Justice (30 page)

“
I’m going to be working late
,”
Decker said. “But I’ll be here. So call if you need anything.”

“A new case?” Rina asked.

“No. Just tying up loose ends. If tonight’s not good, I can do it tomorrow night.”

“No, tonight’s fine. Maybe I’ll ask the boys to pitch in with some baby-sitting. I’d like to go over to the yeshiva and catch one of the Rebbitzin’s
shiurim
.”

“What’s the Rebbitzin lecturing about?”

“
Shyalahs
and
Tchuvahs
—questions and answers. She’s a good speaker.”

“When’s the lecture?”

“She usually starts around eight.”

“You know what, Rina? I’ll meet you there. If the lecture isn’t over, I’ll learn in the study hall. Then maybe we can go for a ride afterward…get some ice cream.”

There was silence over the line. Then Rina said, “A ride?
And
ice cream?”

“I’ll bring the Porsche. I’ll even put the top down.”

“Just the
two
of us? With the top down?”

“Yes. Can your heart handle the excitement?”

“I don’t know. This is an untested event.”

Decker laughed. It had been awhile since they’d stolen some quality time together. He didn’t count the times his insomnia had brought her to the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning. “Love you, kid.”

“Are you all right, Peter?”

“I’m great. My business shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. Old stuff. So I’ll see you soon.”

“You promise?” Rina quickly added, “No, don’t promise me anything.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“You don’t trust me, huh?”

“Of course I trust you.” Rina paused. “It’s your job I don’t trust. A truly seductive mistress.”

Decker was quiet. “That’s an odd way of looking at my work.”

Rina said nothing. “You’ll be home in an hour?”

“Of course.” Decker was peeved. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

She hung up. Tension in the air. Screw it. He’d handle it later. He was good at handling things.

Just an hour, though the case didn’t deserve even that much. He opened the folder and scanned the pages for an overview, refamiliarizing himself with the facts, the figures, and the autopsy report. All the lab tests had been completed. The semen inside Diggs hadn’t matched Whitman’s. As far as the fetus Cheryl had been carrying…no one had ever tested Whitman to see if he had been the father, hadn’t been necessary since Whitman had confessed.

Back-to-basics time. Decker fished out his old checklist. First name on the roster was Henry Trupp—the night hotel clerk. A handwritten scrawl in the margin that Decker had called the house three times, but Trupp hadn’t answered.

He dialed the number. After two rings, he was told the line had been disconnected and there was no new listing. He hung up, asked directory assistance for a new number. But there wasn’t any listing—not anywhere in the Valley.

Decker tried the city directory. No luck there. Aloud he sang, “Oh where, oh where has Henry Trupp gone?”

He rang up the Grenada West End, and spoke to a desk clerk named Caroline. First identifying himself, Decker then asked for Trupp. His request was followed by one of those pregnant pauses.

Caroline said, “Excuse me, Sergeant, I’m going to transfer your call to my supervisor.”

Decker said, “Is there some sort of problem?”

But she had already pressed a button, sending him into the great electronic void. Another voice came through the receiver—Joe, the supervisor.

Decker said, “I’m trying to find an employee…or maybe a former employee of the hotel—Henry Trupp. He used to work the night desk at this location.”

Joe was suspicious. “What is this about, sir?”

“Just want to talk to the man, that’s all. Do you have his current phone number?”

“Sergeant, Mr. Trupp is…deceased.”

Decker sat up. “He’s dead?”

“Yes, sir. About two months ago.”

“What happened?”

“We’ve already made our statements to the police, sir.”

Statements to the
police
? Decker said, “Trupp was murdered, Joe?”

“Sergeant, if you are who you say you are, you should know all this. If you have any questions, contact the hotel attorneys.”

The phone disconnected. Decker’s mind was reeling.
Two
months ago. That would have put it around the time of the Diggs murder. It was obvious that Trupp hadn’t been whacked at the hotel. Otherwise, Devonshire would have fielded the call. He looked down at his notes. Trupp’s former address was on Sepulveda near Roscoe.

Decker called up the Van Nuys Substation, asking for Detectives. A CAPS dee named Bert Martinez answered
the line. Briefly, Decker told the man who he was and what he wanted.

A hesitation over the phone. Martinez said, “I’m missing something here. I thought the Diggs case was closed. As I understood, it was a mob case.”

