concentrated on the religious art … lots of nudes in religious art, believe it or not.”
I nodded.
Chris whispered, “Terry, it changed my whole … image of what a human body was. From something hidden and shameful to something incredibly beautiful. My body is beautiful. Your body is beautiful. And I want it.”
I didn’t respond.
“Look, I’ll take you through it step by step. Anytime you want to stop, just cut the phone wires. I swear I’ll stop. Please do it for me.”
I bit my lip. “I’d do anything for you.”
Chris traced my profile with his left index finger—a preamble to his sketching. “I know what you’re giving me. Thank you for trusting me. I promise I won’t let you down.” He broke away and looked around the room. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Light’s probably better in here with the spots and all.” He faced me. “But I’d rather draw you in the bedroom. More personal that way.”
He took my hand and led me into his sleeping quarters. It also had a city-lights view and lots of built-in cabinets. Not a thing or an item appeared out of place. Not surprising. Because Chris was compulsive.
He hung up his jacket in his closet and pointed to his king-sized bed covered with a black quilt. “Just sit there for a moment. The cover will make a perfect backdrop. I want to get some auxiliary light.”
“Are you going to take photographs?” I asked.
“Nope. Just me and my charcoals.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“The sketches?” Chris broke a smile. “Ah, little girl, what you don’t know. I’m going to look at them whenever I’m alone and lonely … which is often. Rest of the time they’ll be locked up and stowed away. I swear they’re for my eyes only. I’ll be back.”
He came back a minute later toting lamps, an easel filled with paper, art supplies, and a bottle of Chivas. He set his equipment down on the floor and poured himself another drink. “Will Jean have a fit if you’re not home by a certain hour?”
“No,” I said. “My parents are out for the evening. Melissa’s sleeping over at a friend’s house. You can take your time.”
“Good.” He took about a half hour to set up. “Would you like some music before we start?”
“That’d be nice.”
Chris opened a drawer and pulled out a CD cartridge. “Let’s see what I’ve got loaded—Pearl Jam, Spin Doctors, Metallica, Crash Test Dummies, Greenday, Eric Johnson, Joe Satriani, Nicholas Gage, Yo Yo Ma, Jacqueline DuPres, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons …” He looked up. “That’s nice and light. How about that?”
I nodded. He put on the music and told me to move to the middle of the bed.
“Keep your clothes on for now. Just sit there like you’re doing, Terry. With your knees pressed to your chest and your shoulders hunched over like that. But keep your head up and look at me … to the left … perfect. Hold that position, all right?”
This was easy enough. He studied me, then started making swipes at his easel.
“Can I talk while you draw me?” I asked.
“Absolutely.” He looked at me, then back at his paper. “Say whatever’s on your mind.”
“Did you see Lorraine while you were back east?”
Preoccupied, he didn’t answer. He flipped over his preliminary sketch and started anew. “Yes, I saw Lorraine.”
“Were you on good terms with her?” I asked.
“Good terms?” He squinted at the paper. “Are you asking if I slept with her? Yes, I slept with her.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Look at me, Terry.”
I did.
“Ah, such anguish in those beautiful eyes.” Chris started on a fresh piece of paper. “I did it because it was expected. Closed my eyes and imagined you. She means nothing to me. I’m not marrying Lorraine, I’m marrying her family. My uncle arranged the whole thing when I was fourteen.” His eyes went from me to his drawing. “Believe me, I’d get out of it if I could. But you don’t mess with my uncle without good reason.”
“But you don’t love her.”
“That’s not a good reason.” He stood back and studied his work. “It’s chilly in here. I’m going to turn up the heat. Give you a chance to strip down to your bra and panties without me staring at you. And sit in the same position. If your feet are cold, leave your socks on.”
He disappeared. Slowly I took off my sweater, jeans, and shoes. Barely clad, I rubbed my arms and shivered. When he came back in, he glanced at me, saw me shaking. Keeping his eyes averted, he draped a comforter over my shoulders.
I know what they’ve taught you so I know what you’re feeling.
He knew exactly what I was feeling. Doing everything he could to make it easy on me, to make me feel beautiful. All the guilt, the shame … he was right. It was crap. I had to get past it. I couldn’t live with myself if I let him down.
“You can take the cover off whenever you want to.” Chris rubbed his hands and reviewed his pictures.
“Can I see?”
“When we’re done.”
I slowly let the comforter drop from my torso until it rested over my legs.
Chris took in my bare shoulders with his eyes. “Nice.” He began a new sketch. “That’s real nice. Look up, Ter.”
I raised my head. There was nothing lecherous in his eyes and that made me feel good. I said, “Why isn’t ‘you don’t love her’ a good reason?”
He started shading with his thumb. “You ever hear of Joseph Donatti?”
I scrunched up my forehead trying to attach the familiar name with an event.
“His murder trial made the national papers about four years back.” Chris’s fingers were black. “Before that, he’d been arrested for racketeering, extortion, bribery … uh, pandering and pushing … money laundering. Nothing ever stuck. Evidence got lost.”
I stared at him, openmouthed.
“He was acquitted in his murder trial, by the way. Witnesses either changed their stories or mysteriously disappeared.”
I remained silent, wondering if he was putting me on.
Chris spit into his hand, rubbed his palms together, and began working the moisture into the paper. “My uncle’s mob, Terry. And I don’t mean small-time hoods who’re cute movie characters. I mean real mob. Lorraine is a daughter of the mob. She’s from a rival family. Our engagement has bought both families a truce and lots of money. If you’re warm enough now, toss the comforter on the floor.”
Mechanically, I did what he asked. I was still dumbfounded by his recitation. It was his demeanor—as casual as an afternoon sail.
Flipping over his sketch, Chris attacked the clean paper with renewed vigor. “I want you to know that I have nothing to do with my uncle’s activities. All I want is a nice, quiet life as a classical cellist. Unfortunately, what I am is a pawn in a wargame played by two dangerous men. I screw with this engagement, heads’ll roll. Namely my own.”
I stammered out, “Your uncle would … kill you?”
Chris continued drawing. “Nah, you’re right. He wouldn’t kill me.” His eyes bored into mine. “I wouldn’t be the problem.”
Slowly, my brain absorbed his words. I felt myself go light-headed. Chris stopped drawing, placed the comforter over my shaking body, and stuck Scotch in my face. “Drink.”
“I don’t want—”
“Drink!”
I took a sip and immediately started coughing. He patted my back. “Take another sip.”
“It makes me sick—”
“Drink it, Terry.”
I sucked the smoky liquid into my mouth. I could never figure out why people drank to clear their heads. Alcohol only made me queasy. I wrapped myself in the comforter, resting my pounding head in my hands.
“Are you all right? You’re white.”
I whispered that I was all right.
He let out a small laugh. “Guess honesty isn’t always the best policy. Terry, nothing’s going to happen to you. My uncle doesn’t care what I do just as long as I show up at the altar. You know, I could tell my uncle about you, right now, at this moment—”
“Please don’t do that.”
“I won’t, but I could.” He put his arm around me. “He’d probably feel sorry for me. Loving one girl and marrying another. He’d know how much it hurts. Because he loved his mistress very much.” He removed the comforter from my shoulders. “You want another sip of Scotch?”
“No.”
“Can you take your bra off for me?”
I closed me eyes. “Chris, I don’t feel very well.”
“You want to stop?”
I opened my eyes and peered into his—unreadable. “No.” My voice was shaky. “No, it’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
I answered him by slipping off my bra. He stared at my chest for a long time before going back to his easel. “Hunch over like you were doing before.”
Gladly, I did as I was told, my knees hiding most of my nakedness.
He began a new drawing. “You’re very, very beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t ever be ashamed of what God gave you, you hear me?”
I nodded.
He drew one sketch, then another, then another. We didn’t talk as he worked his way through one pad, quickly replacing it with a new one. He wiped sweat from his brow.
“I’m hot,” he said. “I’m going to take off my shirt.”
I shrugged. He worked bare-chested. His body was hard and developed, but not overdone. Not an anabolics user. Too much chest hair, and he was more sinewy than inflated. I remembered Bull Anderson parading around the halls in his swimming trunks one day after school, his oiled, hairless barrel chest reddened by patches of acne.
Chris stood back and fingered his crucifix, his eyes on my face. “Your color’s back. You must be feeling better.”
I nodded.
“Good.”
I said, “You used the past tense when you spoke about your uncle’s mistress. What happened to her?”
“She died.”
“Did he kill her?”
Chris jerked his head up. “In a sense, I guess he did.”
I waited for more, but he didn’t explain. He sketched furiously. “You can take your panties off now.”
I froze.
Chris said, “If it’s too hard for you, Teresa, we’ll forget the whole thing. The purpose of this is to make us closer, not to put up walls.”
He spoke smoothly and soothingly, as if my feelings were his only concern. At that moment, I would probably have drunk poison for him. Instead, I slipped off my panties, keeping my knees up, legs soldered together.
Chris walked over to me. Looming over my smallness, he must have sensed how insignificant I felt. He knelt down and spoke very softly. “Give me privilege, angel. I swear I won’t ever let you down.”
I still couldn’t move.
“Let me help you.”
He put his hands on my knees and opened my legs, positioning them about two feet apart. His face was so close I could feel warmed air on my inner thighs. His skin was flushed, his eyes had dilated, and his breathing had become audible. He remained in the same position for what seemed like an interminable period.
Finally, he let out a breathless laugh. “I swear to Jesus, I can’t get up. I can’t move. I’m … too weak.”
I smiled.
He closed his eyes, crossed himself, and finally stood up. He threw back his head and burst into unrestrained laughter. “Well, that was a first.” Slowly, he made his way back to his sketch pad. “Just keep that position.”
He laughed again. It was infectious and I started to relax. After a while, my eyes traveled down his body, landing on the noticeable bulge in his crotch. I felt tingling below, wondered if he noticed. A moment later, he gave me a knowing smile.
“You dirty girl, keep your eyes up and off my groin.”
“You can look, why can’t I?”
“I don’t mind you looking,” he clarified. “But I need to see your beautiful eyes.”
“You’re not looking at my eyes, Christopher.”
Again Chris smiled. “You’re nasty, Teresa. Of course I’m looking at your eyes.” He flipped to a new piece of paper. “If you’re that curious, I can take my pants off.”
“I’ll pass. My heart’s only good for a shock a day and I’m still dealing with your uncle’s death threats.”
“Terry, nothing’s going to happen to you.” He studied me, then his drawing. “I’d … kill myself before I’d let anything ever happen to you. You may be little in size, but you’ve got a six-four, one-hundred-eighty-pound killing machine at your service. More reliable than a pit bull and I don’t have bad breath. Hold still.”
“Chris?”
“What?”
“How did your uncle’s mistress die?”
He didn’t answer me. I didn’t press it. He sketched in silence for half an hour. Finally, he set down his charcoal, put on his shirt, then picked up the comforter from the floor. He draped it across my shoulders.
“She died of breast cancer. She had it for a long time, but was afraid to go to the doctors. She was afraid of losing her breast, disfiguring the body he loved so much. She just let it go until it was way too late. Stupid. He later told me the sexiest thing about her chest wasn’t her breasts but her heartbeat.”
He traced my jawline with his finger.
“You would have liked my mom. She was beautiful, but real down to earth. Just like you.”
“Your mom?” I looked at him, wide-eyed. “So your uncle Joey isn’t really—”
“No. After my dad was murdered, my mom took a job at Joey’s place as a housekeeper. He took an instant liking to her; they became lovers. Joey’s wife—the woman I call my aunt—was always the refined lady. She just … looked the other way. After my mom died, she and my uncle adopted me. They never could have their own kids, so this seemed like a good solution.”
He stopped talking, his eyes far away.
“My aunt got her revenge on my mother. She co-opted me. I never talked about my mom after she died. My aunt wouldn’t have allowed it. I was no longer my mom’s kid. I was my aunt’s child. Only remnants of my former life are some scars and my name.”
“It must have made you angry.”
“More sad than anything. I knew what she was doing but was still grateful to her. Both she and my uncle could have sent me packing. Which would have meant five years in foster homes. After my mom died, I had nowhere to go.”
I said, “Now I understand why you agreed to marry Lorraine.”
His laugh was bitter. “I didn’t agree to anything, Terry. I obeyed an order.”
The room fell quiet.
“Only thing I ever bucked Joey on was school,” Chris continued. “He wanted me to marry Lorenza as soon—”
“Lorenza?”
“Lorenza’s her given name. He wanted me to marry her as soon as I turned eighteen. I told him it made more sense for me to finish up my schooling out here, then go back east and get married. He finally gave in, but he wasn’t happy about it. He won’t be happy until I’m tied for life with a couple of sons under my belt … common grandchildren.”
He kissed my hand and brought it to his cheek.
“Can we do this again next Friday night? Make it our special evening?”
I told him yes.
“Thank you.” He kissed my hand again, then let it go. “Terry, listen to me. Everything we’ve said is very private. We go back to school on Monday, it’s like before. You stay with your friends, I stay with mine. You understand why?”
“You don’t want your uncle to find out about me.”
“Yes. Also I’ve done stuff in the past—a couple of drug convictions and some B and Es. Stuff I did to prove myself to my uncle. All I got for my efforts was beatings. But I didn’t care. I wanted my uncle to see me as tough.”
“I understand.”
“Joey spent lots of money on me, Terry. He bribed the right people. Now I’ve got a clean record. Matter of fact, that’s why he sent me out here in the first place. A fresh start. But I’m still known as Joey Donatti’s kid. If my uncle ever goes down, I drown with him. It’s better if people think you’re only my tutor. It’s late. Get dressed and I’ll follow you home. Make sure you get in all right.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do,” Chris whispered. “You have a treasure, you guard it with your life.”
8
And it was exactly like before. Chris stayed in his group, Cheryl Diggs giving him neck rubs, outwardly oblivious to my distant longing stares. Nothing passed between us, even when we were alone. I simply tutored him. As if he had locked up his feelings for me and put them in cold storage.
His apathy confused me, then angered me. In the end, he had cut me to the quick. I felt embarrassed and ashamed by what I had done for him, for falling for his glib talk and sweet words. By Friday, I decided that I didn’t want to see him anymore. When I came to his place that evening, he threw open the door, pulled me inside, then shut it with a slam.
He was short of breath and paced his living room. “I’m running a little late. My uncle. Effing pain in the ass, excuse my language. Gotta put everything on hold whenever Joey calls. Jerk was in a panic. He’s always in a panic. And me, his effing errand boy. God, I hate that man.”
He suddenly stopped moving and faced me. “I’m almost done setting up. I made coffee. Have a cup while I finish up.”
I stared at him. “Setting up what?”
His eyes went wide, then he smiled. “You’re putting me on, right?”
I shook my head no.
“Terry, c’mon.” His smile lost some wattage. “This is our night, remember?”
“Ah,” I said. “I see. I get Friday while Cheryl Diggs gets Saturday through Thursday. Thank you, but I’ll pass.”
His face fell. “What are you talking about?”
The best defense was an offense. I wasn’t about to be taken in. “Chris, I don’t feel well. I’ll see you Monday. Oh, good going on your math test. Farrell told me you did well.”
I turned to leave, but he came over and gripped my arm. I averted my eyes but didn’t resist his hold.
“Terry,” Chris whispered. “Cheryl means nothing—”
“Oh, please!” I interrupted. “Cheryl means nothing, Lorraine means nothing. What do you do? Surround yourself with girls who mean nothing to you? So what does that say about me, Chris? And let go of my arm.”
Slowly, he dropped his hold on me. Without looking at him, I told him I’d see him later.
“I wrote a composition for you,” he blurted out.
How convenient. I turned around and looked at him as best I could. Because my eyes were in the back of my head from rolling them.
“No, really. I’m not lying.” He held up a finger, indicating that I should wait. Then he went inside his hall closet and returned holding a sheaf of paper. He handed it to me.
My eyes slipped down to the title page.
A poem for Teresa
With special gratitude to Our Lord Jesus Christ, thanking Him for giving me a true spiritual love. May God forever protect her and keep her from harm’s way.
In the left-hand corner was a small drawing that could have been lifted from a fourteenth-century wood-panel painting. A young girl in a red dress, the crown of her head illuminated in gold pen by the spirit of God. Long chestnut hair, eyes closed, her hands folded in prayer, head bent modestly toward her breast.
The face was mine.
My eyes went moist as I scanned the pages. Six sheets of musical notation with lots of cross-outs. Chris took the music from me. “It’s done but it isn’t refined yet. But with the mood you’re in … I figured I’d better bring out the heavy artillery.”
I laughed through my tears. He lifted my chin until my eyes met his. “Let me play what I have so far, okay?”
I nodded. His smile was brilliant. “Okay, sit down.” He led me to his couch. “Okay. Sit. Wait.”
He went to his bedroom and came out carting his cello and stool. “Okay.” He sat down directly across from me and placed the instrument between his knees, burying the spike in his white carpet. “You never heard my Rowland Ross. It is one bitchen instrument. Okay. Okay. Now you gotta remember that it isn’t polished yet, all right?”
I smiled. “All right?”
“And I may make a few mistakes. I don’t have it all down yet. So cut me slack, all right.”
“No, I’m going to critique you,” I said, wiping my tears.
“So you’re happy now?”
“Yes. I’m happy now.”
“Good. ’Cause I’ll do better if you’re happy.”
“I’m delirious with joy. Play it already.”
His smile was edible. Then he closed his eyes a moment, started to breathe slowly. When his bow made contact with the strings, I closed my eyes.
The room filled with a sound so pure and sacred, it brought an ache to my heart, chills. Because he wasn’t playing music. He was praying. Soft, plaintive pleas of repentance answered by the all-encompassing embrace of God’s mercy. When he had finished, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t move. Emotion had paralyzed me.
“Do you like it?” he asked me.
I opened my eyes and swallowed dryly. “It’s …” Tears had been running down my cheeks. “It’s positively … sublime.”
“Like you.”
“Hardly.”
“Look at me, Terry.”
I did.
He said, “What Beethoven did for Elise, that’s what I want to do for you. I want to immortalize you.”
My heart stood still. I couldn’t answer him.
“That’s why I wrote this for you; that’s why I draw you.” He placed his cello on its side rib and came over to me. His lips brushed my forehead, his touch as gentle and spiritual as baptismal waters. “You are holy to me. Our relationship is holy to me. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
He handed me the title page. “Keep it. And whenever you doubt me, look at this. Because it’s the way I really feel. I love you, Teresa. More than you ever could know.” He paused. “Will you let me draw you tonight? Completely?”
I dried my eyes and nodded yes.
He whispered, “Go into my bedroom, take off your clothes, and put on one of my robes. I’ll be there in a minute, all right?”
I got up and did what he asked of me. He came back in, set up for around five minutes, then turned to look at me. I regarded his eyes. I was looking for a window to his soul. All I got was leaded glass. I cleared my throat. “You want me to take the robe off now?”
He nodded yes.
Slowly I untied the belt and let the garment fall from my shoulders. “Should I sit the same as last time?”
He shook his head no. “I want something different tonight.”
“Different?”
“I want to tie you up.”
Involuntarily, my fingers wrapped around my throat. “What?”
“I want to tie you up.”
The room went silent. I started shivering. “Why?”
He extended his arms out from his shoulders and slumped his head to the side. “You are my artistic vision of Our Lord Jesus on the cross. I can’t crucify you. So this is the next best thing.”
I was too stunned to talk.
“Say no if you’re squeamish.”
“Chris, I’m not squeamish—”
“So do it.” He came over to the bed and draped his robe around my shoulders. “Please, please, Terry. It’s very important to me.”
I looked at the ceiling. “You are absolutely the most wonderful, but weirdest boy I have ever met in my entire life.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Call it artistic temperament.” His eyes met mine. He lowered his head and kissed my feet. “I’m begging you. Please?”
I fell backward onto his mattress. “I must be crazy—”
“You’ll do it?”
“Yes, I’ll do it.”
Without ceremony, Chris got up from the bed, went to his closet, and pulled out a dozen neckties. I felt my heart beating wildly. I stuttered out, “You’ve done this before?”
He didn’t answer.
“Just swear to me that you’re not a serial killer.”
“I’m not a serial killer. Lie down.” He waited, I waited. Gently, he pushed down on my shoulders. “Please.”
As I lay on his bed, he pulled off the robe, took my right arm, and secured it to his headboard with one of his ties. Then he did the left. I felt as powerless as a deboned chicken. I wiggled my fingers.
“Too tight?” he asked.
“No … I have circulation … barely.”
“Your limbs start to tingle, let me know. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Well, that’s comforting.”
His face became flat. “Terry, I could snap your neck as easily as taking a breath. I don’t want to do nasty things to you. I draw you as an expression of my love for you. Do you believe me?”
“Of course, but—”
“Good. Then cross your ankles.”
“You’re tying my feet, too?”
“Jesus was bound and constrained when he died. Cross your ankles.”
I crossed my ankles. He tied them together, then took another tie and bound me to his footboard. Completely immobilized, I started to shiver. He threw the blanket over my body and started arranging my hair.
“You want to paste a false beard on me?”
He didn’t answer, smoothing out loose strands of hair. He moved my head to one side, then to the other. He told me to look up, look down, close my eyes, open my eyes, smile, frown, then look beatific. Finally, he stood and removed the blanket from my body. Chris studied me for a long time.
He went to his easel and drew for twenty minutes, then stopped. “The angle’s not right. It’s too much an aerial view.”
“Perhaps you’d like to construct a cross and we can try it again next week.”
His voice turned harsh. “Don’t make fun of me.”
I was quiet, felt tears in my eyes. He stared at me for a moment, then threw his chalk across the room. “Fuck it!”
He stomped over and began untying my arms, angry and frustrated. I felt as if I’d failed him. Worse yet, I felt as if I’d failed art.
Freed of the binds, I shook out my limbs as he sat dejected on the edge of his bed. I blanketed myself with his comforter, sat next to him, and reached for his hand. He tensed at my touch. I withdrew my fingers.
I said, “It’s early, Christopher. Let’s try it again.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s almost nine. How much time do you have?”
“As much as you need.”
He ran his hand over his face. “God, I’m being a selfish pig. You’re pale. You must be hungry. Let me take you out to eat.”
“No, it’s okay. Let’s just keep going.”
“Not until I get some nutrition into you.” He stood and began to pace. “Put on one of my robes and I’ll make you something. While you’re eating, I want to look at some religious art books. That sound okay?”
“Yes, it sounds ducky.”
He bent down and kissed my forehead. “You’re a great sport.”
“Thank you,” I muttered. “You can put it on my tombstone as an epitaph.”
He left without answering me. I shuddered. I was sorry I’d made the wisecrack.
After the break, Chris became very mathematical about his proportions. He measured distances and angles—from my shoulder to my hand, from my hand to his headboard. He struggled with many positions until he found a couple of poses he liked. By the time he actually began drawing, it was close to eleven. At one in the morning, Chris ripped up his current work.
“I’m fading.” He paused. “You looked tired, too.”
I was exhausted. I never realized that modeling was such hard work. He untied me. I shook out my limbs, feeling numb and drained. He placed the comforter around my shoulders, then told me to put my clothes on.
He didn’t see me when I walked into the living room. I watched him play back his answering machine messages, the last being a girl telling him to get his butt over to Tom’s because he was missing a terrific party. I knew the voice. She was pretty and loose—two traits that made her very popular. Short blond hair and bright blue eyes. The sex goddess of Central West Valley High.
“Cheryl Diggs,” I said.
Chris turned the machine off and pivoted to face me. “You’ve got a better ear than I thought.”
“For some things.” I rubbed my eyes. “What’s the story with you and her? Why is she always giving you neck rubs?”
“What are you really asking me, Terry? You want to know whether I’ve slept with her? Yes, I have.”
I looked away. Chris said, “You want me to treat you like I treat her, Terry?”
“No, but …”
He waited for me to complete my sentence.
I sat on his sofa. He sat next to me. I didn’t look at him. “I’m not a nun, Chris. I have sexual feelings—”
“I know that—”
“I also have human feelings. I get jealous.”
“And that’s precisely why I’m not sleeping with you. I don’t want to hurt you.”
And what could I say to that? “You don’t mind hurting Cheryl?”
“Cheryl’s been around the block. I walk away tomorrow, she couldn’t care less.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“Yeah, you’re a mind reader.”
“No, I’m not. I know she doesn’t care because she’s promiscuous. Terry, I’d rather be with you. But you’re complicated. Cheryl’s easy. So that’s why I’m with her. Any other questions?”
I didn’t answer. He blew out air. “Look, we’re both real tired. How about we try this again next week?”
Finally I kicked the words out. “I don’t think so. I’m a tutor, Chris, not a model. I don’t feel comfortable doing this, even for immortality.”
“But you’re a great model.”
“Thank you, but it’s irrelevant—”
“Let me show you some of the drawings. Maybe they’ll change your mind.”
He started up, but I held his arm. At least he didn’t tense. I said, “It won’t change my mind.”
He tapped his foot. “Look, you’re making fifteen an hour as a tutor, right? I’ll pay you fifty an hour to model for me.” He glanced at his watch. “Tonight’s haul would be two hundred and fifty just like that. That’s great bread by anyone’s standards.”
I glared at him. “You think I’m holding out for money?”
“No, of course not. I was just trying to motivate you—”
“By offering me money? I’m not a nun, Christopher, but I’m not a whore, either.”
The room fell quiet. Something wasn’t right.
I said, “You know, Chris, you’re doing okay in your work. Maybe it would be better—”
“No, no, no, no, no.” He smiled weakly. “I’ll behave myself. Forget about this whole modeling thing. I shouldn’t have … let’s just go back to the way it was.”
My head was reeling. “Chris, that isn’t possible—”
“Sure it is.” He began to pace. “It’s just perspective, Terry. That’s all it is. I can view you this way. Or I can view you that way. You can be my girlfriend. Or you can be my tutor. Or you can be my model. It’s just perspective, compartmentalizing. You know what I’m saying?”
I stood and slipped the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “No, I really don’t.”
