The Forgotten (25 page)

“Or how about little girls?” Wanda said. “That girl who was working for him was definitely jailbait.”

Oliver considered some theories. “Maybe it was the other way around. Maybe Holt was blackmailing the Baldwins using Tarpin as a go-between. Maybe that’s why the Baldwins kept a racist like Tarpin on for so long.”

Marge said, “Scott, if you’re squeezing money out of someone, you don’t want them dead.”

“So maybe the Baldwins got tired of being blackmailed,” Oliver answered. “Maybe they were going to expose Holt. So Holt killed the Baldwins to shut them up.”

Decker asked Wanda, “Any set amounts of money going out of the Baldwins’ bank accounts on a regular basis?”

“Yeah, like every dime.”

“The payoff for blackmail?” Oliver asked.

“Or they just spent a lot of money,” Wanda said.

Decker answered, “What could Holt have on the Baldwins that would make them susceptible to blackmail?”

Oliver said, “Maybe the Baldwins were racists in their younger days. If they had been, like, ex-PEI members, that wouldn’t look good with their current clientele.”

“They’ve been in practice over twenty-five years,” Decker pointed out. “Long before the inception of PEI.”

“So maybe Holt found some other skeleton in the Baldwins’ closet via Tarpin.”

“What kind of a skeleton?” Decker asked.

Oliver shrugged. “Well, what were the Baldwins noted for? Taking bad, rich boys and putting them into their high-priced camp instead of real punishment from the schools. In Ernesto’s case, camp instead of jail. Maybe the Baldwins gave a kickback to every kid sent their way by a judge, or by a school. Or maybe Holt found out that the Baldwins were using insider’s information with the standardized tests.
Maybe Tarpin knew about the schemes and passed the information on to Holt.”

“Why would Tarpin do that?” Marge asked.

“Because Tarpin believed all that PEI crap,” Oliver said with animation. “The two of them used the money to further PEI’s crazy philosophy.”

Wanda broke in. “Scott, PEI was a rinky-dink operation. If Holt was getting blackmail money, he wasn’t using it for PEI in a big way.”

“Well, then, maybe PEI was a front to launder blackmail money into their personal accounts.” Oliver smiled. “That sound good?”

“In theory,” Decker said. “But I came back from the murder scene about forty minutes ago. Tarpin was living in a basic one-room cabin. Holt rents a one-bedroom unit just north of Roscoe Boulevard. They don’t appear to be living a profligate lifestyle.”

“Holt’s apartment has been cleaned out,” Wanda added.

“You mean Holt cleaned out his apartment,” Oliver said.

“Whatever,” Wanda answered. “The place is empty. We’re in the process of checking out Holt’s parents…his father. He’s a local. According to the senior Holt’s secretary, Darrell’s mother is long gone—maybe not dead, but out of the picture.”

“Where is the father now?” Decker asked.

“Eight miles high in transit.”

Oliver said, “What about the girl? The jailbait?”

“Erin Kershan,” Wanda answered. “The address I pulled off her driver’s license doesn’t exist. I’m thinking that maybe she lived with Holt and was a runaway. I’m in the process of checking the data banks.”

“So you think she’s in on it?” Oliver asked.

“She’s awfully mousy…seemed pretty harmless when Webster, Martinez, and I interviewed them months ago.” Wanda shrugged. “But you know young girls. They get swept away. Maybe that’s what happened…she got swept away with Holt and the entire PEI movement. So yes, I’m hoping
that she’s involved. Because if she isn’t involved—and Holt is—that’s not good. We don’t want her turning up as victim number four—”

“Five,” Decker corrected. “There’s Ernesto.”

“God, this is terrible!” Marge was upset. “How many dead bodies are going to turn up before we solve this thing?”

Oliver said, “We’re not helping L.A.’s crime statistics, that’s for sure.”

Decker didn’t bother to chastise him. Being cavalier was how Scott dealt with the atrocities. Suddenly, his tiny office started to drop in temperature.

Oliver dabbed his brow with a Kleenex. “Feels cooler.”

Decker said, “I think the air conditioner kicked in.”

Marge was glum. “Nice to know that something’s being productive.”

Decker said, “You two better get going over the hill. Until we hit on something, I want you to go through every single file.”

