Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 06 Page 12

  Decker said, “I’m sure Marie has seen hundreds of young teens just like Lourdes Rodriguez. Why’d she choose this baby?”

  “Maybe something snapped. Maybe God told her to do it.”

  “But the profile I’m getting of Marie is not one of a woman slowly going down the tubes. She wasn’t showing any overt signs of cracking up.”

  “Overt signs, Pete.”

  “Yeah, there could have been some subtle signs that no one picked up. Nobody seemed to know her well.”

  “Maybe you’ll find something at her house.”

  “Maybe.” Decker heard someone call his name. He turned around. “What’s up, Sergeant Harlow?”

  “Detective Sergeant Decker, we’ve found something of interest in the parking lot.”

  “Marie’s car?” Marge asked.

  Harlow pressed his hands together. “No, Detective Dunn. It’s more like fresh blood.”

  14

  Too much rush, Tandy thought, had to slow down. Remember the words of the guru—to build the shape, do fewer reps with heavier weights.

  That was the key. You can’t lose sight of the key. The shaping, the sculpting. Otherwise, you lose control. Never lose control.

  Never, ever, lose control.

  Fewer reps with heavier weights.

  Gotta get the control back.

  Don’t lose it, Roberts, don’t lose it.

  Fewer reps, heavier weights.

  That would bleed off the excess entropy.

  No entropy, only enthalpy.

  Controlled energy.

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then pulled the pin from the one-twenty weight and slipped it into the one-thirty. Wiping sweat from her face, she felt her cheeks, skin as smooth as fine brandy. When she was modeling, people used to smother her pores with poison. All that base makeup to give her the appearance of flawless smooth skin. Why not live right, eat right, exercise right, and have the real thing?

  Never lose control.

  Otherwise they’d come back.

  Only enthalpy.

  Controlled energy.

  Can’t slip up this time, Roberts. Can’t slip, can’t slip, can’t slip.

  She clenched her teeth as she slid under the shoulder press, fingers gripped around the handle.

  Check the position.

  Arms parallel, small of the back secured by a rolled towel, feet planted firmly on the floor.

  She felt her heart race.

  Inhale, then let it out on the exertion.

  One.

  The loud, metallic clank of the weights slapping together.

  No good. Not controlled. She needed to lower the weights down. They should never fall by themselves.

  Again.

  Inhale, exhale.

  Two.

  Muscles shaking with the effort, perspiration tracking her face, belly, and armpits.

  Weights down slowly.

  Better, much better.

  The control was there.

  Bleed it off, girl. Turn the entropy into enthalpy.

  Only enthalpy.

  Controlled.

  You can do it.

  Again.

  Inhale, exhale.

  The bunching of her muscles, the quivering of her limbs. She let go with a roar that would make a lion shrink.

  Do it, girl. Do it!

  Bang! Three!

  The clank so loud it hurt her ears.

  You’re losing it, Tandy. You’re losing it, you’re losing it—

  “You’re in early.”

  Eric’s voice.

  Thank God. Someone to turn off the demons.

  Softly, she said, “I came straight from work. Aren’t you proud of me?”

  “Atta girl!” Eric cheered. “You’re gonna make it!”

  Again, inhale. Exhale the roar.

  Then she tried to lift the press.

  Too much.

  Halfway, her arms gave out.

  Crash!

  She heard it; Eric heard it. They both heard her failure! Sweat began to coalesce on her brow. She made herself take a deep breath.

  Take a deep breath.

  “Why aren’t you wearing gloves?” Eric said.

  “I didn’t bother.”

  “You have to bother, Tandy,” Eric said. “You can’t pump with seriousness if you don’t have gloves.” He held out his hand and helped her off the bench. Stared at her at arm’s length. “You look uptight. It’s okay, Tandy. You’ve got the determination, don’t worry about the roadblocks. Now go help yourself and get your gloves.”

  “Eric, I was about to stop anyway.”

  “Stop?”

  “I’ve been at it for a while.”

  “But you were trying to do a press. And you didn’t do that press. Go back and finish that press. You never, ever, end on failure, you know that!”

