Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection

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Faye Kellerman

Год написания книги

2019

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“Fine with me.”

He opened empty drawers, searched through bare cabinets and shelves, sorted through junk mail.

“Which post office do you use?” he asked.

“The main one on Venice Boulevard.”

He picked up the phone and was surprised to find a dial tone.

“The line’s still connected.”

“Man’s coming out tomorrow to pick up the phone.”

“Mind if I use it? I want to buzz the post office and find out if he left a forwarding address there.”

“Be my guest.”

He called. As far as the post office was concerned, Truscott hadn’t moved. He also called the DMV and ran a check through registration; no change of address listed.

“No luck, huh?” she said, after he hung up.

“No. Any idea why he split?”

“You want my personal opinion?” She leaned in close. “I think it was his girlfriend. She’s dead.”

Decker raised his brows.

“What else did you hear?”

She frowned. “Ain’t that enough?”

“You ever meet his girlfriend, Ms …”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Let me see your badge again.”

He pulled it out and gave her his business card also.

“Sergeant, huh?” She handed him back his shield. “My name is Alma Sanchez, and yes, I met her once. She seemed like a nice kid. Very pretty—in an Anglo way.”

“He bring her here a lot?”

“I’m no snoop, but I’ve seen her here maybe a half dozen times.”

“He have lots of friends?”

“Chris? You’ve got to be kidding. He was a real loner. Always hid behind the camera, if you know what I mean. He took some good shots of his girl though. Even the nudes weren’t sleazy.”

Nudes.

“He was going to make her a Playboy centerfold, he once told me. You know like that movie with Dorothy Hemingway, where the boyfriend kills 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.