Justice (19 page)

He began to caress my breasts.

“That’s cool. I can accept that. Because the relationship has to die in the morning. But if that wasn’t the case, you’d
have
to know the truth. And if you really loved me…the way that I love you…you’d accept me, no matter what. Just like I’d accept you, no matter what.”

The room fell quiet. Neither of us spoke for a minute, just held each other. Leaning my head against his chest, I heard his heartbeat, felt the cool gold of his cross against my cheek. I climbed the chain with my fingers, then rested them on the back of his neck.

Wordlessly, he slipped off his chain and put it around
my neck. “It’s not fancy, but it’s meaningful to me. It was my mother’s. You’d do me an honor if you took it.”

I kissed it. “It’s beautiful. I love it.” I kissed him softly. “I love you, Christopher. Despite everything, I still love you very deeply.”

He kissed me hard, his tongue parting my lips, then playing inside my mouth. He began to explore my flesh, his left hand resting between my legs, fingertips inching into the pleats of my womanhood. He stopped abruptly and we locked eyes. For once, his were animated. He whispered, “I’ll do whatever you want, Teresa. You lead. I’ll follow.”

It wasn’t sex but it was pretty damn close. An exquisite compromise that took us through the night.

Sleep had been an elusive lover
—a series of brain buzzes and fits punctuated by sudden remembrances of things to do. Decker had finally given up at four in the morning, carefully rising from the bed, slipping into work clothes. He had brewed a pot of coffee, read the morning paper, walked the dog in a moonless star-studded sky, then tackled the barn—changed and pitched the hay, fed and groomed the horses.

By six, he had not only worked up a good sweat but had cleared his mind. With renewed clarity, he had put on another pot of coffee, then had taken out the Diggs file—a big envelope overflowing with official documents.

This time utility overtook vanity. Decker slipped on reading glasses, then fingered the piles of papers in front of him. The inevitable march of time took on particular significance for him because Rina was defying normal biological processes. Twelve years his junior, she looked
younger
than when they had married—a phenomenon that baffled him, but one that perhaps Einstein could have explained. Wearing magnified lens and sipping coffee, he read, made notes, diagrams, charts, and timetables.

At six-forty-five, Rina’s slippers shuffled into the kitchen. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

“A couple of hours.” Decker took off his glasses and
stood up. “I could think of it as a poor night’s sleep. Instead, I’ll look at it as a refreshing nap. It’s all relative.”

“That may be but you look exhausted.” She shook her head. “First Cindy turned you into an insomniac. Now this case. Peter, you need rest.”

“Actually, I feel pretty good.”

Rina began warming a bottle of milk. “That’s caffeine talking.”

“Speaking of which, the coffee’s recent. We’ve got around fifteen minutes before the morning onslaught. Why don’t you join me?”

Rina poured herself a cup, drowned it with milk, then sat at the kitchen table. She was blanketed in a terry robe, ebony hair falling at odd angles across her face. Her eyes were sleepy pools of clearwater blue. “Did you call Cindy?”

“Yes, I called her. Get this! Now she wants to stay in New York for the summer.”

“At Columbia?”

“No, with two girlfriends. They want to rent an apartment. Can you believe that?”

“What’s wrong with the idea?”

“Nothing, except I want her home.”

“But she doesn’t want to come home.”

“So what? I’m her father and I want her home.” He poured himself a refill and dropped a couple of slices of rye into the toaster. “I know, I know. Gotta let go. Let them have wings. What a truckload of crap.” He frowned. “How’s the rest of my family? Do they miss me?”

“They do.”

“Tell the boys I’ll take them riding tonight.”

“Uh…tonight they’re busy learning.”

“I thought they learned on Thursday night.”

“That’s
mishmar
at
their
school. Tuesdays is their extra learning with Rav Schulman at the Ohavei Torah. He’s been asking about you, by the way.”

“I know,” Decker said. “I’ve been terrible…canceling lessons right and left. I’ve been busy—I know, I know. You’re never too busy for Torah.”

“He hasn’t been asking about you to scold you, Peter. He’s concerned for your welfare…all the additional hours you’ve been putting in.”

Decker eyed Rina suspiciously. “You haven’t been talking to him now, have you?”

“About you? Of course not!” Rina got up and pulled the baby bottle out of warm water. “I’m insulted you’d think I’d talk behind your back.”

“Then how does he know I’m working such long hours?”

“Because you’ve been canceling lessons.”

Got you there, Deck
. He gave her a boyish smile. Rina whacked his good shoulder. “Think you can charm your way out of everything, eh?”

“Is it working?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” Rina sat back down. “I’m concerned about you, Peter. This case is taking its toll on your psyche. Do you know you’ve called me Marge two times?”

