LITMIR.BIZ

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the girl in the end …” Her eyes got animated. “You think she was ripped off, don’t you?”

      Decker closed the last of the empty drawers.

      “What day is trash pick-up?”

      “Tomorrow. Why?”

      “And when did Truscott split?”

      She eyed him. “You’re kidding.”

      “They haul away the garbage yet, Ms. Sanchez?”

      “You’re in luck, Sergeant.”

      Real luck! The three units shared a common dumpster. Plenty of trash and it smelled ripe. But at least the searing pain in his arm was beginning to abate. He hoisted himself upward, vaulted in, then thought of something.

      “Mrs. Sanchez,” he called out.

      “Yes, Sergeant.”

      “Could you do me a favor?” He pulled out his pocket-sized siddur. “Could you hold this for me?”

      She took the book.

      “What is it?” she asked.

      “It’s a Jewish prayer book. I don’t want to get it dirty.”

      She skimmed through the pages.

      “May God be with you.” She laughed. “I’ll wait in the house. The kid needs his diaper changed.”

      It paid off. A half hour’s worth of searching produced a bank deposit slip, several credit card receipts, and a newspaper classified page with seven “Apartments for Rent” ads circled in red. The manager saw him come out and greeted him with a glass of lemonade.

      “Whew,” she said. “You stink.”

      He let the remark pass and thanked her for the drink.

      “You wanna take a shower or something?”

      “No, thank you,” he declined. “Can I have my book back?”

      “Don’t you think you should wash your hands first?”

      She was right. He looked around and spotted a garden hose.

      “I have a sink in the house,” she said.

      “This is fine.” He flapped his wet hands in the air and when they were slightly damp finished drying them on his pants.

      “Find anything?” she asked.

      “Little of this, little of that. If you hear from Truscott, please give me a call.”

      “I will.” She gave him the siddur. “You really pray outta that thing?” she asked.

      “Yeah.”

      “Bet you feel like you need it in your occupation.” She thought a moment. “Nothing meant by that. Everyone can use a little help from time to time, right?”

      Once home, he showered quickly and changed his dressing. Although his arm was still swollen and painful, it had loosened a bit. He flexed his shoulder, winced, and dressed again. He wouldn’t have time for the Bateses, the phone calls, and the doctor, so the doctor would just have to wait.

      He went into the kitchen and gulped down the quart of milk standing alone in the refrigerator. Finding a box of crackers in the cupboard, he grabbed a handful and stuffed them in his mouth. Still chewing, he headed out the door and to the station.

      Truscott’s checking account was at Security Pacific. He called up the bank only to get a busy signal, so he tried Visa and MasterCard. Not only hadn’t Truscott reported a change of address, but he was delinquent in his payments by a substantial amount of money. They had no idea where he was, and could Decker please give them a call if he located Mr. Truscott?

      Fuck you, he thought. Do your own detective work.

      Calling back the bank, he found out that Truscott had closed his account two weeks before and left no forwarding address. Alma Sanchez was going to be pissed.

      He placed the slips in the Bates file and opened the classified ads to the “Apartments for Rent.” Of the seven numbers circled, two had never heard of Truscott, but three remembered him. Although they hadn’t rented to him, Decker knew he was on the right track.

      Did he give you a number where he could be reached?

      Yes, but I threw it away.

      Was Truscott alone?

      Yes.

      Has the trash been collected?

      Yes.

      Thank you very much.

      No one answered the two remaining numbers. It was nearly four. Time for sister Erin.

      She wasn’t what Decker had expected, looking older than fourteen but not because of cosmetics. On the contrary. She was deliberately understated. Her long blond hair hung poker straight and was parted in the middle. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and a necklace of wooden beads. Barefoot, she sat cross-legged on her bed and twirled her hair absently. Tiny wet circles had formed under her armpits, staining her sweatshirt, and she was breathing rapidly.

      Marge stood in a far corner and tried to appear preoccupied. Decker pulled up a desk chair to sit opposite her. Turning the chair around, he straddled the seat, leaning his elbows against the back. He glanced around the room.

      The two sisters were opposites. Whereas Lindsey’s room was a monument to conformity, Erin’s room resonated with iconoclasm. Antinuclear posters were plastered to the walls, along with quotations from Thomas Jefferson, Aristotle, Thomas Mann, and Nietzsche. An erotic Aubrey Beardsley pen-and-ink was thumbtacked to her closet door. Her bookshelves were crammed with paperbacks on philosophy, art, and social sciences. A Bach organ fugue thundered from a compact disc player.

      “Mind if we turn the music down?” Marge yelled out.

      “Go ahead,” Erin answered.

      “I don’t want to touch the equipment,” Marge said.

      Erin bounced up and turned off the system. The room fell quiet. She plopped back onto her bed and took out a pack of cigarettes.

      “Mind if I smoke?” she asked.

      “If it’s okay with your mom, it doesn’t bother me,” Decker said.

      Erin plucked out a Benson and Hedges from her packet.

      “I really shouldn’t,” she said, lighting up. “It’s a filthy habit.” She inhaled deeply. “Oat cell carcinoma here we come. But all of us have our vices, I suppose. It’s better than boozing, or heavy doping … doping the hell, let’s be honest, huh? It’s a type of dope, right?”

      She tried to smile, but wasn’t successful.

      “Are you a little nervous, Erin?” Decker asked.

      She shrugged.

      “I’m ready if you are,” she said.

      “We’re kind of starting from scratch, Erin,” Decker said. “The Glendale police interviewed your mom and dad before, so I sort of knew a little bit about them. But I don’t know anything about you.”

      “There’s not much to know,” she answered.

      “Well for starters, you’ve got pretty sophisticated taste in books.”

      “I try,” she said, embarrassed but pleased by the compliment.

      “You’re interested in philosophy?”

      “Only as a sideline. I’m veering more toward economics.” She giggled. “A little more money in it, no pun intended.”

      “Makes sense,” Decker said, straight-faced. “Ditto.”

      Erin smiled, then dipped her head coquettishly. The mannerism softened her face. She glanced at Marge, then back at Decker, and

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