clapped her hands. “Let’s do it.”
Dispatcher’s static was beaming through the squawk box. Decker tuned out the noise automatically except if the crime happened to go down near his location. Funny how the ear adjusts to what’s important.
Marge said, “The school’s on the way back to the station. Want to stop by first?”
“Sure, why not?”
They rode a few minutes in silence.
“I’ll do the talking with the administration there,” Marge said. “That’s okay, right?”
“It’s your case.”
“You really see it that way?”
“That’s the way Davidson saw it.”
“Davidson was giving me busywork.”
Decker said, “He may have been giving you bullshit, but if it turns into something big, he won’t take it away from you.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Nope. Why risk a discrimination suit?”
“And if he does take it away from me?”
“Go to Strapp. I’ll support you.”
Marge grinned. “Really?”
Decker was insulted. “What the hell do you think? Marge, you’re letting your imagination drag you down. Stop thinking worst-case scenarios and let’s concentrate on the present. How old are the Yalom boys again?”
Marge paged through her notes, pleased by Decker’s support. Okay, so she was getting on his nerves. So what? They were partners.
She paused.
Partners. Just like Yalom and Gold.
Decker was irked by Marge’s silence. “The case, Marge?”
“Yeah, sorry.” Quickly, she sifted through her notes. “The boys … are … fifteen and sixteen. Gil’s the oldest. Dov is in the class with Sharoni. How about if I take the administrators and the records, and you talk to the girl. You’re better with teenagers, having raised one yourself.”
“Fine.”
“How’s Cindy doing? Is she still interested in police work after the Bellson/Roberts affair?”
Decker felt his jaw tense and willed it to relax. “’Fraid so.”
“She’d make a good cop.”
“Bite your tongue, Dunn.”
Marge shrugged. “We could use bright and brave women like her on the force.”
“She’s too smart to be a cop.”
Marge glared at him. “Thanks for the compliment, Deck.”
“Stop going testy on me.” Decker glared back. “She’s my kid, Marge. I want her safe, not battling gangs in the street.”
“It’s her decision in the long run.”
“Right now, I’m still in the short run. My preference for her is a job that doesn’t require expertise with a piece. You want to fuel up with some java before we hit the high school?”
“No, I’m fine,” Marge said. “You changed the subject away from Cindy, Pete.”
Decker grinned. “My, you’re astute. You must be a detective.”
Marge grinned back. “Homicide, baby. And don’t you forget it!”
6
It surprised Decker that the Yaloms sent their children to public school. Although the West Valley didn’t have a big white-flight problem, private schools still abounded, and folks with money took advantage of the fancier prep schools. Education was important in Judaism. But the Yaloms weren’t religious, and perhaps, being immigrants, they didn’t feel comfortable in a high-brow environment.
West Valley was a good school—an old-style public institution built at a time when land was cheap and so were construction costs. Like most of LA Unified, West Valley ran full, sometimes overfull. Classes were large and the teaching staff always needed more than the district was willing to pay for.
Just like Devonshire. The department gave them nada. Most of the furniture and electronics in the squad room were donated by the public. As a result, nothing matched. Every desk had a different configuration, every computer had a different keyboard setup. But no one cared as long as it worked. Thank God for community spirit. Without it, the Dees would still be communicating via tin cans and a string.
The school sprang up on the right side. Decker turned into a wide, open parking lot before pulling up to a loading zone at the side of the school. They got out, Marge sticking the “official police business” placard on the unmarked’s windshield.
Inside, the central hallway was filled with students dressed in a haphazard manner, and teachers dressed almost as casually. The corridors were old, but the floor gleamed and the walls were free of graffiti, and that said a lot. They found the principal’s office and presented their badges to the red-dressed secretary. She was young and black, her hair straightened and clipped short. She glanced at their shields, her eyes resting on the metal for only a moment before settling back onto her word processor. She was singularly unimpressed.
“Which one is it this time?”
Decker and Marge exchanged tired smiles. Police presence was sadly nothing new even in the supposedly good public schools.
“We’re not arresting anyone,” Marge said. “We just want information.”
The red-dressed woman looked up. “About whom?”
“Gil and Dov Yalom,” Marge said. “Any idea where they are?”
“Gil and Dov …” The secretary scratched her head. “Names aren’t familiar.” She pointed to two empty chairs. “Have a seat and I’ll see if Mr. Maldenado’s in.”
She disappeared behind a door and Marge and Decker sat down. A moment later, the door reopened and a bald-headed black man motioned them into his sparsely furnished office.
Everything about Maldenado was smooth—his head, his dark-complexioned cheeks, even the backs of his hands. He was medium height and weight, his wireless glasses framing eyes that were hooded and tired. He motioned them to sit, then sank into a worn leather chair. In front of him were piles of charts and papers. Decker had a feeling the man hadn’t seen his desktop in years.
Maldenado rubbed his eyes. “Who did you say you wanted?”
Marge said, “We’re looking for Dov and Gil Yalom.”
“Dov and Gil?” Maldenado was surprised. “They’re good kids. What’d they do?”
“Nothing,”
