The Forgotten (24 page)

“I hear you.”

“I know this man—Oscar Adler. He’s around ninety…from Czechoslovakia. But he was transported to Warsaw, then to Treblinka at the very end of the camp’s existence. When the Nazis tried to burn the camp down—this was right before the Russian invasion—a rarified few souls escaped and hid out in the woods of Poland. Even of those who escaped, most of them were returned to the Nazis by the Polish police. This man is a real survivor in every sense of the word. He’s very coherent and very alert. But there’s a problem.”

She let the words hang in the air—either for dramatic effect or it was hard for her to vocalize them.

“He won’t talk about his experiences, Rina. I’ve begged and begged him to record his story for posterity. I’ve used every tactic known to mankind…he remains mute.”

Not unlike Golding’s father
. “Where do you know him from?”

“He’s in the same rest home as my uncle. You know me: I’ve got a big mouth, and old folk are the talkiest people in the world when you give them a chance. He let it slip one day that he survived Treblinka—kind of accidentally on purpose. You could have picked me off the floor. I was shocked beyond belief. I started thinking about how much good he could do for the Center. But when I mentioned it, he froze like an icicle. He turned red with fury and hypertension and told me under no uncertain terms was I allowed to mention his experience to anyone. I thought that was terribly unfair, but I was not about to give the man a coronary. So I’ve kept my promise, and as much as I’d like to bombard him with questions, I’ve kept my mouth shut. So far.”

It was unfair, but who was Rina to judge someone who had
gone through that monstrous ordeal? She said, “It’s a shame. I’m sure there are people out there who don’t know what happened to their loved ones.”

“Not in this case. Treblinka wiped out entire families—all generations. Now, once in a blue moon, I’ll mention a name to Oscar. If he knows the name, he’ll tell me yes or no. But so far, he hasn’t known any names. That’s because by the time he got to Warsaw, the Nazis were killing the Jews at such a fast rate, he never got a chance to know anyone for more than a week at a time. He only survived because he hid out until the bitter end.”

“I guess at ninety he feels that he earned the right not to talk.” Rina thought for a moment. “Is there anything he especially likes to eat? How about some homemade soup?”

Georgia rocked her hand back and forth. “Soup may be good.”

“How about if I make him some homemade chicken soup? Or better yet if I make him some old-fashioned cabbage soup with boiled flanken?”

“How about both?”

“Easy enough. I’ll make two pots. And I’ll even include matzoh balls and kreplach with the chicken soup. Noncontingent upon his talking about his awful experience. He gets the soup no matter what.”

“You may have something there.” Georgia shrugged. “But don’t be disappointed if he refuses to talk to you.”

“Once he tastes my soup, he won’t say no.”

Georgia stared at Rina. “I’ll tell him you’re pretty. In addition to soup, Oscar’s a sucker for a pretty face.”

When Emma Lazarus
wrote her famous words underneath the Statue of Liberty, she must have had places like the Foothills Division of the LAPD in mind, the area being a multicultural mix of displaced and struggling whites, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, and other ethnicities thrown into the immigrant salad. It was arid terrain, making it Saharan hot in the summertime, swimming in the smoggy haze of vehicular combustion. It had been the division that Decker had called home for fifteen years, working there even as it sat under microscopic scrutiny after the Rodney King beating. In this lonesome geographical glitch called the Northeast Valley, the title of “Hero of the Century” still belonged to Ritchie Valens. To Bert Martinez, the deceased singer was still tops.

At the helm of the unmarked Dodge, he sped along the 5 North, driving by groups of peeling stucco houses and apartment units, disassembled car parts spangling weed-choked lots. In the harsh sunlight, the chrome and steel reflected heat but no warmth.

“I went to school not far from here,” Martinez said.

Webster glanced at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. Pacoima High. My prom date lived off the freeway…before this was a freeway. In the old days, the only things out here were houses and a White Front discount de
partment store.” He changed lanes. “My old man was a housepainter, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, him and his brother. Between the two families, we were seven boys. My father wore a big, black belt and felt free to use it on our butts.” A smile. “Those were the days when Children’s Services meant a hot lunch at the cafeteria.” He shook his head at the passage of time. “I’m not saying corporal punishment is a good thing, but neither me nor my three brothers resented him for it. Just the way it was.”

“Or maybe your old man knew when to stop.”

“Maybe.” Martinez exhaled. “When I lived here, it was home. Now it just seems like another blighted area—depressing as hell. And it hasn’t even changed all that much. Amazing what perspective does.”

“Do you still have relatives out here?”

“Nah. The minute any of them got a little money, they moved away.”

“Where does Luis live?”

“Montebello.”

“Where he works.”

“Yeah. Did I tell you he made sergeant?”

“No. Tell him congratulations from me.”

“I will. The other two live in the Union Station area.”

“That I know. I think my wife has taken half our neighborhood down to the store. They all like the part when your brother takes out the screwdriver and starts pounding the shit out of the wardrobe to prove how strong that fabric is.”

Martinez chuckled. “He’s got the routine down pat.”

The Dodge whined as it ascended the smooth grade up to the mountains. The temperature gauge started to rise. Not precipitously, but enough to cause some concern.

