Milk and Honey (19 page)

Marge said, “It’s our business if it has anything to do with the murders.”

“It
don’t
,” Byron said.

“It was four years ago?” Decker asked.

Byron bit his lip. “About.”

“And it was just one time?” Decker said.

Byron bit his lip, didn’t answer right away. Finally, he said, “Yes.”

“At the Sleepy-Bi Motel?”

“Goddam big-mouth women,” Byron said. “I’m gonna kill both of them—”

“Like you killed Linda Darcy?” Decker said.

“
What
chu say, boy?” Byron coughed out.

Decker could almost see steam coming from his nostrils. “Just getting your attention, Byron. By the way, did you visit the Darcy farmhouse within the last week?”

“No,” Byron said. His voice became soft and furious.
“No, I didn’t. And I didn’t have nothing to do with anything that happened over there. And I don’t know where I was every single second of the past week, so if you got something to say, say it. If not, get out of here!”

Decker waited a beat, giving Byron a chance to cool off. He regarded the pinups in back of the desk. Byron, seeing Decker’s stare go over his shoulder, glanced over his back and noticed the nude-women posters as if he’d seen them for the first time.

“Like your artwork,” Decker said.

“My baby brother put them up,” Byron said.

But you didn’t take them down, Decker thought. “One more thing, Byron. Do the Darcys own a gun?”

Byron said everyone here owned a gun. Decker pressed him on it. What kind of firearms?

“Shotgun,” Byron answered.

“What kind?”

“Browning Pump.”

“What gauge?” Decker asked patiently.

“Twelve.”

“Any handguns?” Decker asked.

“Don’t know.”

“We couldn’t find anything there,” Marge said. “Know where the Browning was kept?”

Byron squeezed his hands into fists and said, “Why don’t you ask Pappy D these questions?”

Decker said he’d do just that.

Rolland Mason was
not listed in the book. Nor did he have an unlisted number. But at least he wasn’t a total cipher.

Marge reviewed her notes:

Rolland Mason, born in Macon, Ga. WM, 42, 6'1", 220, brown hair, blue eyes, no wants, no warrants, no priors, the last two words underlined with a bold pencil stroke—a real surprise. His prints had placed him in the USMC—a one-year tour in Nam in ’67, obtaining his honorable discharge in ’68. He returned home to Macon. Married Tammy Reebs a year later,
five
kids, worked as an electrician. Divorced 1983 after fourteen years of marriage, moved to California. Whereabouts unknown 1983–1985, no California driver’s license, no taxes filed, no address, no phone number, no welfare, no nothing. In 1986, he did obtain a CDL, the address listed now a shopping mall. No info on him after that.

Marge took out the phone book and started calling coffee shops in Saugus, hoping that Chip’s information wasn’t pure bull. She hit pay dirt after twenty minutes of phoning. Betty Bidel who did the morning shift at Nicky’s knew Rolland
very
well. Marge said she’d be right down, and Betty said good. The hour between ten and eleven was slow anyway.

Rolland’s old lady was a stringy brunette with a pasty complexion. Hair packed into a net, Betty wore a starched white uniform, her name tag pinned above a breast-pocket handkerchief. She was manning the countertop, wiping coffee cups with a brown terry-cloth rag.

As soon as Marge identified herself, Betty said, “So the law finally caught up with him.”

Marge smiled cryptically.

Betty cocked her head. “Knew it was only a matter of time. All that meth dealing. I didn’t know nothing ’bout it. You got to believe me on that.”

Marge said she did.

“Man, this
is
the final straw,” Betty announced. “Even if he’d come back, I wouldn’t take him. Not after the dealing. And what he did to me.”

“What did he do to you?” Marge asked.

“Left me flat when I was three months pregnant,” Betty said. “Asshole tells me to keep it ’cause he’s gonna marry me, right? Then he just disappears. Come home one day and all his things’re gone from my place. That was it! Hunnerd and fifty bucks out of
my
pocket to fix up
my
problem!” Betty folded the towel and began wiping the counter. “No more bikers for me, I can tell you that! Ever!”

“Any reason for his sudden departure?” Marge asked.

“’Nother woman, probably.”

“Linda Darcy?”

Betty’s eyes narrowed, her lips turned ghostly white. She let out a string of obscenities directed at Linda. What Marge finally learned was that Rolland was screwing many women, but Linda seemed to be a unique problem.

“He akchilly told me he loved her!” Betty cried out. “He wanted to marry her, can you believe that! Walks out on me after knocking me up to marry some fancy broad with fancy jeans and a fancy chest.” She paused to catch her breath. “Fucking around is one thing. Guys just do that. Like I
knowed Rolland was screwing Carla, but that was different. I mean, Carla was just a friendly girl. But Linda was above it all. Miss Perfect Princess. Tell Rolland he can drop dead if he wants bail money. Tell him to go ask Princess Linda for the money.”

Then Marge broke the bad news.

