Justice (12 page)

Since crime didn’t work
a forty-hour week, the Detectives squad room at Devonshire Substation was rarely devoid of people. But on nights and weekends, the confines had considerably more breathing area. Though Decker loved the space, he missed the buzz. At two-thirty, Sunday afternoon, the place had become a crypt of empty desks, blank computer screens, and idle phones and fax machines, all of it minimally lit to conserve energy.

Apparently, Scott Oliver had found it a refuge. Either that or he had nowhere else to go. He had hunkered down for the afternoon, feet propped up on the desk, soft music wafting from his boom box. Devonshire’s desks, like most D-squad rooms, were arranged in a capital I configuration. Oliver’s place was at one of the crosspieces. When Decker walked in, Oliver was folding several sheets of glossy fax paper.

Decker headed for the coffeepot, took down a filter, and started a fresh brew. “Get you a cup, Scotty?”

“Thanks.”

Oliver was dressed in an imitation Armani three-button jacket over a pair of black chinos. Nice-looking guy, Decker thought, but disheveled today. A day’s growth of beard had charcoaled his cheeks and chin; his dense crop of black hair, usually tamed by mousse or
gel, was sticking out at weird angles. The guy needed a woman to keep him hygienic.

Oliver finished his origami airplane and sailed it over to Decker. “You will
never
believe who Whitman’s legal guardian is.”

“Was. He’s eighteen now.”

“Guess.”

“Joseph Donatti.”

Oliver plopped his feet to the floor. “You must be a gas at surprise parties. How’d you find out?”

“He told me.”

“Did Whitman get in your face about it?”

“Actually, he was reluctant to tell me—one of the reasons I believed him.” Decker paused. “Although I’m sure he’s a seasoned liar. He’s too calm and controlled not to be.”

“Where is he?”

“Van Nuys. Bail hearing set in a couple of hours.”

“You had enough to book him?”

“No, but I have enough to hold him. He’s recalcitrant. Won’t answer anything without Uncle Joey’s lawyers protecting his ass. Since he had a relationship with the victim and I have a witness who put him at the scene around the time of Diggs’s death, I have grounds for keeping him locked up until his lawyers come to his rescue. I put him in the drunk tank. Whitman’s fastidious. I’m hoping the stay will imbue him with the spirit of cooperation.”

“You think he did it?”

Decker said, “Seems logical. You got a sex crime murder, you look at the primary partner. But I’m not ruling anyone out.” He bent down and picked up Oliver’s aerodynamic creation. “Creepy sucker. Big, too. Whitman’s as tall as I am.”

“The battle of the giants. I brought in your mail for you, Rabbi. It’s on your desk.”

Decker went over and scanned the loose fax pages—
Whitman’s tax forms. He smiled at Oliver. “I won’t ask.” He gave the records a closer look.

A year and a half ago, Donatti was listed as Whitman’s legal guardian, giving his charge five hundred dollars a month for living expenses. Whitman had augmented the income by two hundred fifty a month from working as a professional musician. He was a card-carrying member of the union.

Decker moved on to his current records, sifted through the pages. “Whitman’s income rose considerably this year. Almost two thousand a month from his cello playing. Not a fortune, but Whitman’s expenses were minimal. Even figuring the cost of rent, food, and basics, he was left with some pocket change.” Decker paused. “Actually, that’s much more than pocket change. That’s two thousand a month from playing the cello—
part-time
.”

“Maybe the kid’s real good.”

“I’ve heard he
is
really good. But you want to know what I think, I think Whitman’s been playing a lot of cello for Uncle Joey.”

“He’s dealing for Donatti?”

“He’s doing something for Uncle Joey.”

“So what does Donatti have to do with the Diggs murder?”

“Could be something, could be nothing,” Decker said. “I just spoke to Jay Craine from the ME’s office. Diggs was pregnant and Whitman was her boyfriend. I don’t know if that’s the motive. But it’s as good as any for a starting point.”

“What kind of physical do you have?”

“At the scene? Usual hairs and fibers, plus a couple of used condoms.” Decker poured himself a cup of coffee, poured Oliver one as well. He walked over to the detective’s desk, plunked down a mug of java, and took the empty seat next to him. “The condoms may not have belonged to Whitman. Diggs was also full of semen.”

“Maybe Whitman ran out of protection.” Oliver blew on the hot liquid. “Either that or two guys, Rabbi.”

