Justice (11 page)

“Was he hot for her?”

“See, you don’t know Chris. You can’t tell what he’s thinking. I’ve never seen him mad or amped or upset, even when he raged to the max.” Steve looked at his hands. “Once, after this party, we all were feeling kinda good. So we piled into Tom Baylor’s car and went for a ride. Trouble was we’d been drinking and Tom was pretty blitzed.”

The boy looked at his father. At this point, the man was beyond words. Disappointment had replaced outrage.

Steve continued, “We got stopped by the cops for speeding. Chris pulls out the keys from the ignition, pushes Tom out of the driver’s seat, takes the whole rap. They have him walk the line. They have him take a breath test. Guy’s totally cool.” The boy raised his eyes in wonderment. “Course they gave him a speeding ticket, but he got out of a DUI.”

Decker nodded as he wrote. “But he didn’t join in the fun last night?”

“Nope. Just drank and watched.”

“Cheryl didn’t ask him to join in?”

“No, she wouldn’t do that. Because when Chris gets in his…annoyed moods…he gets spooky. Real quiet…cold. You keep waiting for him to blow, but he never does.”

Or maybe he did, Decker thought.

Steve said, “Anyway, we were maybe fooling around for a half-hour, maybe forty-five minutes tops in Cheryl’s room. First Jo and Blake left, then Tom and Lisa. Trish and I went to our room about five minutes after Tom and Lisa.”

“So that was around…what time?”

“Maybe three. That was the last time I saw Cheryl, I
swear
to God. I’ll take a lie-detector test, I’ll do
anything
you want.”

Decker said, “How long did you stay at the Grenada?”

“I don’t remember,” Steve said. “I was home by five in the morning. The place is like maybe twenty minutes away. Course I had to drop Trish off first. So maybe I left the Grenada at four-thirty.” He shrugged and smiled weakly. “That’s it. I swear.”

“You didn’t see Cheryl when you left?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you knock on the door to Cheryl’s room?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you see Christopher Whitman when you left?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you see Jo Benderhoff or Lisa Chapman or Blake Adonetti or Tom Baylor when you left your room to go home?”

“No, sir. No one. Ask Trish.”

Decker said, “What was Cheryl wearing last night, Steve?”

The boy squinted. “Some kind of party dress. I don’t remember exactly.”

“What was Trish wearing?”

“A red-sequined minidress.”

“What were you wearing last night?”

“A tux.”

“Bow tie and cummerbund?”

“Sure.”

“What was Chris wearing?”

“A tux, also.”

“Did it have a bow tie and cummerbund, too?”

“I guess.”

“Was Chris wearing his bow tie and cummerbund when you saw him in Cheryl’s room?”

“I don’t remem—” He closed his eyes. “You know, he was wearing his bow tie, but it was undone, like draped around his neck.”

“You have your tux from last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I see it?”

“Sure.”

The kid was up and down in a flash. Sure enough, the tux was complete with bow tie and cummerbund.

Decker looked over his notes—a good start. If the kid was to be believed, Cheryl died after three but before eight. “Anyone see you come home, Steve?”

“My mom,” Steve said. “She always waits up for me.”

“Goddamn overprotective,” Anderson muttered.

“I don’t ask her to do it,” Steve said. “She just does.”

Decker stood. “Don’t go anywhere, Steve. You’re still not out of the woods.”

Anderson got up. “My son cooperated fully. What more do you want from him?”

Steve said, “I’ll do
anything
to help. Believe it or not, Sergeant, I
liked
Cheryl. I feel…sick that this happened. She liked to live on the edge, but she didn’t deserve
this
.”

Indeed, Decker thought. He folded his pad. “Steven, you keep real
quiet
about this interview. You start talking, you’ll mess yourself up, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

Decker put his pad away and said, “Go upstairs. I want to talk to your dad for a moment.”

The kid retreated. Decker put his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got kids myself, Mr. Anderson. I don’t know if I would have reacted any differently from you.”

Anderson stared at Decker, then nodded.

“You know your boy’s on steroids,” Decker said. “Does he take them with your approval?”

