Sanctuary (11 page)

“You ever hunt when you were a kid?” she asked.

“Yep. Alligators and ducks.”

“That’s right. You were born in Florida. Did you like it?”

“Florida’s okay.”

“Not Florida, Pete. Did you like hunting?”

“I thought it was silly. Grown men getting up at four
in the morning to hunker down in the trenches and quack aloud. Alligators are mean sons of bitches. Sneaky little suckers with eternal smiles. But the way they’re slaughtered used to get to me. You can’t shoot them outright because you’ll ruin their hide. You’ve got to pith their brains out with a special type of blowgun.”

“Lovely. Further nauseate my queasy stomach.”

Ginger abruptly stopped, her posture freezing in the mist of the morning.

“She’s found something?” Marge asked.

“I don’t know.” Decker tugged on the leash. “Come on, girl.”

Ginger refused to budge.

“Does she know what she’s doing?” Marge asked again.

“I’ve never taught her how to hunt,” Decker said. “But the instincts are there.” He lowered his backpack onto the wet ground. “I trust her, Marge. I say we dig.”

Marge slipped her knapsack off her shoulders. “At least we don’t have to worry about destroying evidence. The rain helped us in that department. I sure hope your dog isn’t smelling a dead possum or something.”

“It could be she is. Although she seemed to sniff the clothes with interest.” Decker smiled. “Listen to me. I’m psychoanalyzing a dog.”

Marge opened her satchel and took out an array of tools. “I always wanted to be an archaeologist.”

“Don’t think you’re going to find Cro-Magnon man here.”

“I’ll settle for anything that doesn’t move when I exhume it.”

Decker smiled, then lowered himself onto his knees, feeling the ground with a gloved hand. Within moments, he had sunk a couple of inches into the slime. He knee-walked backward until he felt the ground wasn’t going to swallow him up. “I think Ginger’s on the money. Feel the ground right in front of me. See how soft and muddy it is compared to where I’m kneeling.”

“You’re right.” Marge sighed. “Dirt over here is much looser.”

“Like it was dug up and turned over and tamped back into place.”

“I didn’t see a mound.”

“Rain could have evened out the topology. I’m telling you, this is turned-up soil. We’ve got a grave here.”

“Should we call in the experts?”

Decker said, “Maybe we should try it ourselves first. Could be as innocuous as someone having a funeral for their pet.” Decker felt the ground again, trying to outline the perimeter by touch. Just by quick feel, the soft area seemed around four by four. Who knew how deep. Maybe someone buried a mastiff. “Give me the trowel. I’ll start out slowly.”

Marge handed him the trowel.

Carefully, Decker started unearthing the mud. As soon as he dug out earth, the depression filled with silted water. It was like digging sand at the seashore.

“I need a siphon.”

“I can get us some straws at the local Jack-in-the-Box.”

“Did we bring a hose?”

“No such luck.”

Decker tried to bail out water with his hands. “I can’t see a fucking thing.”

Marge pulled off his cap. “Why don’t you sacrifice this to the cause?”

Decker looked at her, at the cap. He took it and began scooping muddy water from his hole. He dug, he removed water, more water came to take its place. Twenty minutes later, sodden with sludge, he stopped.

“My hands are freezing. My fingers are numb.”

“My turn to slime fish.” Marge knelt and stuck her hands into the icy slosh. “I feel something down there.”

“There’re lots of rocks.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s what they are. Give me the pail.”

Decker handed her the cap. She attempted to bail water
from the hole. It was a losing proposition. Disgusted, she tossed the cap and dug blind. When she felt she had removed a substantial amount of mud, she lowered her arm into the quagmire of frosty, wet earth. Soon her shoulder was touching the ground. She fingered her way around, then tried to pull her arm out and was met with resistance—as if she were freeing an animal trapped in tar. She finally liberated her limb, wiggled her fingers. Her sweater sleeve was encased in brown slime. “Something is definitely down there.”

“More than rocks?”

“More than rocks. Jesus, my arm’s frozen solid.”

“Move it around,” Decker said. “Does it feel like dog bones or cat bones or…what?”

Marge attempted to wipe the mud from her forearm. She had a pained look on her face. “I wouldn’t swear to it, but I think I just shook hands with someone.”