Decker sipped coffee. “Could be. Diggs liked the boys.” He recapped Steven Anderson’s recitation. “I have appointments with the other kids from Whitman’s group. See how much of Anderson’s story they can corroborate. Anderson put Whitman with Diggs at three, three-thirty in the morning. Last time he claims he saw Cheryl alive. But he could be lying.”

“You need time, Rabbi, I’ll do a few interviews.”

“You must really be bored.”

“It’s a big case,” Oliver said. “I like seeing my name in print.”

Decker smiled. “I’m scheduled to see Patricia Manning and Lisa Chapman. You get the guys—Blake Adonetti and Thomas Baylor. That leaves Josephine Benderhoff. I’ll pick her up later.” Decker gave Oliver the addresses, then checked his watch. “I’ve got to get back to Van Nuys. Hopefully, the judge’ll hold Whitman overnight…give me enough time to pull a warrant for his place.”

“Wasn’t Diggs strangled?” Oliver said.

“Yes.”

“The murder didn’t happen at the kid’s apartment. So you can’t be looking for a weapon. What are you looking for?”

“A tux.” Decker looked at his watch again. “I’d better call Rina. I’m not going to make it home for dinner.”

Oliver broke into a wide grin. “If you want, Rabbi, I’ll drop by your place and deliver a
personal
message to your wife.”

Decker winked. “Make you a bet, Scotty. If you can talk to my wife without your pants getting wet, you can even stay for dinner.”

“How about this?” Rina said over the line. “I’ll take a snack now and have dinner with you when you come home.”

“It’s going to be too late, Rina. Eat with the family.
I’ll just grab a pack of frozen bagels and couple of cans of tuna fish.”

“Why don’t you just skip the food and swig Thunderbird out of a paper bag.”

Decker laughed. “Yeah, it does sound depressing.”

“Why bother getting married if you’re going to eat like a bachelor? Come by the house and I’ll lunchbox some ribs for you.”

“Ribs?” He realized his stomach was growling. “You made
ribs
?”

“I’ll put the cole slaw in a Tupperware tub, fill up your thermos with fresh coffee, and even give you some wipes for your hands. A truly complete domestic meal for the man on the go, packed personally by his long-suffering wife.”

“You’re milking this.”

“Homemade barbecue sauce, Peter. You’re missing out.”

The growl had evolved into a roar. He looked at the wall clock and knew he couldn’t swing it. “Keep them warm in foil. I’ll devour them at one in the morning and get heartburn.”

“One in the morning?” Rina paused. “
That
late?”

“Maybe a little earlier. I’ll call you in a couple of hours and let you know how it’s going.”

“You’ve got the Prom Queen Murder, haven’t you?”

“The
Prom Queen
Murder?” Decker echoed. “What in blazes is the
Prom Queen
Murder?”

“Central West’s prom queen was found this morning, bound and strangled in a hotel room. You were called out early. I figured it was your case.”

“They said she was a prom queen?”

“Yes. Sherrie Dickens or something like that.”

“Cheryl Diggs.”

“Oh, Peter, what a horrible thing!”

“It’s a difficult case…especially when people talk to news personnel before it’s cleared with the principal investigator. Who’d they interview?”

“Lieutenant Davidson.”

Good old Loo, Decker thought. Thomas “Tug” Davidson was an icy bastard who detested the media. Decker was sure that nothing crucial had been leaked. He wondered why Captain Strapp had called Davidson instead of him to handle the mikes. Tug was ill at ease with reporters, viewing them as adversaries instead of stiffs just trying to do a job. He was often abrupt and rude, doing a disservice not only to himself but to all of the LAPD. Tug sure wouldn’t win any congeniality awards. But the man had a reputation as a hardworking cop.

“How’d you know Diggs was a prom queen?” Decker asked. “Did Davidson mention it or did the newspeople?”

“One of the reporters brought it up. Davidson was very uncomfortable with the whole thing. You have much better television Q, Peter.”

“Call my agent, we’ll do murders. Did they mention any names, any suspects?”

“No names,” Rina said. “Just that police were conducting an intensive investigation.”

Decker wrote in his notepad:
Cheryl—Prom Queen
? Ironic, he should learn it from the idiot box. “Rina, I’ve got someone in custody right now—”

“Wonderful!”