“Terry, please don’t leave.” He grabbed my hand. “Just sit a moment, okay?”
With great reluctance, I sat back down. He sat next to me. Calmly, he said, “Just tell me what you want.”
“I don’t want anything, Chris. Everything’s okay.”
“Then if everything’s okay, we’ll go back to the way it was. You’re my tutor, I’m your student. I’ll see you on Monday then.”
I kneaded my hands. “I think …” I cleared my throat. “It really would be better if you found another tutor.”
The room turned silent and cold. I started shivering. He rubbed my arms.
“Is that what you want, Teresa?”
My eyes became moist. “I don’t know.”
“We’re both too tired to make decisions. Let’s talk on Monday.”
“Chris, this past week has been real intense. I need a break. How about if you call me in a week, okay?”
He stared at me for a long time.
“Please, Christopher. If it’s love, it can wait a week.”
His eyes never left mine. Staring me down. Finally he shrugged. “Sure, I’ll call you in a week.”
Suddenly, I could breathe. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad at you?” His smile was wide but off. “I could never be mad at you. Sure, I’ll call in a week.”
We both knew he’d never call again. He dropped my hands and scratched his head. “In the meantime, I’ve said some things to you in confidence.”
“You know I’m very trustworthy.” I laughed nervously. “Besides, you have some pretty detailed drawings of me. In the leverage department, you’ve got a clear advantage.”
He laughed out loud. “Yeah, you’re right about that.”
“Can I have the drawings, Chris?” I gave him as earnest a look as I could muster. “Please?”
But he shook his head no. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep them locked up. No one but me will ever see them.” He crossed himself. “That much I swear.”
“Why can’t I have them?”
He smiled slowly. “Because they’re mine.”
9
Over the weekend I had second thoughts. By Monday, I was determined to talk to him. I spotted him before first period. He was with his friends, Cheryl Diggs on his lap, his hands traveling her body like ants on a sandhill. She was equally demonstrative. From a distance, it looked like he saw me. He paused, then brought Cheryl’s face to his and devoured her mouth.
Something snapped inside as I walked away, a long-buried aching that surfaced as a ravenous need for love and affection.
I became moonstruck and boy, did Chris know it! For the next three months, he drew me into a horrid game of “I told you so.” And the more he tortured me, the more I lapped it up. I knew I had reached rock bottom when I found myself flirting with Steve Anderson just to get close to Chris. Next thing I knew I was going to the parties.
The parties.
There was always some house available, somebody with out-of-town parents. The drugs were plentiful, the booze flowed like tapwater, and sex was open and often. Chris sprawled out on the floor, one hand up Cheryl’s blouse, the other down her pants. Her hands on his crotch, teasing him to a massive erection.
I looked away.
But I always came back for more. The only thing I can say in my defense is that I never let Steve touch me in public. In private, though I guarded my virginity like a chastity belt, I had no choice but to give him something if I was to keep him. And I needed to keep him because he was my link to Chris. I hated doing things with him. I wondered if he told his friends about me. I wondered if he told Chris. How I despised myself.
But I kept going back because I needed to see Chris. In fact, what I saw was an alcoholic in the making—my former student packing away shots without breaking a sweat. Drinking made Chris gregarious—a foreign entity to my eyes. He’d smile, he’d joke, he’d become a good ole boy with lots of fans. Lots of drinking also made him amorous. After an hour of raging, he’d disappear with Cheryl into a back room.
Always making sure I saw him go with her.
My grades started slipping. I became despondent. Lying like a lump in bed, listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, thinking suicidal thoughts. Out of desperation, with no one to turn to, I turned to prayer—to my obligation of confession. Dense as I was, it finally hit me. It wasn’t that I had posed nude for Chris. Had he loved me as he should have, I would have died for him. It was debasing myself for a boy who regarded me as dirt.
I unburdened my soul, asking Jesus for forgiveness and acceptance. For me, confession had always been a painful process even when I did it on a regular basis. But a yearlong neglect of my spiritual duties made me feel even more shameful and guilty. But I forged ahead, seeking penance from God. After it was over, I felt better. But guilt continued to gnaw at my bones. Because my heart still ached for Chris.
But righteous actions first. Maybe the thoughts would come later.
I went cold turkey. I broke up with Bull Anderson. No more parties, no more torture. Then I started avoiding Chris. The hardest period was orchestra. He always had a crowd around him and was very good at catching my eye.
Then one day something drew my eye away from him. Perhaps it was Jesus guiding my soul. Or maybe it was the scent of another wounded animal just like me.
His name was Daniel Reiss. Besides being in orchestra with me, he was in my math class. He was a computer junkie, an almost nerd with glasses that often fell down his nose. He was skinny but at least he was tall. He was staring at Chris, a piece of his flute in each of his hands. His eyes weren’t resentful. They were simply perplexed, saying: Why would God who made a Chris also make someone like me?
Violin in hand, I walked over to Daniel. “It won’t work unless you put it together.”
Slowly he turned, amazed that I was talking to him.
“You’ve got to put the pieces together.” I smiled briefly. “Then you’ve got to blow.”
I walked away.
He followed.
Daniel was wonderful in his simplicity. He was sweet, and gentle, and didn’t expect a thing sexually. So anything I gave him was met with unbridled excitement. He gave me back my sense of self, and because of that, I wanted our senior prom together to be extra-special.
With my tutoring money, I could have afforded almost any dress I wanted. But store-bought wasn’t good enough. I wanted something unique—handmade.
Which meant made by me. Every day after school, I rummaged through fashion magazines. Once I settled on the design, I started my hunt in the fabric stores. I found a bolt of teal-blue taffeta woven with gold thread that cost a fraction of its original price.
I cut, I snipped, I sewed. I adjusted and pinned until my eyes gave out. But when I was done, I had my one of a kind—a backless and strapless bodice attached to a form-fitting miniskirt that gave my body a sexy embrace.
But something was missing.
It needed trim. It needed a bow. But not just any bow. A monster-sized bow that I tacked on just below the waistline. It swayed when I moved. It gave me kinetics. With the rest of the fabric, I made a matching stole. I accented the entire outfit with a black lace bag, matching lace gloves cut off at the fingers, and black garters and stockings. I kept my jewelry simple—a cross around my neck and Chris’s pearl earrings—a nice, ironic touch.
On prom night, I felt as desirable as a courtesan. Yet inside, I was pure … well, maybe not totally pure. But at least I came away from high school still a virgin.
Daniel was speechless. His hands shook as he pinned a corsage onto my bodice. I took his arm as we walked to his car. He had wanted to rent a limo, but I told him not to waste the money. His six-year-old Volvo would do just fine. I felt cocky as I made my entrance into the gym.
I could feel the eyes on me—male and female. The girls looking at my dress, the boys eyeing what was inside. I could hear a buzz as Daniel and I walked over to the picture line. I kept my expression genteel but inside I was flying.
All these years of keeping a low profile. But not tonight. Tonight was my turn.
Casually, I glanced around the room.
I saw him before he saw me. He was absolutely gorgeous—completely at ease in formal wear. I figured he must have attended a lot of weddings in his day. He was talking to his friends, Cheryl at his side. But there was a distance between them. No body contact.
Then she took his arm. He stiffened. She looked upset.
I felt bad.
He turned and looked in my direction.
I caught his eye.
Abruptly, his face turned into something inanimate—cold and emotionless with the eyes of a dead fish. I looked away and moved closer to Daniel. When I glanced up again, he was gone.
I pretended the interchange never happened. I danced, I laughed, I flirted, I drank punch and ate cucumber sandwiches. Midway through the affair, I saw him again, moving through the crowd, heading for the side door.
Without a nod to rational thought, I excused myself from Daniel and gave chase. I found him alone under a tree, knees up against his chest—same position I’d modeled for his sketches. I sat next to him, hugging myself because I was cold.
“Stuffy in there,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
“Like my earrings?”
He didn’t move.
“Look, Chris …” I tried again. “I’m sorry it ended so badly. I’m sorry that things got so messed up. You were a very important person in my life. I feel very deeply about you and—”
“Are you wearing garters or panty hose?” he asked me.
I waited a beat. “What?”
He looked at me for the first time. His voice was calm. “I asked if you were wearing garters or panty hose.”
I stared at him.
He shrugged. “If I’m gonna fantasize about fucking you, I want to be accurate.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Without a word, I got up and went back to the gym. Daniel found me, asked me where I’d been. I didn’t answer. I’d been subdued.
Another hour going through the motions.
Someone put Tom Petty on the PA.
Oh my my. Oh hell yes.
Honey, put on that party dress.
My head began to throb.
Last dance with Mary Jane,
One more time to kill the pain …
I asked Daniel to take me to the restaurant now. I knew it was early, but I had to get out of there.
He told me, anything I wanted.
We were at his Volvo, almost inside, when we heard Chris call Daniel’s name. We turned around.
“Hey, Reiss,” he said loudly. “Can I have just five minutes with your girl before you whisk her away?”
I felt anger overflow. “Why are you asking him for permission to talk to me?”
He turned to me, his face bathed in sweat. Jumpy eyes. An emotion in him I’d never seen before. He was nervous.
“Just five minutes, Terry. After that, I’ll leave you alone, I swear.”
I rolled my eyes, looked at Daniel. He gave a sheepish smile. “Maybe I’ll go grab another cup of punch.”
“Thanks,” Chris told him.
We both watched him walk away. When he was out of sight, Chris wiped his face with a handkerchief, then stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his feet.
“I’m sorry.”
I shrugged.
“Terry, I’ve been a real jerk. Not only tonight but these past months. I was angry at my situation and I took it out on you. But I’m not making excuses. I acted like a total and complete asshole.”
I shrugged again. “Who noticed?”
He was breathing audibly. Then he rubbed his neck and laughed. “That was real rich, Terry.”
“You want absolution, Chris, go to confession.”
“You know, Terry, we really deserve each other. I may be a motherfucker. But deep down inside, you’re a real bitch.”
Then he pounced on me. He shoved me against the Volvo and attacked my mouth with feral hunger. I could have protested. And I knew he would have stopped. But I didn’t.
Because I wanted it.
I clutched his neck and drank in his juices. His tongue wrestling with mine, moving down my neck until his mouth was between my breasts. He slipped his hands inside my dress, liberating my flesh, drawing my nipple to his mouth. He licked and moaned and so did I.
He hiked up my dress, picked me up, and sat me on the hood of the car. His mouth ravaging mine, he opened my legs and pressed himself on top of me. My back felt the chill of the Volvo’s cold steel, but my insides were scalding hot. I coiled my legs around his hips and drew him closer. He rocked against me, bringing a sweet ache to my loins. Our warm breath mixing as his lips danced with mine.
“Be with me, angel,” he whispered. “I’ll ditch her, you ditch him—”
“Chris—”
“We’ll make love until the sun comes up.”
He dipped his hand under my panties. I was sopping wet. “I’ll take you away, baby doll. I’ll take us both away forever! Out of reach of your parents, out of reach of my uncle, out of reach of everything except each other’s arms.”
“Chris—”
“Now or never, Terry.”
“Oh, God—”
“Say yes!”
“Yes!” I shoved him away and tried to catch my breath. I sat up and closed my legs. “Yes. Okay?”
He stared at me, flush-faced and panting. “You mean it?”
“I mean it.” I was breathing hard. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes.”
“What about Lor—”
“Screw her. Screw everyone except us! I can’t live without you, Terry. I don’t want to live without you. God, I love you so much I’m in pain. Baby, tell me you love me.”
“I love you.” I took a deep breath. “I love you, love you, love you. Help me down.”
He put his arms around my waist and swung me from the car. I attempted to tidy my appearance. I tugged on my skirt, smoothed out my hair, and redid my lipstick. He came toward me, but I whacked him back. “Daniel’ll be back any minute.”
Chris rubbed his neck. “What are you going to tell him?”
“I don’t know. God, he’s been so good to me.” I looked at him beseechingly. “Can you just give me tonight with him? It’s so cruel …”
My voice faded.
Chris took a deep breath and blew it out. “What the hell! Give the guy a break. Have dinner with him. We’ve got a lifetime together.”
My heart took toward the sky. “You really mean that?”
His smile was dazzling. “Yes, I really mean that!”
He’d imitated my tone of voice. My laughter was mixed with tears. I erased lipstick from the corner of his mouth, then touched his cheek. I was hopelessly in love.
I said, “Besides, I’m sure Cheryl could use a break, too.”
“Yeah, she could use something.” He rotated his shoulders. “She’ll never die young because she’s getting old too fast.”
“At least you got your answer,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“You know if I’m wearing garters or panty hose.”
He laughed. “A lot of good it’ll do me.” He waited a beat. “That’s not what I wanted from you. I mean I wanted that too, but …” He shook his head. “I can’t believe all the time I wasted. Playing stupid mind games. I’m much better at revenge than I am at love.”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“That’s good of you to say.” He looked at me. “Did you know, after you blew me off, I used to break into your locker?”
I stared at him. “Why?”
“Just to smell your jacket or your lunch or your books. I saved every page of notes you’d ever given me. Every pen or pencil, every …” He laughed. “Every eraser shaving you ever left at my place. You left a sweater in my closet. I used to sleep with it, that’s how obsessed I was with you. I still am obsessed with you. I’ve never, ever stopped looking at you, Teresa Anne McLaughlin. Even when you stopped looking at me.”
“I’m glad you’re obsessed with me. Because I’m obsessed with you.” I paused. “How’d you break my padlock?”
“Ain’t a lock around that I can’t pick,” Chris said. “Courtesy of my dad, mind you, not my uncle Joey. That’s why I got into so much trouble with B and Es back in New York. I was too good for my own good.” He kissed me again. “I ache for you, angel. You really want to be with Reiss tonight?”
“No, I don’t. But I owe him something, Chris.”
He shot me a chilly look. I ignored it and glanced up at the inky sky. “Should I call you when I get home?”
“Let me call you,” he said.
I paused. “Will you? This isn’t a game with you?”
“Good God, no, Terry! This isn’t a game! This is the most honest I’ve ever been in my entire life!”
“What about your uncle?”
“Good old Joey.” He raised his brow. “I don’t know. But I’ll think of something.” He kissed me on the forehead. “I’ll call you around one.”
“Swear?”
He crossed himself. “Swear.”
I got home at twelve-forty-five and waited.
At four-thirty in the morning, my resolve weakened. I picked up the phone and called him. The line connected after the third ring. He mumbled a sleepy hello. I couldn’t find my voice.
He muttered an obscenity under his breath, but into the phone he calmly stated, “Terry, don’t hang up. Let me explain—”
I slammed down the receiver, then took it off the hook. At sunrise, I went to sleep.
10
Stepping across the door’s threshold, Decker caught the photographer’s flash. Swell. Just when he needed his eyesight for detail, he’d be seeing a dancing moon for the next few minutes. Officer Russ Miller was trying to get his attention. Taking his notepad from his jacket, Decker detached the pen from the cover and clicked the nub at the end, bringing up the ballpoint.
“Backtrack for me, Russ.”
Someone shouted, “Anyone in fucking charge here?”
Decker looked up. Benny, the lab man, was irritated, sweat dripping from his forehead. Swaddled in his white lab coat, he swiped at his face with his arm, making sure not to contaminate his latex-covered hands. He caught Decker’s eye.
“Sergeant, I can’t do a goddamn thing with all these feet and hands flying in the air.”
“I just walked through the door, Ben. Let me get my bearings, okay?”
“It’s in your best interest to clear the bodies out.” Benny paused. “The live ones.”
The flash went off again. Decker shielded his eyes. Sticky moisture was coating his armpits. He took off his jacket and draped it over his shoulder. Then he did a head count. Ten officers—way too many people crammed into the double-occupancy hotel room.
Aloud he said, “Everybody freeze for a second. Who was first on the scene?”
“Crock and me,” Miller said.
“Then you two stay here.” Decker started pointing. “Howard and Black, you two canvass rooms on floors one and two. Wilson and Packard, this floor and the one upstairs. Be polite and be careful. Also, do a little crowd control. There’s a group of looky-loos that’s a potential fire hazard. Officers Bailey, Nelson, Gomez, and Estrella, back in the field. Go.”
As the room emptied, clearing the area around the bed, the victim came into Decker’s view. He started making notes—not much more than first impressions but sometimes they were valuable.
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.
Lynne handed him four photographs. “Is this enough?”
“Great. Thanks, Lynne.”
“Tell the boys to come in?”
“Please.”
She gave a wave and left. Again, Decker studied the surroundings. The room was on the third floor, the window barred, the escape lever untouched. Whoever did this walked in and out the door. He tore out a clean sheet of paper, dividing the space into four sections. Later he’d add the furniture.
Benny took out a fingerprint kit. “I can’t dust until the stiff’s out of here. Powder’ll screw up the autopsy. Where’s the men from the coroner’s office?”
“Lynne went to get them.” Decker frowned and went over to the bed. “I can’t stand it. I’m going to take her down.”
He gloved up, then slowly undid the knots on the bow tie and stocking that bound the victim’s wrists to the headboard. Her arms remained extended, as stiff as a cardboard cutout. He lowered the T-shaped girl to the bed, then dropped the bow tie into one plastic bag, set the stocking in another. He examined the neck.
A voice behind him said, “Rather large bruises. I’d say our perpetrator had large hands.”
Decker looked up. ME office had sent Jay Craine. He was a thin, good-looking man in his mid-thirties. Heavy with the affectations but a good coroner. Today, his face looked exceptionally drawn. His nose was Rudolph red.
Decker asked, “Allergies or a cold?”
Craine sneezed, then slipped on a mask. “A tad of both, I’m afraid. Oh my. Terrible. Was she tied to the headboard?”
“Yeah.” Decker made room for Craine to work. “I couldn’t look at her anymore like that. I took her down.”
“Obviously rigor has started.” Craine leaned over and started examining the body. “She’s not ice-cold. I’ll take a rectal temperature as soon as I’ve checked out her anus for sexual penetration.”
He attempted to flex her arms, then bent her legs at the knee.
“Rigor’s not totally set. Lividity’s evident.” He looked at Decker. “Perhaps we’re working within a range of three to eight hours. When was the body discovered?”
“Eight in the morning.”
“So that’s more or less between the hours of twelve and eight. Rigor is somewhat advanced although physical exertion prior to death can speed it up.” Craine opened his leather bag, took out a swab kit. He snorted, coughed, sneezed, then began his examination. “Semen in her vagina.”
Decker paused. “Are you sure? Ben found a condom in the bed sheets.”
“And another in the garbage can,” Ben broke in. “Someone was having a good time.”
Decker regarded the rigor-laden girl. “And someone wasn’t. Why would she have semen in her vagina if her partner was using a condom?”
“Perhaps he ran out and they got careless,” Craine postulated. “Or she had more than one partner.”
“What about her anus?”
Craine examined her rectum with watery eyes. “Appears clean from a visual.” He took several swabs and sealed them in vials. He sneezed ferociously. “But one cannot tell …” Another sneeze. “Until one puts it under a microscope.”
Craine continued on. “First impression, Sergeant …” A pause, then a sneeze. “The girl might be pregnant … thickening of the vaginal tissue, vascularization. Either pregnant or it’s her period. But I don’t see any menstrual blood.”
Decker ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, then wrote down the word—pregnant. “How far along?”
“Early. I’ll tell you more specifics when I get her on the table.”
“Now there’s a switch,” Benny said. “Someone was using a condom even though the girl had been knocked up. The power of the virus.”
“But she had semen in her,” Decker said. “Maybe Doctor C. is right. We’re working with more than one man.”
“We’ll know for certain once the tests come in.” Craine stood, then sneezed so hard he rocked on his feet.
Decker said, “You sure you should be working, Doctor?”
“On the contrary, it’s the best time to work,” Craine sniffed. “The nasal mucosa is so inflamed, it virtually blocks out all odious olfactory sensations. I can’t smell a thing. Shall I remove her so Ben can dust thoroughly?”
“Great idea,” Ben said.
Decker said, “Take care of yourself, Doc.”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Rhinoviruses are persistent little creatures. Bed rest is essential.”
As soon as Craine left, Officers Crock and Miller walked back into the room. Crock said, “Got hold of the principal at Central West Valley and West Valley. They’ll call the girls’ veeps and meet you down at the schools whenever you come. I haven’t hooked up with anyone from North Valley yet. Also, no frantic parents have called any of the station houses.”
Decker nodded, then turned to Officer Miller. “What about you, Russ?”
“Maid seems on the level as far as I can tell. So does the desk clerk, Forrester. You want to interview them?”
“I’ll introduce myself before I leave for the high schools. What time did the maid go on shift?”
“Six.”
“And the desk clerk?”
“Six, also.”
“So at six, we had a changing of the guard at the desk—Forrester came in and …” Decker rotated his shoulders as he checked through his notes. “And Henry Trupp went off duty. Phone calls from the room, Russ?”
“Two calls to room service downstairs. One at twelve-oh-six, another at two-fifty-six.” Miller rubbed his hands against his pants. “That should help narrow down the time frame.”
“If she was alive when the calls were made. Who was on duty in the coffee shop last night?”
Miller cleared his throat. “Seems room service is brought up by the busboys. They come and go … paid in cash. Everything is off the books.”
“Illegals?”
“Probably.”
Decker said, “I’ll take it from here. Thank you. You two can go back in the field now.”
He looked at his room map and started on the first quadrant. After an hour search, Decker had a collection of carefully marked plastic bags containing hairs, buttons, two beer-bottle caps, a butt of marijuana, specks of white powder, three bathroom towels, all the bed linens, discarded underclothes, a pair of pink sequined shoes that matched the dress, and one wilted orchid corsage that said it all.
He pocketed his survey notes and left the room, yielding the final check to Benny and his lab men.
A brief talk with the maid and Forrester revealed no new information. Neither one saw or heard anything. He used the lobby phone and dialed Henry Trupp’s phone number. It rang and rang and Decker hung up. He found Officer Mike Wilson, who had just finished canvassing the first floor. Decker called him over.
“Anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Decker shook his head. “Mike, go into the coffee shop. I want a list of everyone who was working last night. If they hassle you about giving names of cash-only employees, tell them we’re not interested in calling either the INS or the IRS. But we’ll call both if we have to.”
“I understand, Sergeant.”
“Yeah, make sure they understand as well. Be back soon.”
Decker slipped on his jacket and headed for high school.
11
North valley was a bust.
Central West was a different story. Decker took out the Polaroids and laid them on the principal’s desk. The rotund black man winced distastefully, but there were no sparks of recognition in his eyes.
Not the case for the girls’ vice principal, Kathy Portafino. One glance turned her a putrid shade of olive. She was about Marge’s age and height—early thirties, around five ten and hefty, with a square jaw and a no-nonsense face that said, “I’ve seen it all.” But there was something uniquely ugly about postmortem photos. A cold finality combined with clinical sterility brought out emotions in even the most jaded.
“Who is she?” Decker asked.
The woman covered her mouth. “I think it’s Cheryl Diggs.”
“You think?”
“No, it’s her. She just looks so … different.” She wiped her forehead and swallowed weakly. “Excuse me, but I’m not feeling—”
“Go,” Decker said.
The woman fled the room. Decker turned his attention to the principal. He was staring at the top of his paper-piled desk.
Decker said, “Do you know this girl, Mr. Gordon?”
The principal ran his hand over his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. “Now that Kathy has identified her, I know who she is.” He sat down in his chair. “This is just … terrible.”
Decker took out his notepad. “Did the school hold its senior prom last night?”
The man nodded, rubbed his forehead. “All of a sudden that seems like years ago.”
“And Cheryl Diggs was there?”
“I suppose.”
“Do you know who she went with?”
“No, I couldn’t tell you that.”
“Then tell me about Cheryl.”
“Ms. Portafino would know more.”
“What do you know, Mr. Gordon?”
“What do I know?” His pause told Decker he didn’t know much. “Cheryl ran with the wild crowd. Wild over here doesn’t mean homeboys mowing each other down. This is still a predominantly white, middle-class, gang-less school. But we have guns here.” He took a deep breath. “We have guns, we have knives, we have drugs, we have pregnancies, we have diseases, we have suicides and overdoses. We have every urban problem you can think of, including violent crime—theft, robbery, rapes, assaults. But this?”
“Never any murders before?”
“One in the five years I’ve been here. Two boys fighting over a parking space. One of them just pulled out a thirty-two and shot the other in the head. You don’t recall that?”
“I wasn’t in Devonshire five years ago,” Decker said.
“I thought we’d hit rock bottom then.” Gordon sighed. “Even though we beefed up our security afterward, it took a long time to calm jittery nerves. Lord only knows what this is going to do.”
“Tell me about Cheryl’s crowd.”
“Cheryl’s crowd …” He hesitated, trying to formulate his thoughts. Just then, Kathy returned to the room. Her face had been splashed with water. She was pale but no longer green. Gordon turned to his ally. “Kathy, who were Cheryl’s friends?”
“Lisa Chapman, Trish Manning, Jo Benderhoff—”
“Boyfriends,” Decker interrupted.
“She hopped around.” Kathy sat down. “Steven Anderson, Blake Adonetti, Tom Baylor, Christopher Whit—” She stopped talking. “I think she went to the prom with Chris Whitman. At least I saw them there together. I remember them because they made such a beautiful couple.” The VP tapped her foot. “You know, I think something was wrong. Cheryl looked upset.”
Decker wrote as he spoke. “Is that hindsight talking or was there some definite incident you remember?”
“Nothing precise. She just looked … sad. I noticed it because it marred her otherwise stunning appearance.”
“Did the boyfriend seem upset?” Decker asked.
She shrugged. “Chris is always hard to read. Also I’m more tuned in to the girls. All I remember about Chris is that he looked great. He always looks great.”
“He’s a handsome boy,” Gordon added. “A gifted cellist.”
“More than gifted,” Kathy added. “He was professional quality.”
“He didn’t belong here,” Gordon continued. “He should have been in Juilliard.”
“Then why was he here?” Decker asked.
Both Gordon and Kathy shrugged ignorance.