“Not exactly. The kid who confessed had Mafia connections. And yes, the case is closed officially, but—”

“So what do you want with Trupp?”

“Just wanted to go over a few minor things. Was the case solved?”

“Unfortunately no,” Martinez said. “It’s my case and it’s still wide open.”

“CAPS is picking up homicides?”

“No. I used to be in
Homicide
. Funny how that works.”

Decker hesitated. The man was sitting on some holy anger. “What can you tell me about Trupp?”

Martinez said, “Why exactly do you want to know?”

Decker said, “I’m sensing reluctance, Martinez. What am I doing to make you squirrely?”

Slowly Martinez said, “It’s just weird to find the principal homicide detective in a major case reopening his own investigation after it’s been solved.”

“I’m not reopening anything,” Decker said.

“So what are you doing?”

“Tying up some loose ends.”

“What’s
really
going on, Decker? You doing Cosa Nostra a favor or something?”

Instantly, Decker felt ire well up inside, but kept it in check. Martinez was making sense. Decker said, “I’m at Devonshire. Give me twenty minutes, I’ll meet you at Van Nuys, all right?”

“You’ll meet me here? At the station house?”

“You’ve got something else in mind?”

“I’m hungry. There’s a coffee shop a couple of blocks from here.” He gave Decker the address. “Twenty minutes?”

“Make it thirty.” Decker felt his stomach tighten, his
words mocking him.
Just an hour
. “I’ve got to call my wife. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

The place was so old, it was a wonder it hadn’t come tumbling down in the ’94 earthquake. It held a half-dozen booths and a Formica lunch counter hosting ten swivel stools. The vinyl used to fabricate the booths and stool tops must have been brown at one time, but now it was so faded and cracked, it looked like beef jerky. The floor was washed-out linoleum, something between an ivory and gray. Decker trod carefully, grateful that his shoes didn’t stick to the tiles as he walked over to someone he assumed was Martinez.

The guy was stocky, his complexion mocha-colored, a dense, black mustache providing an awning for a thick upper lip. He had black hair and coffee-bean eyes, and wore a white shirt loosened at the neck, a thin, out-of-date paisley tie, and a pair of gray slacks. He was eating a bowl of soup, dipping a French baguette into the tomato-based liquid. He looked up at Decker. “Have a seat.”

Decker sat.

The men shook hands. A waitress came up, automatically poured Decker a cup of coffee. She asked if he wanted anything to eat, but Decker shook his head. After she left, Decker said, “I didn’t appreciate your comment.”

Martinez gobbled up half of his soggy roll. “So tell me why you’re opening the case.”

“Long story short? I was never happy about the way the investigation was handled.”

“Why weren’t you happy if you handled it?”

“It was a big case. Lots of people involved. My superior and I had differences of opinion. You might guess who won out.”

“You got your conviction. What’s the problem?”

“No problem,” Decker said. “I just don’t like being
told how to do my work. But sometimes it’s unavoidable. The Diggs case was one of those times. Now that it’s over, I want to satisfy myself that I did everything right.”

“Your caseload’s that light that you got time for Monday morning quarterbacking?”

Slowly Decker appraised the detective. “Martinez, I take shit from the upper brass, I ain’t gonna take it from you. I’m not in bed with anyone. I’m working for my own personal reasons. You doubt my motives, I can live with that. Bottom line—are you going to help me out or not?”

Martinez looked up from his soup. “You’re not going to eat anything?”

Decker sat back in his chair. “You’ve got an agenda here, Bert. Fill me in.”

The waitress came over again, took Martinez’s empty soup bowl and placed in front of him a roast beef dip and a plate of fries. Decker felt his mouth begin to water.

Martinez said, “Give the man the same, Mimi.”

“No, no, no,” Decker said. “Nothing…well, maybe a scoop of cottage cheese.”

“Sugar, I’ve seen them all.” Mimi winked at Decker. “Believe me, you don’t need to diet.”

“Thank you. But cottage cheese is fine.”

“Want me to throw some fruit on it for you, sugar?”

“What do you have?”

“Lots of melon balls. I’ll throw some on for free.”

“Fine.”

Mimi left. Martinez said, “I think she likes you. She’s never offered me free balls.”

