didn’t answer. Decker took that as an affirmative. He called the station house and asked for a cruiser, requesting that one of the uniforms sent over be a female. Then he just waited it out. Five minutes later, Decker answered the loud, distinct police knock at Janna’s door—Linda Estrella and Tony Wilson. That was good because both had been to the hotel this morning. They had seen the body; hopefully, they could empathize with Janna’s misery.
He whispered, “This morning’s victim was Cheryl Diggs. This is her mother, Mrs. Janna Gonzalez. I think she has a boyfriend, but hasn’t given me a phone number to call him. Let her compose herself, then if she’s up to it, take her down to the morgue for the definitive ID.”
Linda said, “You don’t want to be there?”
“Not necessary.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “We know the victim. Let’s get the perp.”
Using the unmarked radio mike, Decker called the station house. Oliver was still manning Homicide.
“I can’t believe you’re working this hard on Sunday,” Decker said. “Your old lady must really be pissed off.”
“It ain’t easy living with a junkyard dog.”
“You might try throwing her a bone now and then.”
“You mean a boner.” Oliver laughed over the line. “Actually, she’s out of town. Just my fortune that my girlfriend’s down with a bad case of herpes. What’s a poor pussyhound to do?”
“It’s a cruel world out there, Scotty. Did you get a chance to run Christopher Whitman through the computer?”
“I did do that, Pete. The guy has no sheet locally or nationally. I’ve also checked with Narcotics in Devonshire and the other Valley divisions. They deny having a mole at Central West Valley.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Could be you’re right. You know how Narcotics can be. Codespeak. Getting info outta them is like using a foreign dictionary. You’re speaking the same words, but not talking the same language.”
Decker opened his thermos and drank lukewarm coffee. “Whitman didn’t happen to call in by any chance?”
“Nope. You need anything else, Rabbi?”
“Got some time on your hands?”
“What do you need?”
“In the abstract, it would be nice if someone could pull Whitman’s tax forms—state and federal for the last two years. Kid’s an enigma. He’s hiding something. He’s got an apartment, he’s got to pay rent. I want to know where the money’s coming from.”
Oliver paused. “I’d like to help. But we all know that hacking his papers on-line would be an invasion of Whitman’s privacy.”
“Of course,” Decker said.
“Still, if I were you, I’d check your mail in an hour. Never know what could show up unexpectedly.”
Decker smiled to himself. “Today’s Sunday, Scott.”
Another long pause. Then Oliver said, “There’s always special delivery.”
13
Running down the list of Cheryl’s friends, Decker underlined the name Steve Anderson, the ape of a guy with big tits whom, according to Mom, Cheryl had dated. He fit the description of a steroid popper, and anabolic users were notoriously unpredictable in their behavior.
Unlike Decker’s old haunt of Foothill, the West Valley was a predominantly white middle-class area. Apartment streets like the one Whitman lived on weren’t unusual. Nor were blocks of sensible, one-story houses. But the eighties land boom had given the area a new face—gated housing developments composed of million-dollar estates meant to attract a more desirable—i.e., moneyed—population.
Anderson lived in a two-story colonial set on a sweeping mound of rolling lawn. There were a Mercedes, a Jaguar, and a Ford Explorer stacked up in the long sloped driveway. Decker parked on the street and walked up the herringbone-brick pathway lined with white impatiens and pink begonias. The entrance was double-doored, the bell on the right. Decker pressed the button and deep chimes could be heard from inside the house. A female voice asked who was there. Decker identified himself.
There was a pause. The woman said, “Just a minute.”
Clacking sounds inside—heels reverberating against a hard surface. A moment later, the door opened, giving Decker a view of a man with a tanned face, dark, curly hair, and uncertain eyes. Behind his broad shoulders, Decker could make out a petite form with styled platinum hair. The missus had faded into the background.
“You’re the police?” the man asked.
Decker took out his badge and ID. “Detective Sergeant Peter Decker, Devonshire Homicide. Are you Mr. Anderson?”
“Yes, I am. Did you say Homicide?”
“Yes, sir, I did. May I come in?”
“Do you have a warrant?”
Decker stared at him. “No, Mr. Anderson, I don’t have a warrant. Do I need one?”
Anderson rubbed his hands together, his frame still blocking the doorway. He wore gray designer sweats and running shoes with no socks.
Decker said, “I’d like to talk to your son, Steven.”
The woman gasped. Anderson crossed his arms in front of his chest and rocked on his feet. “What about?”
“Do you want to continue talking in the doorway, Mr. Anderson? Neighbors might think it’s kind of funny.”
Slowly Anderson ceded space, allowing Decker entrance into the large marble hall, then leading him into the living room. It was as light and cold as vanilla ice cream. The carpeting was spotless. Decker checked the bottoms of his shoes. The missus caught it. She was neat and nondescript.
“Don’t worry, Sergeant. The Berber is Scotch-garded.”
“Susan, why don’t you bring in some coffee?” her husband suggested.
“No thanks on the coffee.” Decker took a seat on a cream-colored modular sofa. “Is Steven home?”
Anderson remained mulish. “What do you want with Steven?”
“Bring him down,” Decker said. “You’ll find out.”
Anderson kneaded his hands. “Is he going to need a lawyer?”
“I can’t tell you that until I’ve talked to Steven.”
The man turned to his wife. “Get him down here.”
She obeyed without question. A minute later, a compact boy entered the room. He wore a tank shirt and shorts, the muscles and veins of his arms and legs inflating the skin like stuffed sausages. He wasn’t bad-looking—dark curly hair like Dad, square face and a strong chin. But his