“Don’t tell me,” Decker said. “He’s a quiet boy. A loner with social problems.”
“Not at all,” Kathy said. “He has friends. As a matter of fact, he’s quite popular. Very well liked with the boys as well as the girls.”
An ember ignited in Decker’s brain—a familiar profile. He said, “You said he was hard to read. What did you mean by that?”
Kathy thought a moment. “Chris is very … even-tempered. A trait like that stands out when you’re dealing with a thousand hormonally imbalanced adolescents.”
Decker said, “More adult than the rest of the kids?”
Kathy nodded. “Yes.”
Gordon suddenly spoke up. “Kathy, isn’t Christopher an emancipated minor?”
“I think he’s eighteen now, Sheldon.”
“But he came in as an emancipated minor,” Gordon said. “I remember that clearly. Despite all the divorce and broken homes, very few kids have their own apartments.”
Bingo! In his notepad, Decker wrote: WHITMAN, CHRIS. NARC? CALL VICE. “So Christopher Whitman has his own place?”
“I believe he does,” Gordon said.
“Is he a druggie?” Decker asked.
Gordon looked at Kathy. She said, “I don’t recall him ever getting busted, but he hangs out in the druggie crowd.”
“But as far as you know, he isn’t a user.”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“And you saw him with Cheryl at the prom last night,” Decker said.
“Yes. I couldn’t swear he came with her. But he and Cheryl were hanging out together.”
“And she looked sad. Any idea why?”
Kathy shook her head no.
Decker was quiet. According to Jay Craine, the coroner, Cheryl was probably pregnant. If Chris Whitman, her supposed boyfriend, was a narcotics officer and knocked her up, he’d be finished as a cop.
Talk about motivation for murder.
“I’ll need Chris Whitman’s address,” he said. “Cheryl’s address as well. I’ll also want all the addresses of her friends—male and female.”
Gordon looked at Kathy. She stood up. “I’ll pull those for you right now.”
“I’d like to come with you,” Decker said. “Take a look at Whitman’s transcript.”
Kathy eyed Gordon. He waved his hand. “Let him see it.”
Decker followed Kathy into the registration room—a long, cavernous hall filled with banks of metal files. She went to an area marked CURRENTS, sifted through the ws and pulled out Whitman’s file.
“Here you go.”
Decker studied the particulars. According to the files, Whitman was almost nineteen—old for a high school student. He had transferred as a junior from St. Matthews High in Long Island, New York. All that was listed from his prior education was about a year’s worth of mediocre grades. Nothing written in the space reserved for PARENT OR GUARDIAN. Though he had provided the school with his current address and phone number, there was no emergency listing. He showed the papers to the girls’ vice principal.
“The vitals are incomplete.”
Kathy took the transcript. “He came as a junior, mid-semester. Sometimes the schools just send a partial. The rest of the transcripts usually follow.”
“Anything else in his file?”
Again, Kathy plowed through racks of folders. Finally she shut the file and shook her head, a troubled expression on her face. “There’s nothing else listed under his name.”
“In other words, the boy’s a cipher.”
Kathy gave him a sheepish smile. “We have lots of kids here, Sergeant.”
Decker said nothing. He went back into Gordon’s office and gathered up the Polaroids still resting on his desk. The rigor-laden corpse had turned into a person named Cheryl Diggs, a victim snuffed out by a madman. Since she could no longer speak for herself, Decker would have to be her voice.
He regarded Sheldon Gordon. Elbows resting on his desk, the principal sat with his head in his hands.
“This is going to be so traumatic for the kids.” He raised his eyes. “It’s going to scare the wits out of the girls here. Every single boy is going to be seen as a potential rapist/murderer.”
Decker thought of his daughter. For a decade plus, Decker had worked juvenile and sex crimes in the Foothill Substation of LA’s San Fernando Valley. Every so often, he had unwittingly exposed his daughter to the horrors of angry, unbalanced men. He often wondered if he had skewed her perception of the male gender.
He glanced at a Polaroid of Cheryl Diggs. At the moment, with Cindy being alone in New York, a campus rapist on the loose, he wondered if her skewed perception wasn’t an asset.
Whitman lived on a nondescript side street populated by twenty-year-old apartment buildings that had made it through the earthquake. Sundays were usually quiet, but to Decker’s eyes, the neighborhood seemed exceptionally sleepy—perfect camouflage for a secret narcotics agent. After giving Whitman’s door a firm knock, Decker waited a beat, then pounded the sucker until his fist turned red.
Either no one was home or Whitman wasn’t answering. Decker left a business card with his phone number, instructing Chris to call the station house immediately. Then he rode the elevator back to the first floor and studied the place’s directory.
No on-premises manager, just a small-print phone number that had been inked out and replaced with a set of new digits that were written in barely legible pencil. Decker copied the phone number down, called and got no answer.
He took the staircase down to the apartment’s underground parking lot. Whitman drove a red Trans Am. Ten minutes of searching produced no such animal.
He left the building, walking over to his unmarked Volare, cramming his legs under the steering wheel. Left hand drumming the dashboard, he put in a call to Devonshire Detectives. Luckily, Scott Oliver answered the Homicide desk—working Sundays to avoid his wife.
“Hey, Rabbi,” he said. “I hear you bagged a good-looking babe.”
“Good-looking but dead, Scotty.”
“Bring her over anyway. She couldn’t be any worse than my last girlfriend.”
“I need you to run a name through department files for me. Christopher Sean Whitman. Find out if he’s working Vice. If nothing pops, see if he has a yellow sheet. If you still draw blanks, run the name through NCIC.”
“Why are you running a name through Vice, Pete? Was the stiff a hooker?”
“Whitman was the victim’s boyfriend. I think he might be a narc. Also, do me a favor and put a lookout call for Whitman’s red Trans Am.” He gave Oliver the license number. “Call me if you come up with something. If not, I’ll call back later.”
From his jacket, Decker pulled out the address list of Cheryl’s friends. He’d check them later. Unfortunately, there was dirtier work to be done first. Though no one had called in to ask about Cheryl Diggs’s whereabouts, the girl wasn’t an orphan.
It was time to pay the dreaded call to her mother.
12
The apartment house was an iffy—one of those buildings that suffered cosmetic cracks from the earthquake but was still structurally sound. Unfortunately, the landlord didn’t think enough of the place to give it a face-lift. It was coated with dingy brown stucco, large chunks missing at corners and window frames. The planter boxes held more weeds than flowers. The directory was posted on the outside of the building, but Decker knew Cheryl’s unit number. He took the staircase up to the second floor, knocked on the corresponding door. He heard shuffling, but that was all. Someone was taking their own dear time.
Weekends. Everyone slept late except him. On Shabbos, it was up early for shul. Since he worked his schedule around his Sabbath, he picked up the slack on Sundays. Which effectively meant he worked six days a week.
Not that he minded his job. In fact, he got antsy if he stayed away too long. But everyone needed a break. Especially from dreaded things like grievance calls.
He knocked again. Finally, someone answered. As soon as he saw her face, he knew what had caused her delay. She was either newly drunk or nursing a bad hangover. Watery blue eyes, puffy lids and mouth, and a nasal drip. She sniffed, then rubbed her nose. Medium-sized, voluptuous build. Not unlike her daughter except Mom had gone to seed. She wore loose cotton shorts and an oversized T-shirt that did little to hide her unbound pendulous breasts.
He took out his badge. “Police, ma’am. I’m looking for Mrs. Janna Diggs.”
“Gonzalez,” the woman answered. “Janna … Gonzalez! You got the name wrong.”
“I’m looking for Cheryl Diggs’s mother. Would that be you, ma’am?”
“Depends on what you want.”
Decker said, “May I come in, Mrs. Gonzalez?”
“’Pose so.”
Janna cleared the doorway; Decker stepped inside the living room. Though he kept his face impassive, his stomach did a back flip. It was almost impossible to see furniture because it was covered with garbage—dozens of empty beer bottles, squashed aluminum cans, crumpled newspapers, rotting food, discarded paper plates and utensils, and heaps of dirty clothes. The couch had been opened into a bed. The pillowcases were uncovered, sheets wet and stained. The woman scratched her cleavage.
“You want some coffee, Mister …” She looked confused. “Or is it Officer?”
“No coffee, thank you, ma’am.”
Janna pushed aside the unwashed sheets and sat on the open mattress. “Okay then. Whattha little bitch do?” She sniffed deeply. “How much is it gonna cost me?”
Decker tried to keep his voice gentle. “Ma’am, early this morning, police discovered the body of a young teenaged girl. We have reason to believe that it might be your daughter, Cheryl.”
Janna froze, then blinked but didn’t speak. Decker waited for another reaction but nothing came. He said, “Mrs. Gonzalez, if there’s someone you’d like to be with, someone you’d like to call, I can do that for you.”
Janna remained silent. With great effort, Decker forced himself to park his butt on the dirty bed. “Is there something I can do for you right now, Mrs. Gonzalez?”
She still didn’t answer.
“Maybe pour you a drink?” Decker offered.
The woman nodded mechanically.
Decker went over to a small card table. Among the scattered debris was an open bottle of Wild Turkey. He held it up. “Is this all right?”
Janna looked in his direction but said nothing. Decker found a dirty cup, rinsed it in a food-encrusted porcelain sink, and poured her a shot of bourbon. He brought it over to her. She took it, then raised it to her lips. She wiped her nose on her T-shirt.
“Howchu … you know it’s Cheryl?”
“Someone has initially identified your daughter from photographs taken at the crime scene. When you’re ready, and feel strong enough, we’d like you to come down and make a definitive identification.”
“You want me to look at the body?”
“Yes,” Decker said. “We want you to look at the body.”
Janna rubbed her nose. “From pichures, you could tell it was Cheryl?”
“Somebody thought it was your daughter, yes,” Decker answered.
“You have the pichures?”
Decker kept his face flat. “I think it would be better if you witnessed the body in person. Less chance for a mistake.”
“But you have pichures.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You have them on you?”
Inane to lie. Decker said, “They’re in my pocket.”
Quietly, Janna said, “Lemme see.”
Decker paused. “Mrs. Gonzalez, they were taken at the crime scene. They’re hard to look at even for a veteran like I am.”
“That bad, huh?” Janna rubbed her eyes. “I’m stronger than I look. Lemme see.”
Decker hesitated, then reached in his pocket and pulled out the Polaroids. Janna stared at the first one. Instantly, tears ran down her pallid cheeks. She went through the snapshots one by one, her eyes overflowing each time she studied another pose. Finally she blotted her face with her T-shirt and handed the pictures back to Decker.
“It’s her … Cheryl.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded, her lower lip quivering.
“Can I get you a glass of water, Mrs. Gonzalez?”
“Nothin’.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. She touched her mouth, then pulled her hand away. “Is that it?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Though she shrugged indifference, her face had set in a mask of grief. “Go ahead.”
“Do you know where your daughter was last night?”
Janna shook her head no. “I haven’t talked to Cheryl in …’bout a week.”
Decker took out his pad. “What do you know about your daughter’s friends?”
“Not much anymore. Cheryl and me haven’t been getting along so hot.” She blinked rapidly. “Not that I didn’t try, but … you do the best you can, you know? Sometimes it’s not enough.”
“Has Cheryl been living with you, Mrs. Gonzalez?”
“In and out.” Again, the tears started flowing. “She’d eat my food, steal my booze … then she was gone. Sometimes, when I would go away or be with my boyfriend, she’d bring her friends over. Cheryl had lots of friends.”
“Tell me about her friends.”
“Wild like she was.” Her chin touched her chest. “Wild like I am. The fruit’s the same as the tree or somethin’ like that.”
“Do you know her friends by name?”
“Some. Lisa and Jo and Trish. Trashy girls. I think Lisa got caught shopliftin’. Jo was picked up once for turning tricks.”
“Did Cheryl turn tricks?”
“Wouldn’t put it past her. Anything for money. But if she did, she never got caught. Least she never had me bail ’er out.”
“Tell me about boyfriends. Did Cheryl ever talk about her boyfriends?”
“Oh, she had lots of boyfriends, Detective.”
Decker wasn’t sure if he heard jealousy or disapproval in Janna’s voice. “Ever meet any of her boyfriends?”
“A couple. I remember one of ’em. An ape of a guy with big tits. Not real tall but real pumped.”
“Chris Whitman?”
“No, I never heard that name before.”
Decker took out his list. “Blake Adonetti, Steve Anderson—”
“That’s the one. Stevie, she called him. She went with him for a while, but he wasn’t the only one.”
A look of anger spread across her face.
“She liked the boys, Officer. She saw something in pants that pleased her eye, she took it. Even if it belonged to her mother. First time, I forgave her. After I caught her with another one of my friends, I kicked her out.”
The room became silent.
“Course I’m not good at being mad. Truth was I missed her. So I said she could come back. And she did whenever she needed a place to crash.”
Her mouth turned downward.
“She was a very pretty little baby. And smart, too. Could do the ABCs forward and backward at three years old. Isn’t that something?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So damn smart. Too smart for her own good.”
Janna laid her head on Decker’s chest and wept openly. Decker enclosed her heaving body and patted her back gently. But that wasn’t enough comfort. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her chest deep into his.
“Hold me,” she whispered as she sobbed. “Hold me, please.”
Decker continued to pat her back. “Who can I call for you, Mrs. Gonzalez? You mentioned a boyfriend. Can I ring him up for you?”
The woman kept him locked in a bear hug. “Hold me please … love me please.”
As Janna raised her mouth, Decker jerked his head back and broke her hold. The rejection caused her to weep even harder. She sobbed into her hands, her shoulders bouncing with each intake of breath. Decker stood, trying to keep his posture relaxed, but inside he was a bundle of coiled nerves. “May I use the phone?”
She didn’t answer. Decker took that as an affirmative. He called the station house and asked for a cruiser, requesting that one of the uniforms sent over be a female. Then he just waited it out. Five minutes later, Decker answered the loud, distinct police knock at Janna’s door—Linda Estrella and Tony Wilson. That was good because both had been to the hotel this morning. They had seen the body; hopefully, they could empathize with Janna’s misery.
He whispered, “This morning’s victim was Cheryl Diggs. This is her mother, Mrs. Janna Gonzalez. I think she has a boyfriend, but hasn’t given me a phone number to call him. Let her compose herself, then if she’s up to it, take her down to the morgue for the definitive ID.”
Linda said, “You don’t want to be there?”
“Not necessary.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “We know the victim. Let’s get the perp.”
Using the unmarked radio mike, Decker called the station house. Oliver was still manning Homicide.
“I can’t believe you’re working this hard on Sunday,” Decker said. “Your old lady must really be pissed off.”
“It ain’t easy living with a junkyard dog.”
“You might try throwing her a bone now and then.”
“You mean a boner.” Oliver laughed over the line. “Actually, she’s out of town. Just my fortune that my girlfriend’s down with a bad case of herpes. What’s a poor pussyhound to do?”
“It’s a cruel world out there, Scotty. Did you get a chance to run Christopher Whitman through the computer?”
“I did do that, Pete. The guy has no sheet locally or nationally. I’ve also checked with Narcotics in Devonshire and the other Valley divisions. They deny having a mole at Central West Valley.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Could be you’re right. You know how Narcotics can be. Codespeak. Getting info outta them is like using a foreign dictionary. You’re speaking the same words, but not talking the same language.”
Decker opened his thermos and drank lukewarm coffee. “Whitman didn’t happen to call in by any chance?”
“Nope. You need anything else, Rabbi?”
“Got some time on your hands?”
“What do you need?”
“In the abstract, it would be nice if someone could pull Whitman’s tax forms—state and federal for the last two years. Kid’s an enigma. He’s hiding something. He’s got an apartment, he’s got to pay rent. I want to know where the money’s coming from.”
Oliver paused. “I’d like to help. But we all know that hacking his papers on-line would be an invasion of Whitman’s privacy.”
“Of course,” Decker said.
“Still, if I were you, I’d check your mail in an hour. Never know what could show up unexpectedly.”
Decker smiled to himself. “Today’s Sunday, Scott.”
Another long pause. Then Oliver said, “There’s always special delivery.”
13
Running down the list of Cheryl’s friends, Decker underlined the name Steve Anderson, the ape of a guy with big tits whom, according to Mom, Cheryl had dated. He fit the description of a steroid popper, and anabolic users were notoriously unpredictable in their behavior.
Unlike Decker’s old haunt of Foothill, the West Valley was a predominantly white middle-class area. Apartment streets like the one Whitman lived on weren’t unusual. Nor were blocks of sensible, one-story houses. But the eighties land boom had given the area a new face—gated housing developments composed of million-dollar estates meant to attract a more desirable—i.e., moneyed—population.
Anderson lived in a two-story colonial set on a sweeping mound of rolling lawn. There were a Mercedes, a Jaguar, and a Ford Explorer stacked up in the long sloped driveway. Decker parked on the street and walked up the herringbone-brick pathway lined with white impatiens and pink begonias. The entrance was double-doored, the bell on the right. Decker pressed the button and deep chimes could be heard from inside the house. A female voice asked who was there. Decker identified himself.
There was a pause. The woman said, “Just a minute.”
Clacking sounds inside—heels reverberating against a hard surface. A moment later, the door opened, giving Decker a view of a man with a tanned face, dark, curly hair, and uncertain eyes. Behind his broad shoulders, Decker could make out a petite form with styled platinum hair. The missus had faded into the background.
“You’re the police?” the man asked.
Decker took out his badge and ID. “Detective Sergeant Peter Decker, Devonshire Homicide. Are you Mr. Anderson?”
“Yes, I am. Did you say Homicide?”
“Yes, sir, I did. May I come in?”
“Do you have a warrant?”
Decker stared at him. “No, Mr. Anderson, I don’t have a warrant. Do I need one?”
Anderson rubbed his hands together, his frame still blocking the doorway. He wore gray designer sweats and running shoes with no socks.
Decker said, “I’d like to talk to your son, Steven.”
The woman gasped. Anderson crossed his arms in front of his chest and rocked on his feet. “What about?”
“Do you want to continue talking in the doorway, Mr. Anderson? Neighbors might think it’s kind of funny.”
Slowly Anderson ceded space, allowing Decker entrance into the large marble hall, then leading him into the living room. It was as light and cold as vanilla ice cream. The carpeting was spotless. Decker checked the bottoms of his shoes. The missus caught it. She was neat and nondescript.
“Don’t worry, Sergeant. The Berber is Scotch-garded.”
“Susan, why don’t you bring in some coffee?” her husband suggested.
“No thanks on the coffee.” Decker took a seat on a cream-colored modular sofa. “Is Steven home?”
Anderson remained mulish. “What do you want with Steven?”
“Bring him down,” Decker said. “You’ll find out.”
Anderson kneaded his hands. “Is he going to need a lawyer?”
“I can’t tell you that until I’ve talked to Steven.”
The man turned to his wife. “Get him down here.”
She obeyed without question. A minute later, a compact boy entered the room. He wore a tank shirt and shorts, the muscles and veins of his arms and legs inflating the skin like stuffed sausages. He wasn’t bad-looking—dark curly hair like Dad, square face and a strong chin. But his complexion was bad, acne pitting his cheeks.
“Sit down,” Anderson ordered his son.
The boy rubbed his nose and sat.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Peter Decker—”
“He’s from Homicide, Steven. What the hell is going on?”
“Homi …” The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Dad, I … I … I …”
Decker said, “Mr. Anderson, please sit down and let me ask the questions.”
Reluctantly, Anderson sat down. Decker thought a moment, wondering how to play it. Straightforward came to mind. Eyes on Steven, he took out the Polaroids and spread them on the glass coffee table. The boy took a look, jerked his head back, and turned white. The missus gasped. The old man froze.
Decker said, “Do you know this girl, Steve?”
In the background, Decker heard a dry heave. Susan had run out of the room. Decker returned his attention to Steve. The boy had his massive arms wrapped around his barrel chest. “It’s … it’s … Cheryl, isn’t it?”
“Cheryl who?”
“Cheryl Diggs.”
Decker regarded the boy. “Do you need a glass of water, Steve?”
He nodded. Anderson screamed out, “Susan, Steve needs some water. Make it two.”
She didn’t answer. No one seemed perturbed by her lack of response.
Decker took out his notepad. “When was the last time you saw her, Steven?”
“Don’t answer that,” Anderson interrupted.
“Dad, I didn’t do any—”
“Shut up!”
“But I didn’t do—”
“I said shut up!” He turned to Decker. “We want a lawyer.”
“I don’t need a lawyer,” Steve protested. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Go to your room, Steven. Right now!”
“But—”
“NOW!” Anderson bellowed.
The boy stood, walked a couple of paces, then turned around. “No.”
Anderson stood up. “Steve, get out of here—”
“No, Dad, you get out of here. You get out of here. What the hell do you know about me? Or my friends or my life, you goddamn prick—”
“Steven—”
“Don’t you Steven me! You were never around. Only around to put me down—”
Anderson moved closer to the boy. “If you don’t shut up—”
“You shut up! I’m over eighteen, Dad. I don’t need your permission to talk. So you shut up!”
The boy gave his father a slight shove. Decker moved quickly between them and held out his arms. “BACK OFF NOW! BOTH OF YOU! BACK OFF!”
The room fell quiet except for heavy breathing. Decker seized the moment. “I need your help, Steven.”
The boy seemed suddenly deflated. He glanced at his father. That was all the room the senior Anderson needed to horn in. “You don’t have a warrant, Sergeant, I don’t want you in my house! Now, you do what you have to do, but my son isn’t talking until I’ve talked to him.”
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Faye Kellerman
The eighth book in the hugely popular Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus series from New York Times bestselling author Faye KellermanThe cruel and bizarre slaying of a beautiful teen leads Detective Decker into the dark heart of an exotic subculture: the seamy, sometimes violent world of Southern California's rootless, affluent youth. But even the confession of a disturbed kid with cold "killer eyes" cannot soothe Decker's inner torment. For he knows in his gut this crime goes much deeper and higher than anyone expects – and that true justice, brutal and complete, has yet to be done.
Faye Kellerman
Justice
A Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus Mystery
To my own teenagers, my tweener and my toddler.
Please G-d, just keep them safe.
Contents
Cover (#udaadc97e-1a3c-56db-9ff1-463c3e35fe8f)
Title Page (#u0d5c4280-d628-51d3-be80-5325fa1965da)
Dedication (#ubfc116b2-2b43-51db-943b-1a49eb82742d)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
About the Author
Also by Faye Kellerman
Predator (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
He saw the flash before he heard the pop. The percussive ppffft that almost drowned out the moan. The head snapped back, lolling from side to side, then finally found a resting place slumped over the right shoulder. As blood dripped from between the eyes, he wondered if the bastard had ever felt a thing, he’d been so dead drunk.
The thought didn’t quell the shakes, his hands clay cold and stiff. For a while he heard nothing. Then he became aware of his own breathing. He crept out from his shelter and swallowed dryly. Tried to walk, but his knees buckled.
He melted to the floor.
Stayed that way for a long time. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. Time was a black hole, a stupor of sleep and restlessness. Everything was shadowed and fuzzy.
Slowly, things came back into focus. The room, the floor, the bound body, the hole between the eyes. Blood had seeped onto the carpet, pooled around his shoes.
He stared, hoping tears would come. But they didn’t. They never did.
With great effort, he hoisted his gawky frame upward, nearly tripping over spindly legs. The curse of being tall at such a young age: He was all height, no muscle. Light-headed, sick from the smell of gunpowder, he let go with a dry heave.
He tried to walk but again fell forward.
He needed air—clean air.
He crawled on his hands and knees out the back door, pushing open the squeaky screen. Wrapping his hands around the porch column, he raised himself to his feet. His bicycle was still resting against the apple tree, leaning against the trunk because it didn’t have a kickstand.
He knew he had to tell someone. Even though she hated the jerk, Mom would still freak. That left only his uncle. Joey would take care of him. He had to get over to Joey.
He straightened his spine and inched his way over to his transportation. He gripped the handlebars, swung his leg over the seat. Pressing down on the pedal. Propelling himself forward.
Down the driveway and out onto the street.
Faster and faster, harder and harder, until wind whipped through his platinum hair.
He did a wheelie. He felt all right.
1
Pages 7 and 8 of the paper were missing. National news section. Specifically, national crime stories. Decker laid the thin sheets down, his stomach in a tight, wet knot. “Rina, where’s the rest of the paper?”
Rina continued to scramble eggs. “It’s not all there?”
“No, it’s not all there.”
“You’ve checked?”
“Yes, I’ve checked.”
“Maybe Ginger got to it,” Rina said casually. “You know how the dog loves newsprint. I think she uses it for a breath freshener—”
“Rina—”
“Peter, could you please distract Hannah from the dishwasher and get her seated so I can feed her? And take the plums out of the utensil basket while you’re at it.”
Decker stared at his wife, got up, and lifted his pajama-clad two-year-old daughter. She was holding a plum in each hand.
“You want a plummer, Daddy?”
“Yes, Hannah Rosie, I’d love a plum.”
“You take a bite?” She stuffed the fruit in her father’s mouth. As requested, Decker took a bite. Juice spewed out of the overripe plum, wetting his pumpkin-colored mustache, rills of purple running down his chin. He seated his daughter in her booster and wiped his mouth.
“You want a bite, Daddy?”
“No thanks, Hannah—”
“You want a bite, Daddy?” Hannah said, forcefully.
“No—”
“You want a bite, Daddy?” Hannah was almost in tears.
“Take another bite, Peter,” Rina said. “Eat the whole plum.”
Decker took the plum and consumed it. Hannah offered him the second plum. “Honey, if I eat any more plums, I’ll be living in the bathroom.”
Rina laughed. “I’ll take the plum, Hannah.”
“No!” the baby cried out. Her face was flushed with emotion. “Daddy take the plummer.”
Decker took the second piece of fruit. “Why do you keep buying plums?”
“Because she keeps asking for them.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to buy them.”
“As if you can resist her requests? I noticed the other day she was playing with your gold cuff links—”
“She likes shiny things,” Decker interrupted. “I like how you skillfully changed the subject, darlin’. What happened to the newspaper?”
