Milk and Honey (24 page)

“Your man really has you spooked, huh?”

Myra said nothing.

“Your man a Santeria?” Decker asked.

The whore stiffened.

“A Palo Mayombero,” Decker said. “Or maybe he has a
tía
who’s a
bruja
. She’ll put a hex on you—”

“Stop it!”

“You don’t really believe that shit, do you?”

Myra didn’t answer right away. Finally, she said, “I like to stay healthy, man. I like to stay healthy.”

Decker regarded her. She looked anything but healthy, but the irony was lost.

“I want to help you, Myra,” he said. “I want to make sure the guy is really guilty, so trial is out of the question, and we’ve got the goodies, so he’ll be begging to bargain. But if you don’t cooperate, give us your pimp’s name, PD may get wind of what’s going on, that his client has an out—your man. He’ll insist on a trial. Then Mama may find out.”

Myra broke her emery board in half. “You’re bastards, all of you. Don’t give a fuck what happens as long as you get your fucking gold star. So what if my mama finds out, if my man finds out? So what? Who gives a shit about Myra—the
victim!” She laughed bitterly. “That’s what I am. A fucking victim—twice.”

Her eyes remained hard, but they were moist as well. Decker took a minute to think. He focused in on Abel, on all they’d gone through together. Yes, he had saved Abel’s ass. But Decker couldn’t count the number of times that Abel had saved him as well. It had been so common back then. Everyone saving everyone else’s ass. Best thing you could have done was get along with everyone on your side. Because you never knew if someday that guy you called an asshole was the one to yank you down when enemy fire started, to jerk you away from stepping on a land mine, cover your body when a grenade exploded. Something you just did. Saved asses.

But that was then. Decker, the empathic rape cop of today, said, “You are a victim. And I’m sorry. Again, I’ll find your man without your help.”

“I bet,” Myra said. She brushed tears away from her eyes and sunk under her covers. “My man finds out I talked to another cop, he’s gonna fix me good.”

“Myra…” Decker leaned in close. “Don’t worry about your man. I can reverse whatever he puts on you.” He closed his eyes, and murmured a Santeria chant he’d memorized from the old days. When he was done, he put his fingers to his lips and whispered, “All I need is a bag of chicken feathers and a roll of pennies.”

Myra looked at him with a mixture of awe and dubiousness.

Decker nodded solemnly.

“You into that shit, too?” Myra whispered.

“Only for good,” Decker said. “I can reverse spells, but not make them. Just my particular power. But you can’t tell anyone.”

“Oh no,” Myra said.

“Good.”

Decker paused a minute, found himself thinking as a
lawyer would. At least the prosecution was anxious to plea-bargain. Abel could milk that for all it was worth. Then again, if Abel held fast to his plea of innocence, she might even drop the charges rather than go to trial. But what if Mama had to leave suddenly? Then Myra might permit the case to go to trial. There was physical evidence against him, even if some was inconsistent—Abel might beat it. But then again, he might not. Should he cut his losses or go for the big one? Fuck it. He’d pass the info on to Abel’s lawyer, screwing his compadres at Hollywood in the process. The last thought didn’t set well with him.

Decker said, “I did something for you, Myra. Now, you have to do something for me.”

Myra said nothing, regarded him with suspicion.

“Let’s do us both a favor,” he said. “Throw some attention away from yourself. Tell me the names of a few of the girls in your pimp’s stable.”

“Why?”

“I’ll squeeze your pimp’s name from them. Then you won’t be the one who was talking too much, eh?”

Myra said, “Pass the buck?”

“Let’s call it exchanging favors.”

“How do I know you did whatchu said you did?”

“Are you doubting my power?” Decker said. “If you doubt the power, Oggun will get very angry—”

“I didn’t say I doubted you.”

“Good,” Decker said. “C’mon, darlin’. Surely there’s a bitch or two in the bunch that you can’t stand. Someone who gets on your case all the time, rips off your stuff and junk and bad-talks you in front of the man.”

Myra didn’t answer.

“Just one name,” Decker said. “Someone I can squeeze.”

Myra finally said, “I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I’m gonna do it ’cause I really hate this bitch. Too bad you can’t hex,’ cause this bitch is worth hexing bad. Lotty’s the first name, last name is spelled J-A-C-Q-U-E-S-O-N.
Thinks she’s so fine, spellin’ her name with a fancy Q-U instead of a K. Miss Fine and Fancy Bitch.” She stuck out her tongue.

