Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 06 Page 18

  Decker thought a moment. “Your mother and Marie didn’t get along.”

  “No big deal.” Lopez grinned. “Her mother hates everybody.”

  Decker tossed him a dirty look. Lourdes said, “He’s right, Detective. Mom’s a real pain in the ass.”

  “Did your mother want you to put Caitlin up for adoption, Lourdes?”

  “She’d kill me if I put Caitlin up for adoption. My mom…she’s gonna take care of Caitlin so I can finish high school. Mom can be a pain, but she’s okay.”

  Matty rolled his eyes. Lourdes fell silent for a moment.

  “When they told me Caitlin and Marie was missin’, I was shocked, man. I couldn’t believe Marie…” She brushed tears from her eyes. “Now you think Marie is dead? What about my baby?”

  “I’m busting my chops to find her, Lourdes.” Decker stood and took out a business card from his pocket. “In the meantime, rest up as best you can. And call me if you think of anything.”

  She took the card and placed it on her bedstand.

  Decker said, “Take care of her, Mr. Lopez.”

  “Oh, I will. I always do. She’s my girl. And the baby’s my kid, too, you know.” Lopez paused. “You really think we should get a lawyer…for the statement?”

  Decker said, “Yes, I do.”

  “You know anyone, man?”

  Decker extracted a pen from his pocket and wrote on the back of his business card. “Call this number. It’s the local chapter of the American Bar Association. Maybe they can help you…give you a referral.”

  “How will I know these people aren’t rip-off artists?”

  “You interview them, ask them intelligent questions. Even then it’s no guarantee. But unless you want to go through piles of legal mumbo jumbo, you’re going to have to trust someone eventually.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Lopez said. “You don’t have a lawyer you like?”

  “Nope.”

  “C’mon, man! You gotta know someone.”

  “Not really. I’ll keep in touch.”

  Decker closed the door and slowly walked down the corridor now populated with uniforms of various colors—doctors, nurses, orderlies, security guards. Busy, busy, busy, in stark contrast to last night.

  He felt a little guilty for sidestepping Matty Lopez’s request for help. But he was not about to tell Matty that he was a lawyer. Way the kid was talking, Decker wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if the boy had offered him the case.

  Now that would be sorely tempting.

  Suing those bastards at the hospital for allowing something like this to happen. Getting out all his frustration of the past three days. Not to mention filling his pockets with some cold cash. Lopez was right. Contingency cases like these, lawyers often walk away with a chunk of the settlement. With punitive damages thrown in, the case could net upward of a couple of mil. Forty percent of that would certainly be enough to add a room, plus.

  Decker laughed to himself.

  Nice to dream.

  19

  The Golden Valley Home for the Aged in Arcadia was a sprawling one-story structure of gleaming white stucco that sat in a quiet strip of rural tract. The front held a U-shaped driveway outlined by hedges of boxwood and yew that surrounded a lawn of yellow marigolds. Behind the building were acres of brush and wild specimen trees of oak, maple, sycamore, and eucalyptus. Marge noticed a creek bed meandering through the back woods, but at this time of year it was not much more than a dried depression of rocks and dust.

  The afternoon was hot, wisps of clouds drifting through the sky causing the sun to play peekaboo. The results were bursts of bright rays, then muted sunbeams, as if someone were playing with a light switch. Not much noise pollution in the sticks—ambient sounds were provided by birds and insects.

  As Marge opened one of the front double glass doors, Nature’s songs receded, taken over by electronic talk and canned laughter. To the right was a lobby with a mounted TV. A lone pink sofa was the resting spot for a lady with an afghan on her lap. To her right was a walker. There was one set of table and chairs, all the seats empty. Around the boob tube was a semicircle of occupied wheelchairs, backs facing Marge. She couldn’t see any bodies, only the tops of the heads. Some were bald, some were crowned with white filaments. The chairs were emitting sounds of their own—a heated conversation about last night’s dinner, a few phlegmy guffaws of laughter, and one deep snore.

  If one took into account the wheelchairs, there was actually more furniture in the lobby than a first glance would concede. It was just the mobile kind of seating. Made for easy access back and forth.