Rina set a dish of eggs in front of Hannah and poured her orange juice. She shrugged helplessly. “What can I tell you?”
Decker felt nauseated. “Bastard struck again.”
Rina nodded.
Decker said nothing. But Rina could see his jaw working overtime. She said, “Cindy called this morning. She asked me to hide it from you. I shouldn’t have done it. But she sounded so desperate for an ally. She couldn’t handle you and her mother’s hysteria at the same time. Besides, there’s nothing anyone can do—”
“What do you mean, ‘There’s nothing anyone can do’?” Decker snapped. “I can do something. I can bring her back home out of that hellhole.”
“LA’s not a haven from crime—”
“It’s better than New York.”
“Not all of New York is like the area around Columbia, Peter.”
“Well, that’s just fine and dandy except Cindy happens to go to Columbia.” Decker got up from the dining-room table and walked into the kitchen, staring out the back window at his acre’s worth of ranchland. The riding corral was now a foot-deep mud pit; the stables had been battered from the recent storms. Behind his property line stood the foothills bleeding silt. His house was fine so far, the gunk at least five hundred yards away. But who knew? He had plenty of garbage to deal with here. He didn’t need problems three thousand miles away.
“Did you talk to her at all?” Decker asked.
“For a few minutes,” Rina answered.
“How’s she doing?”
Rina glanced at Hannah. “You want a video, muffin?”
The little girl nodded, licking egg-coated fingers. “Mickey Mouse.”
“You’ve got it.” Rina slipped the tape into the VCR, then walked into the kitchen. To her husband, she whispered, “How’s she doing? She’s shaken up, of course.”
“Goddamn police! This is the third one and they don’t seem one ounce closer to finding this maniac. What the hell are they doing?”
“That’s an odd thing for you to say.”
“I know incompetence when I see it.”
“So what do you propose to do, Peter? Go out to New York and handle the investigation yourself?”
“I’ve seriously thought about it. I was in sex crimes for over a decade—”
“Peter—”
“Maybe I’ll call the principal investigator—”
“You don’t have enough work at home?”
“It’s been a slow month.”
“Baruch Hashem,” Rina said, blessing God.
“Baruch Hashem,” Decker repeated. “Besides, this is my daughter we’re talking about. I want to make sure everything possible is being done.”
“I’m sure they’re working overtime. Just like you’d be doing.”
“Right. Overtime on doughnuts.” Decker grimaced. “I know I’m not being fair. Frankly, I don’t care.”
Rina sighed. “Peter, why don’t you go visit Cindy? I’m sure she’d be thrilled to see her six-foot-four detective father. She and all the other girls in the dorm. But go out as a protective father, not as a cop.”
Decker drew his hand across his face. “Son of a bitch! Preying on young girls like that. God, I swear, Rina, if I come face-to-face with that sucker, I’m gonna shoot off his you-know-whats.” He looked at his wife. “Was the latest one hurt? Of course she was hurt. I mean, was she beaten or anything?”
“No. Same MO.”
The MO. Bastard sneaked up on the girls, brought them down from behind, placed a large paper bag over their heads, and raped them from the back. The victims had described the violation as strong and painful but mercifully fast. Before they could utter boo, the monster had been upon them. Equally quickly, he seemed to vanish into the miasma. Cindy was a big girl, almost five nine, and in good shape because she worked out. But a five-nine girl could easily be bested by a five-six man in equally good shape. Daughters. Thank God his other two teens were boys—Rina’s sons. Not that he didn’t worry about them. At nearly fifteen, Sammy had height but he was still thin. Jake still had some growing to do, but he was just thirteen.
Decker’s head hurt. Thinking about his kids always gave him a headache. “I need to go out there, Rina.”
“I understand. I love Cindy, too. I think it’s a great idea.”
“Come out with me.”
“It would probably be better if she had you all to herself.”
“So go out and visit the relatives in Borough Park. The boys haven’t seen their grandparents in over a year.”
The boys’ grandparents, Rina thought. Her late husband’s parents. It was always a heartache to see them. But the boys meant so much to them. And then there were Peter’s recently discovered half siblings. “Everyone’s going to want to see you. At least to say hi.”
“Scratch the thought from your mind!” Decker paced. “You’ll just have to explain why I’m not there. I can’t handle Cindy and your little religious crowd at the same time.”
“They’re your relatives.”
“But they were your friends before they were my relatives. Don’t push me on this, Rina. Oh, just forget the whole thing. Stay home!”
Again, he glared out the back window, hands leaning against the kitchen tile. Welcome to Decker’s mud baths. He should sandbag the ground again, anything to sop up the moisture. On top of that, the sky looked threatening.
Seven years of drought followed by two years of floods. Not to mention earthquakes, fires, and riots. Decker wondered what plague was next. City was getting too damn biblical for his taste.
Rina walked up to her husband, slipped her arms around his waist, and rested her head on his back. “What do you want, Peter? Tell me.”
“Make it stop raining.”
“No can do. Next?”
He turned around. “What do I want?” He took his wife’s hands and kissed them. “I want you to come with me. I miss you terribly when I’m away from you and long plane rides make me depressed. So come with me to New York. But once we get there, leave me alone so I can deal with my daughter and my own anxiety.”
“So I’m to be your therapeutic escort.”
“And a damn pretty one, at that.”
Rina laughed. “I’ll come with you.”
Decker said, “Thank you. And … if I’m up to it … if I have the energy … I’ll come visit the relatives.”
“You look like you just sucked lemons.”
“It’s been a rather sour morning.”
Rina stroked her husband’s cheek. “I’m sorry you have to go through this, that we have to go through this. I’m very concerned, also. Kids. A life sentence in terror if you think about it. I’ll be happy to help you out. And yes, it has been a while since the boys have seen their grandparents. It’s very considerate of you to think of them.”
“I’m just a saint.”
“I believe the appropriate response to a compliment is a simple thank you.”
Decker smiled. “The boys can miss school?”
“Of course. How about we leave next Wednesday? I can still get discount tickets if I buy them a week in advance.”
“Fine.”
“You’ll call Cindy?”
“Yes.”
“And phone Jan, too,” Rina said. “Just to let her know you’re going.”
Decker looked pained. “Is that really necessary?”
“Peter, she’s Cindy’s mother. She’s worried sick about her.”
“I know, I know. She’s very angry I haven’t insisted that Cindy come home. As if she’s insisted. She just wants me to be the bad guy. Well, screw that! If she wants a—”
“Peter—”
“All right, all right. I’ll call Jan. I’ll even be civil.”
“A big stretch for you, dear?”
“A very big stretch for me, darlin’.”
2
The red Trans Am was following me. I’d known something was up from the look Chris had given me in orchestra. We’d been in the same class for over a year, and today’s stare had been a first. Only one reason why boys like him were interested in girls like me. Guess this one didn’t want to approach me in public.
The car slowed and honked. I stopped walking. Since parked vehicles were occupying the far right lane, the Trans Am was blocking traffic. The Jeep on Chris’s heel blasted its horn. He turned around, threw the impatient driver a dirty look, then sped up and pulled the car curbside a half block up. I jogged over. He rolled down the passenger window, told me to hop in.
“I’m not going straight home,” I said. “I’ve got to pick up my little sister.”
“Last I checked the car’s not a two-seater.” He waved me forward. “Come on.”
I opened the door and got inside, dumping my backpack on the floor. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Where are we going?”
“Just go straight.” My eyes were fixed on the front windshield.
Cars were bumper to bumper. Since the ’94 earthquake and the recent flooding by overzealous rain clouds, the West Valley had become a snarl at rush hour. Chris waited for a nonexistent opening. Headbanger music was screaming from his car stereo. It suddenly seemed to annoy him. He punched it off.
A Jetta stopped and waved Chris in.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said to himself. To me, he said, “How far are we going?”
“’Bout two miles up.”
“And you walk that every day?”
“It’s good exercise.”
“What do you do when it rains?”
“I take an umbrella. Sometimes, if it’s convenient, my stepmom will let me have the car.”
Chris paused. “You live with your dad and stepmom?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your mom?”
I hesitated. The question was way too personal, but I answered anyway. “She died when I was born.”
Chris waited a beat, then raised his brow. “Your dad’s a good Catholic, huh?”
I looked at him, stunned. His face revealed nothing.
“The unbaptized before the baptized.” He pulled a crucifix from under his T-shirt. “Takes one to know one.”
I didn’t answer. In this city of religious nothingness, it was rare to find an overt Catholic boy, let alone one who looked like Christ.
He said, “What about you? Are you a good Catholic girl?”
“Good enough to feel guilty about my mother’s death.”
“The nuns must have had a field day with you.”
“Mostly my father.”
“What’d he say?”
“It’s what he didn’t say.”
He turned quiet. I stared at my lap.
“You still go to Mass?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
“I go sometimes, too. Old habits are hard to break.”
I smiled and nodded. He was determined to talk. That being the case, I steered the conversation from myself. “You live by yourself, don’t you?”
“Yep.”
“So where are your parents?” I asked.
“They’re dead.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes, both of them.”
I felt my face go hot. “That was stupid.”
“No such thing as a stupid reaction.” He tapped on the steering wheel. “My mom died of breast cancer when I was thirteen. My father was murdered when I was almost ten. A gangland thing. I was hiding in the closet when the hit went down, witnessed the whole thing—”
“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “That’s dreadful!”
“Yeah, I was pretty scared.”
The car went silent.
“Only the upshot of the mess was I hated the son of a bitch.” He scratched his head. “So after the shock wore off, I was kind of happy. My dad was a two-fisted drunk. He’d get soused and pummel anything—or anyone—in his way. That’s why I’d been hiding in the closet. Lucky for me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have made it into double digits.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he said. “Must be your confessional aura. How far is this school, Terry?”
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. We passed it.” I looked over my shoulder. “Turn left at the next light.”
Chris inched the Trans Am forward. “Distracted by our stimulating conversation?”
“I think the operative word is morbid.”
Out of nervousness, I started to laugh. So did he. He turned on the radio, switching to a classical station. Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony—good commuter music.
“So what’s your middle name?” he asked. “Mary or Frances?”
“Anne.”
“Ah, Teresa Anne. A respectable Catholic name.”
“And you?” I asked.
“Sean. Christopher Sean Whitman. A respectable Irish Catholic name. Is that the school up ahead?”
“Yeah. You’ll have to pull over. I have to fetch her.”
He parked curbside and I got out. In all fairness to my stepmom, Jean treated her biological daughter with as much apathy as she displayed toward me. Poor Melissa. I worked my way through the school yard until I spotted her. Usually when I arrived, I was tired, anxious to get home. But with Chris driving, I had the luxury of observing her at play.
My sister was attacking a tetherball, dirty blond pigtails flying in the wind. She had an intense look of concentration, little fists socking the leather bag, turning her knuckles red. Her opponent was a second-grade boy and she was clearly outmatched. But she put up a valiant struggle. After her defeat, she shuffled to the back of the line. I called out her name. She looked up and came running to me.
“You’re early!” she shrieked
“I bummed a ride home. Come on.”
“Will we be in time for Gornish and Narishkite?”
Melissa’s favorite cartoon show. It was off-limits by my stepmom and not without logic. The characters were a fat crow and an over-plumaged macaw. They had nothing better to do than peck out each other’s body parts.
I checked my watch. “If we hurry.”
“Yippee!” She jumped up and down. I picked up her backpack—an amber thing emblazoned with Simba from The Lion King—and slipped it over my shoulder.
She took my hand, half skipping as we walked, tugging on my shoulder. But I didn’t mind. Her hand was soft and warm. She smelled sweaty, but it wasn’t an unpleasant odor.
“I can’t believe I get to see Gornish and Narishkite. You won’t tell Mom?”
“I won’t tell Mom.”
“Who’s taking us home? Heidi?”
“Someone else,” I said. “This way.”
I led her over to the car, opened the door, and got her settled into the backseat. “This is Chris,” I said. “He was kind enough to offer us a ride home. Say thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Chris answered.
“Is he going to pick us up tomorrow, too?”
“Don’t press it, Melissa.” I closed the door. “Besides, you have gym class tomorrow. Put on your seat belt.”
“I can’t do it. It’s too hard.”
I turned around, hanging over my seat as I looped the belt around Melissa’s waist, securing the metal into the latch. As I straightened up, I accidentally brushed against Chris and felt him immediately stiffen. I sat back and scrunched myself in my seat.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“What for?”
“I accidentally … never mind.” I looked out the window. “You need tutoring, Chris?”
“Yeah.”
“You could have just called.”
“I’ve got a unique situation. I’ll explain when we get to your house.”
I was quiet and so was he. Mozart, however, was working himself up into a lather. Chris parked the car in front of my two-story claptrap. It wasn’t a bad house, just in need of repair. The siding needed paint, the stucco was chipped, and the roof was old and leaky. We’d gone from two buckets last winter to five the last time it rained. The roof upgrade was supposed to be my father’s weekend project. Instead, he opted for hooch and sports on TV. My father was a passive lush—the kind who’d drink himself into a coma, gradually slipping away until Jean’s nagging became elevator music.
Chris helped Melissa out of her seat belt. Liberated, she sped to the front door, then raced upstairs as soon as I undid the lock.
“Uh, excuse me, young lady,” I called out to her. “The dishwasher is still full.”
“I’ll do it later,” she shouted from the top of the stairs.
“Famous last words,” I muttered. I shouted back, “Never mind. I’ll do it.” I turned to Chris. “Have a seat at the dining-room table. Can I get you something to drink? Juice? Soda? You know, I can even make you coffee I’ve got so much time.”
“Coffee would be great.”
I marveled at my good fortune, having gained the better part of an hour. I put up coffee, then looked in the fridge. Jean had prepared a chuck roast. I took it out.
“This’ll be shoe leather if I cook it now,” I said to myself. “Maybe I’ll turn down the heat and roast it slowly.” I said it into the oven and turned the temperature to 300 degrees. Then I went into the laundry room and threw the wet clothes from the washer into the dryer. I came back into the kitchen and took out lettuce and tomatoes from the vegetable bin. I washed them under the tap, shook them dry, then started making the salad. I glanced up and saw Chris staring at me from the dining room. I was so caught up in my routine, I had forgotten about him.
I put down the lettuce and dried my hands. “Coffee’s almost done.”
He came into the kitchen. “Do you do this every day?”
“Do what?”
“The cooking, the laundry … child care?”
“They wrote a story about me. It’s called ‘Cinderella.’” I fetched down two coffee mugs. “Tell you one thing, though. I’m not waiting for Prince Charming. I’d rather have a maid.” I turned the coffeepot off and took out some milk and sugar. “How do you like your coffee?”
“Just black.”
“A real man.”
“Very macho.”
I loaded my coffee with the accoutrements, went back into the dining room, and took my datebook out of my backpack. “I’ve got an opening on Monday at eight. Or I can give you an hour on Thursday at eight—”
“Terry, why don’t you sit down and let me tell you what’s going on?” He showed me the chair. “Please.”
I sat, then wondered why I was listening to him. It was my house, but he was playing host.
He took a sip of coffee and looked at me earnestly. “If all goes well, I’m slated to go to the Eastman School of Composition in New York next fall. I squeaked by my junior year. This time I don’t know what’s flying. I’m not a great student, but I can pass tests if I concentrate.”
I nodded.
He flipped a chunk of blond hair out of blue eyes. “Also, I’m away a lot. I play gigs.”
“Gigs?”
“I do fill-ins for ensembles, orchestras, small chamber groups. Once in a while, I even do solos in some of the smaller towns for special occasions. It’s usually for only one or two performances. But my time away includes another day or two for practice beforehand. So I can be gone as much as a week at a time. I miss a lot of class.”
He sipped more coffee.
“I talked to Bull Anderson. He says you charge fifteen an hour.”
“That’s right.”
“Then you’re going to make out like a bandit from me. ’Cause I figure I need five days a week, ’bout two hours a day. I need a teacher as well as a tutor. Are you up for it?”
He stopped talking. I stared at him. “That’s one hundred fifty a week.”
“You can add.”
“Classical music must be a high-growth industry.”
“Money’s not a problem. You save your dollars, Terry, you can earn yourself a fine set of wheels by spring break. What do you say?”
I paused. “Sounds great in theory.”
“The money won’t be theoretical.” He stood. “We can start tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at ten to seven, take you to my place, and have you back here by a little after nine.”
“That’s a big commitment for me, Chris. I need time for my other students. Plus there’s my own studying.”
He sat back down. “How about this? I’ll pick you and your sister up from school every day. That’ll save you five hours just like that.”
“I still have other students—”
“Terry, why don’t you open your appointment book and we’ll go through it together. Find a schedule that suits both our needs.”
I was being pushed, but the money was too tempting to protest. I opened my datebook. With some rearranging and haggling, we decided on four days a week—two hours a day, with Wednesday our day off.
“Mondays and Fridays I can come to your place at seven,” I said. “But Tuesdays and Thursdays it would be better if you just came here right after school. Melissa goes to gym so we’d have privacy. Sound okay?”
He took a pen and a sheet of paper from his backpack. “Tell me the schedule you want.”
I dictated. He wrote. “You’re left-handed,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t you play cello right-handed?”
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t it hard?”
He looked up from his writing. “I don’t know any differently. I play all my instruments right-handed.”
“What else do you play?”
“Anything with strings.”
“Violin?”
“Yep.”
“Are you a prodigy on violin like you are on cello?”
“Why? You want to exchange violin for French lessons?”
“No, Chris. I think I’m hopeless.”
He studied at my face. “Violin’s a hard instrument.”
“You’re diplomatic. What else do you play?”
“Viola, bass, mandolin, guitar. I started guitar when I was about twelve. Picked it up like that.” He snapped his fingers. “But then my mother died and I was taken into custody by an old-fashioned aunt. She thought electric guitar was a very rude invention. I was instructed to find a more suitable instrument. You want to do Tuesdays and Thursdays here?”
“It really would be more convenient. Are you still in contact with your aunt?”
“Nope. She died two years after my mom.” He looked up. “Natural causes, Terry. She was in her sixties.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You had a look on your face.”
“Just because a sixty-year-old woman seems old to be your aunt.”
“Yeah, she was old and old-fashioned.” He flipped his hair back again. “But she wasn’t without her good points. She fancied herself a real classy lady. I was a punk when I went to live with her. She reinvented my life. Sent me to private school, taught me about music and art. She even gave me diction lessons. I useda towk like a real Noo Yowkeh.”
I smiled. “You should have given your accent to Blake Adonetti.”
That got a laugh out of him. Encouragement. I was on a roll. I said, “Yeah, Blake’s trying very hard to be the resident street guy. Someone should tell him that street guys don’t drive Porsches, they don’t have neurosurgeons for fathers, and they don’t live in ten-thousand-square-foot houses. They also don’t mousse their hair.”
He said, “How do you know Blake?”
“I tutored him for a couple of months—chemistry. His dad harbors hope that Blake’ll be a doctor.”
Chris said, “You tutored him, you tutored Bull.”
“Yeah, also Trish and Lisa for a while. I went through most of your group—”
“They’re not my group.”
His vehemence took me by surprise. I looked away. “Sorry I pigeon-holed you. It’s just that our class is so large, one is more or less defined by one’s clique.”
He said nothing.
I kept blathering on. “I mean everybody has to hang out with someone. Being a B.M.O.C. is infinitely better than being president of the nerd squad, the honored post occupied by yours truly.”
He was still stone-faced. I gave up. “I’ll need your backpack … to see what classes you’re taking.”
He dropped his knapsack to the floor. “Funny how we see ourselves. Guys I know don’t find you nerdy. Matter of fact, they think you’re very pretty. Just a little … frosty. But that’s okay. It’s good to be picky.”
I felt myself go hot. He told me he’d see me tomorrow. I nodded, keeping my eyes on my shoes. I knew he’d left when I heard the screen door slap shut.
3
In school, Chris stayed with his crowd, I stayed with mine. I’d have liked to talk to him, but one never crosses party lines unless invited to do so. And Chris didn’t hand me the scepter. So I looked on from afar, seeing him laugh with the beautiful people, Cheryl Diggs giving him neck rubs. A righteous-looking troop—both girls and guys being lean and lovely—typecast for a syndicated TV school serial. I guess I would have played the odd girl out. Because that was what I was.
The dismissal bell rang and he made it to my locker before I did. He waited as I rearranged my books, then carried my backpack as we walked to his car. I reminded him that we didn’t have to pick up Melissa today. She went to gym with a friend whose mother drove them both. Jean did the pickup.
By six in the evening, I was expected to have finished the laundry, set the table, and prepared dinner. Afterward, Jean would load the tableware in the dishwasher. Unless, of course, she and my father had plans for that evening. Or Jean had a date at the health spa. In that case, my stepmother assigned cleanup to Melissa. Which meant she assigned it to me. When Jean yelled at me, I shined her on. But I hated it when Jean yelled at Melissa.
As talkative as Chris was yesterday, he was quiet as we rode to my house. Last night, I had gone through his backpack, scanned his textbooks, and flipped through his spotty notes. He wasn’t much of a student, but he was a great artist. His sketches seemed to be a cross between Matisse and Picasso. Just a few well-placed lines and there was an image. Amazing to me because I couldn’t draw a straight line.
I also discovered that he smoked and believed in safe sex, judging from the loose packets of condoms. He might be a practicing Catholic, but he was practicing other things as well.
As soon as we settled in, I made coffee. Sipping java, we went through his subjects one by one. He was way behind in his classes, and it took me some time just to find out his level. Once I did, we started with Geometry. My gift was numbers. I’d already completed advanced-placement calculus for seniors, and was doing studying on my own. His level of math was a cakewalk for me.
Chris wasn’t a terrible student. His attention tended to wander, so we took frequent breaks, but at least he was methodical. After two hours, he thanked me, paid me, and left.
The next evening I drove to his apartment. I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect what I saw. His unit was on the top floor of a four-story building. He had a balcony that looked out on a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the Valley. It was something out of an uptown movie set.
In actual size, the place was compact. The living area was a small open pocket separated from the kitchen by a bar-top counter. Under the counter were two high leather stools. The place had white carpeting and was furnished with a five-foot black leather sofa, a glass coffee table, and one skinny-looking modern red chair. The walls held two large, abstract canvases—one was minimalist, the other was covered in color. In another world, I might have asked about them. But I wasn’t here in that capacity. I came to do a job.
As he put up coffee, he gave me spare details of his life. He had moved out to Los Angeles a year and a half ago. Initially, his guardian had helped him financially. But now his work was enough to support him. He was completely independent, having turned eighteen around six months ago.
We studied at the countertop, sitting on stools. He asked me if he could smoke while we worked. I told him yes and thanked him for his consideration. He not only smoked, he also drank. Not much, just a couple of shots of Scotch over a two-hour period, but it bothered me. I didn’t like it, but it was his house. I was only hired help.
The next week went smoothly. He was always on time and always respectful. I would have liked more, but it was obvious he didn’t. That might have been painful, but rejection was nothing new to me.
A couple of times, I somehow got sidetracked, found myself telling him my dreams. I wanted to be a doctor, do top-notch research. I wanted independence and respect. He was a good listener. He’d missed his calling as a shrink.
After a few weeks of tutoring, he called me, saying he had a gig, he’d be away for a few days. When he came back, we were back to square one. Two weeks later, he was almost caught up with his classes and I was three hundred and sixty dollars richer. Five more sessions passed and my earnings topped the five-hundred-dollar mark. Chris placed three tens on my dining-room table.
I pocketed the money and thanked him. He stood and stretched. He was not only very tall, but also long-limbed. Fully extended, he could palm my eight-foot ceiling with little effort.
He said, “Tomorrow’s our free day, right?”
“Right.”
He gathered his backpack. “Then I’ll see you on Thursday.”
“Chris?”
“What?”
“I need a favor.”
He looked at me. “Shoot.”
“Can you keep the money you give me? Hold it for me at your place?”
He stared at me.
“I have my money hidden upstairs,” I said. “I’m afraid Jean’s going to find it and start asking me questions.”
“She doesn’t know you’re tutoring me?”
“She doesn’t know you’re here on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On Fridays, I’ve been telling her that I’m out with friends. She thinks I’m tutoring you once a week. Like I do with most of my students.”
“Why the subterfuge?”
I rubbed my hands together. “I’m afraid she’ll hit me up for some of the cash. You know … family obligation. I’m trying to save as much as I can for college.”
“She’d ask you for your money?”
I looked at the ceiling. “My father was laid off from work a couple of years ago. He started drinking heavily—”
“This sounds familiar.”
“No, no, he’s getting better,” I said, defending him and not knowing why. “He has a job now, but it doesn’t pay much. Jean’s as nervous as a cat.”
“So what does that have to do with you?”
“You don’t understand my stepmom. She won’t demand it. But she’ll … you know … the guilt. Look, if it’s too much—”
“Why don’t you just put it in the bank?”
“They’ll send the statements here. If I don’t get to the mail before she does, she opens my stuff.”
“Jesus!”
“Look, Chris. I don’t like her. But she takes care of my dad, keeps him sober enough to be respectable. So I don’t want to anger her. If it’s too much of a problem—”
“Give me the money. I’ll keep it for you.”
“Thanks.” I ran upstairs, retrieved my wad, and handed it to him. I laughed nervously. “One of the reasons why I never took drugs. I knew Jean would find my stash.”
He stared at me.
“I’m kidding!” I said. “I don’t do drugs. Actually, I don’t do anything except study. I’m a grind. It’s pretty pathetic.”
He kept staring at me.
“Look, just forget it.” I made a grab for my money but he pulled it out of my reach, then pocketed it.
“You want to go out for a hamburger or something, Terry?”
I became aware of my heartbeat.
“Just as friends,” he amended. “Nothing else.”
Crushed, I averted my eyes before my blighted hope slapped him across the face. “I have to make dinner.” I turned to walk away, but he held my arm.
“Believe me, Terry, it’s not you. It’s me. I can’t. I’m engaged.”
