Justice (13 page)

To Erica, Strong said, “And just what—if anything—does Mr. Donatti have to do with this case?”

“Nothing so far,” Erica stammered out, “but Mr. Donatti’s history is one rife with—”

“I’m not interested in Joseph Donatti, Prosecutor.” Strong cut her off. “He’s not on trial here.”

Krost jumped in. “Your Honor, Mr. Whitman hasn’t ever been charged with so much as a…speeding ticket, let alone anything remotely criminal. As you heard, their claim is highly prejudicial.”

“Excuse me, Your Honor,” Whitman interjected.

Strong stared at Whitman. “Do you wish to say something, Mr. Whitman?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“What?”

“I have had a speeding ticket.”

The court burst into laughter. Even the judge chuckled. Decker hadn’t taken his eyes off Chris. The boy’s half-smile was perfect, charming but not cocky. His posture was relaxed. Four hours in the hole had had no appreciable effect on his demeanor.

“But I did pay it,” Whitman added. “On time, too.”

Again, the court tittered.

“Thank you, Mr. Whitman,” Strong said, dryly. “Records will indicate your good citizenship. Since your reluctance to be interviewed seems to be the focal point of this fracas, sir, I’ll address these words to you as well as your counsel. Your counsel has stated that you
will
appear willingly and without coercion tomorrow at five o’clock at the Devonshire Substation. At such time, you will, willingly and without coercion, answer all inquiries deemed appropriate by your counsel concerning the police’s ongoing investigation regarding the death of Cheryl Diggs. Is that a correct assessment, Mr. Krost?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And how about you, Mr. Whitman?” the judge said. “Did you understand what I just stated?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Whitman answered. “That was an accurate evaluation.”

“Accurate evaluation,” Strong repeated. “You know some vocabulary words, Mr. Whitman. Do you fully understand them?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Completely.”

“Mr. Whitman, do you also understand that if, for any reason, you fail to show at Devonshire tomorrow at five
P.M.
, you forfeit bail and
will
be arrested immediately?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Defendant is released on his own recognizance until five o’clock tomorrow afternoon, at which time he will meet with police investigators at the Devonshire Substation of the LAPD.”

Strong banged her gavel to indicate dismissal of the hearing. Krost broke into a grin and moved to congratulate Whitman. But the boy was already at the door. At the last moment, he looked over his shoulder and met Decker’s eyes.

Not a word was exchanged, not even a hint of an expression passed between them. In Decker’s mind, that was telling.

The error was so egregious
,
he couldn’t understand how it got past him. But if his eyes had noticed it, it was certain that the cop’s eyes had seen it as well. Only a matter of time before the warrant was pulled and they came in and tore up the apartment.

Okay. He knew they had the condoms. That was fair game. It wasn’t great, but he could explain them away. Plain and simple, he’d had sex with her like he’d done many times in the past. Having sex with her didn’t mean he had killed her. So right then and there, he knew he had to admit he did her.

Sitting at his kitchen counter, he poured himself a half glass of Scotch and took a healthy swig.

Why in Jesus’ holy name had he
done
her? His mind ran down the list of flimsy excuses. Because he’d been buzzed, because he’d been hornier than a goat after seeing all those skin flicks, and Cheryl had a drop-dead body. Lying on the bed spread-eagled, begging him to do her one last time…

And because he’d been furious at Terry because she hadn’t immediately run off with him into the sunset. Choosing Reiss over him, even if she had meant it just to be nice one last time. Cheryl had been his last bit of revenge.

Better at revenge than at love
.

He lit a cigarette, let the smoke slowly drift out of his
nostrils. Excuses didn’t hold squat. He did Cheryl—not once, but twice—because he was a fucking
moron
!

But all that was past now. Don’t look back, just forward. Nothing he could do about the damn bow tie. The Polaroids had shown it as clear as daylight, securing poor Cheryl’s left arm to the headboard. It would be a bitch to explain. He knew he couldn’t pull it off. That was the key to being a pro—to know the limitations.

He took another drag on his cigarette.

He’d simply have to approach the problem another way. If he couldn’t make the bow tie disappear, he’d have to lose the tux.

Too bad, because it was a nice one, a designer original with a shawl collar. Hand-tailored because nothing off the rack ever fit his long legs. Joey had dropped over two thousand dollars for it and was going to be pissed. He knew he’d have to make it up, which wasn’t a problem. There was always a favor one could do for Uncle Joey.

He took another swig of Scotch.

Most sensible thing was to chuck the threads in the Pacific Ocean. But tides that carried stuff away could also bring stuff back. Besides, he had the feeling that the red-headed cop had placed a tail on him. That being the case, it made more sense to stay put and hide the thing in the house.

But where?

A tux wasn’t exactly a nickel bag of drugs. It was a big article, hard to hide. He knew all too well what a good search could uncover. Nothing was safe. Not bed mattresses, not ceiling tiles, not floorboards, not locked cabinets, not holes in the wall, not
anything
.

