Justice (34 page)

“No catch.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Decker said, “You might as well trust me, Chris. You can’t get much lower than where you are now.”

Whitman ran his hand over his face. “Give me a pencil and paper. I’ll give you the guy. Then kindly get the fuck outta my life.”

Decker managed
to squeeze in dinner with Rina and the kids before hurrying to meet Bontemps. It was a rushed meal that no one enjoyed, his family listening to his attempts at casual conversation while watching him gulp down food. He knew he needed to slow down, but he couldn’t seem to find the brakes. His stomach was in knots by the time he reached Wilshire Substation. He parked in the back lot and reached the snack bar by a quarter to six. That gave him just enough time to wash down some antacids and Advils with bitter black coffee.

At six, Bontemps walked through the door. She was wearing a camel-colored suit over a loose black blouse and carried a big leather bag over her shoulder. She bought coffee and sat down next to Decker. She looked tired, her eyes telling him anywhere but here.

“Everything okay, Officer?” Decker asked.

Bontemps said, “I’m fine, sir.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “I’ll take you at your word. I had a chance to read Creighton’s files on the Green case. Lots of men were questioned—relatives, neighbors, friends. Deanna didn’t seem to have a boyfriend. Do you know anything different?”

“I don’t recall her having someone special, Sergeant. From what I remember, the parents said she put most of her energies into her studies and lessons.”

“Did she date at all?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Bright attractive girl…” Decker shook his head. “She must have had some sort of social life.” He looked at his notes and moved on. “According to the autopsy report, whoever strangled Deanna broke her windpipe. There was nothing you could have done to save her. The convulsions could have been reflexive. She was gone by the time you came.”

He waited for Bontemps to say something. She didn’t.

Decker said, “Unfortunately, you had to witness her last moments. I’ve seen people die. It’s horrible. Only satisfaction I can offer you is, maybe we can drum up a new lead…find the monster who did it.”

Bontemps looked at Decker, then her eyes went to her coffee cup.

Decker pulled out a sheet of paper and laid it on the table. “Look at this face, Officer, then put it in your bag. If this guy is known to the Greens, just maybe we’ll be a baby step closer to resolution.”

Bontemps eyeballed the paper. “Doesn’t look like a police-artist sketch—too much detail.”

“You’ve got a good eye. Christopher Whitman drew it. He’s an artist. Whitman saw this man at the hotel the night Diggs was murdered. I’m not saying it means anything but maybe it does.”

“What’s preventing him from making someone up?”

“Nothing. But with this much detail, if the face is fictitious, the Greens won’t recognize it as anyone familiar.”

“Unless they happen to know some poor guy who looks like the drawing.”

“Bontemps, the sketch isn’t conclusive. We’ll use it as a possible tool, all right?”

“Yes, sir. Of course.” Quickly, Bontemps checked her watch. Decker caught it.

“Are you pressed for time?”

The woman blushed. “No, sir. I just need to call home before we go. Check to make sure the baby-sitter ar
rived. My big daughter’s watching my little one.”

Her big daughter? The woman appeared to be in her late twenties. Decker said, “How old is your big daughter?”

“Seventeen.” She started smiling, but held it back. “She’s going to be entering the academy next year.”

Decker studied the woman, trying to find hidden signs of age. He couldn’t. “Congratulations. You must be very proud.”

“More relieved than anything. Can I make my call?”

“Of course.”

In Bontemps’s absence, Decker thought of Cindy. Relief was a biggie in the emotional repertoire of parents with teens. Wanda was back in five minutes. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Decker finished his coffee. “You know, Bontemps, before we go, I want to clear the air about something. This morning I made an offhand comment about being Jewish. Is that something you have trouble with?”

Slowly, Bontemps answered, “Like you said, sir, we all have our preconceived notions.” She looked at Decker. “I apologize if I offended you.”

At least the woman was honest enough not to fake it. Still Decker was skeptical. “I’ll give you points for being truthful. But we need to have a professional attitude here. You can’t let your notions get in the way.”

“Absolutely. You have my word on that, sir.” Bontemps stowed the picture in her purse. “It’s good you caught me. If I want my dream, I’d better learn to keep it all inside.”

“What’s your dream, Bontemps?”