Davidson scratched his nose. “Looks like you found a body. At this point, I’m sure you’ll take any corpse you can get.”

Marge looked at him. Now
how
do you respond to that? She said nothing, regarding the two lab men who were unearthing the contents from the makeshift grave. One wore a yellow slicker; the other chose a full black raincoat that Dracula could have used in a pinch. Both of the garments were caked with mud.

She lifted her eyes to the surrounding areas. The mist had evaporated but the sky was still gray. Now and then
the sun appeared in a cameo role, but it added little light and warmth. Three police dogs were sniffing out the mountainside. Ginger hadn’t liked the interlopers, had barked furiously and distracted the professionally trained canines from doing their jobs. Or so had complained their handlers. Decker had been forced to take her home, but not before recommending Ginger be cited for fine police work.

It was after eleven in the morning, Davidson having taken three and a half hours to get all the papers in order. Marge still felt Tug was a schmuck, but at least he was responsive, immediately assigning Decker and her to the case and allotting them the needed hours. Davidson watched the lab men dig.

“Don’t envy their job.”

“Don’t I know it,” Marge said. “Mud’s not only messy but as cold as ice. Freezes your fingers.”

“I thought women liked mud facials.”

“You’re a funny one, Loo.”

Davidson actually twitched the corners of his mouth. Marge felt that was as close to a smile as he was ever going to give.

Davidson said, “Good work, Dunn. You got your case, you got your time. Probably worth a few frozen nails for that.”

Marge said, “What’s a few frostbitten fingers between friends.”

Davidson looked her over. “You think I’m a son of a bitch, Dunn? I can live with that. Besides, look how it got you going. Think you would have been motivated like this if I woulda patted your hand and said, ‘Take your time’?”

She didn’t answer.

Davidson scratched his nose again. “I got my stripes. Keep going like this, maybe it’ll be your turn.”

Marge nodded, turned away, then broke into a soft smile. Damn it, they
did
do a good job! She took in a deep breath and put her hands in her pocket. Orit Bar
Lulu was coming their way, her footing less than steady. She stopped and checked her watch.

“It’s been over an hour,” she snapped to Davidson.

“We’re moving as fast as we can, Mrs. Bar Lulu. You can’t rush these things.”

“You’re driving me crazy.” She pointed to the grave. “How long does it take to dig someone up? Give me a shovel. I’ll do it in ten minutes.”

“It’s not the unearthing, Mrs. Bar Lulu,” Marge said. “We don’t want to harm the body. I don’t think you want that, either.”

“We’re moving as fast as we can, ma’am.” Davidson looked around. “Detective Dunn, you keep an eye on the lab men. I’ve got a few calls to make.”

Marge nodded and he left. Bastard probably wanted to get warm because it was
cold
outside. The yellow-slickered lab man raised his head. “We got most of the mud off. Do you want to take a look, Mrs. Bar Lulu?”

Orit glanced at Marge. As she stepped forward, she lost her balance. Marge caught her. She called out to the mountainside. “Sergeant Decker, we’re ready for an ID.”

Decker pivoted around and jogged over to Marge. He saw how she was supporting Orit. He flanked the Israeli woman on the other side and offered her an arm. Orit was white as she grabbed his wrist.

“First, I nag you to hurry up…then I don’t know if I can even do it.” Tears formed in her eyes. “Let’s go.”

“You want a few minutes to catch your breath?” Decker asked.

“No, I’m ready,” Orit said. “Let’s get it over with.”

Slowly, they approached the body, Orit’s eyes bobbing in their sockets.

“I’ve got you,” Marge said. “Just take your time.”

Orit looked at them for moral support, her head lolling from one side to the other. Decker patted her shoulder. “Take your time. If you feel sick, let us know.”

Orit nodded, then forced herself to study the face. A moment later, she jerked her head up, took a step
backward, then gulped in a lungful of fresh air. Decker grabbed her arm.

“Are you okay?”

Orit’s face was ashen, her voice a whisper. “It’s…Dalia.” She teetered on her feet. “I don’t feel too good.” She burst into tears. “I want to go home.”

Marge said, “I’ll take you to one of the squad cars.”

“I can’t go home?”

“Of course you can,” Marge said, gently. “But let us drive you. Can I call your husband for you?”

