LITMIR.BIZ

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you would read the report carefully, Sergeant Decker, you’d notice that we did pursue a runaway assumption. We went into Hollywood and talked to the police. They hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the girl.”

      “You talked to the police to find out about runaways? That’s about as worthwhile as talking to runaways to find out about the police. You want to find out about street kids, you talk to street kids.”

      “Assuming they’ll talk to you.”

      “They’ll talk.”

      “I resent your implications about the thoroughness of our investigation,” the man sputtered.

      “That’s your prerogative. In the meantime, I’m going to keep this Xerox of the report.”

      “Certainly. Despite the adversarial tone of this conversation, I want you to know that I’ll help you in any way I can, Sergeant. At Marris, we believe in cooperation with law enforcement.”

      Decker immediately took him up on it. “You interviewed Lindsey’s friends. Happen to notice if anyone was hard of hearing?”

      “Not that I recall. Of course, I don’t routinely check for hearing aids. Why do you ask?”

      “Never mind.”

      By the time he left Marris, it was nearly four. Decker slid into the unmarked and pulled out the list of Lindsey’s friends. He had time to see one or two before heading back to Bates’s. The first one on the list was a boy named Brian Armor. After thirty minutes on the Golden State Freeway North, he swung onto 134 East—wide open lanes of asphalt that cut through the San Gabriel mountains. The air was crisp, the sky a brilliant blue; a beautiful smogless day not atypical of L.A. winters. He passed the La Crescenta city line and ten minutes later pulled the Plymouth into a circular driveway. He killed the motor.

      The house was a graceful two-story colonial—a downscale replica of an antebellum mansion. During Decker’s childhood, family vacations had often included excursions into the deep South, where majestic plantations loomed larger than life in the little boy’s eyes—the stately scrolled columns; the massive, two-story double entrance doors; the porticoes dripping flowers, set into acreage that expanded to the horizon. As he grew older, Decker’d lost his lust for mansions, but he had always retained a love of land.

      He walked up to the door and pushed the bell, which chimed resonantly. The kid who answered had a football player’s build and a very cocky expression on his face. The look was tempered a second later when he realized he was looking up at Decker.

      “Whaddaya want?” he asked, in a voice surprisingly high and squeaky.

      Decker flashed his badge.

      “I’m looking for Brian Armor.”

      The last remnants of cockiness disappeared.

      “He’s not home.”

      “Who are you?” Decker asked.

      “Listen, I don’t have to talk to a cop without a lawyer.” He started to slam the door shut, but Decker was ready and caught him off balance. The door flew back open and the boy went stumbling backward. The detective stepped inside.

      “You can’t come in without a search warrant,” the boy said, stunned.

      The smell of marijuana was overwhelming. Decker opened his jacket and gave the kid a view of his shoulder holdster. The boy licked his lips.

      “Hey man, no trouble.”

      Decker made his way through the formal living room and into the den. Four teenagers stopped talking and looked up. Bruce Springsteen provided the background music.

      Even if he had a warrant, and even if he had been from narcotics, it still wouldn’t have been much of a bust. A lid or two of grass—who gave a fuck? But image was all-important. He scooped up the bag and motioned Brian over.

      “Where’s the john?” he asked.

      “Third door to the left.”

      Decker turned to the other teens.

      “I’m a police officer,” he said. “You kids stay right where you are. Understand?”

      They nodded solemnly.

      “C’mon, buddy,” Decker said. He gave Brian a slight shove forward and prodded him down the hallway into the bathroom. When they were both inside, Decker locked the door.

      The boy’s hands squeezed into tight, white-knuckled balls.

      “You’re not going to try anything stupid, are you?” Decker asked.

      The boy didn’t answer.

      “Unclench your fists, son. I’m not about to duke it out with you.” Decker smiled. “In a john of all places.”

      The boy’s fingers slowly relaxed.

      “As far as I’m concerned,” Decker said, “this never existed.” He dumped the contents of the bag down the toilet and gave it a flush. “I gave you a break. Now you give me one.”

      The kid stared, amazed.

      “Whaddaya want?” he repeated, his tone of voice deferential this time.

      “I’m looking for Brian Armor.”

      “I’m Brian.”

      “I want to talk to you about Lindsey Bates.”

      The boy stared at him.

      “Lindsey? … This is about Lindsey?”

      “Yep. Your bad-ass attitude lost you your stash for nothing.”

      “Aw, shit.”

      “But look at it this way. I’m not gonna bust you.” Decker took out his notepad. “You wanna talk in here or you wanna go out there?”

      “All my friends out there—they were friends of Lindsey’s.”

      Decker grinned. He had just saved himself a mess of legwork.

      “Let’s go.”

      The gang was waiting, stiff and grim. When they saw Brian smile, their posture loosened.

      Brian cocked a thumb at Decker.

      “He wants to talk about Lindsey.”

      “Why should we talk to you?” said a sulking brunette in torn clothing. He knew from Cindy what those rags cost.

      “You’re a friend of Lindsey’s?” he asked.

      “Maybe.”

      “Then maybe you give enough of a fuck about her to help me find her murderer.”

      She lowered her eyes.

      “What’s your name?” Decker asked the girl.

      “Heather.”

      Decker consulted his list.

      “Heather Hanson.”

      Her head jerked up.

      “That’s right.”

      The detective checked her name off.

      “I’m going to read some names,” he said. “Answer me if it’s you.”

      They were all there. Decker marveled at his good fortune.

      “So what do you want to know about Lindsey?” asked a big blonde with purple lips. She was Lisa O’Donnell.

      “She left home at eleven A.M. Saturday morning, September tenth. Did she call any of you earlier that day?”

      “She called me,” Heather answered. “I was her best friend.”

      “And?”

      “And she asked me to meet her at the Galleria at 12:30. She didn’t show up.”

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