Read Online Sacred and Profane by Faye Kellerman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Faye Kellerman
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should interview the kid sister, Pete. I got the feeling that she and Mama don’t get along so hot. Maybe she relates better to men.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “But I want you to come with me. I don’t want to be alone with a teenage girl who likes men.”
“Good point,” Marge agreed, then smiled to herself. “You sure as hell don’t need that.”
Marris was a slick operation. Lee Krasdin was even slicker. He had a face like a Toby mug and Decker didn’t like him. Mrs. Bates had been right about him. He hadn’t done anything.
“Is that all?” Decker said when he was done with the report.
Krasdin spread his fingers and placed them palm down on the desktop, as if he were going to hoist himself upward. The effort turned him purple.
“There was nothing left to do, Detective,” he said nervously.
“You didn’t think she might be a runaway?”
“From everyone we talked to, she seemed like a sweet kid. They do exist, Sergeant—sweet kids who end up in trouble.”
Decker threw him a disgusted look.
“You didn’t interview her sister.”
“Her sister was broken up. You can’t intrude upon people like that and expect cooperation.”
Decker remembered the Hippocratic oath: Above all, do no harm . That was the only compliment you could pay an incompetent like Krasdin.
“Do you know how many runaways we process in a week?” Krasdin said defensively.
“Not as many as LAPD.”
“Let me tell you,” the man said indignantly. “I can spot a runaway situation with my eyes closed, and this wasn’t a runaway. We talked to friends, we talked to relatives, we talked to church leaders, we talked to teachers. The kid was a random abduction, and that left us nowhere.”
“Mr. Krasdin, when someone is missing, I look forthem. If they don’t show up at a friend’s or relative’s house, I look outside the neighborhood. You didn’t do anything except knock on a few doors. A Fuller Brush salesman could have done better.”
“If 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 openlanes 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
“That’s fine,” he said. “But I want you to come with me. I don’t want to be alone with a teenage girl who likes men.”
“Good point,” Marge agreed, then smiled to herself. “You sure as hell don’t need that.”
Marris was a slick operation. Lee Krasdin was even slicker. He had a face like a Toby mug and Decker didn’t like him. Mrs. Bates had been right about him. He hadn’t done anything.
“Is that all?” Decker said when he was done with the report.
Krasdin spread his fingers and placed them palm down on the desktop, as if he were going to hoist himself upward. The effort turned him purple.
“There was nothing left to do, Detective,” he said nervously.
“You didn’t think she might be a runaway?”
“From everyone we talked to, she seemed like a sweet kid. They do exist, Sergeant—sweet kids who end up in trouble.”
Decker threw him a disgusted look.
“You didn’t interview her sister.”
“Her sister was broken up. You can’t intrude upon people like that and expect cooperation.”
Decker remembered the Hippocratic oath: Above all, do no harm . That was the only compliment you could pay an incompetent like Krasdin.
“Do you know how many runaways we process in a week?” Krasdin said defensively.
“Not as many as LAPD.”
“Let me tell you,” the man said indignantly. “I can spot a runaway situation with my eyes closed, and this wasn’t a runaway. We talked to friends, we talked to relatives, we talked to church leaders, we talked to teachers. The kid was a random abduction, and that left us nowhere.”
“Mr. Krasdin, when someone is missing, I look forthem. If they don’t show up at a friend’s or relative’s house, I look outside the neighborhood. You didn’t do anything except knock on a few doors. A Fuller Brush salesman could have done better.”
“If 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 openlanes 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
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