Orit nodded, allowing herself to be led by Marge to a heated black-and-white.

Decker stared at the grave, at a petite form outlined in mud. The face had been wiped but was still streaked with gook. Yet Decker could tell it had been a gentle face. Anger drove a blush to his cheeks. He choked it back and spoke to the lab men. “Anything else buried under her?”

“We can’t tell until we lift the body,” the black-coated man responded. “We’re waiting for the police photographer.”

“He should be here in a minute.”

Davidson was coming toward him, his stride quick and precise. “Your wife’s on the line,” he said. “Your kids are fine, but she needs to talk to you. She says it’s an emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

Davidson shrugged ignorance.

Decker felt his heart race as he ran over to the Plymouth. Was it his mother? His father? His brother? Randy was in vice—narcotics, mainly. He’d been shot three times by three separate dealers. Decker grabbed the mike from his radio. “What is it?”

“Peter, everyone’s healthy.”

Rina’s voice was tense, but the words were all he needed. He heard himself taking a deep breath.

“It’s not us, Peter, it’s Honey Klein,” Rina said. “It’s Honey’s husband. I just got a call from someone in the Manhattan Police Department,” Rina said. “Gershon was
found dead in his office at the diamond center. He’d been shot, stuffed into a closet—”

“Good God!”

“Peter, I don’t know what to do!” She began to cry. “I’m panicked!”

“Where are Honey and the kids now?”

“They left the house about two and a half hours ago to go sightseeing.”

“Where were they headed?”

“I don’t
know
! She didn’t tell me. I don’t know what I’m going to tell her—”

“I’ll handle it,” Decker said. “You don’t have
any
idea where they are?”

Rina paused. “She said something about going to the old Grauman’s Chinese Theater when I first spoke to her. But she said nothing to me about it this morning. Just that she was going sightseeing.”

Decker thought back to Gershon’s strange phone calls, Honey’s talk about gangsters. Not knowing any details, it was safer to be cautious. “Rina, I’m going to send a squad car over to the house. I’ll have the police wait outside until I can get over there. Don’t answer the door and don’t let anyone—and I mean
anyone
—in until I figure out what’s going on. It may take a little time to come. We just dug up Dalia Yalom—”

“Peter, you don’t have to—”

“I want to, okay?”

“Thanks.” Rina’s voice was small. “I’m scared.”

“I know, sweetheart. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

“I love you, Peter.”

“Love you too.” Decker paused. “Rina, do you know where Honey got her rental car?”

“I think from the place on Foothill. Tour-Time Rentals. Does that sound right?”

“It sounds right. Just stay put. Keep the doors locked and don’t open the doors for anyone. I have to make a few phone calls. I’ll call you back in about fifteen minutes.”

He hung up the mike and called Foothill substation. Tim Calais’s unit was the closest to the house. He was
happy to help out a former Foothill member. Besides, Decker was sure Mike had heard about Rina’s beauty. After thanking Calais, Decker cut the line, then put in a call to the dispatch operator, asking to be connected with Tour-Time Rentals. As he waited, Decker suddenly realized he was standing outside of the car. He sat down in the driver’s seat and closed the door. Davidson came over to the unmarked, bent over, and peered through the open window. “Everything okay?”

Decker covered the mike. “We have some houseguests. The woman’s husband, a diamond dealer, was just found murdered in Manhattan.”

“Jesus!” Davidson squinted. “You just say the guy was a
diamond dealer
?”

“Yep.”

“Any relation to our case?”

“Who knows?” Over the radio, Decker heard a perky lady say, “Tour-Time, this is Nancy speaking.”

“Nancy, this is Detective Sergeant Peter Decker of the Los Angeles Police.” He gave her all the requisite ID. “I have an emergency situation here. I have to get hold of a woman who rented one of your cars. And I don’t know where she is. Are your cars equipped with a location tracking system like the Lo-jack?”

“Yes, they are.”

“The woman’s name is Honey Klein. I need you to activate her car’s system for me.”

“One moment.”

Decker waited nervously. Davidson said, “You trying to track this lady down?”

“Better I tell her than my wife.”

Davidson nodded and started to walk away. He turned around and shouted, “You find her, ask her if she knows this Yalom character.”

Decker shouted back he would. A minute later, a less-than-perky Nancy came back on the line. “We have no record of a rental to a woman of that name. Are you sure she rented from us?”

