Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 14 Page 10

  As Decker approached the desk, Novack was bounding down a set of steps.

  “Hey. Right on time. Up here.”

  Decker followed Novack upstairs.

  “How you doin’?” Micky asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Good. I got him to come, but it wasn’t easy.”

  “I owe you.”

  “Yeah. Right.” Novack led him past a cubby used as the squad-room secretary’s office. “Welcome to the two-eight. It ain’t an architectural showpiece, but we do have a nice view of the gas station.”

  Except for one other man, the place was empty—one of the advantages of working Sunday morning. The area given over to the gold shields was cramped, a maze of waist-high cubicles stuffed with standard-issue metal desks, functional chairs, and basic computers. The walls were whitewashed cinder block, the water-streaked ceiling held dim fluorescent lighting, and the flooring was composed of white crushed-rock tile scuffed dirt gray. There were a few stabs of humanity, courtesy of several desktops holding wilting potted plants or an occasional child’s homemade ceramic mug or paperweight, some scattered personal pictures. The majority of the domain, of course, was given over to business.

  Papers abounded.

  Loose-leaf sheaves were piled high on any flat surface that would hold them, or posted chockablock on bulletin boards. They spilled out of file cabinets and from plastic bins that also contained thick wads of forms and reports. Street maps were taped to the wall, dotted with crimes that had been coded by different-colored pins. There were two interview rooms and between their peacock blue doors was a bulletin board overlaid with police sketches of felons at large.

  One particular printed poster caught Decker’s eye. It showed the American flag, the caption reading: THESE COLORS DON’T RUN. Below the poster was another bulletin board filled with snapshots of bleeding, ash-covered officers from September 11.

  Novack caught him staring. “You know, being in the Job, you think you’ve seen it all.”

  Decker let out a wry laugh. “Guess what?”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Novack pointed to the room’s other occupant. “That’s Brian Cork from Vice standing over my desk. Hey, Bri, say hello to Lieutenant Decker.”

  Cork looked up. “Mornin’.”

  “Mornin’.”

  They gathered at Novack’s desk. Cork appeared to be in his forties, around five-ten, with big shoulders and a growing beer gut. Around the chest and arms, he was a mound of muscle. If the precinct had a football team, these guys would have been perfect ends. Cork had a round, ruddy face, with thin, almost bloodless lips and pug features. He also had a broken nose perched on his face like a pattypan squash. He was scanning through the postmortem pictures of Ephraim.

  He said, “So you’re a lieutenant in L.A?”

  “Yep.”

  “What are you doing out here, messing with this trash?”

  “I was wangled into coming out here to be the translator for the cops. The vic was a brother-in-law to my brother. I told him I’d poke around. I was just telling Micky that I think I’ve outlived my usefulness. Even the family is sick of my face. Pretty good trick since I’ve only been here for two days.”

  “Family…” Cork made a face. “I’ve got six brothers and sisters. Three of them are cops, so you know it’s gotta be bad news right away. We get together every Christmas. It always starts off full of good cheer, but by the end of the evening, more punches are thrown than at a boxing match. Sheez, I’ll take the street over pissed-off siblings any day of the year.”

  “What can you do?” Decker said.

  “What can you do is right.” Cork sighed. “So you’re bowing out?”

  “Since I’m not adding anything, I think that’s the smartest thing to do.”

  “So for what it’s worth, I’ll put my two cents in. This is just observation.” Cork was still staring at the pictures. “You know what it looks like to me?”

  “What?” Novack asked.

  “It looks like Family—”

  “I don’t think it’s Family, Bri.”

  “I didn’t say it was Family, Mick, I said it looks like Family. Not current Family. Back four, five years when C.D. was still in the business and still aligned with the old man. It’s not one of his, though. First off, C.D. don’t do nothing unless it’s big money, and this guy is obviously low level. Second, C.D. would never, ever clean a mark in a hotel. Too many people, and C.D. don’t attract attention to himself. And third, and this may be rumor, but last I heard, C.D. was out of the business. I’m just saying it looks like one of his. A single shot. Not much blood. No extraneous shit. Clean and simple.”

