The Forgotten (26 page)

“What does Baldwin mean by ‘deserted or removed’?” Marge asked. “Did the father kick the mother out or something?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Maryam stated. “Obviously, this was something that Dr. Baldwin was dealing with Darrell about.”

Marge said, “Is it unusual that the father refuses to talk about the mother?”

“Lots of men have communication problems. Usually…” Maryam made a face. “When a party is that resolute in his or her silence, it obviously means the situation was very, very painful—beyond the usual stress of divorce.”

“An affair?”

Maryam shrugged.

“Did the mother suddenly desert the family?”

“I couldn’t say. But it was obviously very traumatic for the father.”

Marge turned back to the ledger page. “What does FF mean?”

Maryam blushed. “I think it means full fee.”

She thinks
.

“That would make sense,” Marge said. “It goes along with Mervin stating that the father was wealthy.”

Maryam looked away, not wanting to deal with the implications.

The next page of notes was more like scribbles, taken at varying times in different colored pens:

Again, she showed the page to Dr. Estes. “What’s this stand for?”

The doctor looked at the chart. “Anti-S is antisocial. W is withdrawal. DU is drug use.”

“And what is oppositional behavior again?”

“Acting out,” Maryam stated. “Darrell Holt had a big behavioral problem.”

“And we’re back to FF again. This time Baldwin appears to mean that the father was willing to pay full fee for the camp.”

“Why are you begrudging Dr. Baldwin’s right to make a good living?”

Marge didn’t push it. “I’m sorry if it appears that way. I’m just trying to understand the man—”

“He was not in it for the big money. He could have made far more bucks doing the radio and TV talk-show circuit, but he refused to play that game because he and Dee felt it was unethical!”

Marge tried to appear convinced. Another page of notes with more abbreviations. An appointment set up to talk to the father about the nature camp.

On the last page—dated six years ago—the heavy block letters had been replaced. She noted the word “Harvard” scrawled across the page. Under it was a complete sentence: “SAT review set up for Saturday the 15th.” She showed the sheet to Maryam. “The handwriting changes.”

“It’s Dee’s. Obviously, she did some college counseling and test review therapy with Holt.”

Marge said, “And Dee set up a test review with him on that Saturday?”

“Yes, it seems like it.”

“What exactly is test review therapy?”

“A simulated SAT test. Then they go over the answers together, figuring out the best way to approach each question. It’s basically a one-on-one SAT review course.”

“There are courses on how to take the SAT?”

“Yes. As I recall, you spoke about having a thirteen-year-old daughter? You’ll know about these things later on.”

“What kind of questions do you ask?”

“Questions that Dee felt might be representative of the test.”

“Where’d they get the questions from? Past tests?”

“Some from past tests to be sure. But that’s not enough because everyone has access to past tests. Mostly, Dee formulated her own questions, based on her extensive knowledge of test-taking skills. Her seminars are designed not only to give her patients maximum exposure to typical test questions but also to teach a student how to take the test with minimum anxiety for maximum performance. And lest you scoff, take a look at Dee’s results.”

“I’m not scoffing at anything,” Marge said. “Lots of pressure, right? To perform well on these tests.”

“Unbelievable. Some of it is self-generated, but lots of it comes from the parents. They are vicious when it comes to their children. You’d swear that it was they who were applying. If their children don’t get into the prescribed school, they take it as a failure on themselves.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “Because…unfortunately…they see their children as a reflection upon their own status. Lots of these parents didn’t go to any of the Ivies. So they want something better for their children. And those that did go, they feel their children should continue the legacy.” She licked her lips. “It’s a bit intense—”

“It’s nuts!” Marge said. “There’s life beyond college.”

“Not in this fiercely competitive world. You need an edge.”

“And this is what Dee Baldwin was selling?” Marge asked. “The edge?”

“She wasn’t selling anything! She was just helping kids reach their maximum potential!”

“You know what happens to a machine that runs full-tilt?”

“People are not machines!”

“But they do burn out. How much do these parents pay to get the edge?”

“They pay for the therapy and for the tutelage. It varies from child to child.”

“About.”

“Three-fifty an hour. About what lawyers make, and they do a hell of a lot more good than attorneys.” She kneaded her hands. “It’s not an easy task—fitting each child with the right university. Sometimes parents are insistent even if the odds are bad. You do your best with whatever raw material you have. Sometimes parents want miracles.”

“And what happens when they figure out you’re not a miracle worker? What happens to those cases?”

There was silence. Then she said, “Dee had a good success rate. She could always point to that.”

“Dee scribbled the word ‘Harvard’ on Holt’s chart. But Holt went to Berkeley,” Marge said. “Does that mean he didn’t get into the college of his dreams?”