Decker said, “Speak to me, Detective.”

Martinez took in a mouthful of roast beef. “’Bout two months ago—when I was still in Homicide—I caught a two
A.M.
call…a Saturday night special.” He swallowed and took another bite. “Some geezer was found dead in the parking lot of the Chopperhouse. Are you familiar with the place?”

“No. Sounds like a biker bar.”

“An ex-con, biker bar…which is probably a redundancy. It’s about six blocks from the station house, which makes our job easy. From the bar, they go to the joint. Released from the joint, they go back to the bar. It’s quite a scene. Shitkicking scumbags on heavy metal transportation and girls with big knockers wearing leather vests.”

“You forgot ZZ Top booming out at earsplitting volume.”

“On the nailhead,” Martinez said. “Anyway, I got called down. We IDed the victim. His name was Henry Trupp.”

“Trupp was a
biker
?”

“One of them old, skinny, used-to-be types turned pathetic lush.”

“Did Trupp have a record?”

Martinez nodded. “Cat burglary.”

“Well, that’s confidence inspiring,” Decker said. “Trupp worked for a major motel chain. He had passkeys to all the rooms.”

“Motel help…we’re talking four-figure incomes. Some of the dives take whatever they can get, no questions asked.”

“He wasn’t working for a dive.”

“Then I guess he could fake it well enough to work.”

“When was Trupp’s last arrest?”

“About two years ago.”

“He was working for the Grenada for about a year and a half. Wonder if he did some pilfering there?”

“Could be. But dig this. His last arrest
wasn’t
for burglary.”

“Morals charge?”

“Very good. They caught him with some thirteen-year-old runaway who was rooting his pipes.”

“Cheryl Diggs supposedly got free rooms for herself and friends in exchange for head.”

“How old was she?”

“Seventeen…maybe even eighteen.”

“Mr. Trupp must have matured in his tastes.”

Decker smiled.

Martinez said, “Anyway, you get called down to a ex-con bar for a murder…how do you figure the guy’s been done in? Maybe shooting, most likely a stabbing—a broken beer bottle across the jugular. Maybe even a fatal beating, right?”

“Trupp was strangled,” Decker said.

Martinez stopped himself mid-chew. “Exactly.”

“Not garroted. It was done manually. You found imprints around his neck.”

Martinez didn’t answer.

Decker said, “Had Trupp been tied up?”

Martinez shook his head no. “Parallels to your girl?”

“To Cheryl Diggs, you mean? A few. Go on.”

Martinez sipped his coffee. “Now, Trupp had enough booze in his blood to preserve him in a specimen jar. So it wasn’t hard picturing someone going up to him and snapping his neck. The question was, why would someone do it that way?”

“And?”

“Well, Decker, that’s about as far as I got. Because I suddenly got word from my superiors that this guy was the night clerk at the Grenada, where the prom queen was murdered. I also got word that Devonshire was on the verge of arresting a suspect. Because of the publicity on the Prom Queen Murder, I was told to keep my investigation quiet so as not to complicate your shit before your suspect was arraigned. A week later, I got a promotion and a raise. But I also got bumped to CAPS. Someone shut me down.”

“Wasn’t me,” Decker said. “I would love to have known about this.”

“So why didn’t you follow up on Trupp?”

“Why do you think, Bert? I had the prime suspect in custody and a legit confession. Whitman said he did it, I’m going to tell him he was mistaken?”

“Well, all I knew was that some mafioso kid was plea-bargained down to a Man One. You’ve got to take a look at it through my binoculars, Pete.”

“You’re figuring the kid whacked the girl, then whacked Trupp because he saw something?”

“Exactly. But then I blink and the kid’s lost to me. I’m moved
out
of Homicide—”

“With a raise and a promotion.”

“Hush money. I was taken off Trupp and told to move on to something else. So I’m wondering if the loose ends you’re talking about is the Mafia trying to clean up its paperwork. Or somebody upstairs covering his tracks. Because from my point of view, I see a Man One conviction that maybe shoulda been two counts Murder One. For all I know, you’ve been hired to give me motivation for forgetting about Trupp.”

“I’m not working for anyone, especially the mob.”

“Look, at the time of the murders, I asked around about you. You’ve got a rep as an honest guy. But I’m clearing the air just so we understand each other.”