  She walked up to a front desk that was manned by a blocky young man—a tackle bag in a spanking-white uniform. He had a broad face, his skin oily and slightly mottled by old acne scars. His eyes were deep blue—intense and alert. His hair was light brown and thin and brushed against wide shoulders. Above his uniform pocket was the nametag L. MCKAY, RN, ADMINISTRATION.. L. looked at Marge and smiled with big white teeth.

  “May I help you?”

  The voice was resonant and deep. Sound waves probably tumbled inside his bull-like neck. Marge displayed her badge. “I’m here to see Lita Bellson.”

  L. studied the badge, then Marge. “We’ve been expecting you. Welcome. Strict orders have come down from the top to be looking for Marie. She hasn’t called or visited since I’ve been here.”

  That made sense in light of what had been discovered in the canyons. Marge said, “I’d like to talk to Mrs. Bellson anyway.”

  “You bet, Detective. I’ll take you to her.” L. stood.

  Too cooperative, Marge thought. Too smooth. She studied him as they walked. In reality, he wasn’t tall—just cubic. He led her past the lobby down a long, wide corridor. Off the hallway were the rooms; almost all had the doors open. To Marge’s surprise, the rooms seemed well lit and well ventilated. She heard some moaning and coughing that made her feel uncomfortable, but she also heard a lot of pleasant conversation.

  Several wheelchairs dotted the pathway—small, shrunken people smiling as she approached them. L. said hello to each of the people by name and gently squeezed their hands as he addressed them. The old folks responded with big smiles, some dentured, some toothless. Marge said hello, too. One of the women asked L. if she was new. L. responded that Marge was just passing through.

  The hallway eventually emptied into a big dining hall, the walls papered with a floral miniprint. The tables and chairs were pink and white rattan, set with linen napkins and silverware.

  “You’ve never been to a retirement home, have you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Way you’re staring at everything. What did you expect? A house of horrors?”

  Marge smiled. “You hear stories.”

  “Truthfully, this is one of the best. Hate to say it, but it can afford to be the best because it’s private. Most of these folks have amassed a sizable savings.”

  “Probably all gone by the time they leave,” Marge said.

  “It’s gone at the time they’re accepted in the home. The board of directors looks over the financial status of each applicant. We have a waiting list like you wouldn’t believe. The board goes on to determine the assets versus the liability. If they think the patient is a good risk, the home accepts the person’s entire worth in exchange for perennial board and care. Most of the time the board comes out the winner monetarily. But sometimes we get a few foolers—folks that hang on and on and on.”

  L. smiled.

  “I like them. Gives the old board what-for—always evaluating everything in dollars and cents.” He gently tugged on Marge’s arm. “This way.”

  “So you’re a nurse?” Marge asked.

  “An RN with a year to go for my master’s,” L. said. “Guess I should introduce myself. Lawrence McKay. Call me Leek.”

  “Leek?”

  “As in the vegetable, as opposed to a drippy faucet. You ever talk to Lita Bellson before? She’s quite a character. We call her H
arriet Houdini.”

  “Escapes a lot to make phone calls?”

  Leek stopped walking. “You’ve done your homework.” He resumed his pace. “Lita is amazing. If I were the betting kind, I’d bet that the board is going to lose money on Lita. She’s gonna hang on for a long time despite the fact that she’s eighty and has got everything medically wrong with her.”

  “She’s eighty?”

  “Yep. I’m betting she’ll last another ten years. Too mean to die.”

  “Wa…is Marie her only child?”

  “Don’t know for sure. I think so. I’ve never seen anyone else visit her except Marie.”

  “Marie seem like a devoted daughter?”

  McKay shrugged. “She visits. That says something.”

  He made a sharp turn into one of the rooms. Marge followed. It was a semiprivate that looked more like a hospital ward than a bedroom. It was filled with medical equipment and pharmaceuticals. At least the window was large and framed with pretty lace curtains. The shade was pulled down. In the bed closest to the window lay a woman sleeping with her glasses on. She had Coke-bottle lenses that made her eyelashes look like feather fans, white hair, and a tiny face. Leek went over to the woman and removed her spectacles.