“We’re a
long
way off from celebrating. We’re just holding him. The kid hasn’t even been charged with anything yet. I’ve got to go back to court and wait for the suspect’s bail hearing. Then I have several interviews to do after that. Plus, I’m trying to pull a warrant.”

“Another all-nighter,” she stated. “I’ll keep your dinner warm.”

“The meat’ll probably be buckskin by the time I get home. Did the boys feed the horses?”

“Yes, they did. And they took Ginger out for a full hour walk. Hannah and I stayed home, putting plums in the dishwasher. By the way, Cindy called. Don’t panic. Everything’s all right. She just wanted to say hi. I think
she wanted to thank you for telling her to stay at Columbia.”

“I’ll give her a call right after I hang up with you.” Decker swallowed dryly. “I hope she hasn’t let her guard down just because the rapist has been lying low.”

“She assures me she’s still ultra careful. She’s never alone in the reference stacks, she never goes into secluded areas, and she never, ever walks alone at night. If she needs a walking partner because she studied late in the library or in a lab, she calls up the student walking service. They send a guy out to escort her back to the dorm.”

“A
guy
?”

“Peter, there are nice guys out there. I’m talking to one right now. Call her up. It would mean a lot. She loves her daddy.”

Decker felt his chest swell with pride. “I’ll call her. Give the other kiddies a hug and kiss for me—a big kiss and hug. And tell them I love them.”

“I’ll relay your message with emotional content.”

“Rina, I love you very much. Please be careful.”

“
You
be careful, big guy. You’re the one carrying the gun.”

It was Erica Berringer on offense, Brandon Krost on defense. Decker had had only minor dealings with them because both were relatively new. Erica was in her late twenties with curly hair and big eyes magnified by round, tortoiseshell glasses. She wore a gray knit dress. Krost was also in his twenties, neatly pressed in a basic black suit. He had thin blond hair that looked even more diaphanous when compared to Whitman’s thick gold mop. Both were standing, pleading their cases to the bench. While standing on the sidelines, Decker observed Judge Helen Strong. She looked tired, deep pouches underlining skeptical green eyes.

Berringer’s voice had become strident. Not good to
show frustration in public, Decker thought. But at least the prosecutor sounded earnest.

“Your Honor,” Erica said, “we’re talking about a particularly gruesome crime—”

“Your Honor, my client has not been
charged
with anything,” Krost countered.

“Your Honor, Mr. Whitman is Mr. Krost’s client in only the broadest of terms. The suspect has consistently refused to cooperate with law enforcement personnel even with counsel present—”

“Mr. Whitman has stated repeatedly that he will cooperate fully as soon as he receives the specific representation that he deems proper.”

“Are you telling the court, Mr. Krost, that you are deemed improper representation?” the judge broke in.

Decker smiled inwardly. Krost turned red. Strong rolled her eyes.

“Let’s keep it simple, gentle people,” the judge spoke. “It is my understanding that State is asking the court to hold Mr. Whitman until five o’clock tomorrow afternoon. At that time, Mr. Whitman and his lawyers will meet with law enforcement personnel. Mr. Whitman intends to respond to any and all questions deemed fit to answer by Mr. Whitman’s private counsel. Are we all in agreement so far?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Krost answered.

“Prosecutor?”

“True, but—”

“Since no charges are being formally entered at this time, this session is tantamount to a bail hearing,” the judge bulldozed on. “It is simply a matter of whether the defendant is trustworthy for the next twenty-four hours. Comments, Ms. Berringer?”

Erica took a deep breath. “Currently State is still amassing evidence against Mr. Whitman. Since he has chosen to take a rebellious stance, State considers him to be a highly probable flight risk.”

“Your Honor,” Krost countered. “Mr. Whitman has
no prior record. There is no indication to support his being a flight risk. State’s claim is highly prejudicial—”

“Highly prejudicial, Mr. Krost?” Strong interrupted. “He has been brought in for questioning as a possible murder suspect. Where is the bias?”

Krost said, “State has fears that he will flee based solely on his relationship to Joseph Donatti.”

Strong zeroed in on Krost. “Your client is related to Joseph Donatti?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Krost said. “Mr. Donatti is Mr. Whitman’s father.”

Decker’s ears perked up. Now Donatti had been elevated to Whitman’s father. Before he’d been an uncle. According to the IRS, he was a legal guardian. Just what was the story? Decker regarded Strong as her eyes swept over Whitman’s face.