My eyes met his baby blues. “You’re what!”
“I’m engaged to be married.”
“You’re eighteen years old!”
“I know that.”
I couldn’t find my words. Finally, I managed to ask him who the girl was.
“Someone I’ve known forever. She lives back east.”
“And you’re serious?”
“Am I ever not serious?”
This was true. Chris had a good sense of humor, but he was a grave boy. Always organized and completely controlled. Just like me. Two hyperadults—had turned out that way because our families were nests of insecurity.
I threw up my hands. “I appreciate your honesty.” I bit my lip. “I guess I also admire your loyalty. That’s unheard of in this day and age. You must be deeply in love.”
“She’s okay,” he said.
“She’s okay? That’s it? She’s okay?”
“She’s okay,” he repeated.
“Chris, why are you marrying a girl that’s just okay?”
He shrugged.
Suddenly, it dawned on me.
Chris caught my look. “No, she’s not pregnant.” He patted his pocket. “I’ll keep your bread safe. Bye.”
He left before I could ask another question. And maybe that was good.
As usual, he was waiting at my locker after school. We walked to his car, neither one speaking. But he didn’t drive to my house. Instead he drove to the bank. He pulled into the parking lot and shut the motor.
“I feel funny keeping your cash. What if you need it and I’m not home?”
“I told you I can’t put it in the bank.”
“We’ll open up an account together. I’ll make sure the statements come to my house.”
I paused. “How cute. Like playing house.”
“Terry—”
“I still don’t understand why you’d marry a girl you don’t love.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t love her.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
I slumped in my seat. “This is none of my business, right?”
“Right.” He opened the car door, but I held his arm. Instantly, he stiffened. I jerked back my hand.
“Sorry.”
He closed the car door, looked at his arm, then looked at me. Without embarrassment, he said, “I have a problem with being touched.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“I’d like to go into the bank now. How about you?”
I didn’t move.
He raised his eyebrows. “Would you prefer to wait out here, Terry?”
“You’re very polite.”
“I was trained with manners—yessir, nossir. I wasn’t polite, I got the shit kicked out of me.” He started the car. “Bad idea. Let’s forget the whole thing.”
I started to place my hand on his arm, but caught myself and pulled it back.
“Sorry. I’m a touchy person.”
He killed the motor. “Terry, anyone touches me, I tense. It doesn’t mean I’m mad. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t mean much of anything anymore. It’s just a habit. So don’t worry about it, okay?”
“Doesn’t it get in the way?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean with your fiancée … if you don’t like being touched …”
He stared at me. I should have cut my losses and shut up, but I didn’t. “I noticed you carried … stuff … in your backpack.”
“Stuff?”
I felt my face go hot. “Never mind.”
“Do you mean condoms?”
If the earth had opened up, I would gladly have jumped in.
Chris said, “Are you asking if my peculiarity about being touched gets in the way of sex?”
My face was on fire.
“The answer’s no.”
I covered my face. “God, I am such a jerk!”
“You want to go into the bank now?”
I opened the car door and so did he. We sat at a desk titled NEW ACCOUNTS. The woman in charge wore a crepe wool suit of deep purple, with contrasting black velvet collar and cuffs. It was beautiful and I wondered if I could remember it well enough to copy it. I was very handy with pattern paper and a sewing machine.
She handed me an identification card. I started to fill it out. It had been at least eight years since I opened a bank account. By now, I had a driver’s license number as well as a Social Security number. I felt very important.
I was racing through my personal data when my eyes suddenly blurred. Small typed letters mocking me. I blinked hard, then moved on, but with less bravado. I handed the card back to Ms. Beautiful Suit, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
But she did.
“You forgot to fill out your mother’s maiden name,” she told me. She poised her pen, ready to catch my pitch.
I sat paralyzed.
Chris looked at me. “What’s wrong, Terry?”
My eyes darted between him and her. “I … don’t know it.”
Ms. Suit stared at me.
My eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I forgot it.”
“Forgot it?” Ms. Suit asked.
I felt so stupid. Chris said, “Can we phone it in?”
Ms. Suit was still staring at me. Finally she returned her eyes to Chris. “Certainly.”
Chris gave her the cash. Ten minutes later, she handed him a bank book. Transaction completed. I got up slowly, feeling like a fool.
Once seated in his car, I found my voice. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Chris waited a beat. “Maybe we should call it quits for today. You look upset.”
“Her first name was Amy,” I said. “And I really did know her last name.”
“Terry, she died a long time ago. It’s only natural—”
“No, you don’t understand. I really knew it. I just forgot it!” I stared out the window but saw nothing. “There were grandparents. I don’t know what happened to them.”
“Why don’t you ask your dad?”
“If I ask him anything about my mother, he gets weird. And if Jean overheard …”
I turned to face him.
“I was five when he met Jean. Soon after, he went through the closets and threw my mother’s stuff out—pictures, clothes, mementos, anything that reminded him of her.” My eyes widened. “Except …”
“What?” Chris asked.
I didn’t answer. We rode back to my house in silence. When we got there, I leaped out of the car and dashed into my father’s den. Chris found me rummaging through the drawers like a bag lady sorting through garbage.
“What are you looking for, Terry?”
I barely heard him, kept digging until I hit success. The brittle newspaper clipping had yellowed with age, but it was still legible.
“It’s Reilly. Her name was Amy Reilly.” I showed him the obit. “It’s such an easy name, I can’t believe I forgot it.”
I read aloud. “… survived by her husband, William McLaughlin, infant daughter, Teresa Anne, and parents, Mary and Robert Reilly of Chicago, Illinois.” I stopped reading. “I wonder if they still live there.”
Chris said, “Why don’t you call and find out?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I just couldn’t.” I searched my brain for images to match the names. None came. “They must have had their reasons for breaking off contact with me.”
“I doubt that, Terry. I’m sure they’d love to hear from you.”
“I’m not going to call them.” My eyes settled back onto the obit. With shaking hands, I held it out to Chris. “Can you keep this for me, too?”
He took the clipping. “Are we on for tomorrow night?”
I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I can work now if you want.”
Chris studied my face. “All right. I’ll get my books from the car.”
“Chris?”
“What?”
“What’s her name?”
He rolled his eyes. “You ask a lot of questions. It can get you into trouble.”
I said nothing, continued to wait him out. Finally, he said, “Lorraine.”
4
The next evening, as soon as I walked inside Chris’s apartment, he handed me a slip of paper—the name of my grandparents with an accompanying phone number. He closed the door, beckoning me forward with a crooked finger. He pointed to the countertop.
“I found the number, but you make the call. There’s the phone.”
My eyes returned to the slip of paper. “I can’t do it.”
“Terry, just pick up the phone and punch in the numbers. Underground cables will do the rest.”
I couldn’t move.
Chris blew out air, then snatched the number from my trembling hands. “It’s a good thing you’re smart. Because you’d never make it on aggression.”
He lifted the receiver, but I ran to the phone and depressed the hang-up button. “Please don’t.” My voice cracked. “It’s probably too late over there anyway.”
“It’s nine in the evening Chicago time. I’m sure they’re up.”
As soon as he started pressing the numbers, I tried to grab the phone again. But this time he held it above his head, out of my reach.
My stomach was suddenly a wave pool of acid. I could hear the phone ring, I could hear someone pick up. Chris started talking and I started dying.
“Hello, my name is Christopher Whitman, and I’m a friend of your granddaughter, Teresa McLaugh—Hello?”
“She hung up?” I whispered.
Chris waved me off. Into the phone, he said, “Yes, I’m still here … you can ask her yourself. She’s standing right next to me. Would you like to speak with her?”
Chris held the receiver out to me.
“She’d like to speak with you.”
Slowly, I took the handset. My hand was cold and clammy and I almost dropped the phone. I leaned against the counter for support and cleared my throat. “Hi.”
“Teresa?”
The voice on the other end was frail and choked with emotion.
“How are you, Grandma?”
“Oh, my God!” She paused. “You sound just like … excuse me … I think I’m going to cry.”
I beat her to it. Tears started streaming down my face. My past had been closed for so many years. And suddenly, without warning, the door had swung wide open. We both started talking at the same time, then we both started laughing, then crying.
I heard a beeper go off. I looked up. I hadn’t realized that Chris carried a pager. He put on a leather jacket.
“I’ll be back.”
“What?” I suddenly started shaking uncontrollably. “Wait. Don’t leave.”
“Teresa, are you all right?” my grandmother asked.
I spoke into the phone. “Grandma, can you hold for a moment?” I covered the receiver and said, “Chris, don’t leave me alone.”
Chris walked up to me and held my face, wiped my tears with his thumbs. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back. Talk as long as you like. Good-bye.”
He was out the door.
I put the receiver back to my ear. Actually, it was good that he did leave because the conversation became very emotional. We laughed, we cried; I asked questions and so did she. Then my grandfather got on the extension and soon we were all talking so fast, it was hard to understand anyone. But it didn’t matter. Because within minutes, I was talking to family. Eleven years of emptiness vanquished in a single stroke, all because someone had cared enough to make a phone call.
I gleaned a history of what had happened to them. They had faded into the breeze at my father’s request. He had felt that as long as my mother’s memory was kept fresh in my mind, I would never develop a close relationship with my new stepmother, Jean. They had wanted only what was best for me, so they had pulled away. They related my history, defending my father at every twist and turn. But I could feel only anger and resentment.
Did I ever receive the Christmas cards and presents they had sent me?
I told them I hadn’t.
How about the birthday cards and presents?
Not them, either.
I told them I would write. I told them I would send pictures. I told them I would call whenever I got the chance. If they wanted to send anything or write back, I told them to address the letters in care of Chris, then gave them his address. After forty-five minutes of nonstop dialogue, I finally relinquished the line to a dial tone.
I was so exhausted, I sprawled out on Chris’s leather couch and closed my eyes. He came back ten minutes later. His face looked drawn, his eyes looked dead.
I stood up. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He brushed hair out of his eyes. “How’d it go?”
I smiled. “Great … it went …” The tears came back. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you.” I moved toward him, then stopped.
He laughed. “Come here.”
I ran to him and hugged him tightly. It was like embracing granite. His arms wrapped around me, his fingers in my hair. He kissed my forehead. “I’m glad it went well.”
I burrowed myself deeper into his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. After a few moments, I became aware of something hard pressing into my hipbone. I adjusted my position in his arms, then went warm with embarrassment when I realized what it was. I giggled out of nervousness.
Chris whispered, “Yes, I have an erection.”
“At least I know you like me.”
“I like you very much.”
My eyes found his. “Then why—”
“Not now, Terry. Please.” He broke away and took off his jacket. Poured himself a shot of Scotch and drank it in a single gulp. “We’re going to have to forgo the lesson. I have a gig lined up. I have to pack.”
His voice was calm but his posture was tense.
I clapped my hands once. “If you need help, I’m a really good packer. I do all of my stepmom’s packing whenever she goes out of town.”
He smiled but it lacked warmth. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” I shrugged. “Thanks again. I’m going to owe you money for a very long phone conver—”
“Forget it.”
“I also told them to write to me in care of you. I gave them your address. I hope that’s okay—”
“It’s fine, Terry.”
He was very anxious for me to leave. But I couldn’t get my feet to move. “When will you be back?”
“Don’t know. Maybe Thursday or Friday.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back east.”
The room turned quiet. I said, “Are you going to be seeing your fiancée?”
Chris raised his brow. “You really like to torture yourself, don’t you?”
“I feel very comfortable on a cross.”
“Yes, I’ll probably be seeing her.”
“You’ll be seeing Lorraine?”
“Probably. It’s getting late.”
Actually, it wasn’t, but he wanted me out. I said, “I’ll leave now. Thanks again.”
“Take my books.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to fall behind and you’ll need to prepare lessons to catch me up.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out three fifties. Showed them to me. “For the week I’m gone. I’ll deposit them in your bank account.”
“Christopher, it won’t take me ten hours to prepare your lessons.”
“Think of it as a retainer.” He brushed my nose with the corner of the bills, then pocketed the money. “You’re now in my employ.”
“You say that with such glee.” I laughed softly. “Must be nice to be rich.”
“I wouldn’t know. I work for every dime I have.”
I turned hot, glanced at him, then averted my eyes. “God, that was an awful thing to say. Of course you do. I’m very sorry.” I picked up the books. “Thanks for everything, Chris.”
He held my arm. “Terry, look at me.”
Quickly, my eyes swept over his face.
“Nuh-uh,” he persisted. “Look at me.”
I managed to meet his eyes.
Chris said, “You didn’t offend me. I knew what you meant.”
“You don’t need to pay me—”
“Terry—”
“All I’m saying is, I’d tutor you for free.” I felt my eyes get wet and looked away.
“I know you would, Terry. And that means a lot to me. But it’s not necessary.” He kissed my forehead. “Go home.”
A very good idea. He’d been full of them this evening. Quietly, I shut the door behind me. I thought my grandmother had taken away all my tears. But I was wrong.
5
The trips had become so routine, he wondered why he didn’t keep a prepacked valise. Same inventory every time. Two white shirts, two black shirts, two pairs of black pants, couple of ties, underwear, socks, shoes, and a suit in case he decided to see Lorraine. Her daddy liked things nice and formal. Proper. He didn’t want things to get out of hand before the wedding. Not a problem for him. But daughter had undergone a severe case of hot pants over the past year.
She had detested him when they were first introduced. And she had taken every opportunity to tell him so. He was immature, ugly, stupid, unmannered (that was a lie)—and worst of worst, he was a mick. It had been an insult to her intelligence that her father had ever agreed to the arrangement. She’d go through with it because she knew she had to. But he shouldn’t ever, ever, expect anything!
Her words had stung his cheeks like a blustery day. But eventually he had learned to tune them out, just like everything else. His apathy to her had been so complete, it took him months before he realized her change of attitude.
At first, he had wondered why. He hadn’t changed. He was the same person. Until he looked in the mirror one day for a self-portrait. His cheeks had been thick with grizzle, toughening the flawless skin that had once been speckled with teenage blemishes. His eyes had deepened in color and in intensity; his mouth had turned sensual and hungry. His body had hardened from pumping iron. His forearms were developed from hours of cello playing. Suddenly he realized what had happened. Hormones and genetics had finally worked in his favor. They had turned him into a man.
A vengeful person might have reacted with hostility. But since emotions weren’t part of his equation, he reacted as he always did. With control and calculation.
He regarded himself through her eyes. It must have been hard for a rich, spoiled Italian princess to accept a gawky fourteen-year-old mongrel three years her junior. Her former boyfriends had been older than she—nineteen or even in their early twenties, with deep voices and developed muscles. He must have looked like a worm in comparison.
So he decided to be gracious with her. Kind but never attentive, closed but not cold. Physical affection, of course, but only the obligatory kind if you please—a peck on the cheek, his hand on her arm as they strolled through the family’s vast country acreage.
She knew something was off, but she couldn’t call him on it. Because he behaved like the perfect gentleman that Daddy had ordered. They played tennis together. He always won, but not by too many points. They went to the symphony together. He knew the pieces by heart, could have conducted them if push came to shove. She had a hard time staying awake. He teased her about her strong New York accent, but it was always in good humor. They went to Mass together. He prayed fervently as she sneaked him sidelong glances, her leg rubbing against his thigh.
He jerked her around like a rag doll, kept her off balance. After the official engagement had been announced, she waited … and waited and waited. Finally, she came to him. To his amazement, she was still a virgin. So he’d been gentle with her. Gentle but dispassionate. Their first nighttime tryst, which she had arranged to cement their relationship, had only served to increase her anxiety.
What was wrong?
Nothing, it was fine.
What could she do to please him more?
Nothing, he was fine.
What could she do to make herself better?
Nothing, she was fine.
He had finally gained the upper hand.
He pulled a suitcase down from his bedroom closet. He didn’t feel like packing, so instead he lit a cigarette.
What he really wanted was another drink.
But that was the wrong thing to do.
It was time to use logic, analyze why he wanted the drink so bad.
Was it the gigs? After all these years was he finally getting performance anxiety?
No, he never was anxious about anything.
Was he worried about failure?
No, he was a pro.
Was the thrill gone?
He sucked on his smoke.
That was part of it. Just wasn’t as thrilling as it used to be. Truth be told, he was just going through the motions. So what? That was life, buddy. Everybody had to earn their keep. Besides, he needed the bread now more than ever because he was doling out so much of it to her.
Her.
Still the same thrill every time he thought about her. At least that much hadn’t changed. How she’d slipped by him in orchestra was still beyond his comprehension. He chalked it up to the way he was. He never went after girls. They had always come to him.
Just like Cheryl.
Not that he hadn’t noticed Cheryl. How could he not have noticed Cheryl? And yeah, he had wanted her. But Cheryl had been business as usual. He’d sent her “the vibes” and she had responded quickly … satisfyingly …
Terry had been different. He hadn’t noticed her because she’d been buried in the back of the second violin section. They’d been playing Rossini’s William Tell Overture. The beginning of the piece, Hedding purposely dragging the tempo, milking the cello solo—his solo, of course. Then Hedding had stopped the orchestra. Apparently, someone had been making loud snoring noises in the background.
Lack of sleep, Miss McLaughlin, or do you have a problem with the tempo?
Lots of giggling now … at least, two or three girls.
No, sir. Sorry, sir.
The voice had been sultry. He had craned his neck, but hadn’t been able to make out the person.
Perhaps you’d like to come up and conduct the piece at a tempo more to your liking.
By then the entire orchestra had gotten into the act. Egging her on. Red-faced, she stood up. But she did it. Conducted the entire piece. Did a pretty good job of it, too.
All he had remembered was his heart pounding out of his chest. Good thing he was such a natural, because he hadn’t known what he’d been playing. His mind racing, his thoughts a jumbled mess.
Where the fuck had she been hiding?
So mind-boggling gorgeous, and best of all, she didn’t even know it.
Immediately, he started sending her “the vibes.” But they hadn’t worked and he figured out why. She was a good girl. Well, that wasn’t so bad. Because he knew all about good girls. They weren’t hard to catch, but you had to do it indirectly. Then she walked by one day, and Bull made some lech comment. They had all laughed about it. Bull also mentioned that she’d been his tutor.
The opening he’d been waiting for.
But it wasn’t working out as planned. She was supposed to be a blow and go. Instead, something got messed up in his head.
He closed his eyes, allowing his brain to flash up her image. He studied the purity of her oval face, the arch of her cheekbones, the liquid in her exotic, amber eyes, the sweep of her long, auburn hair.
Though he tried to fight it, he knew he was going under.
He was falling in love.
His groin ached. He realized he was rock hard.
So that’s why he had wanted to drink. He had wanted to suppress his arousal. God, he wanted her.
But that was out of the question.
He grabbed his rubbers, a handful of old neckties, and headed for the streets.
6
Rina realized the bed was empty. Not an infrequent occurrence of late. Ever since Peter had returned home from New York, he’d been hit with bouts of insomnia. The nightstand clock read two A.M. Stomach still awash in sleep-laden nausea, Rina rose slowly from the bed, donned her robe, and slipped her feet into mules. Moving slowly through the darkened house, she found Peter seated at the kitchen table, fingers running through his mop of red hair, his shoulders hunched over the Formica top.
“What are you doing?”
Startled, Decker pivoted around to face her. “I didn’t hear you get up.”
She sat next to him. Immediately, Decker began stacking papers in front of him. Once they were piled up, he covered them with his elbows, hiding them from Rina’s eyes as if she were trying to cheat off him.
“Peter, what are you doing?”
“Just going over loose ends.”
“What loose ends?”
“Just business stuff. Not important.” He scooped up the papers and stood. “Come on. We’ll both go back to bed.”
Rina pointed to his chair. Decker sat back down. “Tell me the truth. Are you working on the shopping-bag rapist?”
Decker didn’t answer.
“Peter, just what do you hope to accomplish from three thousand miles away?”
“So what should I do? Sit by while this asshole picks off women? He got another one—”
“I’m aware of that—”
“Rina, I sat with my daughter and her friends for two friggin days. Hearing them cry … they may be women on the outside but inside they’re frightened little children. I spoke to Cindy this afternoon. This time, she wants to come home.”
“So she’s coming home?”
“I told her no.” Decker began to pace. “I told her, give it a little more time. Because if she comes home, the bastard wins. And what will that do to her psyche? Chased away by a phantom. Know what, Rina? He is winning!”
“It’s wretched, but—”
Decker blurted out, “You ask me what I can do three thousand miles away? The sad truth is nothing. But if it makes me feel better reading some detective’s case notes, then indulge me!”
Abruptly, he threw the papers across the room and looked at Rina.
“Do you think I did wrong by telling her to stay?” Decker began to pace again. “As her father, I really want her home. But I don’t want her to leave because someone is chasing her away. I raised her to feel she was strong enough to conquer the world. Now this SOB …” He sank back in his chair and rubbed his face. “I think I’m going nuts!”
Slowly Rina got up and began assembling the papers. She set them in front of her husband, then placed a kettle of water on the stove. “Do the police have any ideas?”
“They think it’s someone on the inside because he knows the secluded areas of the campus. College! Perfect breeding grounds for weirdos and perverts. You’ve got hyper-hormoned kids with poor judgment thrown together unsupervised. Bastard rapist. He knows they’re easy fodder.”
“Cindy’s twenty-one.”
“When she cries in my arms, she’s a kid. I can’t stand this. Screw it! I’m sending her a plane ticket tomorrow—”
“Peter, you did the right thing by telling her to stay. You can’t protect her forever.”
“So I’ll protect her as long as I can.”
“If the monster strikes again, then you and she can reevaluate. In the meantime, if she can stick it out until he’s caught … handling this situation will give her a sense of mastery. That this maniac didn’t scare her away. Believe me, I know what it’s like to live in fear.”
The kettle began to boil. Rina brought out two mugs and made tea. Decker was quiet, remembering how they’d met. Rina had been a witness to a rape, Decker had been the cop assigned to the crime. During the course of the investigation, they had found out that Rina had been the intended victim. Even with that knowledge, Rina had held firm, refused to be scared away by a madman’s perversions. In the end, she had come away the better for it.
But this was his daughter.
“So you think I did the right thing?” Decker asked.
Rina placed a cup of ginger tea in front of her husband. “I think so, yes. Drink.”
“Okay, you’re a smart person.” Decker sipped boiling tea. “I’ll trust you.”
“Thank you.”
“I trust you, you trust me. Isn’t that what this whole thing’s about?”
“You mean love?”
“Yeah, love and the whole nine yards.”
“The whole nine yards?”
“You know what I mean. Love, marriage, kids, dogs, mortgages, responsibility, life—”
“Poor Peter. You’re feeling so burdened.”
“I’m not feeling burdened, I am burdened.”
Rina took his hand. “You want to go out to New York again?”
Decker shook his head no. “What does that say to Cindy? That every time there’s a crisis, Daddy’ll come to rescue her? No, I’ve got to let her deal with it and just pray for the best.” He looked at the kitchen clock. “Is it too early to say Shacharit?”
Rina thought a moment. There were entire sections of Talmud written about the permissible times to say the morning prayers. Rina looked at the kitchen clock. A little before three A.M.
“It’s never too early or too late to pray. And Peter, add your own private wishes at the beginning of Shemonah Esreh. Ask Hashem specifically to look after Cindy, to watch over her and keep her safe. Make your requests as detailed as you want.”
Decker smiled. “I can do that?”
Rina smiled back. “You can do that.”
7
In the dead of night, I wrote letters to my grandparents, all the while growing even more aloof from my father and stepmother. Jean tried to cut through my secrecy with insipid stabs into my personal life. It became clear that she thought I was sequestering a boyfriend. I answered her politely, but revealed nothing. My father never even picked up on my change of attitude. To him, I was a house pet. As long as I was healthy and didn’t pee on the carpet, I was left to benign neglect.
The school week rocketed by. With Chris gone, I was back to walking home. On Tuesday, Bull—né Steve—Anderson met me at my locker after school and offered me a ride. The school’s star halfback, as did Chris, ran in the fast lane of booze, drugs, and sex. Steve was handsome and buffed with a con-man smile. He’d been cordial to me the year I’d tutored him. But beyond that, he had never given me a second glance.
On the lift home, I sensed a change—the wolfish way he looked at me. I sat rigidly in the passenger seat of his Camaro, showing scant interest in his conversation. When he parked in front of my house, he told me I needed to loosen up and have some fun. He invited me to a party that night. I declined, citing schoolwork. When I closed the door to my house, I turned the deadbolt.
The next day, when Steve saw me in the halls, he acknowledged me with the barest of courtesy. I was relieved.
Chris called me up the following Friday morning. Hearing his voice sent ripples of pleasure down my spine. He wasn’t coming to school but he told me to come to his place tonight at the usual time.
I was weak-kneed when he answered the door that evening. He wore a black silk jacket over a black tee and faded jeans. His hair had been stepped in back, but it was long and loose in front. A gold crucifix hung from his neck. He took the lead-filled backpacks I was carrying.
“Welcome back,” I said.
“Thank you.” He hefted the book bags onto his kitchen counter. “These are heavy. Next time, just leave them in the car and I’ll get them for you.”
He poured me a cup of coffee and told me to take a seat. I pulled up a stool. “How’d your gig go?”
“Without a hitch,” he said. “I never have any problem with work. How’ve you been?”
“Fine. A little nervous actually.”
“Why’s that?”
“Mr. Hedding announced an orchestra test this Monday.”
“Which piece?”
“Brandenburg Number Two. I’m embarrassed to play in front of you.”
“Why?” He poured himself a shot of Scotch. “I’ve heard you play before.”
“Yeah, but now it’s different. I know you.”
“You see me struggling in my studies all the time. I’m not embarrassed. You shouldn’t be either.”
“But this is different.”
“Why?”
I leaned on my elbows. “Because my bad playing is so … visceral. It’s so … out there … public.”
“You never cared before.”
“Because I never had to look you in the eye afterward.”
Chris held a finger in the air, disappeared, then came back a moment later with a violin case. He took out the instrument, tuned it, then motioned me up from the stool.