“That’s not indicative of anything. I call her Rina all the time. She gets peeved when I do. Are you peeved at me?”

“No. But it does show me you need some rest. Either that or you need Marge.”

He parked himself in a chair. “Yeah, I do miss Marge. We talk things out, each one bringing in a different perspective. Whenever I work by myself for long stretches, I get tunnel vision.”

“Can I help?”

“No, it’s all right. Scott Oliver’s been picking up some of the slack.”

Rina smiled. “Now, how is Scott doing?”

“You mean detective drooling dog,” Decker said. “I see how he acts around you.”

“It’s any female, Peter—
Homo sapiens
or otherwise.”

Decker laughed. “Actually, he’s a decent cop. If it were just Scotty and me, I wouldn’t complain.”

Rina took a sip of her coffee. “It’s Davidson, isn’t it? What’s he doing to you this time?” The toaster dinged. Rina rose, but Decker gently nudged her back down. “I’ll get it.”

Rina watched her husband butter toast. He poured two glasses of orange juice, offered one to Rina, then sat back down with his breakfast.

“Davidson’s fixated on Diggs’s boyfriend as the murderer.” He gulped down half a mug of black coffee. “Now, I don’t like the kid. He’s cold, he’s calculating, he’s eerie, his affect is off, and I think he’s an excellent liar. I have no trouble believing that Whitman could choke a girl as easy as scramble an egg.”

“Whitman’s the boyfriend?”

“Yeah. Christopher Sean Whitman. He’s a weird sucker and he’s also Mafia.”

“I didn’t know there was Mafia out here.”

“He’s originally from the east. He’s Joseph Donatti’s adopted son.”

“
The
Joseph Donatti?”

Decker nodded.

Rina raised her eyebrows. “No wonder Davidson is in an uproar about him.”

“On the surface, the kid looks like the perfect perp.” Decker took a bite of his toast, chewed quickly, and swallowed. “But there are intervening factors. Things that Davidson is point-blank choosing to ignore.”

“Like what?”

“Conflicting evidence. Foreign pubic hairs not linked to Whitman. Now, that’s not unusual. Lots of investigations aren’t cut-and-dried. But Davidson doesn’t even want to
hear
about anything that negates the Whitman-as-killer theory.”

“The man is rather concrete.”

“More like a cinderblock wall. He’s impeding my investigative techniques. The case is moving forward, but not in a methodical way.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m either going to find something tangible on Whitman or I’m going to move on. The homicide is already forty-eight hours old, which is nothing if you have a suspect in custody. But if it isn’t Whitman, we have no understudies waiting in the wings.”

Decker flipped through the stack of papers in front of him.

“I’ve been reading and rereading…I’m not having much luck. I don’t know. Maybe I am exhausted.”

A high-pitched plea of
momeeeeeeee
sirened through the kitchen.

“I’ll get her.” Decker dashed out of the room and returned a moment later snuggling a bundle cocooned in warm pink sleeper. All that was visible was a mop of auburn silk. “Someone’s still very tired.”

“Hello, Hannah Rosie,” Rina said. “Are you hungry?”

At the sound of Rina’s voice, the toddler reached out to Mama. Rina swept Hannah up in her arms, then kissed her tummy, drawing out tinkly laughter. Sitting down, she gave Hannah her bottle. To her husband she said, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I’m fine. Is there anything I can do for
you
?”

“As long as you asked, yes, there is.”

“Uh-oh.”

“
If
you have the time,” Rina said, “take the boys to Rav Schulman and sit in on the lesson.”

“The boys are way ahead of me.”

“So they won’t learn
gemara
for one night. Rav Schulman will choose something appropriate for everyone. You look upset, Peter. Maybe a little spirituality would be uplifting…take you away from the ugliness of your work.”

A good point. Decker said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
He let out a small laugh. “That sounds moronic, doesn’t it? I should see if I can fit God and beauty and holiness into my busy schedule of murder, mayhem, and tragedy.”

Rina kissed her daughter’s palm—as warm and soft as eiderdown. “We all get caught up in what we’re doing. Too caught up to stop and smell the coffee.”

Decker smiled weakly. Rina was worried…and a little pissed by his preoccupation with the Diggs murder. So be it. The teen had been murdered and he wanted the perp put away for good. One less sleaze in this world to worry about.

Whitman opened the front door.

Decker pulled the paper out of his briefcase. “Hello, Christopher. I’m sure you’ve been expecting this.” He proffered Whitman the search and seizure warrant. “You’re blocking. Excuse me.”

Decker entered the apartment, heading toward the boy’s bedroom.

Whitman followed. “I’d like to read the warrant before you start.”