  “C.D.?” Decker asked.

  “Christopher Donatti,” Novack answered him.

  It took Decker a moment to absorb the words. Only then did a flood of images hit him like an overexuberant wave. Very few of Decker’s murder cases were committed to instant memory: Chris’s was one of them. Eight years had passed since Decker’s last contact with the younger Donatti, yet the details were still as fresh as a brisk wind. The murder of a high-school prom queen, Donatti the lead suspect. He’d been Whitman back then, and though the last name had changed, Decker was sure that the kid had not. Once a psycho…

  “The hit looks like it was done by Chris Donatti?”

  “It looks like it—that’s all. C.D. hasn’t been tied to anything since the old man had a massive coronary.”

  “Joseph Donatti had a heart attack?” Decker asked.

  “Yeah, Joey had a bad one.” Cork stared at him.

  “Must have missed that one.” Decker swallowed. “When did this happen?”

  “About four, five years ago,” Novack said.

  “I’m slipping,” Decker said. “So does Chris Donatti run the Family?”

  “You mean the Donatti Family? There is no Donatti Family. It dissolved.”

  “What happened? Did a rival boot Chris out?”

  “No, C.D.’s the one that dissolved it.” Cork stared at Decker. “You keep calling Donatti Chris? Are you on a first-name basis with the guy?”

  Decker shrugged. “So what’s he doing? C.D.?”

  “We got a problem with him. The problem is he’s a cipher. He don’t talk.”

  “What do you mean, he doesn’t talk?”

  “Just that. He don’t talk. Complete opposite of the old man. Old man ordered a hit, half the world knew about it. Not C.D. You know after the old man was retired, everyone was waiting to see what would happen. How C.D. would flex his muscle. Then it came—two hits of top dealers in Washington Heights. Bam, bam. Clean as a whistle. In-and-out jobs. Donatti’s M.O. to a tee. So we’re thinking, oh boy, C.D.’s moving in on Dominican territory. Watch out for the war. Then you know what happened?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, that’s what happened. While the Doms are scrambling around, trying to reorganize after losing two bosses, someone moves in and pays them all off. I’m not talking about chump change here; I’m talking big bucks. Next thing we know, half of Wash Heights is suddenly Benedetto territory.”

  “Chr—C.D.’s father-in-law.”

  “You know more about this than you’re letting on.”

  “No, I don’t know anything about these events. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “Yeah, Benedetto was C.D.’s father-in-law. So we figured that C.D. went in and divided up the spoils between him and his father-in-law. You know, as a gift to the old man. Except three months later, C.D. and Benedetto’s cow of a daughter are no longer wedded in holy matrimony, and suddenly C.D. is gone. Like vanished off the face of the earth. The old man—Benedetto—he’s got all the territory. So we figured that Benedetto muscled out Donatti, that the kid was either lying six feet under with dirt in his eyes or implanted in a foundation of one of the Camden, New Jersey, rejuvenation projects. The other possibility, of course, was that the guy was in hiding, deciding on his next move. If he’s laying low, we figured— oh boy, another war. So you know what happened?”


  “What happened?”

  “Nothing, that’s what happened. So we think he’s dead. Then maybe twelve months later—this was about three or four years ago— C.D. pops up out of nowhere. He’s livin’ uptown not too far from here, taking beaver shots of teenage girls—”

  “Kiddie porn?”

  “Nah, they’re all over eighteen. How do I know this? I’ve tried to bust the guy no less than ten times. His girls are all righteous—for now. He’s got some Supreme Court decisions pending that may put him down for a while, but the guy is a weed. He’ll pop back with something new. For the time being, we know he’s pimping his girls, but we can’t find the chink in the armor. You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because C.D. don’t talk.”

  “He and the old man still in contact?”

  “Yeah, sure. Since he’s surfaced, we see him visiting Joey every now and then. Nothing too heavy. Outta obligation, I think. Joey adopted C.D. They’re not related. You probably know that.”

  “I know that.”