“Open the windows?” Martinez suggested.

“It’s better than overheating.”

Immediately, a scorched wind filled the Dodge. Webster sighed and unbuttoned his shirt. “When you think about it, we work in a division that has all ends of the spectrum. Some very wealthy live in the area, some not so wealthy…”

“Go on,” Martinez said.

“Sometimes, I go to a house…like Alice Ranger. She’s living in this spanking-new mansion with every kind of amenity, drinking herself comatose. Here I am, a college graduate working my ass off, sweating like vegetables in a frying pan for fifty-two grand a year.”

“Plus benefits.”

“I’m not complaining,” Webster said. “I reckon there were lots of ways I could have gone, but I chose this, and I’m not complaining—”

“You already said that.”

“So it sounds like complaining?” Webster smiled. “I’m all right. But I do wonder what the hell people like Alice have to bitch about. And we don’t only see women like Alice Ranger. We deal with lots of working stiffs. So what must it be like for a macho, hyper-American Marine like Hank Tarpin to work with the rich day in and day out? It’s got to eat at you.”

“Not if you never aspire to it.”

“C’mon, Bert. No one ever aspires to grow up average.”

“Tommy, if your life was below average growing up, average can look pretty damn good.”

Webster didn’t say anything.

Martinez hesitated. “Being poor isn’t the reason that these buttholes wind up racists.”

“It’s one of the reasons.”

“It’s one of the excuses,” Martinez answered. “One among many.”

“Our exit is coming up. It’s right past the Honor Farm.”

Martinez moved over into the right-hand lane, then got off into a land of hay-colored, parched hillside undulating in the distance. Heat radiated off the asphalt. Scrub oak—gnarled and bent—thrived in the baked earth. Tall eucalyptus trees shimmered silver while exhaling fiery, menthol breath. Chaparral had managed to sprout and grow from the cracked ground below. The Dodge pitched through the lonely terrain, through air that was hot and still. But the visibility was better. Out here, even the smog had retreated, burning away in the
unforgiving sunlight. Sweat was pouring off skin surfaces that Webster shouldn’t have been aware of.

Martinez said, “How far is this place?”

“Canyon country.”

“Which canyon?”

“Sierra Canyon. Next to Placerita Canyon—the nature reserve. Y’ever been there?”

“No.”

“I was there about five years ago. Not in this heat, but in the springtime. My hay fever went haywire.”

“You really are a city slicker.”

“So far as I know, no one’s allergic to cement.”

“How do I get there?”

“Wait a minute.” Webster regarded the map. No grid lines—the roads in the Thomas Guide weren’t much more than a series of random squiggles. He gave Bert directions to the best of his ability—a mile here, two miles there. Martinez negotiated the series of twists and turns, and within minutes the car descended into the protective covering of the glens, mercifully shaded by towering sycamore trees that dropped the temperature a few degrees. The Dodge’s temperature gauge dropped as well.

“Try the air-conditioning again?” Webster suggested.

“Sure, live dangerously.”

They closed the windows and blasted the fan. But all it did was throw tepid gusts throughout the car’s interior. Small wooden homes—some not more than shacks—blended into the landscape. Deeper into the winding canyon, they passed a biker bar, replete with blinding chrome-studded Harleys. Shirtless, bearded fat men were hanging out of the place, bellies protruding like tongues from panting dogs. Martinez smoothed his mustache and reduced the speed, just long enough to cast a couple of glances.

“Think PEI has any sympathizers out there?”

“I reckon it may have one or two.”

“Want to catch a beer, Tom?”

“There’re ’bout sixty of them and two of us. I’ll pass.”

The men laughed, but it was a jittery one. Delving into the wilderness, farther from the telephone poles, farther from civilization.

Webster said, “From the looks of it, I’d say that Tarpin felt right at home at Baldwin’s nature camp.” He stared at his map, looking at the small dirt roads that he had outlined in red. “’Bout a mile up you got to look for an unpaved pathway—Homestead Place. But there aren’t any street signs.”

“I’ll use the odometer.”

“It’ll be on our left.” They rode in silence, looking for the turnoff. Webster squinted. “How ’bout there?”

Martinez slowed. “It’s as good a guess as any.”

The car rattled as it plowed against the rock-hard dirt lane, both of them praying the tires wouldn’t give out. As the car hugged the tortuous paths, makeshift shacks and lean-tos could be spotted nestled in the copses. The structures held addresses, but the street numbers seemed to defy logic. Five minutes later, after several backtracks and some good luck, they found the appointed place. As soon as they got out of the air-conditioned vehicle, a blast from the midday furnace hit their faces. But as strong as it was, it couldn’t compete with the stench.

“Good Lord!” Webster held his nose. “Whatever died was awfully big.”

Martinez was sweating profusely. But not just from the heat. He was visibly upset. “This is terrible! We just saw the man yesterday.”

“Assuming it’s him.” Webster mopped his face with the tail of his shirt. “Y’all want to call it in to the local authorities?”

“Shouldn’t we check it out first?”

“My nose already did that.”

Martinez gave him a look.

Webster shrugged carelessly. “Go ahead.”

