Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 03 Read online

  Marge continued. “I spoke to Crandal this morning—woke the son of a bitch up at six in the morn—and he informed me that the Western Beekeepers Association Twentieth Annual Convention started three days ago, the Darcys showing up on the first day.”

  “How many people went down there?”

  “Uh, I asked, I have to find it in my notes…here it is. Two hundred thirty-six registered, believe it or not. It’s the big hoo-ha for professional and amateur apiarists.”

  Decker thought out loud to Marge. According to the time frame, the murders could have taken place before the convention started, or one of the family members could have driven back from Fall Springs, done the murders, and then returned before they were missed. None of the family really had an ironclad alibi.

  “You’re right about that,” Marge said. “Anyway, family’s been notified. Prelim interview, Crandal says nothing to write home about, everyone’s shell-shocked. I just got off the phone with the sister who lives here—Sue Beth Litton—who was only semicoherent at best. The whole crew’s staying down south until Sue Beth can—this I quote—‘get this mess straightened up.’ Fall Springs SD has them under watch.”

  “Sue Beth sound choked up?”

  “Actually, she did,” Marge said. “Stunned. First thing she asked about was Katie. Crandal must have told her that the kid was alive. Sue Beth seemed very anxious to get her out of the foster home. She said she could make it back up here around four, take the burden off her parents’ shoulders. I told her I’d take her to Katie, but first she’d have to stop by here and formally identify the bodies. She was really upset about that, but agreed. I just looked at the corpses an hour ago. You can distinguish features, but they’re in terrible condition due to all the bloat. I hope she doesn’t freak out.”

  “You can handle it,” Decker said.

  “Thanks,” Marge said. But her voice sounded unsure. “You want to meet up at Sophi’s, or is that going to be too late for your Sabbath?”

  “No, four is fine.” Decker thought, Thank the Lord for long summer days. Allowed you to finish all your paperwork before the Sabbath started. “I’ll even do all the paperwork for Katie’s release. But I want to talk to this Sue Beth before we give her the kid.” He leaned back in his desk chair. “Anyone show the Darcys Polaroids of John Doe?”

  “Believe it or not, Crandal had the good sense to take some pics of him and show them around. At this point in time, the family-by-blood was too hysterical to be of any help, and to be honest, John Doe’s face is pretty bad. I spoke to Sue Beth’s husband—Robert, whom they call Bobby Boy, or just B.B.”

  “Old B.B.”

  Marge said, “Well, B.B. said he might have seen our John Doe, but it was hard to tell since he looked like—I quote again—‘a nigger, and I don’t know no niggers.’”

  “Did you explain to him that he was white, and death caused the skin to blacken?”

  “Pete, we are not dealing with people loaded down with gray matter. I told him the man was white, he hesitated a moment, then said he might have looked like the kind of guy Carla might have gone out with. But according to B.B., Carla went out with a ton of guys—I quote once again—‘niggers and other kinds and I have a real hard time keeping all the names straight.’”

  “Seems Carla and Linda both liked men an awful lot.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Marge said. She excused herself for a sneeze, then came back on the phone. “The upshot is we still don’t have an ID for John Doe. No one found any ID at the crime scene, that’s for sure. His prints showed up negative at the local level; we’re still waiting to hear from Sacramento to see if his fingers have been rolled at either the state or national level.”

  Decker paused a moment. “You recall what Mr. Doe was wearing?”

  “All I can remember is a pile of rotten meat.”

  Decker pulled out his Investigate Checklist from the Darcy folder in his file drawer. Under clothing, he’d written for John Doe: jeans—black or blue denim, black boots. Upper body’s obscured by gun blast. Examine after all lab evidence has been collected. He read it to Marge, then said, “Call the lab and see if JD had any upper-body clothes or if he was bare-chested. Also, ask the lab if they found anything identifiable on his pants or boots—a logo or brand name. The M.E. must have cleaned him up by now—gotten all the blood and gook off. Ask him if our man had any scars, birthmarks, tattoos—something.”

  “You’ve got it.” Marge took a deep breath. “Now are you ready for the Big News?”

  “There’s more?”

