Oliver knocked on the doorjamb, then came into the room. He was looking natty in a navy suit, yellow shirt, and white tie. “Sometimes life bites you in the ass, sometimes you take a chunk out of life. I looked up Alyssa Bright Mapplethorpe in the phone book. The woman was listed. Then, when I called up the number, she answered. When I told her why I was calling, she was cooperative. More than cooperative. She was anxious to help. I set us up an interview at ten.”
“I’m in,” Marge said.
Oliver looked at Decker, who said, “You two go. In my two-day absence, paperwork has multiplied tenfold and has threatened to take over my desk. Not to mention that I do have other detectives who have other cases. I’ll see you both at two down at the Crypt.”
“What’s going on at the Crypt?” Oliver asked.
“We’re doing a computerized age progression on Manny Hernandez.” Marge brought Oliver up-to-date and showed him the facsimiles of Martin Hernandez. “It would be nice to have a bead on the brother, Belize Hernandez. He’s about the same age as Manny and the two brothers might look alike.”
Oliver said, “Does that even matter? I thought computerized age progression was done by a canned software program.”
“It starts with the canned program, then the forensic artist steps it,” Decker said. “There’s still a lot of intuition involved.”
“That’s good to hear,” Marge said. “A computer is a wonderful thing. It can render, it can reproduce, but last I heard, it can’t create.”
DECKER TOOK A deep breath in and out and punched the blinking light. “Hello, Farley, how are you doing?”
“I’m the same, Lieutenant. Just making my daily call to remind you that I’m still around and Roseanne ain’t.”
“And I’m still working on the case. Right now we’re going door-to-door at the condo complex for a third time, trying, once again, to ferret out any possible witnesses who saw or even heard anything coming from your daughter’s condo. The complex is a big place, Farley. People mind their own business. Still, one can hope.”
“I don’t know why you’re bothering with witnesses,” Farley said. “Just bring in the bastard and beat a confession out of him.”
“You know it doesn’t work that way.”
“Then coax a confession from the sumbitch.”
“I wish it were that simple. But we both know it isn’t.” Farley grumbled. In the recesses of his mind, Decker again wished he could introduce Farley to Peter Devargas. Let the two of them curse the world together. “Farley, the official flight 1324 recovery effort is scheduled to conclude in about a week. If Roseanne’s remains don’t turn up-”
“You know they’re not going to turn up.”
“The point is, Farley, once the effort is concluded, we can then make a plea to the public for help. Maybe someone will come forward and tell us something we don’t know.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, Farley. Sometimes people who commit murder confess it to a friend or a lover. Sometimes they even brag about it.”
“Let me ask you this, then, Lieutenant. Who would Ivan confess to?”
“We’re speaking theoretically, because we have no proof of Ivan’s involvement. But I could see him perhaps telling a close friend or relative. Maybe even his girlfriend.”
“You mean the stripper? So bring in the wench and see if she knows anything.”
“Farley, we’ve already talked to her. She’s not saying much, and she isn’t at all anxious to get involved.”
“So maybe she knows something.”
“Maybe she does, but right now I can’t squeeze it out of her. Besides, I don’t want her to go running to Ivan, saying that we’re still suspicious of him.”
“He knows that already.”
“Yes, he does, but we haven’t bothered him in a while. If we get something on him, it would be nice to have the element of surprise.”
“Yeah, I agree with you there. I’m still surprised that the weasel hasn’t taken off.”
“I’m sure he will just as soon as he gets the insurance money. Right now that’s the one hold we have over him. I’m hoping that after the recovery is concluded, a televised plea will spur someone to do the right thing.”
“I doubt it, Lieutenant.”
“You can never tell, Farley. A conscience is an unpredictable thing.”
“The bastard doesn’t have a conscience,” Farley said. “God’s an ironic bastard. He only gives a conscience to the good people who don’t need ’em.”
33
T HE HOUSE SAT on the edge of the Venice Canals-Abbot Kinney’s dream to bring a bit of the Old World into the subtropics of Southern California. The area was six blocks of interlocking waterways that emptied into the Pacific Ocean. Once the channels had cut through land tracts that held small bungalows and shacks. Thirty years ago, the custom-built houses started to replace the sheds and cabins, and current lot value was well over a million dollars.
From the dream of owning a communal organic farm to a three-story, architectural statement: Alyssa Bright Mapplethorpe had done a sharp U-turn somewhere. Yet, if the woman still harbored any utopian ideals, Venice, California, was the place to live. The area still hosted scores of socialists, communists, iconoclasts, vagrants, and lots of original hippies.
Marge parked in a driveway off an alley, and she and Oliver walked around to the front side. The place was a modern stack of cubes, with oversize picture windows that faced the water. Before they knocked, they stood on a porch containing two rocking chairs with a set of table and chairs, and looked outward. Beyond was a dock that secured two rowboats. Sitting under gray skies, the waters were calm, the surface split by gliding ducks shaking tail feathers, their paddling feet leaving behind a silvery wake. The air was misty and tasted of brine.
Oliver rapped on the door and the woman who answered introduced herself as Alyssa Bright Mapplethorpe. She was slim bordering on scrawny, and in her fifties, with shoulder-length gray hair, a wrinkled face adorned by a tinge of makeup-blush and lip gloss. She was dressed in jeans that emphasized her bowed legs, and a soft, cashmere pink sweater. Her feet were set into running shoes. Alyssa invited the detectives in.
The interior was as contemporary as the exterior, the floor plan essentially loft space filled with chrome and glass. The house had been built to show off the views of the Pacific. Public quarters made up the first level, with ceilings that soared upward of twenty feet, the upper levels reached by climbing a steel spiral staircase. The off-white furniture was simple in design and spare in quantity and contrasted dramatically with black ebony floors.
“Please have a seat and be comfortable,” Alyssa told them. “Can I get either one of you anything to drink? How about some water?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She walked to the kitchen section, took out three handblown-glass tumblers, filled them with ice, and returned with several bottles of springwater and lemon slices. “I’m always thirsty. I’ve been checked out for both kinds of diabetes and the tests always come back normal. I guess I’m just one of those people who dehydrate easily.”
She distributed the glasses, downed her portion, and poured herself another round.
“I was in shock when you called this morning, Detective Oliver.” Her eyes became shiny with tears. “This interview is long overdue.”
“We appreciate you meeting with us,” Oliver answered. “I also talked to the original lead detective on the Manny and Beth Hernandez case last night. George Kasabian. He’s now retired, but he remembered that the church members did a good job avoiding the police.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “It was the times. After our shock at Beth and Manny’s disappearance, we were faced with the conclusion that they fled with the money. As angry as we were, no one ever suggested calling the police. The ‘fuzz’ was the enemy.”