  “Eric, I’ve been working all night—”

  “So have I, babe. The old lady I’ve been watching spent hours in the john. Bowel problems.” Eric shook his head. “If I’m ever incapacitated when I’m old, do me a favor, Tandy, and pull the plug. Family deserting her like she’s the plague. Man, she is lucky to have found me.”

  Lucky as long as the tips hold out, Tandy thought. Eric was like the rest of them. Not like her. She worked because she cared! It’s why she did what she did. She told herself that over and over and over….

  “Tandy, you on this planet?”

  “You’re really terrific, Eric, to help the folks like you do.”

  “Get top dollar, but I’m dedicated. Whatever you do—even if it’s cleaning toilets—you have to be dedicated. That’s what’s wrong with America. Nobody takes life seriously. It’s all one big joke. Lifting isn’t a joke, Tandy. Now stop dicking around. Go get your gloves and do that press.”

  “I’m so tired, Eric. I can’t—”

  “Tandy, we don’t say things like ‘I can’t’ around here. The words ‘I can’t’ don’t exist in our vocabulary!”

  He had imitated her, using a higher-pitched voice for the words I can’t.

  Making fun of her. Telling her she’s bad. She isn’t bad. She isn’t bad, damn it! Working all night saving humanity. Then straight from work to pumping. Too much. Too exhausting. She was going to crack.

  She was going to lose it!

  Unable to move, she watched as Eric stripped off his street clothes until he was down to a G-string, the bulge inside well defined and big.

  Eric turned and held her face. “Are you going to cry?”

  “No…”

  “Oh, yes, you are.”

  “No, honestly, I’m okay.”

  “Okay?” Eric’s face became mean. “You’re not okay, Tandy. You know what you are? You’re pathetic!”

  And in an instant, she knew she had two choices—the first to remain pathetic like they told her she was.

  Or she could get mad.

  Kill him, said the low one.

  Kill him, said the high one.

  A smile appeared across her face. She belted his hand off her face, stinging her own palm in the process. “Do you want to know what pathetic is, Eric? Pathetic is you taking only second in the Mr. L.A. Dudes at Muscle Beach. Guy who won first made you look like a shriveled old worm! So screw you!”

  Eric suddenly laughed. “Atta girl! Now that’s the Tandy I know and love. So fuck you and go get your gloves. I’ll do watch for you.”

  Tandy closed her eyes, felt the wet heat on the palms, the thumping of her heart. She had no choice but to listen. If she didn’t, Eric and the others would make her life miserable. Then she’d start to feel out of control.

  She knew Eric was only trying to help her. Unlike the others. The people who gave her life, then made it hell. Couldn’t call them parents. They were never parents.

  Images popped into her brain—the times before the control. Lots of food. Piles of food.

  Piles and piles—

  “Go get your gloves now!” Eric yelled.

  Piles and piles and
piles—

  “Tandy?” Eric asked. “Tandy, you okay?”

  She took in a lungful of air, then screamed as loud as she could, her head throbbing even after the sound had vanished from her throat.

  Then she went and got her gloves.

  The small fresh red stains made abstract art in a pile of grease. Harlow had cordoned off the area with yellow crime tape. Nothing like an old-timer to do the right thing.

  Decker said, “What makes you think these stains have anything to do with Marie Bellson, Bri?”

  “I’ll tell you the whole story, Sergeant. One of my men comes to me. He’s doing the third-floor interviews. He talks to this nurse, gal’s name is Janie Hannick. Janie says she knows Marie Bellson but doesn’t really know her. My guy asks her what the hell does that mean? Only he doesn’t use the profanity, that’s my addition.”

  Decker smiled and told him to go on.

  “Janie says she’s never worked with Marie—she works in one department, Marie works in another. But for years they’ve been doing the same shifts, and the same overtime shifts. Soon they notice they’re always parking cars at the same time and walking into the hospital at the same time.”

  Harlow sucked in his belly.