“Play for me.”
He offered me the fiddle. I regarded it as if it were an evil talisman. “I don’t have the sheet music.”
He sat on his leather couch and sipped his drink. “Play what you know by heart.”
“I don’t know anything by heart.”
“So just draw the bow across the strings. Get a sound from it, all right?”
I sighed. I got As in orchestra only because I showed up on time and took all the tests. It was no reflection of my skill as a musician. Red-faced, I started bowing open strings. My hands were shaking. I made sounds akin to a strangling cat’s. I stopped and giggled, but Chris kept his expression flat.
“Keep going.”
“I know how sensitive your ear is. How can you stand it?”
“Keep going.”
I played the test piece as best I could by heart. I made mistakes. I sounded terrible. I was almost in tears. I kept waiting for him to grimace, but he sat stoically.
“Play it again.”
“Chris—”
“Play it again.”
“This is torture—”
“Play it again.”
I did. I sounded a bit better and Chris gave me a compliment to that effect. “Can I please stop now?” I asked.
Chris got up from the couch, took the violin.
“It’s a beautiful-sounding instrument,” I said. “I wish I could do it more justice. Why don’t you play the piece?”
He shrugged, tucked the violin under his chin, and came up with a concerto that was note-perfect as well as sound-perfect. I told him I hated him.
He smiled, put the violin away, then patted his jacket pockets. “Where’d I put … ah, here we go.” He pulled out a small wrapped package. “Maybe this’ll make you hate me less.” He handed it to me.
I looked at it, then at him.
“For me?”
“Yes, for you. Open it.”
I ripped open the paper. The box held a set of pearl studs for pierced ears. My eyes went from him, to the earrings, then back to him. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Thank you is fine. Try them on.”
I replaced my gold hoops with milk-white orbs. “How do they look?”
“They look beautiful. Rather, you look beautiful in them.”
“I don’t understand …” I lowered my eyes, then raised them to his face.
“What can I say, Terry?” Chris spoke softly. “You know I’m engaged to someone else. But the heart has a mind of its own.” He walked over to me and slipped his arms around my waist. “Do you love me, Terry?”
Without hesitation, I told him I did.
“I love you, too. So now what do we do?”
I leaned against his breast, soothed by his heartbeat. “I don’t know.”
He said, “Usually, when two people love each other, they express their love in intimate ways. But I can’t ask you to sleep with me. Because I’m going to marry someone else.”
“Do you want me to tell you that it’s okay?”
He held me tightly. “Is it okay?”
I didn’t answer him. He said, “Since we last saw each other, I haven’t been able to get you off my mind. And that’s saying a lot. Because I’m usually very good at compartmentalizing. I don’t want to sleep with you because it will hurt you in the end. But there are other ways we can be intimate with each other.”
I lifted my head and met his eyes. He read my confusion.
“Let me draw you,” he said. “Completely.”
Completely. As in the nude. My heart started racing. I closed my eyes and buried myself in his embrace.
“Look at me, Terry,” he said. “Do you trust me?”
I opened my eyes but said nothing.
“Do you?” he repeated.
I smiled weakly. He picked up my hands and kissed my fingers. “Terry, I know what they’ve taught you, so I know what you’re feeling.” He placed my hand on his cheek. “Embarrassment, shame—”
“I’m not that pious anymore, Chris.” I pulled my hand away. “I haven’t been to confession in over six months.”
“But the crap’s still there, right?”
“It’s not crap.”
He waited. When I remained silent, he drew me close and said, “You know the Italians have it over the Irish in their Catholicism. I mean the guilt’s still there in the Italians, but they’re more … flexible. God, even my aunt Donna, who was an old, old-fashioned Catholic woman, could look the other way. She once caught me drawing these pictures.”
He smiled at the memory.
“Real explicit pictures … of guys and girls … Anyway, I was thirteen and suicidal over my mother’s death. What else was I supposed to do?”
I hugged him hard.
Chris said, “The lady was smart. Know what she did?”
“What?”
“She took me to the Met. The art museum, not the opera house. We covered the place from top to bottom in a week. Mostly we concentrated on the religious art … lots of nudes in religious art, believe it or not.”
I nodded.
Chris whispered, “Terry, it changed my whole … image of what a human body was. From something hidden and shameful to something incredibly beautiful. My body is beautiful. Your body is beautiful. And I want it.”
I didn’t respond.
“Look, I’ll take you through it step by step. Anytime you want to stop, just cut the phone wires. I swear I’ll stop. Please do it for me.”
I bit my lip. “I’d do anything for you.”
Chris traced my profile with his left index finger—a preamble to his sketching. “I know what you’re giving me. Thank you for trusting me. I promise I won’t let you down.” He broke away and looked around the room. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Light’s probably better in here with the spots and all.” He faced me. “But I’d rather draw you in the bedroom. More personal that way.”
He took my hand and led me into his sleeping quarters. It also had a city-lights view and lots of built-in cabinets. Not a thing or an item appeared out of place. Not surprising. Because Chris was compulsive.
He hung up his jacket in his closet and pointed to his king-sized bed covered with a black quilt. “Just sit there for a moment. The cover will make a perfect backdrop. I want to get some auxiliary light.”
“Are you going to take photographs?” I asked.
“Nope. Just me and my charcoals.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“The sketches?” Chris broke a smile. “Ah, little girl, what you don’t know. I’m going to look at them whenever I’m alone and lonely … which is often. Rest of the time they’ll be locked up and stowed away. I swear they’re for my eyes only. I’ll be back.”
He came back a minute later toting lamps, an easel filled with paper, art supplies, and a bottle of Chivas. He set his equipment down on the floor and poured himself another drink. “Will Jean have a fit if you’re not home by a certain hour?”
“No,” I said. “My parents are out for the evening. Melissa’s sleeping over at a friend’s house. You can take your time.”
“Good.” He took about a half hour to set up. “Would you like some music before we start?”
“That’d be nice.”
Chris opened a drawer and pulled out a CD cartridge. “Let’s see what I’ve got loaded—Pearl Jam, Spin Doctors, Metallica, Crash Test Dummies, Greenday, Eric Johnson, Joe Satriani, Nicholas Gage, Yo Yo Ma, Jacqueline DuPres, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons …” He looked up. “That’s nice and light. How about that?”
I nodded. He put on the music and told me to move to the middle of the bed.
“Keep your clothes on for now. Just sit there like you’re doing, Terry. With your knees pressed to your chest and your shoulders hunched over like that. But keep your head up and look at me … to the left … perfect. Hold that position, all right?”
This was easy enough. He studied me, then started making swipes at his easel.
“Can I talk while you draw me?” I asked.
“Absolutely.” He looked at me, then back at his paper. “Say whatever’s on your mind.”
“Did you see Lorraine while you were back east?”
Preoccupied, he didn’t answer. He flipped over his preliminary sketch and started anew. “Yes, I saw Lorraine.”
“Were you on good terms with her?” I asked.
“Good terms?” He squinted at the paper. “Are you asking if I slept with her? Yes, I slept with her.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Look at me, Terry.”
I did.
“Ah, such anguish in those beautiful eyes.” Chris started on a fresh piece of paper. “I did it because it was expected. Closed my eyes and imagined you. She means nothing to me. I’m not marrying Lorraine, I’m marrying her family. My uncle arranged the whole thing when I was fourteen.” His eyes went from me to his drawing. “Believe me, I’d get out of it if I could. But you don’t mess with my uncle without good reason.”
“But you don’t love her.”
“That’s not a good reason.” He stood back and studied his work. “It’s chilly in here. I’m going to turn up the heat. Give you a chance to strip down to your bra and panties without me staring at you. And sit in the same position. If your feet are cold, leave your socks on.”
He disappeared. Slowly I took off my sweater, jeans, and shoes. Barely clad, I rubbed my arms and shivered. When he came back in, he glanced at me, saw me shaking. Keeping his eyes averted, he draped a comforter over my shoulders.
I know what they’ve taught you so I know what you’re feeling.
He knew exactly what I was feeling. Doing everything he could to make it easy on me, to make me feel beautiful. All the guilt, the shame … he was right. It was crap. I had to get past it. I couldn’t live with myself if I let him down.
“You can take the cover off whenever you want to.” Chris rubbed his hands and reviewed his pictures.
“Can I see?”
“When we’re done.”
I slowly let the comforter drop from my torso until it rested over my legs.
Chris took in my bare shoulders with his eyes. “Nice.” He began a new sketch. “That’s real nice. Look up, Ter.”
I raised my head. There was nothing lecherous in his eyes and that made me feel good. I said, “Why isn’t ‘you don’t love her’ a good reason?”
He started shading with his thumb. “You ever hear of Joseph Donatti?”
I scrunched up my forehead trying to attach the familiar name with an event.
“His murder trial made the national papers about four years back.” Chris’s fingers were black. “Before that, he’d been arrested for racketeering, extortion, bribery … uh, pandering and pushing … money laundering. Nothing ever stuck. Evidence got lost.”
I stared at him, openmouthed.
“He was acquitted in his murder trial, by the way. Witnesses either changed their stories or mysteriously disappeared.”
I remained silent, wondering if he was putting me on.
Chris spit into his hand, rubbed his palms together, and began working the moisture into the paper. “My uncle’s mob, Terry. And I don’t mean small-time hoods who’re cute movie characters. I mean real mob. Lorraine is a daughter of the mob. She’s from a rival family. Our engagement has bought both families a truce and lots of money. If you’re warm enough now, toss the comforter on the floor.”
Mechanically, I did what he asked. I was still dumbfounded by his recitation. It was his demeanor—as casual as an afternoon sail.
Flipping over his sketch, Chris attacked the clean paper with renewed vigor. “I want you to know that I have nothing to do with my uncle’s activities. All I want is a nice, quiet life as a classical cellist. Unfortunately, what I am is a pawn in a wargame played by two dangerous men. I screw with this engagement, heads’ll roll. Namely my own.”
I stammered out, “Your uncle would … kill you?”
Chris continued drawing. “Nah, you’re right. He wouldn’t kill me.” His eyes bored into mine. “I wouldn’t be the problem.”
Slowly, my brain absorbed his words. I felt myself go light-headed. Chris stopped drawing, placed the comforter over my shaking body, and stuck Scotch in my face. “Drink.”
“I don’t want—”
“Drink!”
I took a sip and immediately started coughing. He patted my back. “Take another sip.”
“It makes me sick—”
“Drink it, Terry.”
I sucked the smoky liquid into my mouth. I could never figure out why people drank to clear their heads. Alcohol only made me queasy. I wrapped myself in the comforter, resting my pounding head in my hands.
“Are you all right? You’re white.”
I whispered that I was all right.
He let out a small laugh. “Guess honesty isn’t always the best policy. Terry, nothing’s going to happen to you. My uncle doesn’t care what I do just as long as I show up at the altar. You know, I could tell my uncle about you, right now, at this moment—”
“Please don’t do that.”
“I won’t, but I could.” He put his arm around me. “He’d probably feel sorry for me. Loving one girl and marrying another. He’d know how much it hurts. Because he loved his mistress very much.” He removed the comforter from my shoulders. “You want another sip of Scotch?”
“No.”
“Can you take your bra off for me?”
I closed me eyes. “Chris, I don’t feel very well.”
“You want to stop?”
I opened my eyes and peered into his—unreadable. “No.” My voice was shaky. “No, it’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
I answered him by slipping off my bra. He stared at my chest for a long time before going back to his easel. “Hunch over like you were doing before.”
Gladly, I did as I was told, my knees hiding most of my nakedness.
He began a new drawing. “You’re very, very beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t ever be ashamed of what God gave you, you hear me?”
I nodded.
He drew one sketch, then another, then another. We didn’t talk as he worked his way through one pad, quickly replacing it with a new one. He wiped sweat from his brow.
“I’m hot,” he said. “I’m going to take off my shirt.”
I shrugged. He worked bare-chested. His body was hard and developed, but not overdone. Not an anabolics user. Too much chest hair, and he was more sinewy than inflated. I remembered Bull Anderson parading around the halls in his swimming trunks one day after school, his oiled, hairless barrel chest reddened by patches of acne.
Chris stood back and fingered his crucifix, his eyes on my face. “Your color’s back. You must be feeling better.”
I nodded.
“Good.”
I said, “You used the past tense when you spoke about your uncle’s mistress. What happened to her?”
“She died.”
“Did he kill her?”
Chris jerked his head up. “In a sense, I guess he did.”
I waited for more, but he didn’t explain. He sketched furiously. “You can take your panties off now.”
I froze.
Chris said, “If it’s too hard for you, Teresa, we’ll forget the whole thing. The purpose of this is to make us closer, not to put up walls.”
He spoke smoothly and soothingly, as if my feelings were his only concern. At that moment, I would probably have drunk poison for him. Instead, I slipped off my panties, keeping my knees up, legs soldered together.
Chris walked over to me. Looming over my smallness, he must have sensed how insignificant I felt. He knelt down and spoke very softly. “Give me privilege, angel. I swear I won’t ever let you down.”
I still couldn’t move.
“Let me help you.”
He put his hands on my knees and opened my legs, positioning them about two feet apart. His face was so close I could feel warmed air on my inner thighs. His skin was flushed, his eyes had dilated, and his breathing had become audible. He remained in the same position for what seemed like an interminable period.
Finally, he let out a breathless laugh. “I swear to Jesus, I can’t get up. I can’t move. I’m … too weak.”
I smiled.
He closed his eyes, crossed himself, and finally stood up. He threw back his head and burst into unrestrained laughter. “Well, that was a first.” Slowly, he made his way back to his sketch pad. “Just keep that position.”
He laughed again. It was infectious and I started to relax. After a while, my eyes traveled down his body, landing on the noticeable bulge in his crotch. I felt tingling below, wondered if he noticed. A moment later, he gave me a knowing smile.
“You dirty girl, keep your eyes up and off my groin.”
“You can look, why can’t I?”
“I don’t mind you looking,” he clarified. “But I need to see your beautiful eyes.”
“You’re not looking at my eyes, Christopher.”
Again Chris smiled. “You’re nasty, Teresa. Of course I’m looking at your eyes.” He flipped to a new piece of paper. “If you’re that curious, I can take my pants off.”
“I’ll pass. My heart’s only good for a shock a day and I’m still dealing with your uncle’s death threats.”
“Terry, nothing’s going to happen to you.” He studied me, then his drawing. “I’d … kill myself before I’d let anything ever happen to you. You may be little in size, but you’ve got a six-four, one-hundred-eighty-pound killing machine at your service. More reliable than a pit bull and I don’t have bad breath. Hold still.”
“Chris?”
“What?”
“How did your uncle’s mistress die?”
He didn’t answer me. I didn’t press it. He sketched in silence for half an hour. Finally, he set down his charcoal, put on his shirt, then picked up the comforter from the floor. He draped it across my shoulders.
“She died of breast cancer. She had it for a long time, but was afraid to go to the doctors. She was afraid of losing her breast, disfiguring the body he loved so much. She just let it go until it was way too late. Stupid. He later told me the sexiest thing about her chest wasn’t her breasts but her heartbeat.”
He traced my jawline with his finger.
“You would have liked my mom. She was beautiful, but real down to earth. Just like you.”
“Your mom?” I looked at him, wide-eyed. “So your uncle Joey isn’t really—”
“No. After my dad was murdered, my mom took a job at Joey’s place as a housekeeper. He took an instant liking to her; they became lovers. Joey’s wife—the woman I call my aunt—was always the refined lady. She just … looked the other way. After my mom died, she and my uncle adopted me. They never could have their own kids, so this seemed like a good solution.”
He stopped talking, his eyes far away.
“My aunt got her revenge on my mother. She co-opted me. I never talked about my mom after she died. My aunt wouldn’t have allowed it. I was no longer my mom’s kid. I was my aunt’s child. Only remnants of my former life are some scars and my name.”
“It must have made you angry.”
“More sad than anything. I knew what she was doing but was still grateful to her. Both she and my uncle could have sent me packing. Which would have meant five years in foster homes. After my mom died, I had nowhere to go.”
I said, “Now I understand why you agreed to marry Lorraine.”
His laugh was bitter. “I didn’t agree to anything, Terry. I obeyed an order.”
The room fell quiet.
“Only thing I ever bucked Joey on was school,” Chris continued. “He wanted me to marry Lorenza as soon—”
“Lorenza?”
“Lorenza’s her given name. He wanted me to marry her as soon as I turned eighteen. I told him it made more sense for me to finish up my schooling out here, then go back east and get married. He finally gave in, but he wasn’t happy about it. He won’t be happy until I’m tied for life with a couple of sons under my belt … common grandchildren.”
He kissed my hand and brought it to his cheek.
“Can we do this again next Friday night? Make it our special evening?”
I told him yes.
“Thank you.” He kissed my hand again, then let it go. “Terry, listen to me. Everything we’ve said is very private. We go back to school on Monday, it’s like before. You stay with your friends, I stay with mine. You understand why?”
“You don’t want your uncle to find out about me.”
“Yes. Also I’ve done stuff in the past—a couple of drug convictions and some B and Es. Stuff I did to prove myself to my uncle. All I got for my efforts was beatings. But I didn’t care. I wanted my uncle to see me as tough.”
“I understand.”
“Joey spent lots of money on me, Terry. He bribed the right people. Now I’ve got a clean record. Matter of fact, that’s why he sent me out here in the first place. A fresh start. But I’m still known as Joey Donatti’s kid. If my uncle ever goes down, I drown with him. It’s better if people think you’re only my tutor. It’s late. Get dressed and I’ll follow you home. Make sure you get in all right.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do,” Chris whispered. “You have a treasure, you guard it with your life.”
8
And it was exactly like before. Chris stayed in his group, Cheryl Diggs giving him neck rubs, outwardly oblivious to my distant longing stares. Nothing passed between us, even when we were alone. I simply tutored him. As if he had locked up his feelings for me and put them in cold storage.
His apathy confused me, then angered me. In the end, he had cut me to the quick. I felt embarrassed and ashamed by what I had done for him, for falling for his glib talk and sweet words. By Friday, I decided that I didn’t want to see him anymore. When I came to his place that evening, he threw open the door, pulled me inside, then shut it with a slam.
He was short of breath and paced his living room. “I’m running a little late. My uncle. Effing pain in the ass, excuse my language. Gotta put everything on hold whenever Joey calls. Jerk was in a panic. He’s always in a panic. And me, his effing errand boy. God, I hate that man.”
He suddenly stopped moving and faced me. “I’m almost done setting up. I made coffee. Have a cup while I finish up.”
I stared at him. “Setting up what?”
His eyes went wide, then he smiled. “You’re putting me on, right?”
I shook my head no.
“Terry, c’mon.” His smile lost some wattage. “This is our night, remember?”
“Ah,” I said. “I see. I get Friday while Cheryl Diggs gets Saturday through Thursday. Thank you, but I’ll pass.”
His face fell. “What are you talking about?”
The best defense was an offense. I wasn’t about to be taken in. “Chris, I don’t feel well. I’ll see you Monday. Oh, good going on your math test. Farrell told me you did well.”
I turned to leave, but he came over and gripped my arm. I averted my eyes but didn’t resist his hold.
“Terry,” Chris whispered. “Cheryl means nothing—”
“Oh, please!” I interrupted. “Cheryl means nothing, Lorraine means nothing. What do you do? Surround yourself with girls who mean nothing to you? So what does that say about me, Chris? And let go of my arm.”
Slowly, he dropped his hold on me. Without looking at him, I told him I’d see him later.
“I wrote a composition for you,” he blurted out.
How convenient. I turned around and looked at him as best I could. Because my eyes were in the back of my head from rolling them.
“No, really. I’m not lying.” He held up a finger, indicating that I should wait. Then he went inside his hall closet and returned holding a sheaf of paper. He handed it to me.
My eyes slipped down to the title page.
A poem for Teresa
With special gratitude to Our Lord Jesus Christ, thanking Him for giving me a true spiritual love. May God forever protect her and keep her from harm’s way.
In the left-hand corner was a small drawing that could have been lifted from a fourteenth-century wood-panel painting. A young girl in a red dress, the crown of her head illuminated in gold pen by the spirit of God. Long chestnut hair, eyes closed, her hands folded in prayer, head bent modestly toward her breast.
The face was mine.
My eyes went moist as I scanned the pages. Six sheets of musical notation with lots of cross-outs. Chris took the music from me. “It’s done but it isn’t refined yet. But with the mood you’re in … I figured I’d better bring out the heavy artillery.”
I laughed through my tears. He lifted my chin until my eyes met his. “Let me play what I have so far, okay?”
I nodded. His smile was brilliant. “Okay, sit down.” He led me to his couch. “Okay. Sit. Wait.”
He went to his bedroom and came out carting his cello and stool. “Okay.” He sat down directly across from me and placed the instrument between his knees, burying the spike in his white carpet. “You never heard my Rowland Ross. It is one bitchen instrument. Okay. Okay. Now you gotta remember that it isn’t polished yet, all right?”
I smiled. “All right?”
“And I may make a few mistakes. I don’t have it all down yet. So cut me slack, all right.”
“No, I’m going to critique you,” I said, wiping my tears.
“So you’re happy now?”
“Yes. I’m happy now.”
“Good. ’Cause I’ll do better if you’re happy.”
“I’m delirious with joy. Play it already.”
His smile was edible. Then he closed his eyes a moment, started to breathe slowly. When his bow made contact with the strings, I closed my eyes.
The room filled with a sound so pure and sacred, it brought an ache to my heart, chills. Because he wasn’t playing music. He was praying. Soft, plaintive pleas of repentance answered by the all-encompassing embrace of God’s mercy. When he had finished, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t move. Emotion had paralyzed me.
“Do you like it?” he asked me.
I opened my eyes and swallowed dryly. “It’s …” Tears had been running down my cheeks. “It’s positively … sublime.”
“Like you.”
“Hardly.”
“Look at me, Terry.”
I did.
He said, “What Beethoven did for Elise, that’s what I want to do for you. I want to immortalize you.”
My heart stood still. I couldn’t answer him.
“That’s why I wrote this for you; that’s why I draw you.” He placed his cello on its side rib and came over to me. His lips brushed my forehead, his touch as gentle and spiritual as baptismal waters. “You are holy to me. Our relationship is holy to me. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
He handed me the title page. “Keep it. And whenever you doubt me, look at this. Because it’s the way I really feel. I love you, Teresa. More than you ever could know.” He paused. “Will you let me draw you tonight? Completely?”
I dried my eyes and nodded yes.
He whispered, “Go into my bedroom, take off your clothes, and put on one of my robes. I’ll be there in a minute, all right?”
I got up and did what he asked of me. He came back in, set up for around five minutes, then turned to look at me. I regarded his eyes. I was looking for a window to his soul. All I got was leaded glass. I cleared my throat. “You want me to take the robe off now?”
He nodded yes.
Slowly I untied the belt and let the garment fall from my shoulders. “Should I sit the same as last time?”
He shook his head no. “I want something different tonight.”
“Different?”
“I want to tie you up.”
Involuntarily, my fingers wrapped around my throat. “What?”
“I want to tie you up.”
The room went silent. I started shivering. “Why?”
He extended his arms out from his shoulders and slumped his head to the side. “You are my artistic vision of Our Lord Jesus on the cross. I can’t crucify you. So this is the next best thing.”
I was too stunned to talk.
“Say no if you’re squeamish.”
“Chris, I’m not squeamish—”
“So do it.” He came over to the bed and draped his robe around my shoulders. “Please, please, Terry. It’s very important to me.”
I looked at the ceiling. “You are absolutely the most wonderful, but weirdest boy I have ever met in my entire life.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Call it artistic temperament.” His eyes met mine. He lowered his head and kissed my feet. “I’m begging you. Please?”
I fell backward onto his mattress. “I must be crazy—”
“You’ll do it?”
“Yes, I’ll do it.”
Without ceremony, Chris got up from the bed, went to his closet, and pulled out a dozen neckties. I felt my heart beating wildly. I stuttered out, “You’ve done this before?”
He didn’t answer.
“Just swear to me that you’re not a serial killer.”
“I’m not a serial killer. Lie down.” He waited, I waited. Gently, he pushed down on my shoulders. “Please.”
As I lay on his bed, he pulled off the robe, took my right arm, and secured it to his headboard with one of his ties. Then he did the left. I felt as powerless as a deboned chicken. I wiggled my fingers.
“Too tight?” he asked.
“No … I have circulation … barely.”
“Your limbs start to tingle, let me know. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Well, that’s comforting.”
His face became flat. “Terry, I could snap your neck as easily as taking a breath. I don’t want to do nasty things to you. I draw you as an expression of my love for you. Do you believe me?”
“Of course, but—”
“Good. Then cross your ankles.”
“You’re tying my feet, too?”
“Jesus was bound and constrained when he died. Cross your ankles.”
I crossed my ankles. He tied them together, then took another tie and bound me to his footboard. Completely immobilized, I started to shiver. He threw the blanket over my body and started arranging my hair.
“You want to paste a false beard on me?”
He didn’t answer, smoothing out loose strands of hair. He moved my head to one side, then to the other. He told me to look up, look down, close my eyes, open my eyes, smile, frown, then look beatific. Finally, he stood and removed the blanket from my body. Chris studied me for a long time.
He went to his easel and drew for twenty minutes, then stopped. “The angle’s not right. It’s too much an aerial view.”
“Perhaps you’d like to construct a cross and we can try it again next week.”
His voice turned harsh. “Don’t make fun of me.”
I was quiet, felt tears in my eyes. He stared at me for a moment, then threw his chalk across the room. “Fuck it!”
He stomped over and began untying my arms, angry and frustrated. I felt as if I’d failed him. Worse yet, I felt as if I’d failed art.
Freed of the binds, I shook out my limbs as he sat dejected on the edge of his bed. I blanketed myself with his comforter, sat next to him, and reached for his hand. He tensed at my touch. I withdrew my fingers.
I said, “It’s early, Christopher. Let’s try it again.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s almost nine. How much time do you have?”