  “Oh man, you’re gonna love this,” Marge said. “All of them were full of pellets, no surprise. Wadding found was consistent with a twelve-gauger…which means that the sucker was pumped from ten feet or less. But listen to this! After Luke was cleansed of blood and maggots, Path laid him on the table yesterday evening and noticed these bullet holes in what was left of his head and neck.”

  Decker sat up in his chair. “Go on.”

  “The man’s interest is piqued,” Marge said. “I went back to the scene early this morning and found three thirty-eight bullets plugged into the fridge—”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “You were with your honey, Pete. I didn’t think you’d appreciate the interruption.”

  She was right. Decker thanked her, and Marge continued.

  “Luke’s body and blood were blocking the fridge, so we missed them first time out. I scoured the place, but couldn’t find bullet number six.”

  “Maybe there were only five in the chamber. Or we just missed it. Whichever the case is, someone was angry and emptied the gun in him.”

  Marge said, “Unfortunately for us, we don’t have the shotgun or the thirty-eight. Two weapons used, both of them gone.”

  “I’ll call up gun registration,” Decker said. “See if a thirty-eight was registered to anyone in the family.”

  Of course, he knew damn well how easy it was to obtain an unregistered handgun. Shotguns were even easier to buy, not even requiring a handgun’s fifteen-day background check on the purchase. Legal gun purchases in California had increased by the millions. So what did that say about the illegal purchases? His mind focused on Rina. Last time he’d been to the range with her had been six months ago, when she’d come out on her first visit to L.A. since moving to New York. He’d even remarked on what a good shot she’d been considering she hadn’t used a gun in six months. But now he knew she’d been taking lessons. And Rina had said nothing at the time. That disturbed him.

  Decker said, “What was the make on the revolver?”

  “Smith and Wesson,” Marge said. “I had Path check the hands and clothes for residue, try to give us an angle on who fired the handgun. Nothing. Hands were just too fucked up from the shotgun blasts. Now, the big question. What is going on here?”

  “A lot of things come to mind.”

  Marge said, “How about, Luke was the intended hit. The others were incidental, came in at the wrong time. Then someone got the brilliant idea of killing them all with a shotgun to make it seem like they were all murdered for the same purpose.”

  “No bullet holes were found on the others?”

  “None,” Marge said. “Then again, the shotgun blasts may have obscured the bullet holes. We’re talking hamburger…bad, Pete. I feel really bad for Katie. That poor little girl.”

  “Yeah,” Decker said softly. He allowed himself to think about it for a moment, then snapped himself out of it. “My murder-suicide theory has just been shot to hell, no pun intended. Luke couldn’t have blown off his legs and his head at the same time.”

  “This is true.”

  “This case is not going to be straightforward,” Decker said. “Find out about the John Doe’s clothing and marks ASAP, Margie.”

  “Right away.”

  Decker cut the line and walked over to the coffee machine. His mug was oversized, held sixteen ounces, and he filled it to the rim with the black mud that layered the bottom of the pot.


  Two weapons, both of them gone.

  Two murderers?

  He sipped his coffee. Bitter as castor oil.

  Mike Hollander lumbered into the squad room, joined Decker at the coffeepot with his C-cup boob mug. Today, Hollander wore black pants, white short-sleeved shirt, and a red paisley clip-on tie that stopped an inch above his navel.

  He said, “You get a hickey from Rina?”

  Decker said, “What are you talking about?”

  “You got a big red bump right above your shirt collar. Keeeenkeeeee.”

  Decker’s hand went to the nape of his neck. “That’s a bee sting, Mike.”

  “Oh.” Mike poured the last of the coffee into his cup. “I heard about that one. Listen, if you want to work on that shit, I can help you on your back cases. My own load’s not too bad.”

  Decker thought about the offer. On the active file today: one morning court appearance at ten—testifying on a sexual assault, that one should be cut-and-dried because of all the physical evidence. Another court appearance at three, the rape survivor due to testify. He’d have to be there for that one. She was fragile and needed all the support she could get. At four, he’d have to meet Marge at Sophi’s, talk to Sue Beth Litton.

