Milk and Honey (17 page)

“Sorry,” he said.

She stood up and began to pace. She thought about what had happened to her, about a man she had thought was a friend who had tried to rape her. The horrible nights that had followed, how Peter had been there for her. His calming words, reassuring voice. Then, in a heated moment, he had unraveled her confidence like a run in a stocking.

“I don’t believe you said those things,” Rina choked out. “You spent almost an entire year convincing me that…that…that
incident
was not my fault, that it could have happened to anyone, that I did nothing to encourage you-know-who, nothing to lead him on…that the guy was a mental case. Now, you say I have a knack for attracting weirdos.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Well, I didn’t mean that.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Decker thought a moment. His head had begun to throb.
“I meant you’d attract any man, weird or not, because you’re so beautiful, and you shouldn’t be talking to someone you don’t know.”

Rina paused, then asked, “Was Abel who he said he was?”

“Yes, but you didn’t know that.”

“Except I knew he knew you. He showed me pictures of the two of you together. You can’t fake that.”

“What kind of pictures?”

“Army photos. He let me keep this one.” She fished it out of her pocket and handed it to him. “I told him I’d make a copy and give the original back to him.”

Decker stared at the picture for a long time, his face as still as stone. Little Petie Decker, a dumb-ass grin plastered on his face, smiling as if he were about to go to a birthday party. Ready for
action
, ready for the
Big Times
. God, what a jerk he’d been. And to think he had enlisted, his dad had been so proud of him…. And Abel, looking just as stupid and a hell of a lot healthier. Decker wondered why he’d keep such a morbid reminder of a time gone forever.

Abruptly, he tossed the photo onto the bed.

“For all I care, you can burn it. I don’t like living in the past.”

He sat down and buried his face in his hands. A full-blown headache had seeped into his temples. Rina sat beside him, pocketed the picture, then slipped her arm around his shoulder.

“Now, we’re both upset.”

Decker was silent.

“Bad memories?” Rina whispered.

“Not as bad as Abel’s,” Decker said.

“Is he weird?”

Decker thought for a long time. What would be the point of telling her that she’d made chitchat with a possible rapist, making her feel even dumber than she probably felt already? She’d probably never see Abel again. Probably
one of those flukey things. He just happened to show up, forgetting Decker’s request to stay away. Abel was like that. Things went through him, although he could have a memory like an elephant when he wanted to. Decker would call him up tomorrow and remind him to get lost—again.

Finally, he said, “He’s just one of those unfortunate vets who never made the adjustment back to civilian life.” Decker wondered if
he’d
ever made the adjustment as well. After all, in police language there were two classes of people—cops and civilians. He looked at Rina and said, “I’m not comfortable with him, or any guy, hanging around you when I’m not around.”

“Peter,” Rina said, “you didn’t give me a chance to explain. I wasn’t as stupid as you thought—”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Decker said. “Rina, I just love you so damn much, I get scared at the thought of anything happening to you.”

“I’m still nervous myself, Peter. You don’t have to convince me to be careful.” She stopped speaking a moment, then said, “I had my gun with me.”

Decker stared at her for a moment. “What?”

“My Colt thirty-eight Detective’s Special. I’ve continued to take lessons in New York.”

“It’s against the law to carry a concealed weapon without a permit.”

Rina’s eyes widened. “So
arrest
me.”

“You brought your
gun
with you from New York?”

“In my packed luggage.”

“Why?”

“To
protect
myself. You speak as though it’s an affront to your masculinity.”

“Rina—”

“I’m just as scared about myself as you are. I thought you were in the barn, and when it wasn’t you, I immediately reached in my purse and pulled a gun on this Abel Atwater.
And let me tell you something. It made me feel a lot more secure than running into the house and locking the door.”

Decker lowered his head. Too much input in one day. He said, “I didn’t know you were taking shooting lessons in New York.”

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be upset. I know how you feel about guns, but frankly, I’m going to carry one. So why don’t you be supportive of me and finally get me that carry permit I asked you for about a year ago?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Oh, come on! You could pull strings if you wanted to.”

“Honestly, Rina,” Decker said, “I can’t do it. Anyway, why do you need to be armed with me around?”

Rina said, “Witness this afternoon: You’re not always around. And knowing your past schedule, you’re not around a whole lot, period. But I’m not complaining. I don’t mind being alone, I’ve been on my own for over three years now. Peter, I’ve got the boys to think about. I’m going to carry a gun whether I’ve got the permit or not, and you’re not going to convince me otherwise.”

“I can’t get you a carry permit,” Decker insisted. “I think the last civilian one was issued to Sammy Davis, Jr., back in the sixties.”

“So I’ll break the law,” Rina said. “I can live with that.”

Great, he thought. He couldn’t control his own woman; how could he presume to control felons? Just drop the point. Pick it up on a better day. They sat in silence. Decker decided to ask, “So what did you and Abel talk about?”

“We agreed you were tight-lipped.”

Decker said nothing.

“Like you’re being right now,” Rina said. “Peter, why didn’t you ever tell me you were in the army?”

“I didn’t consciously make a decision not to tell you, Rina. You never asked and I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Abel said you were a medic.”

“Yes,” Decker said. “What else do you want to know?”

Rina paused a moment, realizing how cruel it was to make him relive something so ugly just to satisfy her curiosity. She smiled and said, “Good. You can teach me CPR.”

Decker picked his head up, his lips turning upward into a grin. “We can start right now, if you want.”

Rina blushed. “What about the trout?”

“It’s probably cold by now.” Decker kicked off his shoes and said, “You shouldn’t do CPR with your shoes on.”

Rina said, “I never heard that one.”

“Oh, it’s true.” He took off her kerchief and unpinned her hair. A sheet of black silk rippled down her back. “And it’s very bad to do CPR with pins in your hair. Might fall into the victim’s mouth.”

“All sorts of little things to remember.”

Decker fingered the kerchief and said, “I see you’re covering your hair again.”

“I’m feeling a little more religious.”

Decker smiled. “That’s good.”

She smiled back. “I thought you didn’t like me so religious.”

“Rina, I love you just the way you are.”

Rina felt her throat suddenly constrict. She touched his cheek, then looped her hand around his neck and lowered his mouth onto hers. He eased her into a supine position while kissing her, drinking her in.

“This isn’t CPR,” Decker said, a moment later.

Rina said, “I know.”

Decker walked into
the squad room at 9:00 A.M., his phone ringing as soon as he crossed the threshold. He jogged over to his desk and, still standing, picked the receiver up. Marge was on the other end.

“Got a pencil?”

“Hold on, I just got in.” He kicked his chair out and took a pen from his shirt pocket. “Let me find something to write on. Where are you?”

“Morgue. Been here for a while.”

“Great way to start the day.”

“At least no one here gives me lip.”

Decker fished through his desk drawer and pulled out his notepad. Pen poised, he said, “Shoot.”

“Prelim forensics,” Marge said. “Rigor was gone, M.E. said the bodies were at least forty-eight hours old. That clicks with the maggot development. Entomologist found maggots in varying degrees of development—oldest eggs having been laid around two—three days ago. Mostly housefly, blowfly, and blue-bottle maggots, the latter two most common among bodies left outdoors. But the windows were left open, so those kind of flies had ready access to the bodies.”

“Okay,” Decker said. He was scribbling as fast as he could. “Got it.”

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.