“Where can I find her?” Decker asked.

“In Hollywood, in an apartment right near Gower Gultch.”

“You’re a peach, Myra.” Decker winked at her, retracted the curtain, and left, noticing her roommate was still fast asleep as he closed the door behind him.

Refreshed from a
weekend of relaxation, Marge was humming when she entered the squad room. She dropped her purse on her desk and asked Hollander what was shaking. He answered that she’d just missed all the action. Marge looked at him dubiously.

From his desk, Paul MacPherson eyed Marge, thinking, What a hunk of woman. He debated asking her out to the Shakespeare play again, but squelched the notion. Rejection wasn’t palatable first thing Monday morning. “Actually, you did miss some excitement. Not a whole lot, but enough to make my blood pressure rise a notch.”

“What happened?” Marge asked.

“A deuce was on the loose,” Hollander said. “Somehow he escaped from downstairs booking, came up to the lobby, and started raising a ruckus.”

“Slithery little guy,” MacPherson said. “Turns out he was born without clavicles. Jailer claims he squeezed between the bars.”

“Still say that’s impossible,” Hollander said.

“Took three of us to catch one of him,” MacPherson said.

“Doesn’t say much for our security,” Marge said. “Or the physical condition of our officers.”

Hollander took the comment personally. He patted his
belly and looked at Marge. “You ever see me when I was two hundred and rock-hard?”

“Since I’ve known you, Mike, you’ve always looked like you do now.”

“Pity,” Hollander said. He pushed his body out of his chair and grunted as he struggled to put on his coat. “I’m off to the nuthouse, Marge. Hear all the pleas of the bad little kiddies. ‘Please don’t send me to Judge Reilly!’”

“Who’s Judge Reilly?” MacPherson asked.

“Juvey judge,” Hollander said. “Real hard-ass, God bless him. You can get these kids to admit anything as long as you have Reilly hanging over their heads.” He laughed fiendishly. “You field any new calls, Marge.”

“Fine,” she said.

After Hollander left, MacPherson said, “It’s all a lie, you know.”

“What?”

“Mike was never two hundred and rock-hard. But why ruin his nostalgic recollections with the truth?”

“Why ruin?” she repeated absently. She pulled out a current file, but her mind remained elsewhere.

A deuce on the loose
.

Son of a bitch!
That
was where she’d seen that Douglas Miller—the asshole child-stealing father. He’d been booked here once as a 502, and a real mean drunk at that. They’d brought him in, cussing and fighting. She’d just happened to be downstairs. Must have been six months ago. Only he was definitely not using the name Miller. What the hell had they booked him under? Marge remembered hearing the name, but couldn’t bring it up from the storage banks. She debated calling Benko, but decided to handle it herself. She stood up and said, “I’m going downstairs for a minute.”

“Don’t stay too long,” Paul said. “Your sexual aura might make the incarcerated misfortunates horny.”

Decker said to Marge, “Helping Clerical out?”

“Funny, Pete.” Her eyes never wavered from her desk, which was covered with stacks of booking slips.

“Seriously,” Decker said. “What are you doing?”

Marge checked her watch. “I could ask you the same thing. It’s one-forty, and you haven’t even logged in.”

“I was at court.”

“All this time?”

“I also had some personal business to attend to.”

Marge smiled. “Man may not get it too often, but when he does, it’s gourmet.”

“I wish.”

Marge raised her head. “You and Rina having problems?”

Decker laughed. “No. I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant I wish that was what I was doing all morning.”

“And what
were
you doing?”

“Chasing down a Marielito pimp who’s into devil worship. He calls himself El Dorado.”

“Like in the Cadillac?”

“The very one,” Decker said. “Never found the golden man, but I don’t need him anymore.”

“What’d you need him for?”

“He’s the pimp of the girl my alleged rape-o friend cut up. I figured he might have gotten mad at her, cut her up, and the girl was protecting him. I had to rule him out. And unfortunately for Abel, I did. Old El Dorado Juarez had a nice alibi.”

“Which was?”

“I didn’t talk to him directly, but I found out where he was when the assault went down—at a script meeting in the office of a major film producer. He was there the whole night with the producer and seven of his lackeys. Seems he—like everyone else in L.A.—has written a screenplay, and this producer bought it for six figures.”

“Jesus.”