He thought about cutting the monkey suit up into strips and dissolving it in acid. Rejected the idea. It wouldn’t work because he couldn’t get 100 percent results. All the cops needed was a
single
thread for fiber analysis.

He thought about cutting it up into shreds and burning
it. But again, a fire wasn’t foolproof. If Decker sorted through ashes, he’d find something. And also, with that much scissors work, there’d be too many loose threads.

No, he had to hide the thing
in toto
.

Slowly he got up from the kitchen counter and started looking around for a spot.

Living room had nothing. The cushions of the couch would be opened, the entire frame would probably be checked. The chair was a no-go as were the floorboards under the carpet. He looked up, regarded the spotlights recessed into the ceiling. The holes were too small to accommodate something that big.

He opened the front door, spotted a potted banana plant.

He could plant the damn thing under the tree’s roots. But then the dirt would be freshly turned. And he knew he’d spill dirt while he was doing the transplanting.

He closed the front door and walked into his bedroom. He searched through his closet and removed the tux, laying it on the bed. Initially, he’d been going to drop it off for dry cleaning first thing in the morning. But instead, he had elected to leave the tux for later and drive by Terry’s house, hoping she’d be up…explain to her what had happened. That Cheryl had waylaid him. But she’d been dealt with, he was going to say. Now they could run off together. But Terry’s shades had been drawn and he hadn’t wanted to wake her. Hadn’t wanted to arouse suspicion in her bitch stepmother….

He snapped back to the present, to the formal wear resting on his quilt. He picked it up and sniffed. It smelled strongly of marijuana, booze, and cum. Shaking his head, he walked onto his balcony and laid it over a chair, hoping to air it out.

He went back inside, into the second bedroom that doubled as a practice room. He rooted through the closet where he kept his instruments and his weights. No sense hiding it there. Closets would be the first places the cops would look. His eyes fell on his cello case—worth about
a thousand dollars because it was custom-made. But he’d sacrifice it if it would do him any good. He took it out, opened it, and removed his Rowland Ross. His fingers palpated the padding. The insides had been specifically designed to accommodate his cello. Any increase in the padding and the instrument wouldn’t fit. Besides, it would be nearly impossible for him to open and resew the lining without leaving telltale signs. If Decker had any sort of an eye, he’d know the case lining had been tampered with.

Don’t push it, he thought. Something will come up.

He sat on his stool. Picking up his cello, he placed it between his knees, setting the spike into the right groove. He brought the instrument to his body and drew the horsehair bow across gut strings, sustaining sweet notes with a gentle vibrato. The sound box emitted soft moans like a woman in the throes. His hands fingered automatically as his mind took to fantasyland. The music was so pure, it hurt.

Wondering what Terry would have been like, if she would have made any sounds. When he kissed her, she had responded with body as well as soul. He knew that given enough time for the virginal rawness to dissipate, she would have been a beautiful lover. Sadly, he also knew that now she’d remain a mystery to him. The realization cut deeply.

He stopped playing, touched his fingers to his forehead. Despite his calm, he knew it was bad. He was going down and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He picked up the bow and again started playing. Then he abruptly stopped and clipped his left thumbnail with his incisors.

Only a matter of time before Decker charged in with the warrant.

Like the commercial said—just
do
it!

He laid down his cello, went to the hall closet, and sorted through the art supplies he stored there. Thank God he was organized. He easily found his round-tip
putty knife and, with his fingernails, picked off scabs of dried paint. Once it was free of debris, he wiped it on his T-shirt and pocketed the clean implement. He lugged out both cellos—the Rowland Ross as well as his cheap knockabout—and brought them into the kitchen. Carefully, he placed them on their side ribs.

Next, he retrieved his tux from the balcony and sniffed it deeply. It didn’t smell wonderful, but it was decidedly less odiferous than it had been twenty minutes ago. He laid the shawl-collared jacket and satin-striped pants on the kitchen counter, spreading them out like a dead body.

Shit, this was going to
hurt
!

He pulled a sharp scissors from a kitchen drawer, carefully snipped off the sleeves, then cut the trunk of the jacket into two pieces. Next he bisected the pants at the crotch. Carefully he scanned the countertop, picking up even the most minute piece of thread. Because under a microscope, minute pieces looked very large. When he was satisfied that everything was clean and perfect, he turned his attention to his instruments.

First, he loosened the strings of his Rowland Ross, carefully depressurizing the tension until the bridge was movable. He took off the strings, then removed the bridge and unscrewed the tailpiece from the body.

Now the hard part.

He turned on the front burner of his stove top.

Take your time. Take your
fucking
time
!

He heated his putty knife until it nearly glowed red, then picked up his stringless Rowland Ross. Deftly, he inserted the searing-hot knife into the glue joint between the soundboard and the instrument’s side rib, meticulously moving the blade through the space, carefully following the cello’s curvature. The smell of sizzling glue assaulted his nostrils. Hot glue but not burning wood.

