Street Dreams (43 page)

Now it was a waiting game.

A week passed before things finally settled down. Koby and I squeezed in an elegant dinner at one of my favorite spots. Musso
& Frank was among the oldest and best restaurants in Hollywood. Built to look like a hunting lodge with high-beamed ceilings
and lots of wood, it was one of those places that had a bar scene, without being tacky, and everything imaginable on the menu.
The management boasted the best sand dabs in town (the truth) and famous martinis. I was on my second cocktail when Koby casually
mentioned that a guy, two tables to my left, kept staring at me.

I didn’t turn around. I flicked my hair back and sipped my drink. “What does he look like?”

“Harmless. Middle-aged, graying hair. Jacket and tie. Looks like a lawyer.”

“Alone?”

“No. He’s with a woman, probably his wife. Also two other couples: They’re both white.”

“The guy’s black?” I asked him.

“Yes. I don’t mention that?”

“No.”

Koby smiled. “The men are in suits, women in nice dresses. There is nothing wrong except that he keeps looking over here.”

I put my napkin down. “I’ll make a trip to the bathroom.”

With the humidity down pretty low, I was having a very good hair day, my shoulder-length tresses filled with body and none
of the frizz. I wore a sleeveless fire engine–red dress that had a loose crossover bodice and plunging neckline. Because Koby
was six-one-and-a-half in bare feet, whenever we went someplace nice, I wore heels that put me close to six even. When I stood
up, he gawked at me and swallowed hard.

“Maybe he eyes you because you are so beautiful.” He exhaled and shook his head. “Sometimes I must pinch myself.”

I bent over, giving him a view, then kissed the top of his head. “I’ll do that for you. Excuse me.”

I took the opportunity to reapply my makeup. I liked looking good for him. Upon returning, I had a full view of the table—three
50-plus couples, and yes, the men did look like lawyers. In fact, they probably were. I knew for certain that the lone black
man was.

Raymond Paxton—David Tyler’s conservator.

I had called him three times in the past several weeks and all I ever got was voice mail. The first two times, I just wanted
to know if he had heard from David. The third time, I told him I was looking for David in my off-hours. I gave him names of
shelters I had been to, explaining that I didn’t want him to plow old ground, should he happen to be looking for David as
well.

Not even the courtesy of a follow-up call from a secretary. Not that he was required to answer me, but it would have been
polite. He saw me heading toward his table and stood up, excusing himself before I could intrude on his party. We met halfway
between our tables and found a corner at the busy bar. I sat; he didn’t. I expected hostility. Instead, I got an immediate
apology.

“I’m sure you’ve been busy.” I kept my face expressionless, although I maintained eye contact. Typical cop stare. I didn’t
know if we got it from TV or vice versa. Paxton wore khaki pants, white shirt, red tie, and blue blazer. Very preppy. I wondered
if he had attended an Ivy.

He said, “It takes two minutes to make a phone call. I didn’t call back because I didn’t trust you.”

My shrug was noncommittal.

“I couldn’t figure out what your game plan was,” he told me. “I still don’t know.”

“I’m looking for David Tyler.”

“Yes, but why?”

I actually gave the inquiry some thought. “I don’t know, Mr. Paxton. I suppose it’s because in life I’ve been given a great
deal and he’s been given a raw deal.”

Paxton looked down. “His trust fund is significant. The first couple of months he was gone, I hired a private detective, you
know.”

“I didn’t know. You never told me.”

“The man was a con artist.”

“That’s too bad.”

“My own fault. I didn’t do my homework. Since you seem to be on some sort of mission with David, I could give you money for
your time and expenses. But you’ll have to make it official. I’ll need a written report of your progress.”

I held up my hands. “Maybe money for gas … wear and tear on the car. Other than that, I’m fine. How about giving some money
to the baby instead?”

“I can’t do that unless I have medical evidence that the child is David’s offspring. Otherwise I could be sued later on. But
there are … things I could arrange. Why don’t you have the mother of this child hire a lawyer? It would be easier if I spoke
legalese with him … or her.”

“All right. I will.” I held out my hand. “Thank you.”