“Producer’s secretary says it’s a…let me find my exact notes…here they are. Get this: ‘a riveting firsthand account of his life—from the Mariel boat lift from Cuba where he was imprisoned as a political enemy…’ Guy actually ax-murdered his ex-girlfriend’s brother—”

“Jesus!”

“Wait! There’s more. Get this. ‘…to his impoverished life in Miami, to his move to L.A. and his struggle to the top.’ Studio thinks Juarez’s a successful businessman. Seems he’s done very well in the commodities market! ’Course we won’t mention his undeclared income derived from illegal chemicals and women.”

“Did you enlighten Miss Secretary?”

“I tried, Marge, but some people just don’t want to be enlightened.” Decker shook his head. “The upshot is, the scum’s ass is covered, and my friend’s head is still in the noose. So there you have it. Now I did Show and Tell. It’s your turn.”

“I’m looking through booking slips.”

“I gathered that.”

“Remember that child-stealer, Douglas Miller, the one Charlie Benko was looking for?”

“The father of the little girl we thought might have been Katie?”

“That’s the one. Doug Miller was booked here about six months ago on a five-oh-two. Only he didn’t use the name Doug Miller. I’m trying to…This is it!” She held up a slip. “I don’t believe it. Rusty Duralt! This is the one, I swear it is! Man, will you look at this.”

“What?” Decker asked.

“He was booked five months, three weeks, two days ago! I knew it was about six months. God, I’m great.”

Decker smiled.

Marge said, “Rusty Duralt is a marked man.” She looked at Decker. “Do me a favor. Call this number and find out if
they have a little girl there named Heather—No, wait. That’s no good. It’ll make the wife suspicious.”

“If the wife knew her husband kidnapped his daughter.”

“But she might know.”

Decker nodded. He thought a moment. According to the information, Heather Miller or whatever her name was now should be about two and a half. Could still be in diapers at that age. He said, “Give me the number.”

Marge read off the digits, and Decker dialed the phone. A woman answered on the second ring. He explained he was doing a promotional for Pampers. Did they have any young children in the house? If they did, Proctor and Gamble would be happy to send them a free economy box of their newest line of disposable diapers. The woman answered him back, and Decker smiled.

“Uh-huh, two little girls,” Decker said. “And what are their ages so I’ll know what size to send them?”

Marge held her breath. A moment later, Decker gave her the thumbs-up sign.

“And you’re still at the address…” Decker snapped his fingers, Marge shoved the booking slip under his nose. “Nine-five-five-six Pantella Way? Good. We’ll send out those diapers right away.”

Marge yanked on his arm, and scribbled furiously on a piece of paper.

“Or…” Decker spoke as he read, “better yet, we’ll…have one…of our…field representatives bring out the diapers directly. Uh, I believe a woman named Marge does the route…. Okay…Okay. Just be sure you fill out the opinion slip for us, you hear?…Nice talking to you too, Mrs. Duralt. Bye now.”

“Whoa!” Marge clapped her hands. “Pretty swift at the confidence game.”

“Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?” Decker said. “Inspire confidence?”

“In the abstract.”

Decker said, “Time to turn on the charm, Detective.”

“No problem,” Marge said, smiling. “It’s part of my makeup.”

“By the way,” Decker said, “I had a chance to check out Sue Beth Litton’s account of the day of the murders. Seems three separate people remember talking to Pappy Darcy at least a half hour before the Littons arrived. And the Littons did stop at Montequilla’s restaurant in La Mesa at about the time she said they did. Time frame works. Now the surviving family could have plugged the victims before they left, but it would take pretty good acting on everyone’s part to go to a restaurant after doing something gruesome like that. I spoke to the waitress who served them. They said the family seemed to be having a great time, she served them second helpings of dessert.” Decker shook his head. “I don’t think murder is a good hors d’oeuvre.”

Marge said, “What about Pappy and Granny?”

“According to Crandal,” Decker said, “they arrived before the Littons did.”

“That’s according to Crandal,” Marge said.

“Arrange an interview with the parents,” Decker said. “They should be back at the farm by now.”

Marge said she would.

Decker paused a moment. “No, no, no, I’m not ruling anyone out. But besides the family, we have Byron Howard, his wife, Darlene, a bunch of lunatic bikers, Rolland Mason’s disgruntled girlfriend…” Decker frowned as he thought about it. “I’ve got a three o’clock appointment with Annette Howard. I talked her into meeting me in the city.
Alone
.” He raised his eyebrows.

