The Forgotten (22 page)

Behind it was a tiny lock box, shut tight by a combination lock. He took out the box and hefted it. It was surprisingly light. The dilemma now was whether to bother the parents for the sequence of numbers or just to pick it.

He opted to bother the parents, specifically Carter, who wasn’t aware of the combination because he hadn’t even been aware of the box. He was defensive, but it was born out of protectiveness of his son’s memory.

“What do you expect to find?” Golding said.

“I don’t know. Maybe drugs.”

“And if it’s drugs, it hardly matters, does it?”

“Unless he was dealing, sir. That could be a reason for his murder.”

“He wasn’t dealing.”

“He was using. I already found a small stash in his socks. It could be he has a brick in there, that he broke off a little for personal use.”

Golding said nothing, a tormented and torn man.

Decker said, “What was Ernesto’s birthday?”

An easy question that even Golding could answer. He gave it to him, albeit reluctantly. After fiddling with the right/left of the dial, the lock finally popped. No drugs, no firearms, no letters, no family report, but lots of incriminating pictures that filled the entire space. Not pornography, but obscene. Men in striped prison garb, all of them dead. About twenty black-and-white snapshots and all of them in perfect focus,
with each man holding a different death mask. Some had open mouths, others had open eyes, but they all wore the skeletal face of starvation.

Golding stared in horror. “These are repulsive…disgusting. Get them out of my sight!”

“I want to take them—”

“Take them! Get them
out
of here!”

Decker hid them from Golding’s view. “These are original photographs. Any idea where Ernesto might have picked these up?”

“No!” Golding whispered in abject dread. “No! How would I
know
?” His eyes began to leak tears. “Please just take them and get out of here!”

“I’m sorry to intrude—”

“Please, just
go
!”

“Mr. Golding, are you sure that you still want us to delve into your father’s past?”

“Yes.” Slowly, Golding focused his eyes on Decker’s face. “Yes, I want your wife to look into my father’s past. I want to know about it. I
need
to know about it. But that doesn’t mean it has to be shoved in my face.”

Usually, she took
a combination of freeways and canyons to go “over the hill.” But today, since she wasn’t stopping at her parents’ house, it was pure speed until she hit the Robertson Boulevard exit on the 10 East, heading north though the haunts of her childhood.

It had been almost two decades since she had lived in her old neighborhood. The area had become so Jewish that, except for the palm trees, it felt as regional as Brooklyn. Not that she didn’t have occasion to go back to the city, but she rarely went beyond her parents’ house in North Beverly Hills. The valley’s
frum
community was self-contained—from cheap pizza joints for the kids, to family restaurants with booths and wine. Kosher butchers and bakeries weren’t problematic, so why should she bother to travel? Still, the area felt nostalgic, passing all the kosher establishments, the fruit and vegetable storefronts, as well as the Jewish bookstores that sold
sepharim
as well as religious articles. Even the independent food market, Morry’s—which was actually owned by Irv—catered to the neighborhood inhabitants, carrying hard to get items such as kosher cheeses and kosher flour tortillas.

So many religious schools and yeshivas in the area, they overflowed with children, spitting in the face of Hitler. So it was only natural that a Holocaust memorial would find its
permanent home among those who had lived through the inferno firsthand.

Rina’s own parents—both of them camp survivors—were getting on in years. Her father now walked with a cane, and her mother was slower in gait as well as in speech. They were still sharp mentally, but sometimes the pain of old age crimped their smiles. They loved Hannah, but oftentimes Rina could sense that the little girl was just too much for them. She didn’t bring her as often as she had brought the boys, and that saddened her.

She glanced at Tom Webster, seated beside her, hands in his lap, eyes staring out the windshield. She had gotten the Volvo washed before she picked him up, but it still smelled a little stale. But perhaps that was due to L.A. smog rather than the condition of her station wagon. The detective hadn’t said much since she picked him up from the station house. No doubt he was little nervous being around the boss’s wife, a strange Jewish lady who wore kerchiefs on her head and long sleeves rolled up to her elbows even in the summer. Tom was about as gentile as it got with his blond hair, blue eyes, and sharp features, as well as that thick Southern accent. Perhaps he was antsy about visiting the Tolerance Center as well. Webster was as out of his element as she was in. She knew she should make an effort to talk to him. He sat stiffly in a blue suit, white shirt, and blue tie. Since both of them were dressed in hot clothing, she blasted the air-conditioning in the car.

“Anything you want to ask me?”

Tom turned and looked at her, his hands remaining in his lap. “No, ma’am, not at the moment.” His voice was tight. “Although I reckon later on I’ll have lots of questions.”

“We’re not going to the museum. The research offices are across the street. That’s where the library and the archives are located until they finish remodeling.”

“All right.”

“Have you ever been in this neighborhood before?”

“I can’t say that I have, though I’ve been in Beverly Hills a couple times when they had the classic car shows on Rodeo Drive. Ever been down there? They close off the roads and make a big street fair out of it. It was fun, especially for my boy. He likes cars.”