  “C.D.’s got no blood family, no friends, no nothing in the way of social connections. What he does have is one of the seediest rags in the business. A twenty- to thirty-page glossy pictorial of young girls— all of them barely eighteen—dressed up as even younger girls who play out every middle-aged guy fantasy known to mankind. You know—teacher/student, patient/candy striper, making it with your daughter’s best friend—”

  “Lovely.”

  “I don’t know who the fuck he’s selling this shit to, but he must have some kind of market. What started as a cheap, homemade job has blossomed into something with high-quality photographs and advertising. I’m not saying he’s ready for prime-time magazine space, but there are buyers out there.”

  “American enterprise.”

  “Wanna know what I think?”

  “What?” Decker asked.

  “I think Donatti gave Benedetto Wash Heights as payment to get out of the Family. The guy is too much of a loner to take orders from higher-ups. Not that he’s exactly come up in the world. If he’s living the good life, he’s hiding it well.”

  “Don’t he own the building, Bri?” Novack popped in.

  “This is true. He owns quite a bit of real estate around a hundred thirty-fifth in what’s called the Shona Bailey area. The neighborhood has all these brownstones—nice babies, but in serious disrepair. The Bailey was doing real well for a while. It was the darling of the dotcoms. Then the economy tanked and September eleventh hit. Last I heard he’s been picking up the buildings for a song.”

  Novack shook his head. “No one ever accused the kid of being brainless.”

  “So if I were to look for him, I’d find him uptown around a hundred thirty-fifth?” Decker asked.

  “Yes, I suppose, although I don’t know if he’d be in at nine forty-five, Sunday morning. Why would you want to look for him?”

  “Because you said the hit looks like one of his. And if he preys on young girls, a desperate fifteen-year-old may be just his kind of meat.”

  “I don’t know why he’d mess with underage girls when he has lots of legit babes doing his bidding. Guy’s a pussy magnet—always has been. The kind of bad boy that stupid girls love.”

  Not just stupid girls. Decker thought for a moment. “You have his address?”

  Cork eyed him. “What are you going to do, Decker? Go over and ask him about it? If you want to go after Donatti, you don’t just pop in and announce yourself. You go over there with warrants. Otherwise, he don’t talk to you.”

  “I don’t have time for subtlety,” Decker said. “I just want to ask him a couple of questions.”

  “Want me to come with you?” Novack offered.

  Decker’s heart sank. He wanted to talk to Donatti alone. “Sure.”

  “You gonna be a party to this nonsense, Mick?” Cork made a face.

  Decker said breezily, “You know, Novack, he’s probably not even in. I’ve got your cell. If I get anywhere, I’ll call you. Unless you want to come.”

  Novack shook his head. “Not with the Knicks playing this afternoon. I promised the missus I’d clean out the garage. I’d like to get it done so I can watch the game in peace.”

  “Go home, Mick. I’ll be fine.” To Cork, Decker said, “The address?”

  “You really want to do this?”

  Decker nodded.

  “I’ll look it up for you,” Cork said. “My notebook’s in my car. Hold on.”

  Cork disappeared. Novack regarded Decker, staring at him before he spoke. “Where are you going with this, Pete?”

  “Beats me. But I’m not having luck going the traditional route.”

  “It’s not wise to get too involved in other people’s business.”

  Don’t tread on me. Decker said, “Hey, if you object, I won’t go.”

  “Just don’t mess up anything, all right? Vice don’t like to look stupid.”

  “I hear you.”

  But the tension held fast. Neither spoke until Cork came back several minutes later holding a piece of paper. “It’s not too far from here, ’bout fifteen blocks uptown. I forget if it’s between Riverside Drive and Broadway or just east of Broadway.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  Cork handed Decker the slip of paper. “Something’s not computing. You know more about Donatti than you’re letting on.”

  “C.D. spent some time in California. We crossed paths.”

  “Ah!” Cork said. “History or no history, you’re wasting your time. Even if he’s there, he won’t talk to you.”

  That very well could be the case. Except that Decker had a weapon that obviously the cops didn’t know about. “Maybe one of his girls will talk.”

  “Pshhh.” The detective waved him off. “Nah, they don’t talk. I know ’cause I’ve tried. Whatever hold Donatti’s got on ’em is a choke hold.”