Marge stood and gathered her piles of booking slips. She slung her purse over her shoulder and pinched Decker’s cheek. “Turn on the charm, Sergeant.”

He winked and answered, “Part of my makeup.”

Decker was sitting at the counter, on his fourth cup of coffee, when he spotted Annette Howard. Thank goodness for small favors. He’d begun to think that she’d chickened out. She came over and started to sit, but Decker stood up.

“I’ve got us a booth in the back,” he explained. “I was only sitting here so I’d be sure to see you.”

“Counter’s fine,” Annette said. “I don’t need anything fancy.”

Decker smiled. “I like privacy when I’m with a pretty gal. This way.”

He gently steered her to the back of the coffee shop. It wasn’t the tackiest place he’d ever eaten in. The smell of grease wasn’t too thick, and the flooring was clean. Someone had decorated it in earth tones rather than blaring pinks and oranges. The booths were whole—no stuffing leaking from the backs and seats—and clean, the bubble gum having been removed from under the tables. Even a few healthy ivy plants hung from the exposed ceiling beams.

“After you.” Decker pointed to a corner booth. Annette seemed nervous. Jumpy walk, and flushed even though the place was air-conditioned. Decker also noticed she’d curled her hair and put on some makeup. She wore a dark crepe dress that complemented her fair complexion, pearl studs in each earlobe, a thin gold chain around her neck. Big day on the town, or was she telling him something? Decker handed her a menu and waited a minute while she studied it.

“What can I get you?” he said.

“Uh, hamburger’s fine,” she answered.

Her voice was timid. Decker said, “Anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“Okay, then I’ll just signal the waitress—”

“Uh, french fries if it’s okay.”

“Sure.” Decker paused. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Well, coffee, if it’s no bother.”

Decker smiled. “How about coffee and a big piece of apple pie?”

Annette giggled and said, “Well, if you insist.”

“I insist.”

“Then all right.”

Decker got the waitress’s attention and ordered Annette her lunch and a refill of coffee for himself.

“You’re not eating?” Annette asked.

“Wife’s making a big dinner tonight. I don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

Decker examined her reaction. Her cheeks went a shade darker, and she lowered her head.

Life must be lonely in Sagebrush.

The waitress returned with Annette’s coffee and refilled Decker’s cup. After she left, he said, “Thanks for coming down to meet me, Annette.”

“S’ okay,” she mumbled. She drowned the coffee in cream.

“How’s Darlene doing?”

“All right, I suppose.”

“Does she talk about what happened?”

“Sure. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“What about Byron?” Decker asked.

“Byron?” Annette answered. “No, Byron doesn’t talk too much about anything, not even Linda’s death. Darlene’s got her ears open, and Byron knows it.”

Decker pulled out his notepad and said, “Yeah, Byron’s pretty quiet. Ever see him explode?”

Annette squirmed. “Maybe once or twice.”

“What’d he do?” Decker asked.

“He didn’t rant, if that’s what you mean,” Annette said. “Byron doesn’t rant. He just sort of got all bug-eyed, turned red, and went for his shotgun. He didn’t do nothing with it, but he got his point across.”

I’ll say, Decker thought. “What set him off?”

“Once it was Darlene’s naggin’. Darl can be a terrible nag, and Byron don’t like to be nagged.”

Who liked to be nagged? But Decker knew that nagging took on a greater significance to this kind of man—just like the guys back home. Nagging represented an assault to their independence, a malevolent little birdie telling them they weren’t perfect.

Get off my goddern back, woman
.

Decker said, “When else did he lose his temper?”

Annette sighed. “Once with those Manfred boys. They kept coming around, and I guess Byron just got tired of saying no politely.”

“What’d he do?” Decker asked.

“Took out his shotgun and told them to leave.”

Suddenly, Decker kicked himself mentally. Byron Howard owned a
shotgun
, had fired it the day Marge and he had trod onto Howard’s property. He wrote in his pad,
Check out BH shotgun. Own a .38, too?

Casually, he asked, “What kind of shotgun does Byron own, Annette?”

The woman was not fooled one bit. She said, “Byron hunts.”

“Skeet, too?” Decker said, smoothing his mustache.

“No.” Annette relaxed a little. “Just hunts, and he don’t do that so often anymore. He’s got a Browning now, I think.”