  “To make a long story short, as long as Janie and Marie always seem to be together anyway, they decide to walk in and out of the lot together. You know, like protection. ’Cause these underground parking structures are stewpots of crime. So each one waits for the other for about five minutes. If the other doesn’t show up, the one who’s left goes in solo.”

  “So it’s an informal kind of thing?” Marge asked.

  “Seems that way,” Harlow said. “Naturally, my guy asks this Janie if she and Marie walked in together last night. She says yes. Lucky break with a capital L. My officer tells me, then I ask Janie where’d she and Marie park their cars. I figure we can maybe pull a tire print or something from the empty space. Boom, I find this!”

  “Good work, Brian,” Decker said. “Let’s get a lab man down and see if they can get a clean sample of blood.”

  “Gonna be hard,” Harlow said. “All sorts of crap on a garage floor—oil and grease with the grime.”

  “The lab should have cleaning emollients. Hopefully, they’ll be able to precipitate something decent. If we can find prior blood workup on Marie Bellson, maybe we can do a rough comparison and see if there’s a basis for a match.”

  Marge said, “We should see if there was blood work done on the baby, too.”

  Decker made a face. It was a horribly gruesome thought, but Marge was right. “Go ahead. And while the lab is out here, try to pick up a tire print. Marie could be savvy enough to change the plates on her car, maybe even spray-paint it a different color. But most people don’t think about tire prints. Also keep an eye out for shoe prints. Lots of grease around here.”

  Harlow said, “How’re you going to find blood work on Bellson?”

  “I’ll see if she has a private doctor,” Decker said.

  “Maybe she’s been a diligent health professional and has had a yearly checkup.”

  Marge said, “Maybe she’s had surgery done at the hospital. If so, she’d have a chart here.”

  “Good point,” Decker said. “Get someone to check the chart room.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m on my way to Bellson’s apartment. Call me through the RTO after you’re done with the scene.”

  “Sure thing.” Marge stared at the blood spots. “I don’t like this.”

  “It does get the heart going,” Harlow said.

  “So does a good cup of morning coffee,” Marge said. “And without the bitter aftertaste.”

  15

  The temperature was climbing as Decker pulled out of the Foothill Substation parking lot. Warrant stowed in his jacket, he turned right onto Osborne, steering the unmarked onto the freeway. Amazing what seventy-two hours indoors could do to the perspective. The streets seemed wider, the buildings appeared taller, and the noise of traffic hurt his ears. But at least he was outdoors, no longer engulfed by the cries of the ill and the smell of death.

  Fueled by coffee, he reached into his pocket for the scrap of paper with Marie Bellson’s address. She lived about three miles away from his ranch—his and Rina’s ranch. After living alone for so long, it was still hard for him to adjust from “mine” to “ours.” Not that he was selfish: Rina could have anything she wanted. Decker figured his exclusionary thinking was mere habit. Maybe Hannah would change all that. Something created by their union.

  Bellson lived on a windy side street that dead-ended into a wide cul-de-sac. The block was a mixture of old, small one-story ranch-style houses, duplexes, and modern apartment buildings. Marie’s complex was at the mouth of the turnabout, three stories done in ecru wood siding pocked by weather. Hunting for a space, Decker managed to squeeze the Plymouth between a white Ford Bronco and a white Volvo sedan. Down the street sat the watch cruiser, Norwegian blond Tim Swanson at the wheel. Decker gave a little wave, and Swanson got out of the black-and-white.

  “Sergeant,” Swanson said.

  “What’s shaking, Officer?”

  “Nothing.” Swanson cocked his thumbs under the belt loops. “Place has been as interesting as a tomb.”

  “Who’s watching Bellson’s door?”

  “Len Kovacs. Nothing there, either.”

  “You look bored.”

  “More like brain-dead, Sergeant. Story of my life. I almost miss the excitement of the riots. I may have been hated, but at least I was doin’ something.” Swanson smiled, then popped a stick of gum in his mouth and offered one to Decker, who politely declined. “We finally located the manager of the building. She’d spent the night at her daughter’s and should be here any minute with the key. Save our shoulders some bruises. Unless you want to bust the door down.”