Anderson didn’t answer.

“Don’t tell me. He’s your only son and you didn’t want him to grow up a wimp. For
his
sake, not yours of course. Well, you don’t have a wimp, Mr. Anderson. Now what you have is a loose cannon. I don’t want to be back here, six months from now, in an official capacity because somebody’s temper blew up, you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

“Get some help, all of you.”

Anderson said he would. Decker didn’t believe him.

From the Volare’s radio
,
Decker heard his unit number and picked up the mike. A moment later, Scott Oliver was patched through the line.

“How’s the case coming?”

“It’s coming. Why?”

“If you’re pressed for time, I’ll be happy to interview the victim’s friends—the females. I’m good with girls, Rabbi. They cry on my shoulder, tell me their life stories. It’s because I’m sensitive…just a P.C. kind of guy.”

“What’s
really
up, Scotty? Or are you just killing time until the hookers come out?”

Oliver laughed. “No. Christopher Whitman called, left a message at the desk.”

Decker paused. “You’re
kidding
!”

“Nope.”

“What message did he leave?”

“Just returning your call.”

“When did he phone the station house?”

“About forty-five minutes ago.”

Decker scanned through his notes. “I’ve got his number. I’ll do it from my radio.”

He hung up the mike, was just about to return Whitman’s call, then changed his mind. He turned on the ignition and drove to Whitman’s apartment. He parked, climbed up the three flights of stairs, and knocked hard on his door. A moment’s pause, then it swung open.

Decker kept his expression neutral, which was not an easy feat. Because the face staring back at his was reptilian cold. He took out his badge and identification. “Detective Sergeant Peter Decker of the LAPD. Devonshire Homicide. Are you Christopher Whitman?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Thanks for calling back. May I come in?”

Whitman continued to study Decker’s credentials. When he was done, he looked at Decker.

Looked at
, Decker realized.
Not up
.

Because the kid was at least his height, but long-limbed and lanky. Decker must have outweighed him by some forty pounds. Whitman was neat and clean, wearing a black T-shirt tucked into jeans. Model handsome, he had thick blond hair, a sharp jawline, a solid chin. His skin held no remnants of adolescent acne. An exceptionally good-looking boy except for the eyes. Nothing wrong with the bright blue color, just with the expression. They had none.

Whitman said, “You’re from Homicide?”

“Yes,” Decker said. “May I come in?”

Whitman stepped aside, Decker walked through the portal. He started to walk around the room, but Whitman reined him in. “Have a seat.” He pointed to a black leather sofa. “Do you want some coffee, Sergeant?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

Decker sat and so did Whitman.

The boy said, “Who died?”

Decker stared at him. Whitman didn’t flinch. Slowly, Decker took out the Polaroids and laid them on the glass table. Equally slowly, Whitman closed and opened his eyes. His gaze then went from Decker’s face to the snapshots.

Something registered in Whitman’s eyes. Could have been anything from horror to excitement to relief. But his facial muscles remained fixed, so he was hard to read. He studied the pictures closely, moving them into
his line of vision with his pinkie nail. Then he looked up and waited.

“Do you know the girl, Chris?”

Whitman didn’t answer.

Decker said, “Simple question, guy. Yes or no, can you identify the girl?”

“It’s Cheryl Diggs.” Whitman paused. “What happened?”

Decker said, “I was hoping you could tell me.”

Whitman was silent.

Decker said, “Where were you last night, Chris?”

Whitman stood. “I need a cigarette. Okay?”

“Sure.”

The boy walked over to the kitchen counter, pulled out a pack of smokes and an ashtray, and came back to the living room. He sat back down and held out the pack. Decker shook his head.

“I don’t mind talking to you.” Whitman lit up, waved the match in the air, and blew out a plume of smoke over his shoulder. “But I want my lawyer to be present.”

Decker waited a beat. “That’s fine. Give him a call. Tell him to meet you at the Devonshire Substation as soon as possible.”

“It’s Sunday. I doubt if I can get hold of him.”

“You don’t know unless you’ve tried.”

“He won’t be available until tomorrow.”