  “Thanks, but I’d better keep the ones I have,” Decker said to Hollander. “I don’t want any of the victims to think I’m abandoning them. If you could field my new calls, that would help.”

  Hollander said no problem and slurped coffee from his boob mug. Decker carried his java back to his desk and began Katie Darcy’s paperwork. Stuffing a quadruplicate release form into his typewriter, he pecked away at the keyboard until he was interrupted by his phone. Marge again.

  “John Doe’s clothes,” she said. “Or what was left of them. Half of a red bandanna—we probably didn’t notice it because it mixed so nicely with the blood. Shreds of a leather vest, Levi 501 jeans. His boots were made by Wellington—heels coated with blood and grease. But get this. One arm was blown away, the other arm, once they got the blood off, had a tattoo—a babe wearing nothing but a helmet. J.D.’s ass was inked with the name Gretchen. Betcha anything John Doe owned a motorcycle.”

  “Any riding-club insignia anywhere?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Marge said.

  “Christ, Marge, the guy had a driver’s license. Why would someone take away his ID? We’re eventually going to find out who he is.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Marge said. “Sounds to me like it’s amateur time. Who knows? Maybe he’s the key. Maybe he shot Luke, then someone else shot the others.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Decker said. “Margie, how’d you like to join me for lunch?”

  “What do you have in mind, big guy?”

  “I was thinking about pizza and a beer at Hell’s Heaven.”

  “You bring the car, I’ll bring the Polaroids—a real appetite enhancer.” Marge paused, then said, “I don’t know how readily the motorcycle boys will talk to us.”

  “Well, we’ve got one thing in our favor.”

  Marge said, “What’s that?”

  Decker said, “We’re white.”

  Quarter to eleven in the morning, and the outside temperature had already passed the 95-degree mercury mark. Decker stared out the window at the grassy fields of clover and grain. No breeze today, just stagnant air. The Plymouth’s air-conditioning had frizzed out, and was sucking up the outside heat and blowing it inside. Decker flipped off the knob and opened the window. Marge followed suit, floored the pedal, and sped through the canyon. When the biker joint came into view, she slowed suddenly, then turned into the gravel lot, the tires kicking up dust. Forty full-sized choppers occupied the lot, chrome bouncing off dazzling rays of sun. Marge parked next to a customized cherry-red Harley, its winged logo painted Day-Glo purple and orange. The license plate was stamped HOG CHOW. Automatically, Decker felt for his service revolver.

  He raised his eyes to Marge. “The hogs meet the pigs.”

  Marge laughed, but her eyes were wary.

  The patio was three-quarters occupied, a cloud of tobacco and marijuana smoke hanging in the air. Decker paused a moment before climbing the steps up to the eating area, took a quick head count. Around thirty fat-assed chopper riders outside, must be another dozen or so inside. All of them held that ex-con look in their eye. They cradled their beers as they nursed them, looked over their shoulders as they talked. Some of them seemed more wary than confrontive, but a few looked defiant, aching for a brawl.

  To hell with that noise. He wasn’t out to prove himself.

  Ten scrawny women decorated as many laps, another half-dozen were fetching beer for their men. No pizza on any of the tables. Two busty waitresses, wearing black sleeveless tops and shorts, were clearing away empty bottles and mugs. Decker thought he might be best off approaching the waitresses first. He looked at Marge, then the two of them climbed the stairs. Immediately, the entrance was blocked by a three-hundred-pound gorilla. Most of him was fat, but even so, that was a hell of a lot of bulk to contend with. His face was covered by a rabbi-sized beard, his body stank of sweat and alcohol. He wore a denim vest, and jeans ripped at the knees.

  “You need some help, Officer?” he asked. He was smiling, teeth as soft and brown as rotten apples.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Decker said.

  “Well, you just tell me how I can be of service.”

  Decker stiffened as he spoke. Asshole’s breath was vile.

  Decker said, “You can start by getting out of my way.”

  “Why don’tchu walk ’round me?” the biker challenged.

  Decker said, “Look, buddy, I’m not here to give you shit, but if you want shit, I can give you a truckload. So why don’t you get out of my way and let me do my business?”

