The Forgotten. Faye Kellerman
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a bad experience with Jews in the past.”
“And this is who they bring down for a Jewish hate crime?”
“She’s black—”
“So she’s a black, and an anti-Semite. That makes it better?”
“She’s not anti-Semitic at all. She’s a good woman who was honest enough to admit her issues to me early on. I’m just … I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.” He looked around and grimaced. “I should learn to keep my mouth shut. I’ll chalk it up to being a little rattled. Wanda’s new and has worked hard to get her gold. It hasn’t been an easy ride for a black forty-year-old woman.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Rina answered. “Don’t worry about her, Peter. If she just does her job, we’ll get along just fine.”
The pictures of the concentration-camp victims had to have come from somewhere. It was possible that they were downloaded from a neo-Nazi on-line site and enhanced to make them look like real photographs. Still, it was equally as likely that they had come from some kind of local organized fascist group. The fringe group that Decker had remembered from his Foothills days had tagged itself the Preservers of Ethnic Integrity. When he had worked Juvenile, it hadn’t been much more than a post-office box and a once-every-six-months meeting in the park. A few quick phone calls told him that the group was still in existence and that it had evolved into something with an address on Roscoe Boulevard. Decker wasn’t sure what they did or what they espoused, but with that kind of a name, the hidden message had to be white supremacy.
He checked his watch, which now read close to eleven. He got up from his desk and went out into the squad room. There were lots of empty spots, signifying that most of Devonshire’s detectives had been called into the field, but luck placed Tom Webster at his desk, and on the phone. The junior homicide detective was blond, blue-eyed, and spoke with a good-ole-boy drawl. If anyone could pose as an Aryan sympathizer, it would be Webster … except for the dress. Neo-Nazis didn’t usually sport designer suits. Today, Tom had donned a navy suit, white shirt, and a maroon mini-print tie—probably Zegna. Not that Decker wore hundred-dollar ties, but he knew the brand because Rina’s father liked Zegna and often gave Sammy and Jake his cast-off cravats.
Webster looked up, and Decker caught his eye, pointing to his office. A minute later, Tom came in and closed the door. His hair had been recently shorn, but several locks still brushed his eyebrows, giving him that “aw shucks” look of a schoolboy.
“Sorry about this morning, Loo.” Webster took a seat across Decker’s desk. “We all heard it was pretty bad.”
“Y’all heard right.” Decker sat at his desk and sifted through his computer until he found what he wanted. Then he pressed the print button. “What’s your schedule like?”
“I was just doing a follow-up on the Gonzalez shooting. Talking to the widow …” He sighed. “The trial’s been delayed again. Perez’s lawyer quit, and they’re assigning him a new PD who is not familiar with the case. Poor Mrs. Gonzalez wants closure and it isn’t going to happen soon.”
“That’s too bad,” Decker stated.
“Yeah, it’s too bad and all too typical,” Webster answered. “I have court at one-thirty. I thought I’d go over my notes.”
“You’re a college grad, Webster. That shouldn’t take you long.” Decker handed him the printout. “I want you to check this out.”
Webster looked at the sheet. “Preservers of Ethnic Integrity? What is all this? A Nazi group?”
“That’s what you’re going to find out.”
“When? Now?”
“Yes.” Decker smiled. “Right now.”
“What am I inquiring about? The temple vandalism?”
“Yes.”
“Am I supposed to be simpatico to the cause?”
“You want information, Tom; do what you need to do. As a matter of fact, take Martinez with you. You’re white, he’s Hispanic. With racists, you can do good cop, bad cop just by using the color of your skin.”
From the synagogue, Bontemps called Decker and told him about the three kids she had hauled in for prior vandalism. All of them had sealed records.
“How about a couple of names?” Decker asked.
Bontemps said, “Jerad Benderhurst—a fifteen-year-old white male. Last I heard, he was living with an aunt in Oklahoma. Jamal Williams—a sixteen-year-old African-American male—picked up not only for vandalism, but also petty theft and drug possession. I think he moved back east.”
“That’s not promising. Anyone else?”
“Carlos Aguillar. I think he’s fourteen, and I think he’s still at Buck’s correction center. Those are the ones I remember for vandalism. If you check with Sherri and Ridel, they might have others.” A pause. “Then again, Lieutenant, you might want to consider the bigger picture when it comes to tagging.”
Decker knew exactly to whom she was referring—a specific group of white, middle-to-upper-class males who were not only testosterone laden, but also terribly bored with life. Recently, after having been caught, the kids had secured their daddies’ highly paid lawyers before they had even been booked. The entire bunch had gotten off, the tagging expunged from the records, and in record time. Most of the kids were enrolled in private schools. For them, even drugs and sex had become too commonplace. Crime was the last vestige of rebellion.
“There was a group of them last year,” Wanda said. “Around twenty of them dressing like homies and trying to act very baaaad. They defaced a lot of property. If I thought about it, I could remember some names.”
“You could also have your ass sued for giving me the names,” Decker said. “As far as the records are concerned, they don’t exist. But I know who you mean.” A glance at the wrist told him it was eleven-twenty. “How’s it going over there?”
“Photographers are almost done. So are the techs. Your wife is waiting with a crew of people—all of them armed with soapy water pails, cleaning solutions, rags, and mops. They are ready to start scrubbing, and they are angry. If the police don’t hurry up, someone’s gonna get impaled on a broomstick.”
“That sounds like Rina’s doing,” Decker stated.
“You want to talk to her? She’s hanging over my shoulder.”
“I am not hanging,” Rina said, off side. “I am waiting.”
Wanda handed her the phone. Rina said, “Detective Bontemps has offered to spend her lunch hour helping us clean.”
“Is that a pointed comment?”
“Well, you might want to take a cue.”
Decker smiled. “I’ll be there as soon as I get off work. I will paint and clean the entire night if necessary. How’s that?”
“Acceptable, although by the time you get here, it may not be necessary.”
“I hear you have quite a gang.”
“Specifically, we’ve got the entire sisterhood here with brooms and buckets. Someone also made an announcement over at the JCC. Six people came down to clean and paint—one guy actually being a professional painter. Wanda, who’s been a doll, actually called up her church and recruited several volunteers. Even the people from the press have offered to help. We’d like to start already.”
“Detective Bontemps told me they’re almost done.”
“It’s