Another all-nighter. Oliver said, “Can we break for dinner?”

“You can order takeout and bill it to the department,” Decker answered. “As soon as Webster and Martinez are done with Tarpin’s crime scene, they’ll come over and join you. Wanda, you keep searching for Holt and Kershan. Also, keep going through the Baldwins’ phone records and bank accounts. Maybe something will turn up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tom said that the meat wagon picked up Tarpin’s body about twenty minutes ago. I’m pushing the pathologist to do the autopsy…at least to get the bullet out and send it over to ballistics.” Decker stood up and straightened his spine until he was all of his six-foot-four-inch, 220-pound frame. “I’ve got to clean myself up. Don’t want to go to a funeral smelling like a hamster.” He shook his head. “Although I suppose no one will notice.”

Pulling out of
the parking lot, Marge went east until she hit the 405 South, the ultimate destination being the Baldwins’ main offices in Beverly Hills. A quick solve was drifting out of reach, and though she never expected a cakewalk, a suspect to lean on would have been nice. She dealt with the disappointment by concentrating on her driving. Oliver, unusually quiet, busied himself by reading the reported incidents that flashed across the cruiser’s monitor.

Twenty minutes later Oliver spoke, a bit startled by the sound of his voice after riding in a protracted silence. “There’s a hot domestic in Brentwood.”

“We’re far from Brentwood.”

“I’m not saying to go there.”

“So why mention it?”

“Because I was wondering what the rich fight about.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“Scotty, look at your own divorce.”

“My infidelities were an escape from my ex’s complaints about always being broke! I may have been a prick in the bed department, but I wasn’t a reckless spender. If I had had money, it would have been different.”

“Think so? I bet you would have fought about how to spend it.”

Oliver didn’t deny it. She was probably right. “I should have had such problems.”

Marge glanced at him with sympathy. Although Oliver was dating his usual young bimbos, the young Ms. Decker was still on his mind. Cindy had knocked the wind out of him, and he had yet to recover. He fidgeted in his seat, a man angry and anxious. That meant he was serious. That meant he’d do a good job.

“What do you mean go through
all the files
?” Maryam Estes was blocking the door with thin, silken arms, the bronze-colored extremities holding dozens of silver and gold bracelets and bangles enveloping her limbs clear up to her biceps. “You can’t intrude on their confidentiality. These are current cases!”

“The warrant specifies
all
cases that had been handled by the Baldwins,” Oliver stated. “And it’s printed in English, Ms. Estes, which is your native language—”

“I don’t appreciate your snide remarks at a time like this!”

“You can be as outraged as you like,” Marge said. “Just let us do our job.”

Oliver said, “That’s your cue to get out of the way.”

“I will not!”

A staring match went on for several seconds. Oliver debated calling in the proper authorities to have her physically removed. If they did it themselves, they’d open themselves up to charges of police brutality. But time was ticking away. Oliver reached toward her and tickled the pits under her sleek arms. As she involuntarily retracted, he ducked and went inside.

Pragmatism was always a good ally.

Maryam stomped after him, then marched ahead of him, glancing over her shoulder with hot, angry eyes. “I am going to report you to your superiors.”

“I believe you, Doctor.” Oliver tried not to ogle her shapely ass. Not that he could see the outline all that clearly, because her dress was A-line. But it was red and it was sleeveless and
that made it sexier than hell. Her hair had been pulled back into a bushy ponytail, showing off an oval face with mocha skin, slightly bumpy from a few acne marks. The imperfection only made her that much more attractive. Of course, her deep brown eyes and mother-thick red lips didn’t hurt, either. The nostril pierce, as small as it was, still bugged him. But hey, you can’t have everything.

For a brief moment, Oliver flashed on Cindy, probably because of Maryam’s forceful personality. He missed her in ways he dared not admit to anyone, least of all himself. But there were times when he lay alone at night in his bed, just thinking…. He had summoned up the nerve to call her several days ago, suggesting a friendly, nonpressured dinner. To his surprise, she accepted. That was supposed to have taken place tonight, but Tarpin’s murder changed all that.

Marge spoke to him behind the fast-paced Maryam. “We look for Holt first?”

“Yeah.”