Betty clutched her chest, leaned against the countertop for support. It took her around a minute before the tears came. She cried for her Rolland, wailed how she loved him. Marge hugged her, waited until her sobs turned to sniffs, then slowly exited the shop. Over her shoulder, Marge took a final look at Betty. She was still sniffing, her eyes moist and red. But grief hadn’t interfered with her job. She did her chores swiftly, hopping from table to table, refilling salt shakers, muttering to herself as she worked.

Decker had an hour to kill before his three o’clock court appearance. He called home, but Rina didn’t answer. He debated running out to the ranch to make sure everything was okay, but decided that was foolish. She’d probably gone over to the yeshiva to visit old friends. Or maybe she was shopping. Decker had left her the keys to the Porsche.

The hell with it, he thought. She could take care of herself. He’d have to trust her.

He decided to buy a carton of orange juice and read the paper in Van Nuys Park—his usual pit stop when he was tied up at court. He drove the unmarked out of the court complex, and hooked a left onto Van Nuys Boulevard. A minute later, he passed a block-long western-wear store, a string of iron-gated hock shops, several adult bookstores and a couple of dark, smoky taverns. As he headed south, the stores were replaced by acres of car lots displaying both new and used autos, their rock-bottom prices written in red on white placards placed inside the windshields

Van Nuys Boulevard. On a warm Wednesday night, it
was mecca for cruisers. The street was clogged with bumper-to-bumper cars containing youngsters, oldsters, anyone wanting to make that hormone connection. After his divorce, Decker had often traveled to the Boulevard, observed the pickup rituals and the souped-up cars. His biweekly treks had lasted about three years. He’d stood alone, hands in his pocket, people steering clear of him because he made no effort to disguise his cop demeanor. Once in a blue moon, a woman approached him. And once in a blue moon, he accepted her invitation, bought her a drink at one of the local bars.

Those days were long gone, and Decker felt no nostalgia for the lonely nights, some drunken cop groupie crying in her beer while groping him under the table. The very thought of it made him cringe.

Life do get bettah
.

The car lots disappeared, replaced by high-rise medical and office buildings. A block before the Ventura Freeway, the name on one of the skyscrapers caught Decker’s eye. Quickly, he jerked the unmarked into the right lane, and turned just as the light became red. Someone honked his car.

Decker smiled. He was honked at a lot and deserved every metallic blare he got. He drove like a jerk. But not when Rina was in the car.

He parked in an underground lot, and entered the Manfred Building from the back. The directory put the corporate offices on the top floor—the fourteenth, which was really the thirteenth, but the unlucky number had been eliminated from the list of elevator buttons. He shared the lift with a pin-striped suit with a runny nose and darting eyes. The suit got out on the seventh floor.

The elevator doors to number fourteen opened, and Decker found himself staring into the yawning portals of a paneled reception room. It was as big as a tennis court, as hushed as a library.

Badge in hand, he approached the receptionist—a plump young woman who wore her hair in a tight bun—and flashed her his ID. Her eyes reacted with surprise.

“Homicide investigation. I need to speak to the CEO.”

The woman didn’t answer.

“The chief executive officer,” Decker explained.

“Who’s in charge here?” Decker demanded. But his voice was soft.

“Uh, that would be Mr. Donaldson,” she said. “But he’s not the CEO. That would be Mr. Cartwright. And he’s in Paris.”

“Tell Mr. Donaldson that Detective Sergeant Decker from LAPD Homicide is here to speak with him.”

“He’s involved in a long-distance phone conference.”

Decker didn’t answer.

“I’ll buzz his secretary,” the woman said.

A minute later, Decker was sitting with a cup of coffee in the executive office of Mr. Creighton Donaldson—first vice president in charge of acquisition and development for Manfred and Associates. His secretary was around sixty, her gray tresses styled in a bouffant hairdo. A busty woman, she wore her glasses around her neck, the spectacles bouncing on her bosom whenever she walked. Mr. Donaldson would be right out, she informed Decker.

“Right out” was a half hour later. Decker was escorted into Donaldson’s inner sanctum, full of rich, burnished leather and high-polished wood scented with lemon oil. Decker was motioned to sit in a brocade wingback while Donaldson took the chair behind a rosewood desk, its right corner covered by framed pictures of two little girls.

The vice president was much younger than Decker had expected—forty-five, tops. About 6' even, with a tennis player’s build. Black hair, gray temples, sharp brown eyes, straight nose, and cleft chin. His white smile contrasted nicely against his deep tan. Suddenly, Decker felt scruffy.

“I apologize for the delay,” Donaldson said. “How can I help you, Detective?”

Decker glanced at his watch. He was due back in court in thirty minutes. No time for niceties. Just cast the rod and see what you pull up.

“Name Linda Darcy ring a bell?” Decker asked.

Donaldson’s eyebrows rose a millimeter. “Yes. What about her?”

