Sacred and Profane (9 page)

“On what?”

“Soliciting.”

“Bullshit. I just said—”

“Kiki, I’m a cop. You’re a hooker. No one’s going to listen to you. If I say you were soliciting, you’re going to be busted for soliciting. Then it’s Juvey Hall or foster homes or back to your old man, who’s probably been raping you since you were ten.”

The girl’s face grew glum.

“You must have worked a lot of Juvey.”

He was silent. He knew it all too well.

“I’m real sorry about your arm, Decker.”

“I’m sorry about your face. Keep yourself out of trouble, huh?”

“I’m gonna find her, Decker. You’ll see. I got contacts.”

He slipped into the Plymouth, found a nearby pay phone, and reported the dead girl he’d found in the building to Hollywood Division.

He awoke the
next morning with an elephantine arm and cursed his stupidity at not going to an ER last night. He’d been too damn tired and now he was paying the price. Fever burned in his brain and his radial nerve shot spasmodic pain into his arm. Rousing slowly from a fitful sleep, he got up and went to the bathroom to change the dressing.

The arm was swollen a dark purple and gouged by deep red, crusty lacerations. He found some alcohol in the medicine cabinet and began to swab the wound, his flesh sizzling at each application of the astringent. The skin turned bright red and cracked open, oozing blood and pus. He washed his arm several times and took out a packet of sterile gauze, a couple of extra-strength aspirins and four leftover penicillin pills. He downed the tablets and wrapped the wound.

Once the bite had been dressed, he phoned the station and told them he’d be in later. A call to Mrs. Bates was next. Erin would be home at four, but the father wouldn’t arrive until seven—after the start of Shabbos. Decker told Mrs. Bates he’d see Erin and reschedule her husband for sometime next week. The third call he made was to Chris Truscott. No one answered, so he figured he’d take a drive out to Venice and check out the boyfriend’s place personally.

He slipped on a shirt gingerly, wincing at each movement of his arm. It even hurt to breathe.
Goddam it
, he told himself.
What the hell is wrong with you? So she looked like Cindy and it startled you. You’ve been a cop for almost twenty years. How could you let her get to you like that?

It was time for
shacharis
. He put on a
kipah
and took out his tefillin. Kissing the two small prayer boxes, he fitted one atop his head, the seat of man’s intelligence, and the other on his left bicep, the symbol of his strength. He wound the leather strap down his arm, across his hand and around his middle finger. He looked at both arms. One was encased in black as a symbol of religious devotion, the other in white, thanks to a whore.

Opening the siddur, he began the morning prayers, mumbling them in English by rote, his mind darting between the holy words he was uttering and the hellish images of last night. Thirty minutes later he closed the siddur, took off the phylacteries, and slipped on his shoulder harness. It was tight, the gun weighing heavily on his sore flesh.

The phone pierced his eardrums. But the voice on the other end was balm.

“Good morning, Peter.”

“Hi, Honey,” he answered.

“How was Hollywood?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Peter, you sound bad.”

“I’m just tired.”

“But are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“I had a call from Sarah Libba this morning. She invited the boys and me over for Shabbos lunch. She said you’re coming.”

“Yeah.”

“That’ll be nice, Peter.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you send her anything?”

Shit.

“Not yet.”

“How about for Rebbitzen Shulman?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to get them something for you?”

“I’ll call a florist if you’re too busy.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s no bother.”

“Thanks.”

“Peter, are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah. I’m really looking forward to Shabbos.”

“So am I.”

“I love you, Rina. Thanks again for the watch. No one has ever given me anything that beautiful.”

“It’s well deserved. I’ll let you go now.”

“See you tonight in shul.”

“Bye, Peter.”

She hung up. For a moment, he felt a strong urge to call her back, but resisted it and walked out the door.

Chris Truscott lived in Venice Beach. Two blocks to the south was the Oakwood ghetto, two blocks the other way was upscale Santa Monica. Truscott’s apartment house was orphan property waiting to be adopted by either prospective parent, depending on economic conditions.

The building was three connected bungalows shaded by tall overgrown eucalyptus rooted in crabgrass. Judging from the fresh white stucco, the units had been recently painted, but gang graffiti already marred the walls. Vines of bougainvillea coursed through the obscene messages and exploded into a hot pink cloud when they hit the roof gutters. The air was moist and cool and tinged with brine from the ocean.

