name.”
“In other words, the boy’s a cipher.”
Kathy gave him a sheepish smile. “We have lots of kids here, Sergeant.”
Decker said nothing. He went back into Gordon’s office and gathered up the Polaroids still resting on his desk. The rigor-laden corpse had turned into a person named Cheryl Diggs, a victim snuffed out by a madman. Since she could no longer speak for herself, Decker would have to be her voice.
He regarded Sheldon Gordon. Elbows resting on his desk, the principal sat with his head in his hands.
“This is going to be so traumatic for the kids.” Heraised his eyes. “It’s going to scare the wits out of the girls here. Every single boy is going to be seen as a potential rapist/murderer.”
Decker thought of his daughter. For a decade plus, Decker had worked juvenile and sex crimes in the Foothill Substation of LA’s San Fernando Valley. Every so often, he had unwittingly exposed his daughter to the horrors of angry, unbalanced men. He often wondered if he had skewed her perception of the male gender.
He glanced at a Polaroid of Cheryl Diggs. At the moment, with Cindy being alone in New York, a campus rapist on the loose, he wondered if her skewed perception wasn’t an asset.
Whitman lived on a nondescript side street populated by twenty-year-old apartment buildings that had made it through the earthquake. Sundays were usually quiet, but to Decker’s eyes, the neighborhood seemed exceptionally sleepy—perfect camouflage for a secret narcotics agent. After giving Whitman’s door a firm knock, Decker waited a beat, then pounded the sucker until his fist turned red.
Either no one was home or Whitman wasn’t answering. Decker left a business card with his phone number, instructing Chris to call the station house immediately. Then he rode the elevator back to the first floor and studied the place’s directory.
No on-premises manager, just a small-print phone number that had been inked out and replaced with a set of new digits that were written in barely legible pencil. Decker copied the phone number down, called and got no answer.
He took the staircase down to the apartment’s underground parking lot. Whitman drove a red Trans Am. Ten minutes of searching produced no such animal.
He left the building, walking over to his unmarked Volare, cramming his legs under the steering wheel. Lefthand drumming the dashboard, he put in a call to Devonshire Detectives. Luckily, Scott Oliver answered the Homicide desk—working Sundays to avoid his wife.
“Hey, Rabbi,” he said. “I hear you bagged a good-looking babe.”
“Good-looking but dead, Scotty.”
“Bring her over anyway. She couldn’t be any worse than my last girlfriend.”
“I need you to run a name through department files for me. Christopher Sean Whitman. Find out if he’s working Vice. If nothing pops, see if he has a yellow sheet. If you still draw blanks, run the name through NCIC.”
“Why are you running a name through Vice, Pete? Was the stiff a hooker?”
“Whitman was the victim’s boyfriend. I think he might be a narc. Also, do me a favor and put a lookout call for Whitman’s red Trans Am.” He gave Oliver the license number. “Call me if you come up with something. If not, I’ll call back later.”
From his jacket, Decker pulled out the address list of Cheryl’s friends. He’d check them later. Unfortunately, there was dirtier work to be done first. Though no one had called in to ask about Cheryl Diggs’s whereabouts, the girl wasn’t an orphan.
It was time to pay the dreaded call to her mother.
Chapter 12
The apartment house was an iffy—one of those buildings that suffered cosmetic cracks from the earthquake but was still structurally sound. Unfortunately, the landlord didn’t think enough of the place to give it a face-lift. It was coated with dingy brown stucco, large chunks missing at corners and window frames. The planter boxes held more weeds than flowers. The directory was posted on
“In other words, the boy’s a cipher.”
Kathy gave him a sheepish smile. “We have lots of kids here, Sergeant.”
Decker said nothing. He went back into Gordon’s office and gathered up the Polaroids still resting on his desk. The rigor-laden corpse had turned into a person named Cheryl Diggs, a victim snuffed out by a madman. Since she could no longer speak for herself, Decker would have to be her voice.
He regarded Sheldon Gordon. Elbows resting on his desk, the principal sat with his head in his hands.
“This is going to be so traumatic for the kids.” Heraised his eyes. “It’s going to scare the wits out of the girls here. Every single boy is going to be seen as a potential rapist/murderer.”
Decker thought of his daughter. For a decade plus, Decker had worked juvenile and sex crimes in the Foothill Substation of LA’s San Fernando Valley. Every so often, he had unwittingly exposed his daughter to the horrors of angry, unbalanced men. He often wondered if he had skewed her perception of the male gender.
He glanced at a Polaroid of Cheryl Diggs. At the moment, with Cindy being alone in New York, a campus rapist on the loose, he wondered if her skewed perception wasn’t an asset.
Whitman lived on a nondescript side street populated by twenty-year-old apartment buildings that had made it through the earthquake. Sundays were usually quiet, but to Decker’s eyes, the neighborhood seemed exceptionally sleepy—perfect camouflage for a secret narcotics agent. After giving Whitman’s door a firm knock, Decker waited a beat, then pounded the sucker until his fist turned red.
Either no one was home or Whitman wasn’t answering. Decker left a business card with his phone number, instructing Chris to call the station house immediately. Then he rode the elevator back to the first floor and studied the place’s directory.
No on-premises manager, just a small-print phone number that had been inked out and replaced with a set of new digits that were written in barely legible pencil. Decker copied the phone number down, called and got no answer.
He took the staircase down to the apartment’s underground parking lot. Whitman drove a red Trans Am. Ten minutes of searching produced no such animal.
He left the building, walking over to his unmarked Volare, cramming his legs under the steering wheel. Lefthand drumming the dashboard, he put in a call to Devonshire Detectives. Luckily, Scott Oliver answered the Homicide desk—working Sundays to avoid his wife.
“Hey, Rabbi,” he said. “I hear you bagged a good-looking babe.”
“Good-looking but dead, Scotty.”
“Bring her over anyway. She couldn’t be any worse than my last girlfriend.”
“I need you to run a name through department files for me. Christopher Sean Whitman. Find out if he’s working Vice. If nothing pops, see if he has a yellow sheet. If you still draw blanks, run the name through NCIC.”
“Why are you running a name through Vice, Pete? Was the stiff a hooker?”
“Whitman was the victim’s boyfriend. I think he might be a narc. Also, do me a favor and put a lookout call for Whitman’s red Trans Am.” He gave Oliver the license number. “Call me if you come up with something. If not, I’ll call back later.”
From his jacket, Decker pulled out the address list of Cheryl’s friends. He’d check them later. Unfortunately, there was dirtier work to be done first. Though no one had called in to ask about Cheryl Diggs’s whereabouts, the girl wasn’t an orphan.
It was time to pay the dreaded call to her mother.
Chapter 12
The apartment house was an iffy—one of those buildings that suffered cosmetic cracks from the earthquake but was still structurally sound. Unfortunately, the landlord didn’t think enough of the place to give it a face-lift. It was coated with dingy brown stucco, large chunks missing at corners and window frames. The planter boxes held more weeds than flowers. The directory was posted on
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