Shit, Decker thought. No, he wasn’t sure. “She may have rented using an assumed name—”

“We ask for ID.”

“She may have assumed ID.”

Nancy was silent. Decker said, “She was a pretty, thin, blond woman. She rented the car yesterday around…maybe twelve, one
P.M.
”

“I wasn’t here yesterday.”

“The car she rented was an ice-blue Aerostar van.”

“Well, we do rent Aerostars. One moment.” Nancy checked and reported back five minutes later. “I do have records of a rental of a blue Aerostar yesterday at twelve forty-five. The identification we have belongs to a woman named Barbara Hersh.”

He said, “That might be the one. Can you activate the system on that car?”

“Yes.”

“How long will it take you to trace it?”

“About fifteen minutes to a half hour. I’ll call you back, Detective.”

“I’m in the field, Nancy. I’ll be hard to reach. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call you back.” Decker cut the line and waited. Five minutes later, one of the dogs started barking furiously. The handler yelled out, “Lieutenant, I think we found another one!”

Decker came out of the car. He met Davidson. The Loo said, “You hear that?”

“Yep.” Decker stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“How far is this spot from the Yalom development?”

“About a twenty-minute, half-hour walk.”

“And you hit it the first time out?”

“This was the third mountain pass Marge and I checked out,” Decker said. “Perseverance pays off.”

“Tenacious suckers, you two are.” Davidson looked over the mountain. “Maybe the family took a walk and the boys popped them here. You got lucky ’cause the rains washed away the trail. It’s probably the husband. We’ll need another ID.”

Tug turned to the squad car where Orit Bar Lulu was resting.

“How’s she holding up?”

“I think she’ll be okay. Marge has been talking to her for a while.”

“Yeah, that’s what the females are good for. Talking to the other females.” Davidson rubbed his hands together. “How’s your home emergency? Your wife sounded shaky.”

“Under control.”

Davidson nodded and left to check out the newest discovery. Decker went back to the car and called Rina.

“He’s outside,” she said. “Officer Tim Calais?”

“That’s the one.” He checked his watch. “Are you feeling better?”

“I’m nervous Honey is going to walk in any minute. Peter, what do I
say
to her?”

“I’ll be home soon. Don’t say anything until I get there.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He hung up and checked his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. He’d try his luck and call back Tour-Time. “Nancy, this is Detective Sergeant Decker—”

“We found the car, Detective.” Nancy’s voice was nervous. “It’s on the Santa Monica Freeway.”

Decker took out a pencil and his notepad. “The number ten freeway…Okay. Is the car heading west or east?”

“It’s not heading anywhere. It isn’t moving.”

Decker paused. “It’s on the shoulder?”

“Yes, it appears to be on the westbound shoulder, stationed right before the 405 off ramp south.”

The off ramp to the airport
, Decker thought.

“We’re sending someone from the company out to investigate,” Nancy said. “We’ve also placed a call to the Highway Patrol. It could be she just had engine problems or tire trouble…” Her voice faded. “Maybe you’d like to call the Highway Patrol personally.”

“No problem.” Decker hung up, then asked the RTO to
be connected with the CHiPs unit closest to the Aerostar. Again, that took some time. Five minutes later, Rachel Parks identified herself to Decker.

“I’m at the site.” She sounded tense. “I don’t know what you’re working on, but maybe you should come down here. The car has two flat tires, but no visible puncture wounds. Something’s screwy.”

“Anyone inside?”

“No, Sergeant. No one’s inside.”

“Is the car locked?”

“Nope.”

“Officer Parks, could you just take a peek inside the interior and tell me if something looks funny.”

“Hold on, Sergeant.” Rachel returned a minute later. “Nothing immediate. I take it you don’t want me poking around, messing up your evidence. You want to come down before the rental company picks up the car?”

“Yeah, I’ll be down.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Patrol Officer Parks hung up.

From the outside, he heard one of the lab men shouting. “Another one—male. Gunshot wound in the gut.”

Decker joined Davidson at the mountainside. The Loo said, “As soon as Bar Lulu makes the ID, I’ll put out an APB for the boys. I’ll also have a couple of uniforms check out the airlines. Free you and Dunn up for the major investigation.”