He waited a moment, then shook it. “I apologize for being rude, Officer Decker. I’m not a big fan of the police.”

“Neither is my boyfriend.”

“The man you’re with is your boyfriend?”

I nodded.

“I thought he might be your partner.”

“Not in this getup.” I smiled. “Once he was DWB—driving while black—and it put him in the wrong place at the wrong time. He
spent a night in jail because of a mix-up in identity with a rapist. After hearing the story and the circumstances, I told
him I would have done exactly what the cops did.” I shrugged. “He didn’t want to hear it.”

“I’m sure I could agree with him, having had a similar experience.” Paxton pointed to the dining room. “After you.”

We went back to our respective tables. By the time I sat back down, the waiter had brought our Caesar salads. “Sorry it took
so long.”

“Everything all right?” Koby asked me.

“Actually, yes, everything is very all right.” Even if I didn’t find David, at least his baby might be provided for. Certainly,
Louise Sanders could use some monetary help. Things were tough for her. If Paxton came through, then it was well worth his
initial snubs.

I picked up my fork. “Wow, this looks good. I’m starved.” I took several bites. “Delicious!”

Koby stabbed a crouton and chewed it slowly, a half smile on his lips. “I love it when women eat. It’s very sensual.”

“You’d get lots of female fans with that statement.” I laughed. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re for real or is it, you know,
like the Ethiopian restaurant. You just have all these great lines and angles to get into women’s pants.”

“It’s only your pants, my love, and I think I don’t need a line
or
an angle. You seem always very willing.”

A warm flush crawled over my body. “Will you please eat? You’re making me nervous, staring at me like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I know what you’re thinking.”

“What are
you
thinking?”

“That you look very handsome.”

His smile turned white and luminous. “Thank you.”

I stole a glance at his face. “That you look
very
good.”

“Thank you again.” His eyes had turned hot and hungry. “You know, Cynthia, we could ask the waiter to pack our main dishes.”

I put down my fork. “Yaakov, I’d really like to make it through a meal.”

“Certainly.” He sipped his beer, licking foam off his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. He raised his eyebrows. “Would
you like another drink?”

“No … I’m okay.” I picked up my fork again. “But thanks.”

“Anything you want, my love. That is my motto.”

“Did you take your charm pills today, Koby?”

“With you, I don’t need them. It is all natural feelings.”

“That’s sweet.” I gave him a shy smile. “Really. I mean that, Yaakov. I feel the same way. I think you’re wonderful and sexy
and brilliant … fun … just the best.”

He grinned. “It is you who takes the charm pills.”

“Yeah, I’m the one who needs them.” I laughed. “I wish a little of your smoothness would rub off on me.”

He took my hand. “You are not slick, Cynthia, but you are always sincere.” He kissed my fingers one by one, then gently swiped
my nose with his index finger. “Eat.”

I speared another leaf of romaine, my eyes sweeping over his face. Again he was studying me, those long, luscious lashes sweeping
over those magnificent pale whiskey eyes.

He really looked
fine!

I nibbled on salad, but suddenly everything was tasteless. Who was I kidding?

Oh my God, I was sinking again.

I summoned the waiter, requesting our entrées to go, along with the check.

T
he coast of California
is God’s kissed countryside from San Diego to the Oregon border—blue iridescent seas on one side, towering verdant mountain
majesty on the other. Traveling north from Santa Barbara on 101, Decker couldn’t have asked for lovelier weather. It was in
the low 70s with the sun playing peekaboo behind woolen tufts of crystalline clouds. As he turned east onto 234, going deep
into the Santa Ynez Valley, the Porsche began to climb between granite walls of imperial rock and twist seamlessly through
the winding canyons. The temperature dropped and a fine mist hovered above.

“Spectacular,” Rina whispered.

“Hannah’s getting bigger,” Decker answered. “We should really do this more often.”

“Yes, we should.” Rina adjusted the baseball cap on her head, enjoying the wind and sun on her face. “It’s nice to feel young.”

“Free,” Decker said. “We never had much of this.”

“I know. Instant family when we married. Poor you.”

“Not poor me,” Decker told her. “Rich me. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Still, you’ve got to find a balance. We shouldn’t
have to use a project as an excuse to get away for a weekend. But since we did come up with a purpose, what is the game plan
here?”