“Tell me about your dealings with her,” Decker said.

“They’re business,” Donaldson said. “And they’re confidential.”

“Not anymore, Mr. Donaldson,” Decker said. “She’s dead.”

Donaldson immediately slumped into his desk chair, a seasick pallor washing over his skin. The man was sinking fast. Decker said, “If you want a drink, Mr. Donaldson, it’s okay with me.”

“Thank you.” Donaldson stood and walked to a portable bar on the other side of the room. “Thank you, I will.” He took out a cut-crystal tumbler and cleared his throat. “How about yourself? Or aren’t you allowed to do that?”

Decker told him he didn’t drink on duty, noticing the VP’s hands were trembling. Donaldson poured himself something straight up.

“What was your connection to Linda Darcy?” Decker asked again.

Donaldson gulped down the first shot, poured himself another.

“It wasn’t what you’re thinking,” he said. “Nothing sexual, although Linda was a very sexy lady…and it might have been nice.” He turned to Decker. “Don’t repeat that. I’m a married man, and I’m quite shaken. I’m not as controlled as I usually am.”

“You didn’t have an affair with her?” Decker asked. “It could be relevant to my investigation.”

“No,” Donaldson said. “No, I didn’t. Our relationship was strictly business.”

Decker paused a moment to let Donaldson know his statement was suspect. Then he said, “What kind of business?”

Donaldson ran his hands over his face. A diamond ring decorated his right ring finger, a gold band on his left. “My specialties are acquisition and development. Mrs. Darcy and I were…how should I say this? Her father-in-law owned a parcel of land that Manfred was potentially interested in acquiring. I had approached Pappy Darcy—as they call him—around two years ago, and our substantial offer was rebuffed. Which was fine. Around a week later, Mrs. Darcy…Linda approached me with the idea that perhaps given enough time and enough incentive, realizing the position for potential profit, that maybe if we were to present to Mr. Darcy the entire picture for gain on the upside, it might be possible using untried tactics—”

Decker interrupted. “You and Linda were scheming behind the old man’s back.”

“We weren’t scheming,” Donaldson said. He resettled into his desk chair, his breath smelling of scotch. “We were talking business contingencies.”

“How to talk Pappy Darcy into selling off the land,” Decker said.

Donaldson hesitated, then said, “Basically, yes.”

“And?”

“And we tried several different approaches,” Donaldson said. “None of them successful.”

“When was the last time you tried an approach?” Decker asked.

“We came to him around a month ago. Not me personally, of course. A representative from my office.”

Decker told him to go on. Donaldson said that Pappy Darcy wasn’t interested. Nothing more was discussed be
tween the two of them. But Decker read in his eyes that there was more. He pressed Donaldson for details.

“Well,” Donaldson said, “this was told to me secondhand, but it was said that Pappy Darcy got quite irate—obscene in his condemnation of the salesman, Manfred, and Linda—”

“Linda?” Decker asked.

“He seemed to feel that Linda was behind it all.”

“She was, wasn’t she?”

Donaldson paused, seemed to choose his words. “She was instrumental in keeping our interest alive, but he accused her of masterminding the whole idea. That simply was not the case.”

“But she
was
keeping the whole idea alive,” Decker said.

“She had a vested interest in Pappy Darcy selling the land, true,” Donaldson said. “Her husband had a third interest in the land. His share would have netted her a handsome profit.”

“How much?” Decker asked.

“Around one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. A lot of money for a honey farmer.”

A more than tidy sum for anyone breaking his back to earn his keep, Decker thought. But something else came to him. He asked Donaldson, “Who owned the other two thirds of the land?”

Donaldson looked uncomfortable. Then he said, “Well, it’s public record anyway. Pappy Darcy of course, and Luke’s sister.”

“Sue Beth Litton?” Decker asked.

“Yes.”

“What about Luke’s younger sister?” Decker asked. “Carla Darcy?”

Donaldson shrugged. “I wasn’t even aware that there was another sister. Who is she?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Decker tried to sound casual. “She’s out of the picture.” But in his notepad, he wrote,
CARLA DIS
INHERITED
and underlined it three times. Decker steered the conversation back to Linda.

“So you and Linda were pestering Luke to keep after his father to sell.”

“Not pestering,” Donaldson said. “We were presenting him with options. We had several—one included giving Pappy Darcy free farming rights until such time as Manfred chose to develop the property. A very generous offer, but Pappy Darcy refused to hear us out.”

“When was the last time you saw Linda Darcy?” Decker asked.

“At our last appointment—around two weeks ago. You can check with my secretary for the exact date.”

Decker didn’t say anything, just stared at the wall, then at Donaldson. The vice president seemed antsy under scrutiny. He got up and poured himself another scotch. Swirling the amber liquid, he asked, “How did she die?”

“In a very ugly way,” Decker said.

“Was she by any chance…” Donaldson cleared his throat. “Was she murdered by gunshot?”