Justice. Faye Kellerman
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indifference, her face had set in a mask of grief. “Go ahead.”
“Do you know where your daughter was last night?”
Janna shook her head no. “I haven’t talked to Cheryl in …’bout a week.”
Decker took out his pad. “What do you know about your daughter’s friends?”
“Not much anymore. Cheryl and me haven’t been getting along so hot.” She blinked rapidly. “Not that I didn’t try, but … you do the best you can, you know? Sometimes it’s not enough.”
“Has Cheryl been living with you, Mrs. Gonzalez?”
“In and out.” Again, the tears started flowing. “She’d eat my food, steal my booze … then she was gone. Sometimes, when I would go away or be with my boyfriend, she’d bring her friends over. Cheryl had lots of friends.”
“Tell me about her friends.”
“Wild like she was.” Her chin touched her chest. “Wild like I am. The fruit’s the same as the tree or somethin’ like that.”
“Do you know her friends by name?”
“Some. Lisa and Jo and Trish. Trashy girls. I think Lisa got caught shopliftin’. Jo was picked up once for turning tricks.”
“Did Cheryl turn tricks?”
“Wouldn’t put it past her. Anything for money. But if she did, she never got caught. Least she never had me bail ’er out.”
“Tell me about boyfriends. Did Cheryl ever talk about her boyfriends?”
“Oh, she had lots of boyfriends, Detective.”
Decker wasn’t sure if he heard jealousy or disapproval in Janna’s voice. “Ever meet any of her boyfriends?”
“A couple. I remember one of ’em. An ape of a guy with big tits. Not real tall but real pumped.”
“Chris Whitman?”
“No, I never heard that name before.”
Decker took out his list. “Blake Adonetti, Steve Anderson—”
“That’s the one. Stevie, she called him. She went with him for a while, but he wasn’t the only one.”
A look of anger spread across her face.
“She liked the boys, Officer. She saw something in pants that pleased her eye, she took it. Even if it belonged to her mother. First time, I forgave her. After I caught her with another one of my friends, I kicked her out.”
The room became silent.
“Course I’m not good at being mad. Truth was I missed her. So I said she could come back. And she did whenever she needed a place to crash.”
Her mouth turned downward.
“She was a very pretty little baby. And smart, too. Could do the ABCs forward and backward at three years old. Isn’t that something?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So damn smart. Too smart for her own good.”
Janna laid her head on Decker’s chest and wept openly. Decker enclosed her heaving body and patted her back gently. But that wasn’t enough comfort. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her chest deep into his.
“Hold me,” she whispered as she sobbed. “Hold me, please.”
Decker continued to pat her back. “Who can I call for you, Mrs. Gonzalez? You mentioned a boyfriend. Can I ring him up for you?”
The woman kept him locked in a bear hug. “Hold me please … love me please.”
As Janna raised her mouth, Decker jerked his head back and broke her hold. The rejection caused her to weep even harder. She sobbed into her hands, her shoulders bouncing with each intake of breath. Decker stood, trying to keep his posture relaxed, but inside he was a bundle of coiled nerves. “May I use the phone?”
She 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