Decker entered the unlocked gate, checked for clogs, then scanned the addresses on the units. Truscott’s was the rear one. He knocked on the door, but no one answered. Going around to the side of the building, he peeked inside the window. The curtain was partially drawn, allowing him a fair view.

The place was furnished but the walls and tables were bare. He was wondering how strong the locks were when a voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Who the hell are you?”

He turned around.

She was a young Latina—pretty but toughened—dressed in a housecoat and mules, with an infant in her arms.

“Police officer.” He took out his badge and showed his ID.

“If you’re looking for Chris, he’s gone.”

“When do you think he’ll be back?”

“I mean gone for good. Took off a couple of days ago. I shoulda known something was up when he sold his bike. Man, he loved that thing, working on it all the time. Claimed he needed a quick buck. He paid me his last month’s rent, so his taking off is no skin off my nose. I’m the manager of this place.”

“Did he leave a forwarding address?”

“Not with me. Wait a sec. Hold the baby.”

She handed him the infant—a boy around six months, black-eyed and toothless. Decker smiled at him and the baby proceeded to drool on his jacket. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have minded the extra weight, but his bad arm was killing him. Luckily, she returned a few minutes later and reclaimed her charge. Pulling out a ring of keys, she unlocked the door.

“Have a look.”

Decker stepped inside. The place was devoid of any personal effects.

“See,” she said, pulling back the curtain on the closet. “His clothes are gone.”

“Do you still have his rent check?”

“Cashed it.”

Damn.

“Any idea where he went?”

“Nope.” She ran her fingers over the dusty kitchen countertop. “I’ve gotta clean up this sty. I can get four fifty a month for this place cause it’s so close to the beach.”

Decker nodded.

“Mind if I take a look around?” he asked.

“Nope. Mind if I stick around?”

He shrugged.

“Fine with me.”

He opened empty drawers, searched through bare cabinets and shelves, sorted through junk mail.

“Which post office do you use?” he asked.

“The main one on Venice Boulevard.”

He picked up the phone and was surprised to find a dial tone.

“The line’s still connected.”

“Man’s coming out tomorrow to pick up the phone.”

“Mind if I use it? I want to buzz the post office and find out if he left a forwarding address there.”

“Be my guest.”

He called. As far as the post office was concerned, Truscott hadn’t moved. He also called the DMV and ran a check through registration; no change of address listed.

“No luck, huh?” she said, after he hung up.

“No. Any idea why he split?”

“You want my personal opinion?” She leaned in close. “I think it was his girlfriend. She’s
dead
.”

Decker raised his brows.

“What else did you hear?”

She frowned. “Ain’t that enough?”

“You ever meet his girlfriend, Ms….”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Let me see your badge again.”

He pulled it out and gave her his business card also.

“Sergeant, huh?” She handed him back his shield. “My name is Alma Sanchez, and yes, I met her once. She seemed like a nice kid. Very pretty—in an Anglo way.”

“He bring her here a lot?”

“I’m no snoop, but I’ve seen her here maybe a half dozen times.”

“He have lots of friends?”

“Chris? You’ve got to be kidding. He was a real loner. Always hid behind the camera, if you know what I mean. He took some good shots of his girl though. Even the nudes weren’t sleazy.”

Nudes.

“He was going to make her a
Playboy
centerfold, he once told me. You know like that movie with Dorothy Hemingway, where the boyfriend kills the girl in the end…” Her eyes got animated. “You think she was ripped off, don’t you?”

Decker closed the last of the empty drawers.

“What day is trash pick-up?”

“Tomorrow. Why?”

“And when did Truscott split?”

She eyed him. “You’re kidding.”

“They haul away the garbage yet, Ms. Sanchez?”

“You’re in luck, Sergeant.”

Real luck! The three units shared a common dumpster. Plenty of trash and it smelled ripe. But at least the searing pain in his arm was beginning to abate. He hoisted himself upward, vaulted in, then thought of something.

“Mrs. Sanchez,” he called out.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Could you do me a favor?” He pulled out his pocket-sized siddur. “Could you hold this for me?”

She took the book.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s a Jewish prayer book. I don’t want to get it dirty.”