  “You ain’t here to sling no shit, why the hell are you here, big city-boy cop?”

  Calmly, Decker said, “Move your ass, buddy.”

  The biker’s smile slowly faded. His eyes hardened, and the fat-lipped mouth was about to speak when it was interrupted by a deep male voice.

  “Pig, just what the hell you think you’re doin’? Get the fuck away from them.”

  The man who spoke was big, around two-fifty, and all muscle. He seemed to be about thirty-five, 6'1", had brown eyes, a Fu Manchu mustache, and buck teeth that were accentuated by a receding chin. He wore a red cook’s apron over his bare chest and leather chaps, his hair pulled back in a ponytail. At first Decker thought the pig epithet had referred to him, but a moment later the muscle man punched the fat man in the shoulder.

  “Can’t you see that this dude and dudette are law? They ain’t here to roust us none. Law’s not crazy enough to roust us with just two people—one of them only a woman. Sheeeet. Use your head, Pig.”

  “Why’s he here then?” Pig said.

  “Move your fat ass and I’ll find out.” The muscled biker gave Pig a shove. “Get out of their fucking way, man.”

  Pig spat, muttered obscenities, but stepped aside.

  “This way,” the muscle man said. “I’m Chip. I own the place. We’ll talk inside, in the back. It’s about the Darcy thing, ain’t it?”

  “Yes,” Decker said.

  “Who are you two?”

  Marge briefly explained their business, their connection to the Darcy murders.

  Chip seemed satisfied. He led them inside—a dimly lit tavern/poolhall. Six green-felted tables—two of them in use—rested on straw-covered floors. Three fly fans were working overtime, whirling smoky air from one corner of the room to the other. The bar was U-shaped, occupying the two side and back walls. A dozen bikers were parked around the bar top, big leathery hands gripping beer bottles and whiskey glasses, drumming offbeat rhythms to ZZ Top.

  Decker and Marge followed Chip through a door at the end of the back bar, into the well-lit kitchen, which reeked of ripe cheese and garlic. Swirls of flour had dusted the countertops and coated the floor. A rectangular butcher-block table sat in the middle, filled wi
th pizza pans, stacks of cheese, and bowls of tomato sauce and toppings. A runt of a kid was spooning sauce onto pizza dough, his body junkie-thin. Two middle-aged Hispanics were cleaning the pizza oven and cooktop. A walk-in cooler spanned the back wall.

  Chip stopped, leaned against the table and screamed at the kid. Something about the pizza sauce. The kid lifted up his head and nodded, his eyes hooded by drooping lids.

  “Shit-for-brains,” Chip muttered. He motioned them back toward the cooler. “He wastes half the sauce, splattering it all over the place. Goddam, it’s hard to get good people.” He surveyed the kitchen, told one of the Hispanics in fluent Spanish to bring more beer out front, explaining that the pizza wasn’t served until noon, but the booze was served as soon as the doors opened.

  Chip wiped his face on his apron, then said to Decker, “Pig’s right in a way. You shouldn’t be coming in here without warning. Some of them out there don’t like the police.”

  “I take it Pig has had some prior trouble with the law,” Decker said.

  “Man, I don’t want to go into that. Let’s just say the police make Pig jumpy.”

  Decker said, “Right now, I’m not interested in anyone’s past. I’m only interested in the Darcys.”

  Chip eyed Marge, then said to Decker, “You two ever fool around…like ball on your lunch hour?”

  Marge broke into laughter.

  Chip said to Decker, “What’s so funny? You a fag or something?”

  Decker said, “Is this where we talk about the Darcys?”

  Chip said, “Darcys! Sheeeet! Byron was around here yesterday, telling us what the fuck went down. Or his version. Old man’s face was green, man. Fucking green. Never saw By like that. Like he needed a drink. Gave him a beer on the house. You guys want a beer?”

  Marge said, “I’ll pass.”

  Decker said, “What did Byron tell you?”

  “What a mess it was. That Linda, Luke, and Carla was whacked.”

  “I heard Byron had a thing with Linda,” Marge said.

  “Byron?” Chip exclaimed. “With Linda? You’re shittin’ me!”