“I imagine they have some impressive automobiles.”

“To me, they were very impressive. But I guess they’re run-of-the-mill for the city’s well-heeled residents.”

Rina said, “My parents live in the area and drive a Pontiac.”

Webster blushed and stammered out something by way of an apology.

“Oh please!” Rina smiled. “My parents are well-heeled, but not interested in cars. Peter likes cars. He loves his Porsche. My younger son, Jacob, likes cars, too. He likes hot rods.”

“A kid after my own heart.”

“He likes the Viper and the Sheldon…is that right?”

“Shelby?”

“Yes, that’s it.” Rina laughed. “My elder boy couldn’t care less. He lives in his head. Funny how that works.”

“Yeah.” Webster stretched uncomfortably. “So…you grew up around here?”

“Yes, I did.”

“But not the lieutenant.”

“Oh no…” Rina smiled. “He grew up in Gainesville, Florida.”

“Really?” Webster seemed surprised. “He’s more of a good ole boy than I thought.”

“Very much so.”

Webster started to talk, but stopped himself. Rina, however, knew what his question would be if he dared to ask it. How in the world did she and Peter meet? They met on a case. He was the principal investigator; she was a principal witness. They didn’t have anything in common. He was worldly, she was provincial. She was religious, he was secu
lar. He was divorced, she had been widowed. They had come from different worlds, and it shouldn’t have ever come to pass.

Except that there was this incredibly strong physical thing.

She smiled to herself.

That was what Webster wanted to know. But she didn’t tell him any of it, instead returning her attention to the road, maintaining a professional distance that made them both feel comfortable.

The actual museum was a towering edifice of pink and black granite; the offices across the street much more utilitarian. They walked into a tiny lobby secured by a guard, Webster showing his badge, Rina writing down their names on the sign-in sheet. The sentry radioed their arrival through a walkie-talkie, and a minute later a fifties-plus, pencil-thin woman came through the parted doors of one of the four elevators. Dressed in a sheath of black, she had startling blue eyes and her head was a nest of inky, short curls. She could have been Rina’s much older sister. She kissed Rina’s cheek.

“How are you doing, darling? Your husband must be going crazy with those awful murders.”

“Yes, it is awful. That’s one of the reasons why we’re here. This is Detective Tom Webster. He needs information.”

The woman gave him her hand. “Did we ever meet before?”

Her Long Island accent was as broad as a put-on.

Webster said, “I don’t b’lieve—”

“Yes we did, yes, we did.” She tapped her head with long, red, manicured nails. “But it wasn’t in a professional capacity. It was at…” Again, she tapped her head. “Wait, wait…Baja Mexico, the fast-food joint, not the country. Your son ordered a chicken fajita grande and shared it with my grandson, who ordered that vegetarian burrito. Your wife was very pregnant. That must have been like…seven, eight months ago at one of those car rallies in B.H.” She jabbed the elevator button. “What’d she have—boy or girl?”

Webster stared at her. “Uh, a girl—”

“Oh, how wonderful! She got her girl. She really wanted a daughter, but didn’t say anything to you because she didn’t want to upset you in case she had another boy. Tell her congratulations.”

Webster was struck silent. The elevator doors opened and they all stepped inside. As soon as they closed, the woman smiled, showing white teeth. “Did I say my name? Kate Mandelbaum. What was your wife’s name? Karen?”

“Carrie.”

“That’s right. And don’t look so concerned about not remembering me. I make it a practice to memorize people. It comes in handy in my line of work.”

They got out on the third floor. Kate took them down a long corridor, her buttocks swaying because she was marching in ultra-high heels. As soon as she got into her office, she pressed the blinking message-machine button and listened while sorting through a stack of written phone numbers.

“Hi, Kate—”

She disposed of that message.

“Hey, Katie—”

Fast-forwarded through that one.

“Kate, it’s Neil. I was wondering if you could take on the Farkas file—”

“No, I cannot!” She erased that one.

“Hi, Grandma. It’s me…Reuven. I was wondering if you could come to my school for Grandparents’ Day. I’m gonna be in the choir, too. But I don’t have a solo. Call me back at—”

She fast-forwarded the message. “Like I don’t know the number.” She punched it in via speed dial. “Hello, darling. I got your message and of course I’ll come to the school. Tell me when and where. I love you, darling. Bye.” She fell down on the chair and fanned herself with a flyer. She spoke to Rina. “You want me to tell him about hate groups? By now, you must know as much as I do.”

“That’s quite a compliment,” Rina answered.

Webster took out a notebook. “I b’lieve you’ve talked to one of my colleagues in the past…Wanda Bontemps.”

“Sure, I know Wanda,” Kate answered. “So, you work with her?”

“Same geographical area, different detail. I’m in Homicide.”

