Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ recognized the voice.

      “It’s the police. Mrs. Grover.”

      He heard a series of clicks and snaps, locks being unhinged. The door opened. Mrs. Grover was in her seventies, with thin blue hair.

      “Sergeant Decker?” she asked tentatively.

      Decker showed the woman his ID.

      “Won’t you come in, please.”

      She whistled her S’s. Dentures.

      “Thank you,” Decker said, “but I’m fine out here. Which unit is Mr. Truscott’s?”

      “Number thirteen. The second one on the left. He’s still there, Sergeant. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee first?”

      “I’d love to, Mrs. Grover, but I’m a bit pressed for time.”

      The old woman accepted his excuse as if she’d heard it plenty of times before. Decker noticed the change in her expression.

      “But if you don’t mind, I could use a glass of water,” he said.

      She perked up. “Certainly.”

      “I’ll wait here,” Decker said. “I want to keep my eye on the apartment.”

      “I understand,” she said.

      She came back with a frosted tumbler. Decker took the water and thanked her.

      “Mrs. Grover, how much does Mr. Truscott pay for his apartment?”

      “Six fifty a month. If it wasn’t for rent control, it would bring a lot more.”

      “What kind of security deposit did he give you for the unit?”

      “The boy’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

      “No.”

      Not yet.

      “Did he give you a first and last month’s rent?”

      “Yes. And a one month’s damage deposit.”

      Almost two grand. No wonder Chrissie boy wasn’t paying his bills. Decker finished his water, thanked her, and left.

      Truscott answered the door with resignation.

      “I knew you’d be coming. It was only a matter of time.”

      He was a good-looking boy with a dark complexion, thick curly hair, and big gray eyes. His face was lean—almost emaciated—with a sharp jawline, and his expression was unmistakably sad. The lower lip curved downward as if frozen in a tragedy mask. He was taller than average, with a good build, and Decker thought that he and Lindsey would have made a striking couple.

      The place had been transformed into a shrine—curtains drawn and walls covered with black cloth. A black sheet blanketed the lone mattress on the floor. Three ebony plastic parsons tables held a dozen or so lit candles. There were no other furnishings.

      Truscott motioned to the floor and sat down. Decker followed suit.

      “Where’d you get the money to afford this place, Chris?”

      The boy was taken aback.

      “I … I don’t know what you mean?”

      “Photography must be hauling in beaucoup bucks.”

      “You kidding?”

      “I’ve been checking into you, Chris. You aren’t paying your bills; you leave a dump near the ghetto in Venice after paying your landlady with rubber. Then I find you playing yuppie in Santa Monica. What’s the story?”

      The boy looked down.

      “Ain’t no story. I’m busted. Flat, stone cold broke. This is all borrowed time. Ain’t got more than fifteen bucks to my name and I haven’t had a gig since …”

      He shook his head.

      “I wanted to do something nice for myself, you know. To escape the pain. Say ‘Fuck it’ to the world and go out in style. It didn’t work. What does it matter anyway? You’re here about her, right?”

      “Where were you between eleven A.M. and twelve-thirty P.M. on the day of Lindsey’s disappearance?”

      “Working.”

      “Can anyone verify your presence?”

      “Only about two hundred people.” He looked at Decker. “If you want a confession, I’ll give you a confession. I’m dead as far as I’m concerned anyway.”

      “I want the truth, Chris. Not convenience.”

      “The truth is I didn’t kill her physically. But I’m responsible for her death. If I would have shown up like we planned, this never would have happened.”

      His lip began to tremble.

      “Tell me about your gig, Chris,” Decker said.

      “I was photographing a wedding. Came through at the last minute, and I thought the bread was too good to pass up. If I had only known …”

      The boy was aching.

      “Who hired you for the job?”

      “The lady’s name was Bernell. Margaret Bernell. Her daughter got married. I showed up at the church around nine-thirty, maybe ten, and left around three in the afternoon.”

      “Do you have her phone number?”

      The boy went and got it.

      “I’m going to call her now, Chris.”

      “I don’t have a phone.”

      “Come with me to the manager’s unit. We’ll borrow her phone.”

      “I’ll come, but I ain’t gonna split on you. Don’t have anywhere to go.”

      “Come on, Chris.”

      His alibi checked. Mrs. Bernell had only nice things to say about him and the quality of his work. Decker walked him back to his apartment.

      “You keep close by,” the detective said. “I might need you.”

      The boy shrugged.

      “I want to find Lindsey’s killer,” Decker said.

      “Don’t matter none to me,” Truscott said. “Nothing will bring her back to life.”

      “Well, later on, after the numbness wears off, you may want to see the bastard strung up by his balls. So stick around.”

      Truscott nodded.

      “Chris, СКАЧАТЬ