Thank you, Holy Mother, for a steady hand
.

It took many reheats of the knife and several trips around the circumference, but eventually the glue had become soft and sticky and the soundboard loosened. A
little bit of jiggling and the top popped off.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief and repeated the procedure on his knockabout. Then he studied the insides of the instruments. The easiest way was to tape the fabric to the backs of the instruments, but he immediately discarded that idea. Better to line the upper side ribs and upper top
just in case
Decker shone a light through the f-holes.

Probably an unnecessary precaution. Because who but a select few knew that most classical-stringed instruments were held together not by mechanical joints and screws but by glue specifically meant to be softened for ease of repairs. Maybe Decker was aware of that fact. But he was betting the sergeant wasn’t.

Not even a day old and the Diggs file already took up half a drawer’s worth of space. Decker had sheets of paper with details that he’d probably have to review at least fifty times before the case was over. Listed first were names and statements of Whitman’s friends at the hotel. On superficial glance, the kids’ accounts seemed to agree with Steve Anderson’s story. But that didn’t mean much. Tomorrow, he’d go over all the statements line by line. If everything made sense, he’d progress to his analysis by constructing a “time and place table” for every major player in the show.

Decker rubbed his eyes. Eleven-thirty at night. Yet he wasn’t quite ready to crash. Push, push, push. He flipped through the paperwork. More lists—the names and statements of the hotel personnel. The officers had done a decent job. There were the desk clerks, the bellhops, the maids, the workers at the hotel coffee shop, as well as the patrons unlucky enough to be rooming at the Grenada West End when the murder occurred. He’d leave those for tomorrow when his eyes were fresh and his brain had been recharged.

Finally, there was the preliminary autopsy report.

Decker picked that up, scanned the findings.

Most probably, Cheryl had died of asphyxiation consistent with strangulation. Deep bruises encircled her neck, those on the left side of her neck slightly more pronounced than those on the right. Her vagina had been full of semen, but there was no indication of the typical bruising usually associated with rape. There was no indication of anal or oral intercourse. And yes, Cheryl had been pregnant, the fetal age about eight to ten weeks.

He read further, forcing his lids to remain open. Fluids extracted from the condoms found in the room as well as from Cheryl’s vagina had been sent to the lab for analysis. At present, he couldn’t find any lab work that compared the two samples. He made a note to ask Dr. Craine about it in the morning.

He skimmed through the rest of the pages. The pubic comb…blond hairs not associated with the victim found in pubic/genital region…black hairs not associated with the victim also found in the pubic/genital region.

Just as he had thought. It looked like Cheryl had been involved with two separate men. Whitman was blond and probably a natural one. Decker put him down as the owner of the blond hairs. All the other boys in the group had dark hair, so it was anyone’s guess. At a glance, it looked like the party that Steve Anderson had described had gone beyond simple fooling around. It might indeed have been an orgy.

Call Craine in the morning. Decker paused. What the hell. Why should he be the only dedicated soul in this ordeal? Besides, the deputy ME was already sick. He ran down his Rolodex, found the number, and dialed. Jay wasn’t happy to be awakened at midnight. But he was coherent.

“I thought you might call.” Craine sneezed into the receiver. “However, I had hoped it might be earlier.”

“Just got back from doing some interviews. I want to go over something with you.”

“You’re wondering about the two different types of pubic hairs, am I correct?”

“You are correct.”

“Both samples went straightaway to the lab. The blond hairs are consistent with a blond male Anglo, the black hairs are consistent with a black male African American—”

Decker suddenly sat up. “
What
?”

“Yes, I was quite surprised by the results, in light of the population of your area. But it does appear as if our Cheryl had sex with a black man. Having said that, I can’t tell you if the black pubic hair…excuse me.”

Craine sneezed.

“I can’t say if the black pubic hair matches the semen taken from the condom or from the vagina. For that, we’ll need to run additional tests. And that will take time, Sergeant.”

“Do it.”

“Perhaps a DNA blueprint might be in order.” A pause and a sniffle. “Yes, that might be just the trick.”

“Sounds great, Jay.”

“Also, let me posit this to you. To the naked eye, the vaginal sex appeared to be consensual, based on the lack of vaginal bruising and microscopic hemorrhages usually associated with physically forced rape. But despite that observation, sex still might have been nonconsensual. She could have been too drunk to resist. Did you notice her blood-alcohol level?”

Decker flipped to the fluids. BAL was 1.7. He whistled into the phone. “I wonder if she was even conscious.”

“Anyone’s guess. I did order her fluids through gas chromatography to bring up the regular battery of common recreational drugs. If she had mixed drugs with
that
level of alcohol, she might even have been close to death, perhaps even unconscious, before the murderer got his hands around her neck. Still, it is my belief that she was alive when she was strangled. Lung analysis is
quite consistent with death by asphyxiation.”