Decker thought about the calling card he had left at Whitman’s door. It had mentioned he was from Homicide Division. “You’ve already called him, haven’t you?”

“He won’t be available until tomorrow.”

“Not a problem. We can appoint an attorney for you, Chris. We won’t even charge you.”

“Thank you, but I’ll wait for my own lawyer.”

“Then you’ll wait in jail.”

Whitman rubbed his neck. “How about this? My attorney and I will meet you down at Devonshire station tomorrow at five in the afternoon. I’ll answer any question my lawyer says it’s okay to answer—in regard to
Cheryl.” He tapped a nail on his glass table. “I’ll even take a polygraph if you want. Does that sound reasonable?”

Decker rolled his tongue in his mouth. “Are you trying to cut a deal with me, Chris?”

Whitman sucked hard on his smoke. “I’m trying to do what makes sense.”

“All I want to do is ask you a couple of questions.”

“I know that. I’m not trying to be difficult. But I am trying to be careful.”

“You need to be careful about something?”

“Once you say something, Sergeant, it’s impossible to take it back. So I’ll see you tomorrow at five?”

“No, Chris. You’ll see me today at booking and arraignment.”

Whitman took another puff, letting smoke escape passively through his nostrils and mouth. Decker felt his mouth water.

“I’m asking for twenty-four hours,” Chris said. “Believe me, I’m not a flight risk. If I were going to run, I would have done it already.”

“We’ll just let the judge at your arraignment decide your risk factor. You’re going to need a lawyer for that, Chris. Unless you want to represent yourself.”

“I guess a public defender’ll be good enough for a bail hearing.” Whitman paused. “You know you’re making extra work for yourself. I’m willing to cooperate.”

Decker stood. “Let’s get going. I’ve got other people to talk to.”

Whitman stood. “Are you going to cuff me?”

“You’re a big guy. I like to play it safe.”

Whitman reached under his shirt, pulled out a gold crucifix, and laid it on his coffee table. Then he took off his belt and untied his designer running shoes. “I’m going into my bedroom to get a pair of slip-ons. Is that all right?”

“As long as I come with you.”

“Fine.”

Together they walked inside Whitman’s bedroom. Chris pulled back sliding closet doors and examined his shoe rack. His clothes were meticulously arranged. Jackets, pants, and shirts were color-coordinated and all facing the same way on the hangers. Decker thought about his sons’ closets—legally declared disaster areas. Chris pulled out a pair of black Vans, slipped them on his feet, then slid the closet door shut. They both walked back into the living room. Whitman finished off his cigarette, smashed it in the ashtray, then cleaned the ashtray and put it away.

Taking off his belt, removing his necklace, getting shoes without laces
. Decker said, “You’ve walked this road before, haven’t you, Chris?”

Whitman didn’t answer.

“Nothing local popped out on our computers,” Decker said. “And nothing showed up on NCIC. Must have been as a juvenile, probably when you lived back east. Maybe they’ve sealed the records. But maybe they haven’t.”

Whitman’s expression was flat. “You did homework. I’ll make it easy on you. I don’t have a record. How long do you think this will take? I’m hungry.”

“I’ll buy you a burger on the way over.”

“Hard to eat with handcuffs on,” Whitman said. “I’ve got a couple of leftover pieces of chicken in my refrigerator. Do you mind?”

The boy was a suspect in a gruesome murder, yet he had an appetite. Pretty damn good. It could have been a ploy, also. It was clear Chris knew the ropes. If Decker had refused him food, Whitman might claim at some time that he was subjected to inhumane treatment.

“Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Whitman took out a plate of chicken, wrapped a paper towel around a drumstick, and bit in. He leaned against his kitchen counter as he ate. “Want a piece? It’s good.”

“No, thanks.” Decker glanced around the room. “Man, I would have killed for a place like this in high school.”

Whitman licked his lips and stared at him. “It has its merits.”

“How do you pay your rent?”

“I manage.”

“You did it up very nicely.”

“Thank you.”