“I have no idea.” Maryam hesitated. “Berkeley is a top school.”

“It’s not Harvard—”

“Actually, it’s better than Harvard in some departments.”

“But it doesn’t have that same…cachet, correct?”

“Only if you’re very narrow-minded.”

“Or an angry, hostile teenager.”

“You’re actually suggesting that Holt killed the Baldwins because he didn’t get into Harvard
eight years ago
?”

The nagging question: If Holt wanted vengeance, why did he wait so long? “Does the name Ricky Moke sound familiar to you?”

She thought, then shook her head. “No, I can’t say that it does.”

“Can you check to see if Baldwin has a file for him?”

“With that warrant, I suppose I don’t really have a choice.”

“No, you don’t, but I’m being polite.”

Maryam looked down. “At least you’re honest. How old is he?”

“I don’t know…probably around Holt’s age.”

“A past patient?”

“I’d assume so.”

Maryam opened the appropriate drawer and sifted through the folders. “I’m not finding anything. Let me check again.” A few moments passed. “Sorry. Nothing. Could he be a current client?”

“Let’s check it out.”

The two of them left the small closet and walked back over to the Baldwins’ plush, oversize office, the huge double desk acting as its centerpiece. Lots of care had been taken in decorating it. The rose tint in the sofas matched perfectly with the rose upholstery of the stuffed chairs. The tables were adorned with the perfect accessories. Even the landscapes looked to be color-coordinated.

Oliver, who had been sitting at Mervin’s side of the partners desk, looked up as soon as the women walked in. He raised a single eyebrow.

Marge picked up on it. “Find something interesting?”

“
Really
interesting. Guess who was on Dee Baldwin’s payroll?”

“Darrell Holt,” Marge said.

“Darrell Holt?” Oliver’s response was a question.

This threw Marge off-kilter. “Not Darrell?”

Oliver shook his head. “Ricky Moke.”

Maryam was perplexed. “Who on earth is Ricky Moke?”

Marge slapped her forehead with her palm. “He’s Darrell Holt, that’s who he is.”

Architecturally, the church
had been built with light and air in mind—a vast, vaulted ceiling combined with lots of windows and an enormous domed stained-glass skylight. But even with the space and the light and the air-conditioning going full force, the sheer density of human flesh made the sanctuary unbearably hot. Of course, the suit and tie didn’t help. Within minutes, Decker was as wet and limp as a discarded bath towel.

He stood at the back in a standing-room-only capacity crowd, preferential seating having been given to the relatives and friends of the Goldings. The coffin, draped with a beautifully ornate, embroidered spread, lay atop the stage, surrounded by wreaths of white blooms—lilies, carnations, gardenias, and roses. The choir stood on risers in front of the stage, draped in satin robes of red and white. They sang hymns that Decker didn’t recognize, but this was a Unitarian church, and the liturgy was different from that of his Baptist upbringing. The harmonies rang out in the cavernous acoustics—haunting and beautiful. If there was a heaven, Ernesto was definitely there.

The weeping was audible; the sobbing echoed off the stone walls and filled the empty space. The family was seated in the front row, a trio in black. Decker had only caught a glimpse of them as they walked down the aisle, and only be
cause he was so tall. There was Jill—so tiny and frail—limping as if her hips were in tremendous pain. It was as though the pelvic bones that bore her son had betrayed her. Carter was hunched over and shuffled alongside his wife like a crippled old man. Karl, the surviving brother, had aged in just two days. Holding on to one another, clinging for life while huddled as if on a life raft.

The minister talked of Ernesto’s glowing years cut short by a terrible fate. That it was up to them—the congregation—to come together and help lead Jill and Carter and Karl out of the valley of darkness and into the spirit’s light. But it would take time—months, years, decades, and maybe never—but they, the community, must never stop trying. Never turn their backs; never forget the wonderful human being that was Ernesto Che Golding. He urged the family to make a commitment to life.

Then the minister talked to the parents directly, offering them personal words of solace. Next came Karl—the survivor’s role is the most difficult. He blessed the boy and told him to try to get on with his life, to remember the joy in Ernesto and live that joy. That would be the best legacy to his brother. Do not let the death of one son become the death of two sons.

Decker had seen that all too often. Death murders more than one victim. The preacher had to have been in his fifties—squat and round, and unprepossessing physically, but he had a definite presence. He had a knack of speaking intimately to the family, yet his words could be heard clear to the back of the sanctuary. As he spoke, the weeping rose and fell in pitch like waves tossing on the shoals.