She kneaded her hands. “Detectives, sir. It’s been my goal from the start. I’m very qualified, Sergeant. Overqualified if I have to say so myself. I’ve been applying for six years. Somehow there’s always a reason why they can’t make it work.”

“Who’s they?”

“The brass.” Bontemps mashed her lips together.
“It’s one excuse after another—there’s no opening, there’s been cutbacks, there’re people out there with more seniority…meaning ‘We got our quota of black women so you’re outta luck, sweetheart.’” Abruptly, she stopped talking, looked at Decker. “There I go again. Shooting off.”

Decker stood. “I asked you a question, you answered it. No harm in that. Let’s go.”

Decker drove the Plymouth, Bontemps sat shotgun. A five-minute ride from the substation put them in LaFayette Park, a genteel neighborhood of homes and children squeezed between blighted industrial thoroughfares. Most of the avenues were lined with stately palms that fronted turn-of-the-century Victorian or Craftsman-style houses, the driveways filled with twenty-year-old Caddies and Oldses. Mixed in with the homes were a few fraternity houses. While the University of Southern California wasn’t within walking distance, the area was apparently close enough for some to set up camp.

The Greens lived in a pale-blue, two-story, wood-sided Victorian house loaded with white-painted gingerbread. It held several peaked roofs inset with shuttered dormer windows, parapets, and cornices. The bottom story was symmetrical—a big bay window on either side of an arched doorway crowned with a keystone. The wooden porch held a swing. Four steps down was a roselined walkway that bisected a front bed of impatiens and begonias as well as a newly mowed lawn.

Decker parked the car but didn’t get out. He rolled up the window, then turned to Bontemps. “You’ll have to sneak some glances my way to pick up my cues. I can’t tell you how to do that. It’s an intuitive thing. And nothing confrontational. No good cop, bad cop here, Bontemps. We’re both good cops, okay?”

“I understand, Sergeant. Do you want me to introduce you?”

“No, I’ll handle that. Just try to look like you’re supporting me.”

“I am supporting you.”

Decker wondered about that as he got out of the car. He recognized hostility in his own voice. He was irritated at the woman—for her honesty, for her prejudice. It was his own damn fault. What he got from breaking professionalism. He should just have ignored her and moved on.

Then again, how can you deal with notions unless you deal with them? Professionalism was a hard, hard thing. Decker was still plagued with self-doubts. But Rina was right. He couldn’t exactly have argued with Whitman. Maybe he should have argued a little more with Davidson.

They walked up the pathway and climbed the creaky steps. Decker knocked on the front door. The woman who answered appeared to be in her forties, kinky black hair flecked with gray pulled back into a ponytail. Her face was coffee mixed with cream, crow’s-feet webbing from the corners of her dark brown eyes. Her cheekbones were high, her lips full and thick. Her hands were slender, her nails painted natural, the tips painted white. She had on a gray silk pantsuit and a sleeveless white blouse, a metal cross hanging from around her neck. Her feet were housed in sandals.

Decker said, “Mrs. Green? I’m Sergeant Decker. We spoke over the phone.”

The woman appraised him with a cool eye. “Yes. Come in, please.” She offered Decker a smooth hand. “And call me Tony.”

Decker shook her soft hand. She retracted it into the folds of her silk suit and looked at Bontemps. “How are you, Wanda? It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.”

Bontemps appeared to shrink under the woman’s scrutiny. “I’m fine, ma’am, thank you.”

Tony stepped aside, granting permission for Decker and Bontemps to come in.

The room was paneled in walnut, light streaming through the mullioned bay windows in round, dusty beams. The muted-patterned furniture was overstuffed and old—faded fabrics, scarred wood. But at one time, it had been top quality. Heavy and durable, not a rip or a tear in any of the pillows or seams. The room held shelving units and bookcases. The Greens appeared fond of knickknacks. Lots of glass or porcelain objects, not only in the cabinets but also resting on tables and on a vintage upright piano. The wallpaper was heavy and gold-flocked, some texture rubbed from the pattern. No pictures or photographs anywhere. If there ever was a family, it was now as distant as the faded, square spots on the wall.

“My husband just called. He’s going to be a bit late. He told me to start without him.” Tony pointed to the couch. “Do sit. Would you like something to drink? I just made a pitcher of iced tea.”

Decker said, “Thank you, that sounds great.”

“Wanda?” Tony asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Excuse me, then.”