Marge stopped abruptly. “He’s not a current patient, and we don’t know the Baldwins’ filing system. How about we try a truce?”

“Be my guest. I’m never one to anger beautiful ladies.” He reviewed some options mentally. “How about if I go through the desks in their offices first while you ask her about the files? Plus, dealing with Holt may work to our advantage because he’s not a current patient. She may have fewer problems with confidentiality.”

Marge jogged to catch up with Maryam, and tried out empathy. “Please wait a moment, Dr. Estes. Let’s talk this out.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“There’s a lot to discuss. Don’t you want to hear about it?”

No response, but Maryam halted in her steps. Folding her arms across her chest, she tapped an open-toe sandal, the red nails going up and down, up and down.

“First of all, I’m very sorry. This must be awful for you. Not only the Baldwins, but Mr. Tarpin as well. You can see
why we feel there’s some urgency here. We’re doing this job first and foremost for your protection.”

Maryam stopped tapping. “
My
protection?”

Marge tried out a wide-eyed look of surprise. “Doctor, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. First it’s your bosses, then it’s Mr. Tarpin. Right now, we consider you at risk.”

Maryam was taken aback. “No one is out to get me.” Her voice wavered. “Why would someone be out to get me?”

“Why would someone be out to get Merv or Dee Baldwin? Or Hank Tarpin?” It was time for Marge to make her pitch. “I believe the answer is in those patient files.”

“I don’t agree.”

“With what?”

“That someone is out to get
me
! It doesn’t have to do with the practice. It has something to do with the nature camp—probably because of that
man
!”

“Tarpin?”

“Exactly!” She was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convert Marge. “The camp wasn’t my bailiwick. As I told you the first time, I primarily worked with Dee, doing testing and relaxation therapy for anxiety disorders.” Her jaw tightened, but now her eyes were nervous. “I actually had very little to do with Mervin. And
nothing
whatsoever to do with Hank Tarpin!”

“You didn’t like the man,” Marge stated.

“What in the world was there to like about him? He was a racist pig!”

“He made comments to you?”

She slammed her lips shut. “Not directly.”

“How about indirectly?”

“No,” she admitted. “But he was associated with that vile hate group.”

“The Preservers of Ethnic Integrity?”

“So you know about it.”

“Yes, Doctor, we do. Did Tarpin ever talk to you about it?”

“No,
he
didn’t. But that freak that Tarpin brought around sure spoke his mind!”

“Darrell Holt?”

Maryam was shocked. “Yes. Darrell Holt. Exactly! How did…”

“What do you know about him?” Marge tried to hide her excitement.

“What do
you
know about him?” Maryam retorted.

Turning a question into a question. Marge kept it short. “He was the local head of the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity.”

“That little freak had the nerve to insinuate that I acted like I did because I was ashamed of my heritage. That to get in touch with who I am, I needed to figure out what I was. As if you can hide being African-American. I am very proud of who I am and want my people to see me as a role model of what they can become. I was never so insulted in my life. I would have kicked him out on the spot, but then Dr. Baldwin walked in and the three of them went into the doctor’s office.”

“What did the three of them talk about?”

“I have no idea. I was so unnerved by the conversation that I went out on my lunch break!”

“Did you talk to Dr. Baldwin about it?”

She lowered her head. “No! I only spoke to that little freak the one time. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. But I did tell Tarpin not to bring him around when I was here.”

“So Holt came around often?”

“Not often at all.” Maryam hesitated. “I saw him maybe three times in my eighteen months here.”

Three times. More than just an accident
. Marge said, “How did Tarpin respond when you asked him not to bring Holt around?”

Maryam waited. “Actually, he sort of apologized for the freak’s behavior. He claimed that Holt was a bit outspoken but had his good points.”

“What kind of good points?”

“I never asked because I didn’t care.”

“Why do you think Holt was meeting with Baldwin?”

The question made her anxious. “I couldn’t imagine why. Except that Dee often…extends herself to disturbed people. She’s very ecumenical.”

“
Dee
was ecumenical,” Marge said.

“Yes. They both were.”

Marge regrouped her thoughts. Every time someone spoke about “Dr. Baldwin,” Marge assumed it was Mervin—a holdover from growing up a military brat. “Doctor” always meant a man. “So it was
Dee
who met with Tarpin and Holt?”