“As much as you need.”
He ran his hand over his face. “God, I’m being a selfish pig. You’re pale. You must be hungry. Let me take you out to eat.”
“No, it’s okay. Let’s just keep going.”
“Not until I get some nutrition into you.” He stood and began to pace. “Put on one of my robes and I’ll make you something. While you’re eating, I want to look at some religious art books. That sound okay?”
“Yes, it sounds ducky.”
He bent down and kissed my forehead. “You’re a great sport.”
“Thank you,” I muttered. “You can put it on my tombstone as an epitaph.”
He left without answering me. I shuddered. I was sorry I’d made the wisecrack.
After the break, Chris became very mathematical about his proportions. He measured distances and angles—from my shoulder to my hand, from my hand to his headboard. He struggled with many positions until he found a couple of poses he liked. By the time he actually began drawing, it was close to eleven. At one in the morning, Chris ripped up his current work.
“I’m fading.” He paused. “You looked tired, too.”
I was exhausted. I never realized that modeling was such hard work. He untied me. I shook out my limbs, feeling numb and drained. He placed the comforter around my shoulders, then told me to put my clothes on.
He didn’t see me when I walked into the living room. I watched him play back his answering machine messages, the last being a girl telling him to get his butt over to Tom’s because he was missing a terrific party. I knew the voice. She was pretty and loose—two traits that made her very popular. Short blond hair and bright blue eyes. The sex goddess of Central West Valley High.
“Cheryl Diggs,” I said.
Chris turned the machine off and pivoted to face me. “You’ve got a better ear than I thought.”
“For some things.” I rubbed my eyes. “What’s the story with you and her? Why is she always giving you neck rubs?”
“What are you really asking me, Terry? You want to know whether I’ve slept with her? Yes, I have.”
I looked away. Chris said, “You want me to treat you like I treat her, Terry?”
“No, but …”
He waited for me to complete my sentence.
I sat on his sofa. He sat next to me. I didn’t look at him. “I’m not a nun, Chris. I have sexual feelings—”
“I know that—”
“I also have human feelings. I get jealous.”
“And that’s precisely why I’m not sleeping with you. I don’t want to hurt you.”
And what could I say to that? “You don’t mind hurting Cheryl?”
“Cheryl’s been around the block. I walk away tomorrow, she couldn’t care less.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“Yeah, you’re a mind reader.”
“No, I’m not. I know she doesn’t care because she’s promiscuous. Terry, I’d rather be with you. But you’re complicated. Cheryl’s easy. So that’s why I’m with her. Any other questions?”
I didn’t answer. He blew out air. “Look, we’re both real tired. How about we try this again next week?”
Finally I kicked the words out. “I don’t think so. I’m a tutor, Chris, not a model. I don’t feel comfortable doing this, even for immortality.”
“But you’re a great model.”
“Thank you, but it’s irrelevant—”
“Let me show you some of the drawings. Maybe they’ll change your mind.”
He started up, but I held his arm. At least he didn’t tense. I said, “It won’t change my mind.”
He tapped his foot. “Look, you’re making fifteen an hour as a tutor, right? I’ll pay you fifty an hour to model for me.” He glanced at his watch. “Tonight’s haul would be two hundred and fifty just like that. That’s great bread by anyone’s standards.”
I glared at him. “You think I’m holding out for money?”
“No, of course not. I was just trying to motivate you—”
“By offering me money? I’m not a nun, Christopher, but I’m not a whore, either.”
The room fell quiet. Something wasn’t right.
I said, “You know, Chris, you’re doing okay in your work. Maybe it would be better—”
“No, no, no, no, no.” He smiled weakly. “I’ll behave myself. Forget about this whole modeling thing. I shouldn’t have … let’s just go back to the way it was.”
My head was reeling. “Chris, that isn’t possible—”
“Sure it is.” He began to pace. “It’s just perspective, Terry. That’s all it is. I can view you this way. Or I can view you that way. You can be my girlfriend. Or you can be my tutor. Or you can be my model. It’s just perspective, compartmentalizing. You know what I’m saying?”
I stood and slipped the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “No, I really don’t.”
“Terry, please don’t leave.” He grabbed my hand. “Just sit a moment, okay?”
With great reluctance, I sat back down. He sat next to me. Calmly, he said, “Just tell me what you want.”
“I don’t want anything, Chris. Everything’s okay.”
“Then if everything’s okay, we’ll go back to the way it was. You’re my tutor, I’m your student. I’ll see you on Monday then.”
I kneaded my hands. “I think …” I cleared my throat. “It really would be better if you found another tutor.”
The room turned silent and cold. I started shivering. He rubbed my arms.
“Is that what you want, Teresa?”
My eyes became moist. “I don’t know.”
“We’re both too tired to make decisions. Let’s talk on Monday.”
“Chris, this past week has been real intense. I need a break. How about if you call me in a week, okay?”
He stared at me for a long time.
“Please, Christopher. If it’s love, it can wait a week.”
His eyes never left mine. Staring me down. Finally he shrugged. “Sure, I’ll call you in a week.”
Suddenly, I could breathe. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad at you?” His smile was wide but off. “I could never be mad at you. Sure, I’ll call in a week.”
We both knew he’d never call again. He dropped my hands and scratched his head. “In the meantime, I’ve said some things to you in confidence.”
“You know I’m very trustworthy.” I laughed nervously. “Besides, you have some pretty detailed drawings of me. In the leverage department, you’ve got a clear advantage.”
He laughed out loud. “Yeah, you’re right about that.”
“Can I have the drawings, Chris?” I gave him as earnest a look as I could muster. “Please?”
But he shook his head no. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep them locked up. No one but me will ever see them.” He crossed himself. “That much I swear.”
“Why can’t I have them?”
He smiled slowly. “Because they’re mine.”
9
Over the weekend I had second thoughts. By Monday, I was determined to talk to him. I spotted him before first period. He was with his friends, Cheryl Diggs on his lap, his hands traveling her body like ants on a sandhill. She was equally demonstrative. From a distance, it looked like he saw me. He paused, then brought Cheryl’s face to his and devoured her mouth.
Something snapped inside as I walked away, a long-buried aching that surfaced as a ravenous need for love and affection.
I became moonstruck and boy, did Chris know it! For the next three months, he drew me into a horrid game of “I told you so.” And the more he tortured me, the more I lapped it up. I knew I had reached rock bottom when I found myself flirting with Steve Anderson just to get close to Chris. Next thing I knew I was going to the parties.
The parties.
There was always some house available, somebody with out-of-town parents. The drugs were plentiful, the booze flowed like tapwater, and sex was open and often. Chris sprawled out on the floor, one hand up Cheryl’s blouse, the other down her pants. Her hands on his crotch, teasing him to a massive erection.
I looked away.
But I always came back for more. The only thing I can say in my defense is that I never let Steve touch me in public. In private, though I guarded my virginity like a chastity belt, I had no choice but to give him something if I was to keep him. And I needed to keep him because he was my link to Chris. I hated doing things with him. I wondered if he told his friends about me. I wondered if he told Chris. How I despised myself.
But I kept going back because I needed to see Chris. In fact, what I saw was an alcoholic in the making—my former student packing away shots without breaking a sweat. Drinking made Chris gregarious—a foreign entity to my eyes. He’d smile, he’d joke, he’d become a good ole boy with lots of fans. Lots of drinking also made him amorous. After an hour of raging, he’d disappear with Cheryl into a back room.
Always making sure I saw him go with her.
My grades started slipping. I became despondent. Lying like a lump in bed, listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, thinking suicidal thoughts. Out of desperation, with no one to turn to, I turned to prayer—to my obligation of confession. Dense as I was, it finally hit me. It wasn’t that I had posed nude for Chris. Had he loved me as he should have, I would have died for him. It was debasing myself for a boy who regarded me as dirt.
I unburdened my soul, asking Jesus for forgiveness and acceptance. For me, confession had always been a painful process even when I did it on a regular basis. But a yearlong neglect of my spiritual duties made me feel even more shameful and guilty. But I forged ahead, seeking penance from God. After it was over, I felt better. But guilt continued to gnaw at my bones. Because my heart still ached for Chris.
But righteous actions first. Maybe the thoughts would come later.
I went cold turkey. I broke up with Bull Anderson. No more parties, no more torture. Then I started avoiding Chris. The hardest period was orchestra. He always had a crowd around him and was very good at catching my eye.
Then one day something drew my eye away from him. Perhaps it was Jesus guiding my soul. Or maybe it was the scent of another wounded animal just like me.
His name was Daniel Reiss. Besides being in orchestra with me, he was in my math class. He was a computer junkie, an almost nerd with glasses that often fell down his nose. He was skinny but at least he was tall. He was staring at Chris, a piece of his flute in each of his hands. His eyes weren’t resentful. They were simply perplexed, saying: Why would God who made a Chris also make someone like me?
Violin in hand, I walked over to Daniel. “It won’t work unless you put it together.”
Slowly he turned, amazed that I was talking to him.
“You’ve got to put the pieces together.” I smiled briefly. “Then you’ve got to blow.”
I walked away.
He followed.
Daniel was wonderful in his simplicity. He was sweet, and gentle, and didn’t expect a thing sexually. So anything I gave him was met with unbridled excitement. He gave me back my sense of self, and because of that, I wanted our senior prom together to be extra-special.
With my tutoring money, I could have afforded almost any dress I wanted. But store-bought wasn’t good enough. I wanted something unique—handmade.
Which meant made by me. Every day after school, I rummaged through fashion magazines. Once I settled on the design, I started my hunt in the fabric stores. I found a bolt of teal-blue taffeta woven with gold thread that cost a fraction of its original price.
I cut, I snipped, I sewed. I adjusted and pinned until my eyes gave out. But when I was done, I had my one of a kind—a backless and strapless bodice attached to a form-fitting miniskirt that gave my body a sexy embrace.
But something was missing.
It needed trim. It needed a bow. But not just any bow. A monster-sized bow that I tacked on just below the waistline. It swayed when I moved. It gave me kinetics. With the rest of the fabric, I made a matching stole. I accented the entire outfit with a black lace bag, matching lace gloves cut off at the fingers, and black garters and stockings. I kept my jewelry simple—a cross around my neck and Chris’s pearl earrings—a nice, ironic touch.
On prom night, I felt as desirable as a courtesan. Yet inside, I was pure … well, maybe not totally pure. But at least I came away from high school still a virgin.
Daniel was speechless. His hands shook as he pinned a corsage onto my bodice. I took his arm as we walked to his car. He had wanted to rent a limo, but I told him not to waste the money. His six-year-old Volvo would do just fine. I felt cocky as I made my entrance into the gym.
I could feel the eyes on me—male and female. The girls looking at my dress, the boys eyeing what was inside. I could hear a buzz as Daniel and I walked over to the picture line. I kept my expression genteel but inside I was flying.
All these years of keeping a low profile. But not tonight. Tonight was my turn.
Casually, I glanced around the room.
I saw him before he saw me. He was absolutely gorgeous—completely at ease in formal wear. I figured he must have attended a lot of weddings in his day. He was talking to his friends, Cheryl at his side. But there was a distance between them. No body contact.
Then she took his arm. He stiffened. She looked upset.
I felt bad.
He turned and looked in my direction.
I caught his eye.
Abruptly, his face turned into something inanimate—cold and emotionless with the eyes of a dead fish. I looked away and moved closer to Daniel. When I glanced up again, he was gone.
I pretended the interchange never happened. I danced, I laughed, I flirted, I drank punch and ate cucumber sandwiches. Midway through the affair, I saw him again, moving through the crowd, heading for the side door.
Without a nod to rational thought, I excused myself from Daniel and gave chase. I found him alone under a tree, knees up against his chest—same position I’d modeled for his sketches. I sat next to him, hugging myself because I was cold.
“Stuffy in there,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
“Like my earrings?”
He didn’t move.
“Look, Chris …” I tried again. “I’m sorry it ended so badly. I’m sorry that things got so messed up. You were a very important person in my life. I feel very deeply about you and—”
“Are you wearing garters or panty hose?” he asked me.
I waited a beat. “What?”
He looked at me for the first time. His voice was calm. “I asked if you were wearing garters or panty hose.”
I stared at him.
He shrugged. “If I’m gonna fantasize about fucking you, I want to be accurate.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Without a word, I got up and went back to the gym. Daniel found me, asked me where I’d been. I didn’t answer. I’d been subdued.
Another hour going through the motions.
Someone put Tom Petty on the PA.
Oh my my. Oh hell yes.
Honey, put on that party dress.
My head began to throb.
Last dance with Mary Jane,
One more time to kill the pain …
I asked Daniel to take me to the restaurant now. I knew it was early, but I had to get out of there.
He told me, anything I wanted.
We were at his Volvo, almost inside, when we heard Chris call Daniel’s name. We turned around.
“Hey, Reiss,” he said loudly. “Can I have just five minutes with your girl before you whisk her away?”
I felt anger overflow. “Why are you asking him for permission to talk to me?”
He turned to me, his face bathed in sweat. Jumpy eyes. An emotion in him I’d never seen before. He was nervous.
“Just five minutes, Terry. After that, I’ll leave you alone, I swear.”
I rolled my eyes, looked at Daniel. He gave a sheepish smile. “Maybe I’ll go grab another cup of punch.”
“Thanks,” Chris told him.
We both watched him walk away. When he was out of sight, Chris wiped his face with a handkerchief, then stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his feet.
“I’m sorry.”
I shrugged.
“Terry, I’ve been a real jerk. Not only tonight but these past months. I was angry at my situation and I took it out on you. But I’m not making excuses. I acted like a total and complete asshole.”
I shrugged again. “Who noticed?”
He was breathing audibly. Then he rubbed his neck and laughed. “That was real rich, Terry.”
“You want absolution, Chris, go to confession.”
“You know, Terry, we really deserve each other. I may be a motherfucker. But deep down inside, you’re a real bitch.”
Then he pounced on me. He shoved me against the Volvo and attacked my mouth with feral hunger. I could have protested. And I knew he would have stopped. But I didn’t.
Because I wanted it.
I clutched his neck and drank in his juices. His tongue wrestling with mine, moving down my neck until his mouth was between my breasts. He slipped his hands inside my dress, liberating my flesh, drawing my nipple to his mouth. He licked and moaned and so did I.
He hiked up my dress, picked me up, and sat me on the hood of the car. His mouth ravaging mine, he opened my legs and pressed himself on top of me. My back felt the chill of the Volvo’s cold steel, but my insides were scalding hot. I coiled my legs around his hips and drew him closer. He rocked against me, bringing a sweet ache to my loins. Our warm breath mixing as his lips danced with mine.
“Be with me, angel,” he whispered. “I’ll ditch her, you ditch him—”
“Chris—”
“We’ll make love until the sun comes up.”
He dipped his hand under my panties. I was sopping wet. “I’ll take you away, baby doll. I’ll take us both away forever! Out of reach of your parents, out of reach of my uncle, out of reach of everything except each other’s arms.”
“Chris—”
“Now or never, Terry.”
“Oh, God—”
“Say yes!”
“Yes!” I shoved him away and tried to catch my breath. I sat up and closed my legs. “Yes. Okay?”
He stared at me, flush-faced and panting. “You mean it?”
“I mean it.” I was breathing hard. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes.”
“What about Lor—”
“Screw her. Screw everyone except us! I can’t live without you, Terry. I don’t want to live without you. God, I love you so much I’m in pain. Baby, tell me you love me.”
“I love you.” I took a deep breath. “I love you, love you, love you. Help me down.”
He put his arms around my waist and swung me from the car. I attempted to tidy my appearance. I tugged on my skirt, smoothed out my hair, and redid my lipstick. He came toward me, but I whacked him back. “Daniel’ll be back any minute.”
Chris rubbed his neck. “What are you going to tell him?”
“I don’t know. God, he’s been so good to me.” I looked at him beseechingly. “Can you just give me tonight with him? It’s so cruel …”
My voice faded.
Chris took a deep breath and blew it out. “What the hell! Give the guy a break. Have dinner with him. We’ve got a lifetime together.”
My heart took toward the sky. “You really mean that?”
His smile was dazzling. “Yes, I really mean that!”
He’d imitated my tone of voice. My laughter was mixed with tears. I erased lipstick from the corner of his mouth, then touched his cheek. I was hopelessly in love.
I said, “Besides, I’m sure Cheryl could use a break, too.”
“Yeah, she could use something.” He rotated his shoulders. “She’ll never die young because she’s getting old too fast.”
“At least you got your answer,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“You know if I’m wearing garters or panty hose.”
He laughed. “A lot of good it’ll do me.” He waited a beat. “That’s not what I wanted from you. I mean I wanted that too, but …” He shook his head. “I can’t believe all the time I wasted. Playing stupid mind games. I’m much better at revenge than I am at love.”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“That’s good of you to say.” He looked at me. “Did you know, after you blew me off, I used to break into your locker?”
I stared at him. “Why?”
“Just to smell your jacket or your lunch or your books. I saved every page of notes you’d ever given me. Every pen or pencil, every …” He laughed. “Every eraser shaving you ever left at my place. You left a sweater in my closet. I used to sleep with it, that’s how obsessed I was with you. I still am obsessed with you. I’ve never, ever stopped looking at you, Teresa Anne McLaughlin. Even when you stopped looking at me.”
“I’m glad you’re obsessed with me. Because I’m obsessed with you.” I paused. “How’d you break my padlock?”
“Ain’t a lock around that I can’t pick,” Chris said. “Courtesy of my dad, mind you, not my uncle Joey. That’s why I got into so much trouble with B and Es back in New York. I was too good for my own good.” He kissed me again. “I ache for you, angel. You really want to be with Reiss tonight?”
“No, I don’t. But I owe him something, Chris.”
He shot me a chilly look. I ignored it and glanced up at the inky sky. “Should I call you when I get home?”
“Let me call you,” he said.
I paused. “Will you? This isn’t a game with you?”
“Good God, no, Terry! This isn’t a game! This is the most honest I’ve ever been in my entire life!”
“What about your uncle?”
“Good old Joey.” He raised his brow. “I don’t know. But I’ll think of something.” He kissed me on the forehead. “I’ll call you around one.”
“Swear?”
He crossed himself. “Swear.”
I got home at twelve-forty-five and waited.
At four-thirty in the morning, my resolve weakened. I picked up the phone and called him. The line connected after the third ring. He mumbled a sleepy hello. I couldn’t find my voice.
He muttered an obscenity under his breath, but into the phone he calmly stated, “Terry, don’t hang up. Let me explain—”
I slammed down the receiver, then took it off the hook. At sunrise, I went to sleep.
10
Stepping across the door’s threshold, Decker caught the photographer’s flash. Swell. Just when he needed his eyesight for detail, he’d be seeing a dancing moon for the next few minutes. Officer Russ Miller was trying to get his attention. Taking his notepad from his jacket, Decker detached the pen from the cover and clicked the nub at the end, bringing up the ballpoint.
“Backtrack for me, Russ.”
Someone shouted, “Anyone in fucking charge here?”
Decker looked up. Benny, the lab man, was irritated, sweat dripping from his forehead. Swaddled in his white lab coat, he swiped at his face with his arm, making sure not to contaminate his latex-covered hands. He caught Decker’s eye.
“Sergeant, I can’t do a goddamn thing with all these feet and hands flying in the air.”
“I just walked through the door, Ben. Let me get my bearings, okay?”
“It’s in your best interest to clear the bodies out.” Benny paused. “The live ones.”
The flash went off again. Decker shielded his eyes. Sticky moisture was coating his armpits. He took off his jacket and draped it over his shoulder. Then he did a head count. Ten officers—way too many people crammed into the double-occupancy hotel room.
Aloud he said, “Everybody freeze for a second. Who was first on the scene?”
“Crock and me,” Miller said.
“Then you two stay here.” Decker started pointing. “Howard and Black, you two canvass rooms on floors one and two. Wilson and Packard, this floor and the one upstairs. Be polite and be careful. Also, do a little crowd control. There’s a group of looky-loos that’s a potential fire hazard. Officers Bailey, Nelson, Gomez, and Estrella, back in the field. Go.”
As the room emptied, clearing the area around the bed, the victim came into Decker’s view. He started making notes—not much more than first impressions but sometimes they were valuable.
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.
Lynne handed him four photographs. “Is this enough?”
“Great. Thanks, Lynne.”
“Tell the boys to come in?”
“Please.”
She gave a wave and left. Again, Decker studied the surroundings. The room was on the third floor, the window barred, the escape lever untouched. Whoever did this walked in and out the door. He tore out a clean sheet of paper, dividing the space into four sections. Later he’d add the furniture.
Benny took out a fingerprint kit. “I can’t dust until the stiff’s out of here. Powder’ll screw up the autopsy. Where’s the men from the coroner’s office?”
“Lynne went to get them.” Decker frowned and went over to the bed. “I can’t stand it. I’m going to take her down.”
He gloved up, then slowly undid the knots on the bow tie and stocking that bound the victim’s wrists to the headboard. Her arms remained extended, as stiff as a cardboard cutout. He lowered the T-shaped girl to the bed, then dropped the bow tie into one plastic bag, set the stocking in another. He examined the neck.
A voice behind him said, “Rather large bruises. I’d say our perpetrator had large hands.”
Decker looked up. ME office had sent Jay Craine. He was a thin, good-looking man in his mid-thirties. Heavy with the affectations but a good coroner. Today, his face looked exceptionally drawn. His nose was Rudolph red.
Decker asked, “Allergies or a cold?”
Craine sneezed, then slipped on a mask. “A tad of both, I’m afraid. Oh my. Terrible. Was she tied to the headboard?”
“Yeah.” Decker made room for Craine to work. “I couldn’t look at her anymore like that. I took her down.”
“Obviously rigor has started.” Craine leaned over and started examining the body. “She’s not ice-cold. I’ll take a rectal temperature as soon as I’ve checked out her anus for sexual penetration.”
He attempted to flex her arms, then bent her legs at the knee.
“Rigor’s not totally set. Lividity’s evident.” He looked at Decker. “Perhaps we’re working within a range of three to eight hours. When was the body discovered?”
“Eight in the morning.”
“So that’s more or less between the hours of twelve and eight. Rigor is somewhat advanced although physical exertion prior to death can speed it up.” Craine opened his leather bag, took out a swab kit. He snorted, coughed, sneezed, then began his examination. “Semen in her vagina.”
Decker paused. “Are you sure? Ben found a condom in the bed sheets.”
“And another in the garbage can,” Ben broke in. “Someone was having a good time.”
Decker regarded the rigor-laden girl. “And someone wasn’t. Why would she have semen in her vagina if her partner was using a condom?”
“Perhaps he ran out and they got careless,” Craine postulated. “Or she had more than one partner.”
“What about her anus?”
Craine examined her rectum with watery eyes. “Appears clean from a visual.” He took several swabs and sealed them in vials. He sneezed ferociously. “But one cannot tell …” Another sneeze. “Until one puts it under a microscope.”
Craine continued on. “First impression, Sergeant …” A pause, then a sneeze. “The girl might be pregnant … thickening of the vaginal tissue, vascularization. Either pregnant or it’s her period. But I don’t see any menstrual blood.”
Decker ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, then wrote down the word—pregnant. “How far along?”
“Early. I’ll tell you more specifics when I get her on the table.”
“Now there’s a switch,” Benny said. “Someone was using a condom even though the girl had been knocked up. The power of the virus.”
“But she had semen in her,” Decker said. “Maybe Doctor C. is right. We’re working with more than one man.”
“We’ll know for certain once the tests come in.” Craine stood, then sneezed so hard he rocked on his feet.
Decker said, “You sure you should be working, Doctor?”
“On the contrary, it’s the best time to work,” Craine sniffed. “The nasal mucosa is so inflamed, it virtually blocks out all odious olfactory sensations. I can’t smell a thing. Shall I remove her so Ben can dust thoroughly?”
“Great idea,” Ben said.
Decker said, “Take care of yourself, Doc.”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Rhinoviruses are persistent little creatures. Bed rest is essential.”
As soon as Craine left, Officers Crock and Miller walked back into the room. Crock said, “Got hold of the principal at Central West Valley and West Valley. They’ll call the girls’ veeps and meet you down at the schools whenever you come. I haven’t hooked up with anyone from North Valley yet. Also, no frantic parents have called any of the station houses.”
Decker nodded, then turned to Officer Miller. “What about you, Russ?”
“Maid seems on the level as far as I can tell. So does the desk clerk, Forrester. You want to interview them?”
“I’ll introduce myself before I leave for the high schools. What time did the maid go on shift?”
“Six.”
“And the desk clerk?”
“Six, also.”
“So at six, we had a changing of the guard at the desk—Forrester came in and …” Decker rotated his shoulders as he checked through his notes. “And Henry Trupp went off duty. Phone calls from the room, Russ?”
“Two calls to room service downstairs. One at twelve-oh-six, another at two-fifty-six.” Miller rubbed his hands against his pants. “That should help narrow down the time frame.”
“If she was alive when the calls were made. Who was on duty in the coffee shop last night?”
Miller cleared his throat. “Seems room service is brought up by the busboys. They come and go … paid in cash. Everything is off the books.”
“Illegals?”
“Probably.”
Decker said, “I’ll take it from here. Thank you. You two can go back in the field now.”
He looked at his room map and started on the first quadrant. After an hour search, Decker had a collection of carefully marked plastic bags containing hairs, buttons, two beer-bottle caps, a butt of marijuana, specks of white powder, three bathroom towels, all the bed linens, discarded underclothes, a pair of pink sequined shoes that matched the dress, and one wilted orchid corsage that said it all.
He pocketed his survey notes and left the room, yielding the final check to Benny and his lab men.
A brief talk with the maid and Forrester revealed no new information. Neither one saw or heard anything. He used the lobby phone and dialed Henry Trupp’s phone number. It rang and rang and Decker hung up. He found Officer Mike Wilson, who had just finished canvassing the first floor. Decker called him over.
“Anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Decker shook his head. “Mike, go into the coffee shop. I want a list of everyone who was working last night. If they hassle you about giving names of cash-only employees, tell them we’re not interested in calling either the INS or the IRS. But we’ll call both if we have to.”
“I understand, Sergeant.”
“Yeah, make sure they understand as well. Be back soon.”
Decker slipped on his jacket and headed for high school.
11
North valley was a bust.
Central West was a different story. Decker took out the Polaroids and laid them on the principal’s desk. The rotund black man winced distastefully, but there were no sparks of recognition in his eyes.
Not the case for the girls’ vice principal, Kathy Portafino. One glance turned her a putrid shade of olive. She was about Marge’s age and height—early thirties, around five ten and hefty, with a square jaw and a no-nonsense face that said, “I’ve seen it all.” But there was something uniquely ugly about postmortem photos. A cold finality combined with clinical sterility brought out emotions in even the most jaded.
“Who is she?” Decker asked.
The woman covered her mouth. “I think it’s Cheryl Diggs.”
“You think?”
“No, it’s her. She just looks so … different.” She wiped her forehead and swallowed weakly. “Excuse me, but I’m not feeling—”
“Go,” Decker said.
The woman fled the room. Decker turned his attention to the principal. He was staring at the top of his paper-piled desk.
Decker said, “Do you know this girl, Mr. Gordon?”
The principal ran his hand over his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. “Now that Kathy has identified her, I know who she is.” He sat down in his chair. “This is just … terrible.”
Decker took out his notepad. “Did the school hold its senior prom last night?”
The man nodded, rubbed his forehead. “All of a sudden that seems like years ago.”
“And Cheryl Diggs was there?”
“I suppose.”
“Do you know who she went with?”
“No, I couldn’t tell you that.”
“Then tell me about Cheryl.”
“Ms. Portafino would know more.”
“What do you know, Mr. Gordon?”
“What do I know?” His pause told Decker he didn’t know much. “Cheryl ran with the wild crowd. Wild over here doesn’t mean homeboys mowing each other down. This is still a predominantly white, middle-class, gang-less school. But we have guns here.” He took a deep breath. “We have guns, we have knives, we have drugs, we have pregnancies, we have diseases, we have suicides and overdoses. We have every urban problem you can think of, including violent crime—theft, robbery, rapes, assaults. But this?”
“Never any murders before?”
“One in the five years I’ve been here. Two boys fighting over a parking space. One of them just pulled out a thirty-two and shot the other in the head. You don’t recall that?”
“I wasn’t in Devonshire five years ago,” Decker said.
“I thought we’d hit rock bottom then.” Gordon sighed. “Even though we beefed up our security afterward, it took a long time to calm jittery nerves. Lord only knows what this is going to do.”
“Tell me about Cheryl’s crowd.”
“Cheryl’s crowd …” He hesitated, trying to formulate his thoughts. Just then, Kathy returned to the room. Her face had been splashed with water. She was pale but no longer green. Gordon turned to his ally. “Kathy, who were Cheryl’s friends?”
“Lisa Chapman, Trish Manning, Jo Benderhoff—”
“Boyfriends,” Decker interrupted.
“She hopped around.” Kathy sat down. “Steven Anderson, Blake Adonetti, Tom Baylor, Christopher Whit—” She stopped talking. “I think she went to the prom with Chris Whitman. At least I saw them there together. I remember them because they made such a beautiful couple.” The VP tapped her foot. “You know, I think something was wrong. Cheryl looked upset.”
Decker wrote as he spoke. “Is that hindsight talking or was there some definite incident you remember?”
“Nothing precise. She just looked … sad. I noticed it because it marred her otherwise stunning appearance.”
“Did the boyfriend seem upset?” Decker asked.
She shrugged. “Chris is always hard to read. Also I’m more tuned in to the girls. All I remember about Chris is that he looked great. He always looks great.”
“He’s a handsome boy,” Gordon added. “A gifted cellist.”
“More than gifted,” Kathy added. “He was professional quality.”
“He didn’t belong here,” Gordon continued. “He should have been in Juilliard.”
“Then why was he here?” Decker asked.
Both Gordon and Kathy shrugged ignorance.
“Don’t tell me,” Decker said. “He’s a quiet boy. A loner with social problems.”
“Not at all,” Kathy said. “He has friends. As a matter of fact, he’s quite popular. Very well liked with the boys as well as the girls.”
An ember ignited in Decker’s brain—a familiar profile. He said, “You said he was hard to read. What did you mean by that?”
Kathy thought a moment. “Chris is very … even-tempered. A trait like that stands out when you’re dealing with a thousand hormonally imbalanced adolescents.”
Decker said, “More adult than the rest of the kids?”
Kathy nodded. “Yes.”
Gordon suddenly spoke up. “Kathy, isn’t Christopher an emancipated minor?”
“I think he’s eighteen now, Sheldon.”
“But he came in as an emancipated minor,” Gordon said. “I remember that clearly. Despite all the divorce and broken homes, very few kids have their own apartments.”
Bingo! In his notepad, Decker wrote: WHITMAN, CHRIS. NARC? CALL VICE. “So Christopher Whitman has his own place?”
“I believe he does,” Gordon said.
“Is he a druggie?” Decker asked.
Gordon looked at Kathy. She said, “I don’t recall him ever getting busted, but he hangs out in the druggie crowd.”
“But as far as you know, he isn’t a user.”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“And you saw him with Cheryl at the prom last night,” Decker said.
“Yes. I couldn’t swear he came with her. But he and Cheryl were hanging out together.”
“And she looked sad. Any idea why?”
Kathy shook her head no.
Decker was quiet. According to Jay Craine, the coroner, Cheryl was probably pregnant. If Chris Whitman, her supposed boyfriend, was a narcotics officer and knocked her up, he’d be finished as a cop.
Talk about motivation for murder.
“I’ll need Chris Whitman’s address,” he said. “Cheryl’s address as well. I’ll also want all the addresses of her friends—male and female.”
Gordon looked at Kathy. She stood up. “I’ll pull those for you right now.”
“I’d like to come with you,” Decker said. “Take a look at Whitman’s transcript.”
Kathy eyed Gordon. He waved his hand. “Let him see it.”
Decker followed Kathy into the registration room—a long, cavernous hall filled with banks of metal files. She went to an area marked CURRENTS, sifted through the ws and pulled out Whitman’s file.
“Here you go.”
Decker studied the particulars. According to the files, Whitman was almost nineteen—old for a high school student. He had transferred as a junior from St. Matthews High in Long Island, New York. All that was listed from his prior education was about a year’s worth of mediocre grades. Nothing written in the space reserved for PARENT OR GUARDIAN. Though he had provided the school with his current address and phone number, there was no emergency listing. He showed the papers to the girls’ vice principal.
“The vitals are incomplete.”
Kathy took the transcript. “He came as a junior, mid-semester. Sometimes the schools just send a partial. The rest of the transcripts usually follow.”
“Anything else in his file?”
Again, Kathy plowed through racks of folders. Finally she shut the file and shook her head, a troubled expression on her face. “There’s nothing else listed under his name.”
“In other words, the boy’s a cipher.”
Kathy gave him a sheepish smile. “We have lots of kids here, Sergeant.”
Decker said nothing. He went back into Gordon’s office and gathered up the Polaroids still resting on his desk. The rigor-laden corpse had turned into a person named Cheryl Diggs, a victim snuffed out by a madman. Since she could no longer speak for herself, Decker would have to be her voice.
He regarded Sheldon Gordon. Elbows resting on his desk, the principal sat with his head in his hands.
“This is going to be so traumatic for the kids.” He raised his eyes. “It’s going to scare the wits out of the girls here. Every single boy is going to be seen as a potential rapist/murderer.”
Decker thought of his daughter. For a decade plus, Decker had worked juvenile and sex crimes in the Foothill Substation of LA’s San Fernando Valley. Every so often, he had unwittingly exposed his daughter to the horrors of angry, unbalanced men. He often wondered if he had skewed her perception of the male gender.
He glanced at a Polaroid of Cheryl Diggs. At the moment, with Cindy being alone in New York, a campus rapist on the loose, he wondered if her skewed perception wasn’t an asset.
Whitman lived on a nondescript side street populated by twenty-year-old apartment buildings that had made it through the earthquake. Sundays were usually quiet, but to Decker’s eyes, the neighborhood seemed exceptionally sleepy—perfect camouflage for a secret narcotics agent. After giving Whitman’s door a firm knock, Decker waited a beat, then pounded the sucker until his fist turned red.
Either no one was home or Whitman wasn’t answering. Decker left a business card with his phone number, instructing Chris to call the station house immediately. Then he rode the elevator back to the first floor and studied the place’s directory.
No on-premises manager, just a small-print phone number that had been inked out and replaced with a set of new digits that were written in barely legible pencil. Decker copied the phone number down, called and got no answer.
He took the staircase down to the apartment’s underground parking lot. Whitman drove a red Trans Am. Ten minutes of searching produced no such animal.
He left the building, walking over to his unmarked Volare, cramming his legs under the steering wheel. Left hand drumming the dashboard, he put in a call to Devonshire Detectives. Luckily, Scott Oliver answered the Homicide desk—working Sundays to avoid his wife.
“Hey, Rabbi,” he said. “I hear you bagged a good-looking babe.”
“Good-looking but dead, Scotty.”
“Bring her over anyway. She couldn’t be any worse than my last girlfriend.”
“I need you to run a name through department files for me. Christopher Sean Whitman. Find out if he’s working Vice. If nothing pops, see if he has a yellow sheet. If you still draw blanks, run the name through NCIC.”
“Why are you running a name through Vice, Pete? Was the stiff a hooker?”
“Whitman was the victim’s boyfriend. I think he might be a narc. Also, do me a favor and put a lookout call for Whitman’s red Trans Am.” He gave Oliver the license number. “Call me if you come up with something. If not, I’ll call back later.”
From his jacket, Decker pulled out the address list of Cheryl’s friends. He’d check them later. Unfortunately, there was dirtier work to be done first. Though no one had called in to ask about Cheryl Diggs’s whereabouts, the girl wasn’t an orphan.
It was time to pay the dreaded call to her mother.
12
The apartment house was an iffy—one of those buildings that suffered cosmetic cracks from the earthquake but was still structurally sound. Unfortunately, the landlord didn’t think enough of the place to give it a face-lift. It was coated with dingy brown stucco, large chunks missing at corners and window frames. The planter boxes held more weeds than flowers. The directory was posted on the outside of the building, but Decker knew Cheryl’s unit number. He took the staircase up to the second floor, knocked on the corresponding door. He heard shuffling, but that was all. Someone was taking their own dear time.
Weekends. Everyone slept late except him. On Shabbos, it was up early for shul. Since he worked his schedule around his Sabbath, he picked up the slack on Sundays. Which effectively meant he worked six days a week.
Not that he minded his job. In fact, he got antsy if he stayed away too long. But everyone needed a break. Especially from dreaded things like grievance calls.
He knocked again. Finally, someone answered. As soon as he saw her face, he knew what had caused her delay. She was either newly drunk or nursing a bad hangover. Watery blue eyes, puffy lids and mouth, and a nasal drip. She sniffed, then rubbed her nose. Medium-sized, voluptuous build. Not unlike her daughter except Mom had gone to seed. She wore loose cotton shorts and an oversized T-shirt that did little to hide her unbound pendulous breasts.
He took out his badge. “Police, ma’am. I’m looking for Mrs. Janna Diggs.”
“Gonzalez,” the woman answered. “Janna … Gonzalez! You got the name wrong.”
“I’m looking for Cheryl Diggs’s mother. Would that be you, ma’am?”
“Depends on what you want.”
Decker said, “May I come in, Mrs. Gonzalez?”
“’Pose so.”
Janna cleared the doorway; Decker stepped inside the living room. Though he kept his face impassive, his stomach did a back flip. It was almost impossible to see furniture because it was covered with garbage—dozens of empty beer bottles, squashed aluminum cans, crumpled newspapers, rotting food, discarded paper plates and utensils, and heaps of dirty clothes. The couch had been opened into a bed. The pillowcases were uncovered, sheets wet and stained. The woman scratched her cleavage.
“You want some coffee, Mister …” She looked confused. “Or is it Officer?”
“No coffee, thank you, ma’am.”
Janna pushed aside the unwashed sheets and sat on the open mattress. “Okay then. Whattha little bitch do?” She sniffed deeply. “How much is it gonna cost me?”
Decker tried to keep his voice gentle. “Ma’am, early this morning, police discovered the body of a young teenaged girl. We have reason to believe that it might be your daughter, Cheryl.”
Janna froze, then blinked but didn’t speak. Decker waited for another reaction but nothing came. He said, “Mrs. Gonzalez, if there’s someone you’d like to be with, someone you’d like to call, I can do that for you.”
Janna remained silent. With great effort, Decker forced himself to park his butt on the dirty bed. “Is there something I can do for you right now, Mrs. Gonzalez?”
She still didn’t answer.
“Maybe pour you a drink?” Decker offered.
The woman nodded mechanically.
Decker went over to a small card table. Among the scattered debris was an open bottle of Wild Turkey. He held it up. “Is this all right?”
Janna looked in his direction but said nothing. Decker found a dirty cup, rinsed it in a food-encrusted porcelain sink, and poured her a shot of bourbon. He brought it over to her. She took it, then raised it to her lips. She wiped her nose on her T-shirt.
“Howchu … you know it’s Cheryl?”
“Someone has initially identified your daughter from photographs taken at the crime scene. When you’re ready, and feel strong enough, we’d like you to come down and make a definitive identification.”
“You want me to look at the body?”
“Yes,” Decker said. “We want you to look at the body.”
Janna rubbed her nose. “From pichures, you could tell it was Cheryl?”
“Somebody thought it was your daughter, yes,” Decker answered.
“You have the pichures?”
Decker kept his face flat. “I think it would be better if you witnessed the body in person. Less chance for a mistake.”
“But you have pichures.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You have them on you?”
Inane to lie. Decker said, “They’re in my pocket.”
Quietly, Janna said, “Lemme see.”
Decker paused. “Mrs. Gonzalez, they were taken at the crime scene. They’re hard to look at even for a veteran like I am.”
“That bad, huh?” Janna rubbed her eyes. “I’m stronger than I look. Lemme see.”
Decker hesitated, then reached in his pocket and pulled out the Polaroids. Janna stared at the first one. Instantly, tears ran down her pallid cheeks. She went through the snapshots one by one, her eyes overflowing each time she studied another pose. Finally she blotted her face with her T-shirt and handed the pictures back to Decker.
“It’s her … Cheryl.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded, her lower lip quivering.
“Can I get you a glass of water, Mrs. Gonzalez?”
“Nothin’.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. She touched her mouth, then pulled her hand away. “Is that it?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Though she shrugged indifference, her face had set in a mask of grief. “Go ahead.”
“Do you know where your daughter was last night?”
Janna shook her head no. “I haven’t talked to Cheryl in …’bout a week.”
Decker took out his pad. “What do you know about your daughter’s friends?”
“Not much anymore. Cheryl and me haven’t been getting along so hot.” She blinked rapidly. “Not that I didn’t try, but … you do the best you can, you know? Sometimes it’s not enough.”
“Has Cheryl been living with you, Mrs. Gonzalez?”
“In and out.” Again, the tears started flowing. “She’d eat my food, steal my booze … then she was gone. Sometimes, when I would go away or be with my boyfriend, she’d bring her friends over. Cheryl had lots of friends.”
“Tell me about her friends.”
“Wild like she was.” Her chin touched her chest. “Wild like I am. The fruit’s the same as the tree or somethin’ like that.”
“Do you know her friends by name?”
“Some. Lisa and Jo and Trish. Trashy girls. I think Lisa got caught shopliftin’. Jo was picked up once for turning tricks.”
“Did Cheryl turn tricks?”
“Wouldn’t put it past her. Anything for money. But if she did, she never got caught. Least she never had me bail ’er out.”
“Tell me about boyfriends. Did Cheryl ever talk about her boyfriends?”
“Oh, she had lots of boyfriends, Detective.”
Decker wasn’t sure if he heard jealousy or disapproval in Janna’s voice. “Ever meet any of her boyfriends?”
“A couple. I remember one of ’em. An ape of a guy with big tits. Not real tall but real pumped.”
“Chris Whitman?”
“No, I never heard that name before.”
Decker took out his list. “Blake Adonetti, Steve Anderson—”
“That’s the one. Stevie, she called him. She went with him for a while, but he wasn’t the only one.”
A look of anger spread across her face.
“She liked the boys, Officer. She saw something in pants that pleased her eye, she took it. Even if it belonged to her mother. First time, I forgave her. After I caught her with another one of my friends, I kicked her out.”
The room became silent.
“Course I’m not good at being mad. Truth was I missed her. So I said she could come back. And she did whenever she needed a place to crash.”
Her mouth turned downward.
“She was a very pretty little baby. And smart, too. Could do the ABCs forward and backward at three years old. Isn’t that something?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So damn smart. Too smart for her own good.”
Janna laid her head on Decker’s chest and wept openly. Decker enclosed her heaving body and patted her back gently. But that wasn’t enough comfort. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her chest deep into his.
“Hold me,” she whispered as she sobbed. “Hold me, please.”
Decker continued to pat her back. “Who can I call for you, Mrs. Gonzalez? You mentioned a boyfriend. Can I ring him up for you?”
The woman kept him locked in a bear hug. “Hold me please … love me please.”
As Janna raised her mouth, Decker jerked his head back and broke her hold. The rejection caused her to weep even harder. She sobbed into her hands, her shoulders bouncing with each intake of breath. Decker stood, trying to keep his posture relaxed, but inside he was a bundle of coiled nerves. “May I use the phone?”
She didn’t answer. Decker took that as an affirmative. He called the station house and asked for a cruiser, requesting that one of the uniforms sent over be a female. Then he just waited it out. Five minutes later, Decker answered the loud, distinct police knock at Janna’s door—Linda Estrella and Tony Wilson. That was good because both had been to the hotel this morning. They had seen the body; hopefully, they could empathize with Janna’s misery.
He whispered, “This morning’s victim was Cheryl Diggs. This is her mother, Mrs. Janna Gonzalez. I think she has a boyfriend, but hasn’t given me a phone number to call him. Let her compose herself, then if she’s up to it, take her down to the morgue for the definitive ID.”
Linda said, “You don’t want to be there?”
“Not necessary.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “We know the victim. Let’s get the perp.”
Using the unmarked radio mike, Decker called the station house. Oliver was still manning Homicide.
“I can’t believe you’re working this hard on Sunday,” Decker said. “Your old lady must really be pissed off.”
“It ain’t easy living with a junkyard dog.”
“You might try throwing her a bone now and then.”
“You mean a boner.” Oliver laughed over the line. “Actually, she’s out of town. Just my fortune that my girlfriend’s down with a bad case of herpes. What’s a poor pussyhound to do?”
“It’s a cruel world out there, Scotty. Did you get a chance to run Christopher Whitman through the computer?”
“I did do that, Pete. The guy has no sheet locally or nationally. I’ve also checked with Narcotics in Devonshire and the other Valley divisions. They deny having a mole at Central West Valley.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Could be you’re right. You know how Narcotics can be. Codespeak. Getting info outta them is like using a foreign dictionary. You’re speaking the same words, but not talking the same language.”
Decker opened his thermos and drank lukewarm coffee. “Whitman didn’t happen to call in by any chance?”
“Nope. You need anything else, Rabbi?”
“Got some time on your hands?”
“What do you need?”
“In the abstract, it would be nice if someone could pull Whitman’s tax forms—state and federal for the last two years. Kid’s an enigma. He’s hiding something. He’s got an apartment, he’s got to pay rent. I want to know where the money’s coming from.”
Oliver paused. “I’d like to help. But we all know that hacking his papers on-line would be an invasion of Whitman’s privacy.”
“Of course,” Decker said.
“Still, if I were you, I’d check your mail in an hour. Never know what could show up unexpectedly.”
Decker smiled to himself. “Today’s Sunday, Scott.”
Another long pause. Then Oliver said, “There’s always special delivery.”
13
Running down the list of Cheryl’s friends, Decker underlined the name Steve Anderson, the ape of a guy with big tits whom, according to Mom, Cheryl had dated. He fit the description of a steroid popper, and anabolic users were notoriously unpredictable in their behavior.
Unlike Decker’s old haunt of Foothill, the West Valley was a predominantly white middle-class area. Apartment streets like the one Whitman lived on weren’t unusual. Nor were blocks of sensible, one-story houses. But the eighties land boom had given the area a new face—gated housing developments composed of million-dollar estates meant to attract a more desirable—i.e., moneyed—population.
Anderson lived in a two-story colonial set on a sweeping mound of rolling lawn. There were a Mercedes, a Jaguar, and a Ford Explorer stacked up in the long sloped driveway. Decker parked on the street and walked up the herringbone-brick pathway lined with white impatiens and pink begonias. The entrance was double-doored, the bell on the right. Decker pressed the button and deep chimes could be heard from inside the house. A female voice asked who was there. Decker identified himself.
There was a pause. The woman said, “Just a minute.”
Clacking sounds inside—heels reverberating against a hard surface. A moment later, the door opened, giving Decker a view of a man with a tanned face, dark, curly hair, and uncertain eyes. Behind his broad shoulders, Decker could make out a petite form with styled platinum hair. The missus had faded into the background.
“You’re the police?” the man asked.
Decker took out his badge and ID. “Detective Sergeant Peter Decker, Devonshire Homicide. Are you Mr. Anderson?”
“Yes, I am. Did you say Homicide?”
“Yes, sir, I did. May I come in?”
“Do you have a warrant?”
Decker stared at him. “No, Mr. Anderson, I don’t have a warrant. Do I need one?”
Anderson rubbed his hands together, his frame still blocking the doorway. He wore gray designer sweats and running shoes with no socks.
Decker said, “I’d like to talk to your son, Steven.”
The woman gasped. Anderson crossed his arms in front of his chest and rocked on his feet. “What about?”
“Do you want to continue talking in the doorway, Mr. Anderson? Neighbors might think it’s kind of funny.”
Slowly Anderson ceded space, allowing Decker entrance into the large marble hall, then leading him into the living room. It was as light and cold as vanilla ice cream. The carpeting was spotless. Decker checked the bottoms of his shoes. The missus caught it. She was neat and nondescript.
“Don’t worry, Sergeant. The Berber is Scotch-garded.”
“Susan, why don’t you bring in some coffee?” her husband suggested.
“No thanks on the coffee.” Decker took a seat on a cream-colored modular sofa. “Is Steven home?”
Anderson remained mulish. “What do you want with Steven?”
“Bring him down,” Decker said. “You’ll find out.”
Anderson kneaded his hands. “Is he going to need a lawyer?”
“I can’t tell you that until I’ve talked to Steven.”
The man turned to his wife. “Get him down here.”
She obeyed without question. A minute later, a compact boy entered the room. He wore a tank shirt and shorts, the muscles and veins of his arms and legs inflating the skin like stuffed sausages. He wasn’t bad-looking—dark curly hair like Dad, square face and a strong chin. But his complexion was bad, acne pitting his cheeks.
“Sit down,” Anderson ordered his son.
The boy rubbed his nose and sat.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Peter Decker—”
“He’s from Homicide, Steven. What the hell is going on?”
“Homi …” The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Dad, I … I … I …”
Decker said, “Mr. Anderson, please sit down and let me ask the questions.”
Reluctantly, Anderson sat down. Decker thought a moment, wondering how to play it. Straightforward came to mind. Eyes on Steven, he took out the Polaroids and spread them on the glass coffee table. The boy took a look, jerked his head back, and turned white. The missus gasped. The old man froze.
Decker said, “Do you know this girl, Steve?”
In the background, Decker heard a dry heave. Susan had run out of the room. Decker returned his attention to Steve. The boy had his massive arms wrapped around his barrel chest. “It’s … it’s … Cheryl, isn’t it?”
“Cheryl who?”
“Cheryl Diggs.”
Decker regarded the boy. “Do you need a glass of water, Steve?”
He nodded. Anderson screamed out, “Susan, Steve needs some water. Make it two.”
She didn’t answer. No one seemed perturbed by her lack of response.
Decker took out his notepad. “When was the last time you saw her, Steven?”
“Don’t answer that,” Anderson interrupted.
“Dad, I didn’t do any—”
“Shut up!”
“But I didn’t do—”
“I said shut up!” He turned to Decker. “We want a lawyer.”
“I don’t need a lawyer,” Steve protested. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Go to your room, Steven. Right now!”
“But—”
“NOW!” Anderson bellowed.
The boy stood, walked a couple of paces, then turned around. “No.”
Anderson stood up. “Steve, get out of here—”
“No, Dad, you get out of here. You get out of here. What the hell do you know about me? Or my friends or my life, you goddamn prick—”
“Steven—”
“Don’t you Steven me! You were never around. Only around to put me down—”
Anderson moved closer to the boy. “If you don’t shut up—”
“You shut up! I’m over eighteen, Dad. I don’t need your permission to talk. So you shut up!”
The boy gave his father a slight shove. Decker moved quickly between them and held out his arms. “BACK OFF NOW! BOTH OF YOU! BACK OFF!”
The room fell quiet except for heavy breathing. Decker seized the moment. “I need your help, Steven.”
The boy seemed suddenly deflated. He glanced at his father. That was all the room the senior Anderson needed to horn in. “You don’t have a warrant, Sergeant, I don’t want you in my house! Now, you do what you have to do, but my son isn’t talking until I’ve talked to him.”
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Faye Kellerman
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Триллеры
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The eighth book in the hugely popular Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus series from New York Times bestselling author Faye KellermanThe cruel and bizarre slaying of a beautiful teen leads Detective Decker into the dark heart of an exotic subculture: the seamy, sometimes violent world of Southern California′s rootless, affluent youth. But even the confession of a disturbed kid with cold «killer eyes» cannot soothe Decker′s inner torment. For he knows in his gut this crime goes much deeper and higher than anyone expects – and that true justice, brutal and complete, has yet to be done.