Decker walked around, looking for something to zero in on. But Whitman was just too damn neat for the room to be telling tales. The front room was open space, so the living room gave an impression of being larger than it was. Not a speck of dirt on the white carpet, not an iota of dust on the tables, not a thread of a cobweb lurking in the corners. Decker turned to the oils on the walls.

“Abstract expressionism,” he said. “Never saw much to it myself.”

“It has its place.”

“Not your signature on the canvases,” Decker said.

“No, they’re not mine.”

Decker’s eyes went to Whitman’s face. “You draw then.”

The boy closed his eyes and opened them. Decker said, “You have any samples of your work? I bet you’re good. You look like you have a sharp eye.”

Whitman didn’t answer.

“Modest guy, huh? Don’t like talking about yourself.”

“I just don’t talk when my mouth is full. It’s called good manners.” He started on a second piece of chicken.

“What do you like to draw?” Decker asked.

“That’s like asking, what do you like to eat?”

“Whatever suits your fancy.” Decker smiled. “Whatever speaks to your soul. Isn’t that the way the critics talk?”

Whitman poured himself a glass of juice. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I hear you’re also a gifted cellist.”

The boy drank, shrugged, and attacked a third piece.

“Is there any money in that?” Decker asked. “Being a classical musician, I mean.”

Whitman stopped eating. “Why? Is it a fantasy dream of yours?”

Decker let out a small laugh. “Just making harmless conversation, Chris.”

Again Whitman closed and opened his eyes. Third time he’d done that. Decker realized the mannerism was Whitman’s alarm. Something Chris did when he felt he was talking too much or showing too much emotion.

Whitman wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Is there money in being a classical musician?” He washed his dish, dried it, and put it away. “You work hard enough at anything, you pay your bills.” He faced Decker. “This trek is unnecessary. I’m
not
going to run.”

“You’re careful and so am I,” Decker said. “Who’s your lawyer, by the way?”

Whitman paused. “I suppose you’ll find out soon enough. McCaffrey, Moody and Sousa. I don’t know which one will be dealing with me tomorrow.”

Decker felt his heart thump against his chest, but kept his expression even. He knew the firm well. They were shrewd defense lawyers for the type of people who drove race car imports and hauled cocaine bricks in refrigerated semis. Astronomically expensive, they dealt with clientele who had lots of cash and lots of unreported income.

“Very high-powered,” Decker said.

“Yes, they are.”

“How’d you come to use them?”

Whitman rubbed his neck. “Guess you’ll find that out, too. They’re my uncle’s lawyers.”

“Who’s your uncle?”

Whitman met Decker’s eye. “Joseph Donatti.”

It was Decker’s turn to think before he spoke. Without emotion, he said, “You’re Joseph Donatti’s nephew?”

“Yes, I am.”

Decker waited a beat. “Donatti’s short and dark and compact.”

“And I’m tall and blond. The wonders of genetics.”

Decker said, “Something’s hinky with you, Chris. What are you doing out here? Setting something up for Donatti?”

“See, Sergeant, that’s why I like to have my lawyer present. You’d start out by asking me questions about poor Cheryl, next thing I know you’re pumping me about my uncle. You’re a cop. I realize it’s natural. But it is annoying.”

Decker stared at cold eyes. He heard Steve Anderson’s words.

Chris gets…annoyed
.

It was obvious that Whitman had called his uncle as soon as he saw the police business card stuck in his doorframe. What was his reason? To protect his uncle or to protect himself? And what
was
he doing out here? He was old for high school. And both the principal and the girls’ VP at Central West Valley had stated that Chris didn’t belong.

Decker said, “Your uncle doesn’t like you talking to cops, does he?”

“My uncle’s very cooperative with law enforcement. He expects me to be cooperative as well.”

“As long as his lawyers are around.”

Whitman said, “A cop with a clue.”

Decker grinned. “Hey, Chris, I guess being a professional cellist means you need
all
your fingers.”

Whitman stared at Decker, then a hint of a smile appeared on his lips. “I love my uncle dearly, Sergeant.”

“I bet you do, son. Turn around so I can put these on.”

Whitman slipped his hands behind his back, ready to be cuffed. So Decker cuffed him.