“I have a couple of questions about the murder, but if I don’t get to ask them, I’ll be fine.” Rina took in a deep breath
and let it out. “It’s really all about my mother’s childhood. I don’t even care about the murder anymore. That was just the
catalyst.”

“I’m thrilled to hear you say that. Basically, I think we should just let the ladies talk.” Decker took in a lung’s worth
of pine-scented air. A minute later, they were off the freeway, the exit for Solvang putting them onto Mission Avenue, a two-way
boulevard lined with imposing cedars, regal in size and wide in girth. For a few miles, they passed farm country and orchards,
patches of foot-high baby avocado trees dotting the earth like plugs in a hair transplant. A hundred yards later, they drove
by an ostrich ranch. No sign of the big beasts, but coming up from L.A., they had seen a genuine llama ranch, so Decker was
sure the flightless birds were somewhere near.

Soon they drove by the official green sign welcoming the visitor to Solvang—population 5,332.

Danish Disneyland.

The little tourist town really had an amusement-park feel to it, down to the street names—Vester, Aarhus, Nykobing, Midten—
using Hof and Sted instead of street, avenue, or lane.

Lifted right out of a fairy tale: picture-perfect cottages with mullion-paned windows, dozens of gables, and multipeaked roofs
topped with special tiles evoking thatched straw. Cute little bungalows of sparkling white stucco and red brick, overwhelmed
with gingerbread, set on lots with meticulously planted flower gardens. Almost all the dwellings had exterior walls deluged
with Tudor-style trim—stripes and triangles and squares of brightly painted wood appliqué, light blue being the most common
color for the decorative beams. But some of the owners had chosen brown or green or in some cases bright red. There were lots
of white picket fences and many second-story balconies ringed with white dowel railings. Two of the motels on Mission Avenue
had life-size windmills, another had a clock tower with a weather vane.

Decker had never seen streets so clean, as if they were washed daily.

The business district, also on Mission, was a couple of miles long with architecture that was nearly identical to the residences.
The shops and restaurants and
bacaris
were owned by individuals with names like Mortensen, Petersen, and Olsen. And the names weren’t just for atmosphere. Both
he and Rina agreed that they had never seen so many white-haired, pink-complexioned elderly people in such a small geographical
area. When they drove past the local school—across the street from a Lutheran Church—it was all fair skin and light hair,
except for a clique of Native American children.

Anika Lubke lived in a bright yellow one-story house, the door surrounded by two bay windows and the sides trimmed with blue
wood beams. Set into a pole was a Danish flag guarding the entry-way; the hand-painted address numbers were red on blue-and-white
delft tiles. The front yard was a pallet of color, a profusion of wildflowers. Someone had plunked a stuffed Nordic seaman,
complete with beard and cap, smack in the middle of a daisy bush—the Danes’ answer to a scarecrow. Decker parked the Porsche
and checked his watch. Ten-forty: They were twenty minutes early.

“What do you think?” he asked Rina.

“I don’t think they’d mind. But if you’d feel uncomfortable, we can walk around for a few minutes.”

Before they could decide, the door opened. The woman who came out was tall and thin, wearing a housecoat printed with calla
lilies. Her white hair was tied into a long ponytail, her complexion fair with rosy cheeks. “You are Lieutenant and Mrs. Decker?”

“Hi,” Rina said from the curb. “We’re a little early.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Her accent was light and crisp. “Come in, please.”

The pathway to the front was narrow. Decker told Rina to go first. The woman introduced herself as Anika, then stepped aside,
allowing them to walk into a compact living room with blond hardwood floors and yellow washed walls. The furniture was simple
in design and made by someone with a utilitarian eye. The couch and chairs were straight backed and upholstered in tiny blue
checks, holding a couple of rudimentary pillows. The coffee table was a trunk, with hand-painted flowers and swirls, which
looked to be genuinely old. The walls were hung with oil still lifes, mostly florals: original paintings but not very good.
There were also a couple of sketches and a map of Denmark. No family photos. Maybe she kept them in the bedroom.

The air was heavy with the smell of cabbage.