Decker and Bontemps sat on opposite ends of the couch. In front of them was a salver of canapés on the coffee table. Decker whispered, “Are we supposed to eat these or are they just for show?”

“No, you’re supposed to eat ’em. But wait till she offers us the tray.”

Decker grimaced. “What looks vegetarian?”

Bontemps said, “Are you vegetarian, sir?”

“Kosher.”

“Oh.” Bontemps stared at the tray. “These look like smoked ham, these look like turkey. This one here seems like egg with a slice of cucumber. Or is egg not okay?”

“No, eggs are fine. What’s this? Watercress and tomato. That’s okay, too.”

“That isn’t plain lettuce?”

“Watercress is a type of lettuce.”

Bontemps shrugged. “Guess you’d know about that better than me.”

“Yeah, this certainly ain’t soul food,” Decker said. “Was this for my benefit?”

“Probably.”

“Was she more natural when she was alone with you?”

“More natural? You mean more black?”

“I meant less affected.”

Bontemps thought a moment. “Maybe a little less snooty. But there’s still a distance. She’s educated. She lets you know about it right away.”

Before Decker could ask what she meant, Tony reappeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray of three iced-tea glasses garnished with mint sprigs. She set it down on the coffee table.

“Here we go.” She doled out the glasses, then picked up the plate of canapés. “A little something to go with your drink?”

Decker thanked her and popped a sliced cucumber topped with egg into his mouth. Bontemps reached for the smoked ham.

Decker said, “This was thoughtful of you.”

Tony smiled. “Thank you.”

“Especially because…” Decker took a sip of iced tea. “Because I’m sure your previous contact with the police was less than satisfactory.”

Tony’s eyes went to Decker’s face. He picked up a watercress and tomato appetizer, then said, “Not that I’m blaming anyone. I was just talking about the outcome. It’s terrible when everyone tries their hardest and there’s still no resolution.”

Tony seated herself ramrod straight in a wing chair opposite the couch. She gave Decker an angry eye. “Assuming everyone tried their hardest.”

Decker appeared casual. “You thought the police could have done more?”

“My daughter’s murder is still unsolved,” Tony said
icily. “Of course I thought the police could have done more. The police
should
be doing more.”

“Did you have any problems with the detectives, ma’am?”

“Not really.” Tony gave a sharp look to Bontemps. “I suppose everyone was…
respectful
enough. I’ll just chalk it up to…incompetence more than anything.”

Bontemps flinched, but Decker was impassive. He took another hors d’oeuvre. “Let me explain to you why I’m here. I’m working on a case far away from here. We have a computer system in the department. You can program in the specific details of your case and ask the computer if there are any similar cases on file with the LAPD. Are you with me so far?”

“Yes, Sergeant, I’m
with
you.”

Decker ignored her sarcasm. “Your daughter’s murder had some common details with my file. That’s why I’m here.”

“So my daughter’s murder is…secondary to your solving your case.”

“Mrs. Green, we don’t consider Deanna’s murder secondary to any other,” Bontemps said.

“All very good and fine, Wanda. But certain murders are more…high-profile than others. I mean, what’s so special about another black teenager being…brutally assaulted? Certainly no cause for alarm around these parts.”

Bontemps said, “To Sergeant Decker and me, murder is always cause for alarm.”

Decker said, “Mrs. Green, if your daughter’s homicide had nothing in common with my case, I wouldn’t be here today. Because I wouldn’t have been aware of it. But the fact is, now I
am
aware of it, everyone would benefit if we worked together.”

Tony said, “And what happens if…ah, Parker’s home. Very good. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll tell him you’re here.” She got up and left.

When she went out the door, both Decker and Bon
temps sat back in the couch. Bontemps blew out a gush of air. “Jesus, that woman is tough. I forgot how difficult…” She rubbed her face. “So full of
rage
.”

“Her daughter was murdered.”

“No, it started long before that, Sergeant. Believe me,
I
know the type.” Bontemps moved closer to Decker and whispered, “She and her husband…clawing against everyone to make it through the system. Now that they’ve arrived, there aren’t lots of places for them. They can’t go back…too much jealousy and resentment from the have-nots. And they can’t really go forward ’cause they’re not quite big enough to break out into the white world. So they’ve got their little bit of success here. And that’s about it.”