The Forgotten. Faye Kellerman
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her anymore.”
“She’s Jewish?”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s why you broke up with her?”
“Of course. I was afraid of hurting her. Because of these dreams … these fantasies I have. I would never want to hurt her. I loved her. I still love her. But even after breaking up with her, the fantasies won’t go away.
“The fantasies … they’re sexual. They repel me, but they also—in some sick, primal way—they excite me. We were having sex, but it was the normal kind. Now all I can think about is the sick kind. Demeaning her … hurting her. It makes me sick to think I’m like that. But I can’t help myself. Certain things you can’t hide, you know.”
His pants were bulging.
“All this shit going through my brain while I’m trying to take my SATs and SAT IIs. I … need … help!”
It was a compelling case, and a sympathetic teenager. Decker was no shrink, but the kid seemed sincere. Not overly done, but clearly troubled. And what would Rina think if she found out that Decker was feeling sorry for the kid?
“Tell me the details about the vandalism,” he said. “Where did you get the pictures? They looked original. Were they from a neo-Nazi group or part of the stuff you found in your attic?”
“What difference does it make? I just got them.”
Decker was blunt. “Who else from your school was involved?”
“Look, I admit that I did it. That’s as far as I’m going. I’m not taking anyone else with me. That’s your job, not mine.”
Decker could have pushed it. And maybe on down the road, he would push it. But his motto was to deal with issues one at a time. And now that Decker knew about Ernesto’s involvement, other things would fall into place. “I’m sure that whoever adjudicates the case will demand that you get some kind of rudimentary counseling.”
“I need more than that.”
“I agree.”
Ernesto jerked his head up, surprised by Decker’s honesty.
Decker said, “You’ll have to talk to your parents—”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no! That’s not possible! As a matter of fact, I am forbidding you to say anything to them about this. I’ll admit to the vandalism. I think Dad understands where it came from because deep down, I think he knows about Grandpa’s past, too. But he hasn’t faced the truth yet. Maybe he never will. In any event, they don’t need to know the details. My fantasies …”
“You’ll tell your therapist?”
“I’d like to. If I can find one I can trust.”
Yet he told Decker all his thoughts without much hesitation.
Ernesto seemed to have picked up on the thoughts. “My parents have this elevated image of me. Why spoil it for them totally? So what if you think I’m an asshole—a spoiled rich kid flirting with neo-Nazism because I’m bored and a jerk. What do I have to lose? I’m telling you what you already think. I’m not that way, really. I mean, I’ve got my problems but I’m certainly not a Nazi freak. Just ask Jake.”
At the mention of his stepson’s name, Decker felt his heart skip a beat. He didn’t answer.
Ernesto said, “We used to go to the same parties. Everyone knew that Jake’s stepdad was a big-shot cop. We weren’t close, but we knew each other.”
Meaning they probably toked together. Decker remained quiet.
“Not that Jake talked about you.” Ernesto looked somewhere over Decker’s shoulder. “Actually, he didn’t talk about anything personal. He had this way of talking to you without ever talking about himself. Like he was really interested in what was going on in your life. It made him a girl magnet—that and the fact that he looks like he does. Me? I always felt he was hiding something. Kind of like being a cop, I guess. I haven’t seen him around in a long time. How’s he doing?”
“Let’s keep the conversation on you, Ernesto. What do you want me to present to the D.A.?”
“How about if … I, like, give you a statement? And we’ll play around with it until we’re both satisfied.”
“How about if you give me what you want me to present to the D.A.?”
“You can’t help me?”
“No. That’s called putting words into your mouth.”
“All right. I’ll figure it out on my own. What do I do?”
Decker reached into his briefcase and took out a piece of paper and a pencil. “You can start by writing.”
His orders were to pick up Hannah after school at three-thirty on the dot. This was not subject to debate, this was something he had to do because Rina was still busy cleaning up the shul. She refused to leave the sanctuary until it had been restored to pristine condition. No matter that Decker was in the middle of a pressing investigation of the crime that had caused it all, he’d just have to stop and do this parental duty.
He understood his wife’s agitation. The thought of the synagogue in a state of obscene disarray was something she—the daughter of camp survivors—couldn’t handle. Cleaning was a way of not only negating what had taken place, but of doing something. Action as opposed to sitting around and being victimized. The techs had taken the better part of the afternoon to do their thing, so not only was the synagogue messy from vandals, but it was covered with print dust. The hate-filled leaflets and horrible pictures had been bagged and carted away for evidence. And though it might take a while to put all the pieces together, Decker was sure that it would work out. Now it was just a matter of retracing the kid’s steps, finding out whom he had associated with. This was a good case for Wanda Bontemps to sink her teeth into. As a newly arrived detective, she’d get a chance to show her mettle. And if she needed mentors, she couldn’t ask for better ones than Webster and Martinez.
Decker pulled the unmarked next to the schoolyard. Which is what it was: a schoolyard, because it certainly wasn’t a playground. Not much more than a six-car parking lot sided by two basketball hoops. Twenty minutes, twice a day, the little kids were let out to ride tricycles, hit a tetherball around a pole, and run around. He got out of the car and stared at the asphalt.
“Where are the swings and slides?” Decker had asked his wife.
“Where’s the money? You find money, you’ll find swings and slides.”
Waiting among the group of gabbing mothers, he once again felt like a wart on a beauty queen. One of them attempted a smile. Decker tried to smile back, but from the look on the woman’s face, he had probably retorted with a sneer. She gave him the back of her head and went back to talking with the other moms.
Rina wouldn’t have approved of his reserve, but she’d never tell him. She knew his heart was in the right place—as were his hands. He had revamped the bathroom of the shul practically single-handed. Although they had thanked him heartily, he had known what they’d been thinking. The goyim … they’re good with their hands—as if he couldn’t be smart and coordinated at the same time.
Everything in their small Orthodox Jewish community was operated on spit and prayer. The primary school had originally been a thirty-year-old medical building. A step away from being demolished, then someone had stepped in at the last moment with a down payment. The architect—the brother of a member of the shul—had managed to join all the suites under a common ceiling. The classrooms weren’t much bigger than