  11

  Rina would have killed him; Novack—if he had known the entire story—would have blasted him for going it solo. It was irresponsible; it was dangerous; it was just plain stupid. It was all those things because C.D. was a stone-cold psycho, C.D. was a killer, and C.D. hated his guts. Yet Decker gave himself a pat on the back for being a trusting soul, facing the kid without so much as a nail file for defense. But it was more than trust. After seven years of serving as a lieutenant, directing his charges, and pushing paper rather than solving crimes, Decker was buzzed with the thrill of action. Except for several exceptional cases, he had been a prisoner of his own success, trapped behind a desk, his reflexes slowed with age and atrophy.

  What kind of reception he would get, Decker didn’t bother to contemplate. As long as Chris didn’t shoot him on the spot, anything else would be okay.

  Going by foot, he discovered that the area looked closer on the map than it did in person. By the time he found the place, it was ten-thirty in the morning. C.D.’s building was uptown, six stories of dilapidated brick material several blocks away from potentially lovely brownstones. But it had a lobby with the entrance door locked tight. There were buttons that corresponded to the various units—twenty in all. The fifth and sixth floors were taken up by one tenant: MMO Enterprises. Since C.D. supposedly owned the building and used it as his studio, Decker tried that button first. It rang several times; then to his surprise, a woman responded over the intercom, “MMO.”

  “Police,” Decker said.

  A momentary delay, and then a loud buzz, one that allowed him to come into the building. He took the stairs up five flights and stepped out into the corridor. There was a single door to the left, marked with the number 13. He pushed another button, and again was buzzed in. He immediately stepped through a metal detector. Of course he set it off.

  In front of him was a girl who couldn’t have been over fifteen.

  “There’s a bucket for your keys and wallet and anything else you might have that would cause it to go off. Could you please step back and try it again?”

  Decker followed he
r instructions, picking up his personal effects on the other side. There was a lad sitting by the girl’s side, reading a magazine. He was of slight build, but maybe he only appeared that way because he was wearing an oversize Hawaiian shirt. Decker couldn’t see the outline of a gun, but he was sure it was there. The boy/man’s eyes traveled to Decker’s.

  The girl said, “Can I help you, Officer?”

  She was dressed for efficiency—a black suit, with her hair tied back in a ponytail. No makeup. Her hands were as smooth as a baby’s, nails clipped short and no polish.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Donatti, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Her eyes never wavered from his.

  “No, but it’s important.” He showed her his gold shield and ID.

  The guard put down the magazine and gave Decker a hard stare. Decker answered him back with a smile. The girl exchanged glances with the guard. He nodded.

  She said, “Hold on a moment, sir.” She picked up a phone and punched in several numbers.

  “Mr. Donatti, I’m very sorry to disturb you, but there’s a policeman here.”

  She stopped talking. Decker couldn’t hear Donatti’s response.

  The girl said, “May I see your identification and badge again?”

  “Certainly.”

  “It’s Lieutenant Peter Deck—”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  That, Decker heard. He staved off a smile. The girl hung up the phone, with a slightly bemused look on her face. “He’s in the middle of a shoot. You must really rate.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “He’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you.” Decker smiled, realizing that there wasn’t as much as a stool for him to sit on. Not much space for excess furniture anyway. It was a nondescript area with cream-colored blank walls and barely enough room for the receptionist and guard. Chris probably didn’t get much company.

  With Donatti, a few minutes actually meant a few minutes. The interior door opened, and there he was. No longer the lanky heartthrob of a teen, Christopher Whitman Donatti, at twenty-six, now cut a big swath. He was broad across the chest, with massive arms and developed biceps. His left hand gripped a Hasselblad that looked like a toy in his fingers. He was clean shaven, his abundant blond locks shorn just a step away from a buzz cut. A lean, long face contained high cheekbones and a wide forehead, with ruddy skin that wasn’t weathered but did hold some seams. He had a strong jawline, not chiseled but more manly than boyish. Generous lips that protected straight white teeth. Noticeable large blue eyes: ice-colored with no reflective quality whatsoever. What was the opposite of luminous?