“Then you must think white supremacists had something to do with the murder of those two psychologists. Wouldn’t surprise me. Racists hate shrinks almost as much as they hate Jews.”

“Most of the shrinks are Jewish,” Rina said.

“Yeah, that just adds to their sense of paranoia that the Jews are out to get them. Turn their brain into mush…like there was something there to begin with.” Kate turned to Webster. “Actually, I heard it was a gay thing. The wife caught her husband and the boy in a compromising position.”

“It’s an ongoing investigation,” Webster said.

“That means he can’t talk about it,” Rina said.

Kate said, “Ernesto Golding—the boy who was murdered along with Mervin Baldwin—he vandalized your synagogue, right?”

Rina nodded.

“So you think there’s some kind of connection?”

“Beats me,” Rina said. “I’m just here to help Detective Webster.”

“C’mon, your husband must tell you things.”

“No, he really doesn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“America’s the land of free thought,” Rina answered.

“Very funny. Anyway, Detective, what do you want to know that Wanda couldn’t tell you?”

Webster said, “Wanda’s great at investigating hate crimes like Ernesto Golding—vandalism by bored, white, rich kids. Triple murders are another ballgame. Right now, we’re looking into everything, including local white supremacy organizations.”

“How local?”

“Southern Calif—”

“So-Cal is teeming with the critters. Starting in San Diego environs is Tom Metzger territory. You know about Tom Metzger?”

“Yes, ma’am. American Nazi Party—”

“No, the ANP was started by George Lincoln Rockwell, and that’s based in Chicago. Not to be confused with the home of the NSDAP which is based in
Lincoln,
Nebraska. Metzger’s party is the White Aryan Resistance—WAR.”

“What’s the difference?” Webster asked.

“Nomenclature. They’re all hatemongers.”

“How many groups are there in Southern California?”

“Twenty…twenty-five. That doesn’t mean So-Cal is being overrun with these clowns, only that it’s hard to tell you specific numbers because the groups are constantly shifting.”

“How about some names?”

“I know there’s a chapter of the World Church of the Creator—”

“Who are they?” Webster asked.

“An offshoot of the American White Party…Matthew Hale,” Rina answered.

Kate said, “Hale took over in 1995, maybe ’96. They’re white supremacists based on social Darwinism—survival of the fittest. They don’t care who you are as long as you’re white. They’re atheists as opposed to the Christian racist sects who obviously use Christianity to rationalize their racism. Each ethnic group more or less has its own racist counterpart—the Latinos have Aztlan, African-Americans have the Nation of Islam. Whites have lots to choose from—branches of the Klan, the neo-Nazis, the Straight Edges, the Skinheads, the Peckerwoods—”

“Peckerwoods?” Webster laughed. “Why would anyone in their right mind call themselves a Peckerwood?”

“It was a derogatory term for blacks,” Kate said. “Peckerwoods use drug money to finance their neo-Nazi activities, as opposed to groups like the Hammerskins, who supposedly disavow the drug trade. Now, that’s the overt party line. The
differences are teeny-tiny and becoming more teeny-tiny every day.”

Rina said, “I think Detective Webster is specifically interested in the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity, because its home base is in the North Valley.”

“The Preservers of Ethnic Integrity.” Kate nodded. “They were originally a splinter from the World Church of the Creator. Over the last four years, they’ve worked really hard to sanitize their act. For instance, they don’t talk about white supremacy or even the white race. Instead, they use terms like the integrity of the
European-American
, to put it in the same category as African-American or Hispanic-American.” She sat down at her desk, moving the computer mouse until her flying-object screen saver disappeared. “I’m sure that PEI has a Web site.”

“They do.” Webster gave her the URL page number. “I was just hoping that you could tell me more than the stuff I picked up off the Internet.”

“Well, first let’s look at what they’re preaching. Often the buzzwords will tell me something about who they associate with.” As soon as Kate brought up the Web site, she flinched. The screen was alight in vivid color and was three-dimensional. It showed a detailed, three-dimensional Uncle Sam standing guard over a topographical map of the United States. “Well, the graphics are new…very high quality. A pro job. They must have gotten an infusion of money somewhere.”

“Where would the money come from?” Webster asked.

“I don’t know, and that’s a problem. Recently, two white supremacists up in Silicon Valley sold their business to a major computer company for over a hundred million dollars. They financed this massive mail-out of hate literature up in the tri-state area—Washington, Oregon, Idaho. Right now, their dot-com money is paying for Garvey McKenna’s defense.”

“I don’t know him,” Webster said.

“He’s a violent racist,” Rina said. “Sacramento area. He
was involved in the arson of two synagogues and one black Baptist church. He’s currently being tried on robbery and assault charges of a Jewish jeweler in that area.” Rina frowned. “Wasn’t he convicted?”

“It’s on appeal,” Kate answered. “It’s really depressing. One of the ways we hit these bastards is with lawsuits—sue ’em until they’re broke. With an influx of techno-money, it makes it harder for us to do our job.”