“Yes, didn’t I say that?”

“You didn’t specify which doctor,” Marge told her. “Did you know that Darrell Holt was a patient of Mervin Baldwin’s?”

Her face darkened. “Who told you that?”

“Tarpin did,” Marge answered. “Tarpin claimed that Holt saw Dr. Baldwin about eight years ago.” She made a face. “He also didn’t specify which one. In either case, Holt doesn’t appear to be a success story.”

Maryam said, “What school did he go to?”

“What
school
?”

“College. Do you know if Holt attended college?”

“Supposedly, he went to Berkeley. Why do you ask?”

“Because maybe Holt didn’t see Merv for behavioral problems. Maybe Holt saw Dee for college counseling. And if he got into Berkeley, then maybe he was a success story.”

Defending her bosses to the end
. Marge said, “I was led to believe Holt was seen for behavioral problems.”

“Well, then, you know more than I do.”

“Why don’t we find out?” Marge suggested. “Why don’t we start by looking up Holt’s file?”

“From your questions, I take it you have grave concerns about Darrell Holt.”

“Yes. Don’t you?”

Now Maryam really looked worried. Her hand went to her throat. Suddenly, she appeared small and vulnerable with her bare arms and painted nails.

Marge said, “Maybe we should look at Holt’s file?”

Maryam nibbled a hangnail. “Follow me.” Taking out a key, she unlocked a door that led into a six-by-eight windowless room illuminated by fluorescent light. It was lined with metal file cabinets. “This is where we keep our former clientele information.”

“Lots of files.”

Maryam didn’t respond. She jerked open the appropriate drawer and started sorting through the multitudes of Pentaflexes. Within minutes, she pulled out a skinny folder, then yanked the papers from the folder, flipping through the pages—three or four of them. Then she went back and started reading in earnest, heaving burdensome sighs as punctuation. Her hands were shaking.

“May I see the notes?” Marge asked.

“There’s nothing much in here, Detective.” Maryam seemed reluctant to let go. Perhaps she was hoping that the notes contained a magic bullet. “These diagnoses…” Another sigh. “They’re interchangeable with those of the thousands of other teenagers that have passed through these portals.” She hit the pages with the back of her hand. “Holt was seen by Mervin. He seemed to be a hostile teenager exhibiting oppositional behavioral problems. He also had an unresolved oedipal conflict with his father, stemming from his mother’s absence. Being as he was of mixed blood, he suffered with identity crises…and he had the
nerve
to accuse me—”

“May I
see
the papers, please?”

Maryam looked up; her face was covered in sweat.

Marge took the papers. “Maybe you should sit down, Doctor.”

“Perhaps that would be…” There was a small folding chair in the room. Maryam plunked herself down and dropped her chin to her chest. “I think I’m overreacting. I’m very suggestible.”

“It’s totally understandable,” Marge said. “Give me a moment to look at these papers, all right?”

As Marge scanned the notes, she realized that Maryam had been improvising. Baldwin didn’t believe in complete sentences, using abbreviations whenever he could. There were more single words and fragmented phrases than actual sentences. The first page was more like an appointment sheet, dates written in the left-hand column on grid-lined ledger paper. What looked like check numbers and the abbreviation FF were written in red ink after each date. No monetary amount was recorded, however. Several of the lines were inscribed with the word “progress,” but several others were marked with the word “regression.”

The actual notes were penned on blank sheets of paper. The first was titled F
AMILY
H
ISTORY
—written in block letters with a red, felt-tip marker.

Marge said, “He mentions that the father was rich.”

“Let me see…” Maryam read the notes. “In this context, I believe Dr. Baldwin was presenting a psychological profile of a man more concerned with money than with his child.”

“It doesn’t say that,” Marge said.

“That’s because you have to know how to read between the lines!”

“If you say so.”

Marge read on to page two. More dates and check marks and FF. Some diagnostic notes:

She pointed the abbreviations out to Maryam. “Translate for me, please.”

Maryam sighed again. “Hostile and angry, unresolved identity crises—mother was half-black, unresolved oedipal crises stemming from a bad-breast mother—that’s a Freudian way of saying a cold, unresponsive mother.”