To pass the time, Decker looked for familiar faces. There was the mayor, a state senator, several state and national congressmen. The captain and the commander of police were sitting behind the politicians—an appropriate fit. The local news networks had set up cameras in the aisles. Farther down the rows of pews sat Lisa Halloway, her hands shaking, her
face covered with tears. Headmaster Williams was wiping his eyes. Jaime Dahl was weeping openly. All of his classmates…all of them the same ages as Decker’s own sons. Ruby Ranger had decided not to make an appearance. But then again she could be in the room. He only knew her by snapshots.

Decker had a lump in his throat. His eyes ached along with his head. His heart began to bang in his chest. He was melting in the heat, and his feet were sore from standing. His brain began to ring—loudly. Then he realized it was his cellular phone.

Embarrassed, he made a quick exit and answered it on the fifth ring.

“Decker.”

“It’s me.”

Me was Marge. Decker said, “What’s up?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the funeral.”

“How much longer?”

“I don’t know. What do you have?”

“Lots of things. You should come down here.”

“Why? Do you have something on Holt?”

“Both Holt and Ricky Moke. Holt was involved professionally with Dee Baldwin. Dr. Estes saw them together in her office, along with Hank Tarpin. But get this. It was Ricky Moke who was on the Baldwins’ payroll.”

The light went on. Decker said, “They’re the same person.”

“Well, we’re all thinking along the same lines.”

“Were Moke/Holt and Dee Baldwin only involved professionally?”

“That’s still sketchy at this point. That’s why you should come down here.” She gave him a brief recap of her conversation with Maryam Estes.

Decker said, “So it looks like Scott was right…the Baldwins had some insider’s info with the standardized tests.”

“Agreed. When do you think you’ll be done?”

“I don’t know. I have to show my face to the family.”

Marge sighed. “Pete, maybe the appearance could wait. We’re onto something.”

“No, it can’t wait. First of all, being a father myself, it’s the decent thing to do. I’ve got to express my condolences, and it has to be done personally. Secondly, if we’re totally off with this Moke/Holt thing, I’m going to need the Goldings as the case progresses. I’m not about to squander goodwill. I’ll be out as soon as I can.”

“You’re getting soft in your old age.”

“It’s one of the luxuries, Dunn.” Decker cut the line, then called Martinez on his cell. “Are you still at the crime scene?”

“We’re about to merge onto the 215,” Bert answered. “I thought you wanted us to help Marge and Oliver out?”

“I want you to track down Darrell Holt’s father. See if his plane landed and interview him ASAP. Maybe he’ll have a clue as to where Darrell is.”

“I thought Wanda was on that.”

“I want
Homicide
on it. We need a fix on Darrell Holt, and we need it right now.”

Martinez recognized the urgency in the loo’s voice. “We’re on it. I’ll report back as soon as I have something.”

“Do that.” Decker hung up. As hot as it was outside, at least there was a discernible breeze. He took off his jacket and decided to wait until the remaining portion of the service was over. He found shade under some specimen sycamores and took out his notepad.

Jotting down bits:

The doors to the main sanctuary opened, but the people did not spill out. Solemn music could be heard; it was a slow, ponderous dirge. Minutes later, the coffin appeared, being carried out by six teenaged male pallbearers—classmates of Ernesto, maybe cousins. Big boys who had been openly crying, with their red eyes and runny noses and curled lips.

There but for the grace of God go I.

Right behind the coffin was Jill, held up by Carter. Karl walked behind his parents, looking like a bear awakened from hibernation. His eyes were darting about, refusing to focus. They swept over Decker’s face, then did a double take. Then he mouthed the words clearly:
I need to talk to you!

Wide-eyed, Decker suddenly straightened up, then held out his palms as if to ask,
When
? He took a step forward, but Karl shook his head ever so slightly, then mouthed the words,
At the house…in an hour.

An hour was not nearly enough time to make a round trip from here to the Baldwin office. He might as well stay put. Decker retrieved his car and joined the procession heading for the graveyard.

The cemetery was fifteen minutes away, in the hills of the Valley, overlooking the smoggy basin. It took some time for all the cars to park and for the people to gather around the coffin hole. It was late, late afternoon, and because the sun was low on the horizon, the rays were intensely hot and glaring. Several times, Jill’s balance faltered. Once, Carter swayed on his feet. As they lowered the casket into the ground, the weeping grew to wailing—loud and disturbing. The pain was so incredibly hard to bear, even for a seasoned
pro. Friends and relatives took turns shoveling dirt atop the casket. This was not a Christian custom, having the mourners bury the body. But it was a Jewish custom not to leave the coffin until it is completely under soil. Since the church was Unitarian, Decker supposed that they took bits and pieces from every religion.

