The Forgotten. Faye Kellerman
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best that Decker had hoped for at this point in time and space. He made it back to the station house by six-thirty with a belly full of grease and a head spinning with ideas. He knew that Ernesto Golding had not worked alone, but other culprits continued to be elusive entities. Decker would have liked to question Ernesto’s friends extensively—find out if they had information—but he knew that their parents wouldn’t allow contact. Without proof of involvement, Decker couldn’t muscle his way into their living rooms, and no other evidence was forthcoming because Ernesto insisted he was the sole perpetrator. Furthermore, since Ernesto had cooperated with the D.A., Melrose had high hopes of getting the charges knocked down to a malicious mischief misdemeanor—probation combined with community service, and a sealed record.
Now that Ernesto had entered into the legal system, Decker’s part in the play had been relegated to the role of supporting cast. He didn’t have a lot of working time. If he didn’t come up with something new very soon, the entire case would slip from his grasp—officially closed, naming Ernesto Golding as the one and only vandal.
Entering the detectives’ squad room, Decker was heartened to find Martinez and Webster at their desks. Wanda Bontemps was also finishing up her paperwork. She was hunched over her desk, her fingers playing with a cap of tightly knit curls. She wore black pants and a blue turtleneck. A black blazer was draped across the back of her chair. He flagged her down, along with Martinez and Webster, and the quartet convened in Decker’s office.
Webster said, “Was Golding arraigned yet?”
“An hour ago,” Decker answered. “No contest. He’s back home—own recognizance. Court date will be in about six weeks.”
“Was he expelled from school?” Wanda asked.
“That I don’t know,” Decker said. “I have this gut feeling that there’ve been some quiet negotiations behind the scene. You know how it is with institutions and money.”
“The way of the world,” Webster said. “Nothing you can’t buy with money. Even money.”
Decker said, “I don’t know what the headmaster is planning to do. In a perfect world, Golding should be expelled.”
“In a perfect world, he should be in jail,” Wanda said.
“This is very true. But given the fact that Melrose pushed through a rush job, it’s unlikely.” Decker felt glum, as if he somehow had failed Rina. “What’d you find out about the Preservers of Ethnic Whatever.”
“It’s run by a guy named Darrell Holt, who is a mixture of lots of races,” Martinez said. “So I can’t figure out how he reconciles his own genetic variety with his ethnic purity crap. Anyway, he’s wrangled endorsements for his cause from some token minorities—one Filipino, one Hispanic, one African-American, one Asian, one Jew, and for sake of completion, one Anglo.”
“What kind of endorsements?” Decker asked.
“You can see for yourself, sir.” Webster handed him the flyers. “It’s all the same crud. Y’all can’t pin them down just by reading the articles. They play the separate but equal over and over and over.”
Decker thumbed through the pages, scanning the paragraphs. “Here’s one that recommends an English-only policy.”
“Yeah, that’s the one by the Marine.”
“Hank Tarpin.” Decker scanned the printed material. “Superficially, there’s lots here that my wife would agree with. She would kill her sons if they married outside the religion.”
“She isn’t the only one,” Wanda said. “I’d like my daughter to marry a good African-American man. Life is hard enough. At least in your own community, you can go around without getting stares and snickers. I talk from experience. About three months ago she had a Hispanic boyfriend.” She looked at Martinez. “People gave them looks.”
“What happened?” Martinez said.
“They broke up, but not because of the race … although I’m sure that didn’t help. He was a cop and she’s a cop and that wasn’t good.”
“One of my kids married an Anglo,” Martinez said. “The other married a nice kid whose family was originally from Cuba. I’m from Mexico, and that’s another ball of wax. I can’t say I feel more comfortable with one son-in-law over the other. But that’s not the case with my parents, who don’t speak English all that well. There’s a language barrier. Which is why, personally, I’m big on an English-only policy in school. If you don’t speak and write the language of the country, you’re second class. No way my kids and grandkids are going to be second-class citizens.”
“I agree with you, Bert,” Webster said, “but I reckon that you and the Marine are coming at it from different angles.”
“That’s true, but it’s irrelevant.” Decker put down the papers. “But the only pertinent question now is, do we have anything to link Holt to the vandalized synagogue?”
“Nope,” Martinez said. “But we talked to Holt before you arrested Golding. Maybe if we went back and mentioned Golding—”
“And then maybe Golding’s lawyer would be all over our asses for giving out the name of a minor,” Decker interrupted. “Pulling the Ernesto card is out. If the Preservers of Ethnic ‘Racists’ is involved, we’ve got to get them without asking about Golding.”
“How about harboring a fugitive?” Bontemps said. “Tell the loo what you told me about Ricky Moke.”
“Who’s Ricky Moke?” Decker asked.
Webster explained. “Supposedly Moke has been implicated in blowing up university animal laboratories. Supposedly Holt knows Moke. Supposedly Moke has dropped by their office. Supposedly Moke is an ardent racist.”
“That’s an awful lot of supposedly,” Decker said. “Does this bad guy have a sheet?”
“Nothing I could find,” Martinez said. “But I’ve only checked locally.”
“If he’s implicated with bombs, the FBI would have information on him. Make a couple of calls tomorrow.” Decker sat back. “What about Darrell Holt? Does he have a sheet?”
Webster shook his head.
“Any information on him?” Decker asked.
“The Preservers have a Web site,” Webster said. “But that’s all fluff.”
“Find out what you can about him.” Decker scanned through the leaflets. “Are these the only papers you found? I’m wondering if Golding ever wrote anything for them.”
“I’ll check it out tomorrow.”
Decker thought about what Golding had told him, about his German grandfather and his dubious past. “While you’re looking up people in the computer, find out what you can about Jill and Carter Golding. I want to know everything I can about Ernesto, and it doesn’t hurt to start with the parents. Since they’re well known, it should be easy to find information about them. Also do a search with Golding and Holt and/or Golding and Ricky Moke as a common subject and see if the computer throws out any association.”
Webster said, “The Preservers also have a girl working there. She looks about twelve.”
“Name?”
“Erin Kershan.”
“Look her up.”
Wanda said, “Should we put a watch on them, Lieutenant?”
Decker considered the idea. “Are they local?”
“Yes, they are,” Martinez told him. “Matter of fact, they live in the same building although different apartments. I’ll do it.”
“I’ll do it, Bert,” Webster volunteered. “I got the two A.M. feeding anyway.” He looked at Decker. “Could I leave at about one?”
“Sounds