  “They’re like babies. One minute they’re sitting up smiling, the next minute they’re sound asleep.” He smiled. “’Course, you can’t treat them like babies, even the ones who lost it up here.” He pointed to his temple. “Gotta treat everyone with respect, that’s my motto.”

  Marge studied Leek’s face. He seemed genuine enough, but there was something rehearsed about his speech. Maybe it was just a cop’s cynicism.

  McKay said, “Lita isn’t in her bed. She must be in one of the dining rooms.”

  “You have other dining rooms?”

  “Yeah, the communal one is for people that don’t need help feeding themselves. We have smaller rooms that are under supervision.” The nurse checked his watch. “Too early for dinner. Maybe she went in to get a snack. It’s Jell-O and ice-cream time. Come.”

  McKay led her to a solarium filled with tables and chairs. The floor was white linoleum; the two walls of windows were shaded by bright blue miniblinds that let in the light but blocked out most of the glare. The air conditioner was acting more like a fan than an instrument of cooling, just blowing around tepid air. Someone must have set the thermostat at a high temperature. The walls that weren’t windows were plastered white and hung with lots of children’s art. Sweet, colorful stick drawings made with crayons and markers. Most of the pictures were children’s views of the home. The old people were drawn almost indistinguishable from the young; the only difference was that their bodies were smaller and their hair was white.

  “Like our artwork?” McKay asked.

  “Cute.”

  “Courtesy of the great-grandchildren. We give them art supplies when they come to visit. Kids get so bored here…nothing for them to do, so they start acting up. We can’t allow that, because we’ve got some real sick people here. We have plans in the future for a playroom. Whether it’ll come to pass…”

  “Are the kids squeamish about seeing such infirm people?”

  “Not at all. If you and I see some drooling old gnome hold out his hand, our natural instinct is to turn away. Kids go right to them. The old folks eat it up. Nothing makes a crotchety octogenarian smile like the face of a two-year-old. You want to meet Lita, she’s the loudmouth arguing with the group in the right-hand corner.”

  Marge turned. The woman was in a wheelchair, with hair so pink and threadlike it looked like cotton candy. She had on big glasses, and dangling earrings hung from long, droopy lobes. Her body seemed emaciated, tented in a multicolored Mexican serape. Her face was folds of saggy, wrinkled skin, and she had tiny hairs growing out of her chin.

  McKay walked over to her and shouted, “Lita, you have company.”

  Lita looked up and scowled. “I haven’t finished my ice cream.” She stared across the room, thick glasses eventually landing on Marge. “You the police?”

  Marge nodded.

  “Do you mind if I finish my ice cream?” she yelled.

  “No,” Marge yelled back.

  McKay said, “Lita, why don’t you turn up your hearing aid?”

  “Then I hear Maude’s bitching.”

  “It will make the interview easier.”

  “Aw, shit!” Lita adjusted some dial. Then she spoke in a lower voice. “God, doesn’t that woman ever shut up? We all got aches and pains. Wouldn’t be stuck in this stinkhole if we didn’t have aches and pains. Y’hear me bitchin’ all the time?”

  “Never,” McKay said. “’Course, I’m deaf….”

  “Oh, shut up! What the hell! Just wheel me over to the lady. I’ll finish my ice cream with her. Can you get me another one, Leek? They were real miserly with the grub today.”

  “Lita…”

  “C’mon, Leek. Do an old lady a favor.”

  “I guess I’ll do it this time.”

  “At’s my boy. Give me sugar, gorgeous.”

  The nurse kissed the top of her pink hair, then wheeled her into a corner and motioned Marge over.

  “I’ll let you two ladies talk.”

  Lita took off her glasses and stared at Marge. Her eyes were clouded by cataracts, but the color that was visible was deep green flecked with chocolate shavings. Lita said, “You want some ice cream, honey?”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass,” Marge said.

  “It’s real good. Spumoni.”

  “No, thank you. I’m really fine.”