There they were—boys and girls, men and women who labored in the setting sun to bury their classmate, their friend, their nephew and cousin. Finally Karl stepped up and grabbed a spade, the big, broad shoulders shaking with grief as he threw clods of earth over his brother’s casket. Sweating and shoveling over and over and over.

After a half hour, the grave was a mound of freshly turned soil. The devastated family returned to the hearse, and the procession descended the mountain. Car upon car, bumper to bumper. It took a half hour for Decker to get back onto the main road. Another twenty minutes for Decker to find a parking space. He had to settle for a spot a block away from the Goldings’ home.

People were tumbling out of the front door. Some were holding drinks, others were eating or talking. No one was crying; no one even looked upset. It could have been a party, except the conversation was subdued, lacking the lighthearted, tinkling laughter that usually accompanied the ingestion of alcohol.

Muttering several “S’cuse me’s,” Decker squeezed his way through the doorway, pretending not to see the dirty looks. They viewed him like he was a grizzly rummaging through the tents. Because the house had high ceilings, it was a din of echoes, noise, chatter, and intermittent sobs. Decker used his height advantage to see over the masses, but he couldn’t find Karl. He did spot Jill, weeping into a handkerchief. He saw Carter shaking hands with the minister. They were about a hundred feet from where he stood, and to get to them, he’d have to wade through many beating hearts. He wavered, then pushed his way through.

Carter noticed him first, acknowledging him with a simple nod. Decker nodded back. There was a hesitation, then Carter spoke.

“Reverend, this is Lieutenant Decker…” Golding paused, his lower lip trembling, then he turned his head away.

Decker said, “I’m in charge of the investigation.”

“Jack Waylen.” The reverend held out his hand.

Decker took it. “You spoke from the heart.”

“It was from the heart.”

Decker turned his attention to Golding. “It was a beautiful way to say good-bye to your son.” He sighed. “I just wanted you to know that I’m available for you twenty-four hours a day.”

Carter closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

“When things are quieter, will you tell your wife that as well?” Again Decker sighed. “I’d tell her, but I think my appearance might upset her.”

“It would.” Carter clasped his hands together. “Thank you for coming.”

The dismissal line. Decker was relieved. “Again, my deepest condolences for your terrible loss.” He slowly turned and walked away. Moments later, he felt the presence of another body. The minister was at his side.

Waylen said, “Do you have any idea what’s going on with the murder?”

“I have ideas.” He faced the stocky man. “But they’re not for public consumption.”

“This case shouldn’t drag on. It would do permanent damage to your image and to the morale of the community.”

“I’m doing my best, Reverend.”

“This isn’t like The Order, Lieutenant,” Waylen said. “This isn’t some isolated sect. The Goldings are community people—loved and respected. There hasn’t been a tragedy that has cut as deeply as this one since Dr. Sparks was murdered six years ago. We need resolution, and we need it quickly if healing is to begin.”

Involuntarily, Decker bristled, not from Waylen’s admonitions, but from hearing the name Sparks. “We solved that one, we’ll solve this one, too.” A pause. “Anything else?”

Waylen said, “If you want to tell me anything, I’m here to listen.”

“And if there’s something you want to tell me, I’m here to listen as well.” Decker looked him in the eye. “You know how it is. Confession is the mainstay of both cops and priests.”

The minister’s eyebrows lifted. He didn’t have time to respond because Karl had materialized. Instantly, Waylen went to work. He hugged the boy and held his hand as he spoke. “What can I do for you, Karl?”

“I’m okay, Reverend.”

“I am here for you. I want you to know that.”

“Thanks, Reverend.” The boy looked down and extracted his hand from the minister’s grip. “I appreciate that.”

No one spoke.

Karl wiped his forehead with a tissue. “I’m tired.”

Waylen said, “Maybe you should lie down, Karl.”

“I don’t think I should leave my parents.” Karl looked beseechingly at Waylen. “Could…could you attend to them for about a half hour? Just…just so I can change my shoes or—”

“Of course.”

He turned to Decker. “Lieutenant…”

“Karl…” Decker answered.

“Maybe…you can bring me up some water?” the boy asked.

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll do it,” Waylen interjected.

“Reverend, I think my parents…you should stay with them.”

“Go lie down,” Decker said. “I’ll get you the water.”

“Thank you.” Rapidly, Karl moved through the crowd, resisting contact with anyone. Decker retreated from the minister, then headed for the kitchen until he spotted a table that
held glasses of prepoured soda. He picked up a 7UP and, drink in hand, he made his way to Karl’s bedroom. The door was closed.

Decker knocked. “It’s Lieutenant Decker, Karl.”

Footsteps, then the deadbolt unlatched. “Quick!” the boy said. As soon as Decker cleared the threshold, he secured the lock. “I just…don’t want to talk to anyone else.”