  “We’ll use a key, Tim.” Decker slapped the warrant against the palm of his hand and told Swanson that they’d enter together. First they’d check the place out to make sure no one was hiding. Then, if Bellson’s apartment was empty, Decker would look around by himself—less people, less chance for a screwup.

  Bellson lived on the third floor. The elevator traveled like a turtle, smelled of mold, and creaked as it rose. Kovacs was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Bellson’s door, and he blushed when he saw Decker. He stood and swiped at his pantseat.

  “Not used to standing so long.” Kovacs shook out his legs. “Guess I’d make a lousy palace guard.”

  “Anything suspicious at all?” Decker asked.

  “Not a thing, Sergeant.”

  Decker knocked loudly, announced himself, and got no response. He turned to Swanson. “When’s this manager supposed to be here?”

  “She said around eight. Five minutes maybe.”

  Decker looked at the space between the door and its frame. Marie had a dead bolt. He couldn’t trip the lock with a credit card. Decker jiggled the doorknob. The door was flimsy, and he was impatient. A baby was missing, and so was a nurse—the only thing left behind an empty parking space dotted with blood. One good shove and he’d be inside. But he knew it was more prudent to wait.

  Ten minutes later, the manager finally showed up. She seemed to be in her late fifties—scrawny and wrinkled with a bouffant of carrot-colored hair. Her voice was husky, her breath charged with cigarette smoke.

  “Renee Fulbright.” She offered a bony hand, nails buffed and covered with pumpkin polish. “What happened to Marie?”

  Decker said, “Who said anything happened to her?”

  Renee pulled out a massive ring and began to sort through keys. “It’s gotta be serious. Otherwise, why would the police—ah, here it is. Apartment three-twelve. Marie’s been a model tenant, by the way. Never missed a month.” She slipped the key into the lock, then turned the handle and opened the door. “Don’t go messin’ up the carpet…if you can avoid it, I mean. I just had it cleaned.”

  Decker wiped his feet on the burlap mat. “I’ll take o
ff my shoes as soon as I’m convinced the place is secured.”

  “The cooperative type, huh?” Renee gave him a slow smile. “You know, I got this thing for redheads.”

  Decker said, “My new infant daughter’s a redhead. Bet you’d really like her.”

  The smile disappeared. “That was subtle.”

  Decker laughed. “You don’t have to stick around, Ms. Fulbright. But I’ll need the key until I’m done.”

  Renee sighed, then slipped the key off the ring. “I’m in number one-oh-one. Just drop it in the mailbox.”

  “Got it.” Decker stepped over the threshold and called out the word “Police.” After no one answered, he did a quick once-over of the living room. First the closets—clothes, utility, water heater—nothing. Then he started going through the kitchen as Swanson and Kovacs did quick checks on the bedrooms and bathrooms.

  It was unremarkable—small counters, white stove and refrigerator, a corkboard hanging on the wall, a calendar thumbtacked to the board. Decker pulled out the thumbtack and leafed through the yearly log. None of the date boxes had the words “baby snatching” written in them. He smiled to himself. Bellson was going to make it hard. He’d look over the calendar thoroughly when he had more time.

  Swanson came out of one of the bedrooms. “Guess what I found, Sergeant?”

  Without turning around, Decker said, “A cat.”

  Swanson didn’t answer right away. “How’d you know?”

  “Litter box and food bowl in the kitchen.” Decker faced Swanson, who was holding a gray kitten with black stripes. He chucked the animal’s chin. “Cute little bugger. That what they call a tiger cat?”

  “I’m not up on my cats,” Swanson said.

  “Just his pussies,” Kovacs said.

  The uniforms broke into laughter.

  Decker said, “Was the cat locked in the room?”

  “Yeah, the door was closed, come to think of it,” Swanson said.

  “Either of you find anything else that moved?”

  Kovacs shook his head.

  “Looks like the place is empty. You two can report back to your regular duty.”

  “What do we do about this?” Kovacs held up the cat.