“By myself? Suppose there’s someone lurking in the back?”

Webster grimaced. “You just want me to puke.”

“Stop being such a wuss.”

“Them’s fightin’ words.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

The two of them trudged through the detritus of dried leaves and dead foliage, feeling the crunch under their shoes. The fumes grew stronger and more organic—the putrid stink of rotted flesh and waste. Dense clouds of black flies swirled about their faces, their hums intoning like a monk’s mantra. Webster swatted them away from his face.

The door to Tarpin’s cabin was partially open. Martinez pulled out a handkerchief, wrapped it around his hand, and gave the portal a sizeable nudge.

More flies rose up along with other creepy-crawlies—bees, wasps, mosquitoes, gnats, mites, spiders, beetles, and silverfish. A veritable bugfest of black and silver winged things as well as slithery creatures gorging themselves on flesh, bone, and blood. A large brown rat scampered across the wood-planked floor. Among the drones of the vermin and the odor of putrefaction lay Tarpin in a black-veined, maroon pond of sticky, coagulated blood and sera. His eyes were open; his mouth was agape, maggots wriggling through the open orifices. His hair was matted and wet, a natural breeding ground for anything with six legs. He was fully clothed. He had been shot in the head.

Pulling out a camera, Martinez started snapping pictures. Webster rocked on his feet, sensing electric flashes and sparkles dance through his once perfect vision. Abruptly, he excused himself.

Martinez watched him go. At least Webster had the smarts to lose it away from the crime scene. It would have been very unprofessional of him to contaminate the evidence.

Oliver parked his butt on a hard folding chair and slung his head back. Talking to the ceiling even though there were three other people in the room. “Every time we get a suspect, he winds up dead.”

“That’s the good news,” Marge responded. “It means we
have very few people on our wanted list left to investigate. The bad news is if we strike out with them, we’re screwed.”

Oliver sat up, took off his jacket, then loosened his tie. “Doesn’t this place believe in air-conditioning?”

“It works great in the winter.” Decker wiped his face down with a handkerchief and tossed a manila envelope to Oliver. “Your passport, Detective. Dr. Estes is expecting you and Marge in an hour.” He looked at his detectives’ faces covered with sweat. “If you leave now, you’ll have plenty of time.”

Oliver took out the warrant. “How’d you pull it so fast?”

“I’ve got connections in high places. Also, Tarpin’s death sped things up.” Decker had taken off his jacket but had kept his tie knotted. He had large, wet ellipses under his armpits, and his neck was bathed in perspiration. Marge and Wanda wore short-sleeved blouses, but their armpits were damp as well.

Marge checked her watch. “What time’s the funeral?”

“Six-thirty.”

She frowned. That gave her and Oliver just a little over three hours to make it into Beverly Hills, root through the Baldwin files, and make it back into the Valley. As it stood, they were looking at fifty minutes of absolute travel time, more actually because peak commuter time was just around the corner. “We’re not going to make it.”

“You’re excused. This new homicide changes things.” Decker looked at Wanda. “What do you have?”

She bit her lower lip. “It isn’t looking good, sir. The PEI office was completely cleaned out. Not a scrap of paper to be found.”

“What about the furniture?” Marge asked.

“It was still there,” Wanda said.

“That makes sense,” Decker said. “You take off quickly, you don’t take furniture.”

“I sent a tech over there to dust the place,” Wanda said.

“What do you hope to find?” Oliver challenged.

“I don’t know what I
expected
to find,” Wanda answered.
“But what I got was surprising. The walls and the furniture were basically free of prints.”

“Basically?” Oliver asked.

“We pulled up about a dozen fingerprints…a couple of palm prints. Way less than expected.”

Decker said, “Someone wiped down the place before he cleared out.”

Oliver said, “You mean Darrell Holt wiped the place before he cleared out.”

“Yes, that is what I mean.” Decker took out his pad and paper. “Put the prints into the system. Let’s see if it spits back anything.”

“That’ll take days,” Oliver answered.

“Are you going anywhere?” Decker retorted.

“I’m only lamenting, Loo. So much for a quick solve.”

“I lament with you, Scott.” Decker tried to clear his brain. “What do we know? We know that the Baldwins were Holt’s therapists. According to Tarpin, Holt wasn’t one of the Baldwins’ success stories. We also know that Tarpin was involved with Holt and PEI. That’s what we know.”

Oliver said, “So if Holt’s the perp, we’ve got to ask ourselves what would Holt have to gain for whacking the Baldwins and Tarpin?”

Decker said, “You forgot about Ernesto.”

“I think he was wrong place, wrong time.”

“You think so?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. We’ll assume that for the moment, although I’m not convinced. But if it were the case, what would be Holt’s motivation for wanting the Baldwins dead?”

Wanda said, “Maybe the Baldwins had something on him?”

“Holt wasn’t running for Congress,” Oliver answered. “What could they have had on Holt that would have been more embarrassing than his association with PEI?”

“Maybe something from his therapy days?” Marge sug
gested. “A weird sexual proclivity that wouldn’t have played well with PEI?”

“Like he likes little boys?” Oliver asked.