She skimmed through the pages.

“May God be with you.” She laughed. “I’ll wait in the house. The kid needs his diaper changed.”

It paid off. A half hour’s worth of searching produced a bank deposit slip, several credit card receipts, and a newspaper classified page with seven “Apartments for Rent” ads circled in red. The manager saw him come out and greeted him with a glass of lemonade.

“Whew,” she said. “You stink.”

He let the remark pass and thanked her for the drink.

“You wanna take a shower or something?”

“No, thank you,” he declined. “Can I have my book back?”

“Don’t you think you should wash your hands first?”

She was right. He looked around and spotted a garden hose.

“I have a sink in the house,” she said.

“This is fine.” He flapped his wet hands in the air and when they were slightly damp finished drying them on his pants.

“Find anything?” she asked.

“Little of this, little of that. If you hear from Truscott, please give me a call.”

“I will.” She gave him the siddur. “You really pray outta that thing?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Bet you feel like you need it in your occupation.” She
thought a moment. “Nothing meant by that. Everyone can use a little help from time to time, right?”

Once home, he showered quickly and changed his dressing. Although his arm was still swollen and painful, it had loosened a bit. He flexed his shoulder, winced, and dressed again. He wouldn’t have time for the Bateses, the phone calls, and the doctor, so the doctor would just have to wait.

He went into the kitchen and gulped down the quart of milk standing alone in the refrigerator. Finding a box of crackers in the cupboard, he grabbed a handful and stuffed them in his mouth. Still chewing, he headed out the door and to the station.

Truscott’s checking account was at Security Pacific. He called up the bank only to get a busy signal, so he tried Visa and MasterCard. Not only hadn’t Truscott reported a change of address, but he was delinquent in his payments by a substantial amount of money. They had no idea where he was, and could Decker please give them a call if he located Mr. Truscott?

Fuck you
, he thought.
Do your own detective work
.

Calling back the bank, he found out that Truscott had closed his account two weeks before and left no forwarding address. Alma Sanchez was going to be pissed.

He placed the slips in the Bates file and opened the classified ads to the “Apartments for Rent.” Of the seven numbers circled, two had never heard of Truscott, but three remembered him. Although they hadn’t rented to him, Decker knew he was on the right track.

Did he give you a number where he could be reached?

Yes, but I threw it away
.

Was Truscott alone?

Yes
.

Has the trash been collected?

Yes
.

Thank you very much
.

No one answered the two remaining numbers. It was nearly four. Time for sister Erin.

She wasn’t what Decker had expected, looking older than fourteen but not because of cosmetics. On the contrary. She was deliberately understated. Her long blond hair hung poker straight and was parted in the middle. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and a necklace of wooden beads. Barefoot, she sat cross-legged on her bed and twirled her hair absently. Tiny wet circles had formed under her armpits, staining her sweatshirt, and she was breathing rapidly.

Marge stood in a far corner and tried to appear preoccupied. Decker pulled up a desk chair to sit opposite her. Turning the chair around, he straddled the seat, leaning his elbows against the back. He glanced around the room.

The two sisters were opposites. Whereas Lindsey’s room was a monument to conformity, Erin’s room resonated with iconoclasm. Antinuclear posters were plastered to the walls, along with quotations from Thomas Jefferson, Aristotle, Thomas Mann, and Nietzsche. An erotic Aubrey Beardsley pen-and-ink was thumbtacked to her closet door. Her bookshelves were crammed with paperbacks on philosophy, art, and social sciences. A Bach organ fugue thundered from a compact disc player.

“Mind if we turn the music down?” Marge yelled out.

“Go ahead,” Erin answered.

“I don’t want to touch the equipment,” Marge said.

Erin bounced up and turned off the system. The room fell quiet. She plopped back onto her bed and took out a pack of cigarettes.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked.

“If it’s okay with your mom, it doesn’t bother me,” Decker said.

Erin plucked out a Benson and Hedges from her packet.

“I really shouldn’t,” she said, lighting up. “It’s a filthy habit.” She inhaled deeply. “Oat cell carcinoma here we come. But all of us have our vices, I suppose. It’s better than boozing, or heavy doping…What the hell, let’s be honest, huh? It’s a type of dope, right?”

She tried to smile, but wasn’t successful.