“Son, you can read it,” Decker said. “But I’ve got a job to do. And since I know it’s been properly executed, I’m going to start right in so I can get out of here as quickly as possible.” He smiled. “I bet that sounds pretty good to you, too.”

Decker began with the closet. A quick overview: no tux. That meant going through the items one by one.

Whitman leaned against the doorframe and read. “Your warrant prohibits the demolition of anything that provides structural integrity to the building.”

“That means I can’t knock down walls. But if you’ve punched a hole in something, it’s fair game.”

“I haven’t punched a hole in anything.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about.” Decker took out his pad and pen, scribbled a few notes. Whitman
was
compulsive
. His shirts were arranged in rainbow-color order—red, orange, yellow, green, and blue. Same with the jackets, all the hangers facing the same way. Dress pants were pressed and folded. Tie rack on the side, again color coded. Not a thing was hung in a haphazard manner. Made Decker’s job a hell of an easy task.

He said, “Where’s your tux, Chris?”

Whitman didn’t answer.

“You know what I’m talking about?” Decker carefully placed Whitman’s apparel on his bed. “The tux you wore the night of the prom.”

Having denuded the closet, Decker started tapping the walls of the empty space. “I didn’t see it hanging up.”

Whitman was silent.

“You didn’t lose it now, did you?” Decker said.

“I can’t stop you from making a mess,” Whitman said. “But I don’t have to talk to you.”

He was aware
. Decker said, “Just thought you might want to help. Get me out of here quickly.”

Whitman remained quiet.

Decker knocked on the closet’s ceiling, banged and checked the floorboards. Solid. He sneaked a sidelong glance at Whitman. The kid’s face was flat, but his posture was stiff. He was tapping his foot, not out of impatience, but out of nervousness. His eyes kept going to the clothes piled on his bed. Had Decker missed something? Didn’t appear that way. Maybe Chris just liked things orderly. If that was so, he’d do well in prison.

Decker decided to be neat and polite. If he made a mess, it might initially unnerve Whitman, but it would also make him angry and defiant. The kid probably performed well when he was mad. Rage wasn’t alien to him.

“I’m done with the clothes. I’ll need to toss your bed.” Decker rolled his shoulders. “You want to hang up your things while I hunt through your drawers, be my guest.”

Whitman started forward, then stopped himself. He wanted to put back his clothes, but he didn’t want to do what Decker—i.e., the
police
—had suggested.

Decker smiled inwardly. He had put Chris in a classic double-bind. Whitman closed and opened his eyes. “Just toss the clothes on the floor. Do you want some coffee?”

“I’d love some.”

It wasn’t the answer he had expected. Now optionless, Chris hesitated, then left the room.

“Black is fine,” Decker shouted aloud.

He started on the drawers. Casual clothes—jeans, T-shirts, polo shirts, khakis, sweats, sweaters. Lots of clothes all folded and stowed army regulation perfect. He wondered if Whitman had ever attended military school. His pants were a thirty-four extra, extra long. Decker picked up a jacket off the bed—forty-two extra, extra long. Decker wore a forty-six on good days.

Having rooted through his clothes, Decker moved on to the next bank of drawers. This one held bed linens. Decker smelled them. Freshly washed. That made sense. The stakeout had followed the kid early this morning, first to a restaurant, then to a Laundromat. Odd, though. The building had machines in the basement. It seemed to Decker as if Whitman was trying to draw out the tail.

Decker plowed through more of Whitman’s drawers. One held school supplies, the other contained stereo equipment—wires, wire cutters, leads, heads, and an assemblage of doodads that Decker couldn’t identify. Two other drawers were filled with CD racks—one with classical, the other with rock. Kid had eclectic tastes. More school supplies—paper, pens, pencils, calculators, a dictionary, a thesaurus, markers, crayons…

Decker stopped.

Crayons?

That’s right. Whitman was an artist. So where did he keep the bulk of his art supplies?

More searching produced nothing of significance. Decker started in on the bed.

Whitman came back with the coffee.

“Thanks, just put it down anywhere.” Decker carefully folded back the covers and searched the bedding. Then he began a careful examination of the mattress, checking the seams for signs of tampering. Finding nothing, Decker reached into his briefcase and pulled out a pocketknife.

Whitman said, “The warrant says you can’t destroy anything.”

Decker said, “The warrant says I can’t break down walls, Chris.” Carefully he cut the mattress ticking, peeled back a flap, and exposed lumpy piles of stuffing.

“Are you going to pay for that?” Whitman asked.

“You’ll be compensated.” Decker sorted through the stuffing. Nothing. He repeated the procedure with the box spring. Again, it was devoid of anything valuable.