  Lita moved in closer and whispered, “Ask him for some anyway. I’ll eat it.”

  Marge looked up at Leek. “Can I have some ice cream?”

  McKay nodded his head. “Sure, Detective. I’ll be back.”

  “Don’t you just love him?” Lita laughed, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “We’re in cahoots together.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lita moved toward Marge until they were almost nose-to-nose, the old woman smelling as stale as mothballs. “Home thinks they own me lock, stock, and barrel, the dumb clucks. I have a secret account that even Marie doesn’t know about. Turned out to be a pretty good investment. Leek set it all up.”

  Marge’s ears perked. “Leek set what up?”

  “The partnership or somethin’ or other. He’s made me a good little nest egg. Soon I’m gonna retire to Hawaii. Whadaya think about that?”

  Retire from what? Marge thought. “Lita, how much of a nest egg are we talking about?”

  “Why? You wanna go in?”

  “No, I just want to make sure you’re protected. That Leek isn’t doing something funny.”

  Lita exploded into laughter, spittle flying out of her mouth. “Leek? Leek don’t need money. He’s a zillionaire. He just works here for fun.”

  Marge paused. Either Leek had her completely snowed, or the woman was in fantasyland. “You say he works here for fun?”

  “Yep. He works here ’cause he loves us. He loves me. Everyone who works here loves me.”

  Marge gave her a weak smile. “How much did you give him, Lita?”

  “I don’t know. ’Bout a hundred bucks. ’Course, it’s worth a lot more than that now. It’s worth a fortune from what Leek’s told me. He says soon it’s Hawaii time. This place is okay, but c’mon. How long can I look at these walls without falling off my rocker? Or wheelchair. Leek said he’d even come and take care of me, that gorgeous hunk of manhood. Whadaya think about that?”

  Marge took out her notebook and smiled again. If Leek was scamming her, Marge would find out. But there was something unreal about Lita’s confession. Maybe it was the ease with which she had revealed her secret. She’d opened up only minutes after meeting Marge. Most likely, she’d mentioned it to others as well. The whole thing was probably wishful thinking.

  “Mind if we talk a little about Marie?”

  “Where is my daughter, anyway?”

  “We’re
not sure, Mrs. Bellson.”

  “Call me Lita! I hate anything with a Mrs. in front of it.”

  “Okay, Lita.” Marge took out a notebook. “Do you consider yourself close to Marie?”

  “Close?”

  “Yes, close.”

  “You don’t know Marie at all, do ya?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “’Cause if you did, you’d know one thing right away. I was a real shitty mother to Marie. I mean real shitty. I left her father when Marie was just a babe in arms. It was only me and her. I was older when I had Marie. My parents were so disgusted with me by that time—disgusted I divorced my first husband, Henry, and disgusted that an unmarried woman of my age was pregnant. I took the father’s name just to match Marie, but I never married the jerk. He wanted to, I didn’t. Case closed. A stubborn lot, us Whitson gals. Mules—every one of us.”

  “You were estranged from your parents?”

  “Estranged? More like we hated each other. S’right. It never bothered me much. But it bothered the hell out of Marie. Guess she wanted grandparents like all the other little girls in school. Guess she would have liked a daddy, too. Too bad. I tried my best, but I had a life to live. Sorry, but I just wasn’t the martyr type.” Lita frowned. “Where the hell’s my ice cream? What are they doing, milking the cows?”

  “I’m sure it will be here soon.” Marge brushed hair out of her eyes. “What kind of child was Marie?”

  “A Whitson—meaning stubborn and wild. Whitson females are only made out of one mold.”

  “That’s funny. People who know Marie haven’t described her as wild.”

  “That’s ’cause they didn’t know her in her younger days. The girl was a jalapeño pepper—full of heat and fire. Now all the fire’s for nursing and God. She’s about as interesting as a bowl of oatmeal.”

  Marge thought about a different Marie—the radical one buried in a storage bin over her parking space.

  “But not so when Marie was young?”

  “Not so at all.”

  “She got pregnant very young, didn’t she?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Was she married?”