Sacred and Profane. Faye Kellerman

nice kid,” Decker said.

      “Pictures of boyfriends?” Marge asked.

      “Couldn’t find any. Couldn’t find any snapshots in her room. The family probably keeps photo albums in a different place.”

      “You didn’t by any chance happen to come across a diary?”

      Decker shook his head. “She kept one?”

      “Mother says she did. She couldn’t find it. She said everything else in the girl’s room was left untouched.”

      “If Lindsey was a runaway, she traveled light,” Decker said. “It didn’t look like the room of an unhappy girl.”

      “Maybe the kid got tired of being a saint,” Marge suggested.

      “She wasn’t a saint,” said Decker. “She had her fun. I found a small stash, birth control pills and a roach clip.”

      “Mother didn’t mention them.”

      “Wonder why,” he said. “I discovered them inside a stuffed animal—a big turtle with a hidden zipper.” Decker thought a moment. “But that doesn’t change my impression of the girl. The room lacked … anger … teenage hostility. And you know what else it lacked? Individuality. There wasn’t anything in there that seemed different … it seemed unique.”

      “Those are usually the types to suddenly pull up stakes,” Marge said. “They keep it all inside.”

      “Seems strange to leave without your stash and birth control pills,” Decker mentioned.

      “You could pick those up anywhere. But a diary … That you’d take along.”

      “True,” Decker said. “Could be she walked away with just her diary and the clothes on her back.”

      “I’ve got a list of her friends,” Marge said. “They’ll flesh her out. Also, someone should talk to her sister.”

      “How’s the rest of your day holding up?” Decker asked.

      “Court appearance in the afternoon.”

      “Give me the list of her friends,” Decker said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

      “Also, Mrs. Bates hired a private detective. Someone at the Marris Agency. I got her to sign a release. They’re expecting someone down there in about an hour.”

      “No problem,” Decker said. “Did they come up with anything?”

      “According to Mrs. Bates, they came up with an enormous bill.”

      “Probably didn’t tell her what she wanted to hear,” Decker said.

      “No doubt,” she said. “I think you should interview the kid sister, Pete. I got the feeling that she and Mama don’t get along so hot. Maybe she relates better to men.”

      “That’s fine,” he said. “But I want you to come with me. I don’t want to be alone with a teenage girl who likes men.”

      “Good point,” Marge agreed, then smiled to herself. “You sure as hell don’t need that.”

      Marris was a slick operation. Lee Krasdin was even slicker. He had a face like a Toby mug and Decker didn’t like him. Mrs. Bates had been right about him. He hadn’t done anything.

      “Is that all?” Decker said when he was done with the report.

      Krasdin spread his fingers and placed them palm down on the desktop, as if he were going to hoist himself upward. The effort turned him purple.

      “There was nothing left to do, Detective,” he said nervously.

      “You didn’t think she might be a runaway?”

      “From everyone we talked to, she seemed like a sweet kid. They do exist, Sergeant—sweet kids who end up in trouble.”

      Decker threw him a disgusted look.

      “You didn’t interview her sister.”

      “Her sister was broken up. You can’t intrude upon people like that and expect cooperation.”

      Decker remembered the Hippocratic oath: Above all, do no harm. That was the only compliment you could pay an incompetent like Krasdin.

      “Do you know how many runaways we process in a week?” Krasdin said defensively.

      “Not as many as LAPD.”

      “Let me tell you,” the man said indignantly. “I can spot a runaway situation with my eyes closed, and this wasn’t a runaway. We talked to friends, we talked to relatives, we talked to church leaders, we talked to teachers. The kid was a random abduction, and that left us nowhere.”

      “Mr. Krasdin, when someone is missing, I look for them. If they don’t show up at a friend’s or relative’s house, I look outside the neighborhood. You didn’t do anything except knock on a few doors. A Fuller Brush salesman could have done better.”

      “If you would read the report carefully, Sergeant Decker, you’d notice that we did pursue a runaway assumption. We went into Hollywood and talked to the police. They hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the girl.”

      “You talked to the police to find out about runaways? That’s about as worthwhile as talking to runaways to find out about the police. You want to find out about street kids, you talk to street kids.”

      “Assuming they’ll talk to you.”

      “They’ll talk.”

      “I resent your implications about the thoroughness of our investigation,” the man sputtered.

      “That’s your prerogative. In the meantime, I’m going to keep this Xerox of the report.”

      “Certainly. Despite the adversarial tone of this conversation, I want you to know that I’ll help you in any way I can, Sergeant. At Marris, we believe in cooperation with law enforcement.”

      Decker immediately took him up on it. “You interviewed Lindsey’s friends. Happen to notice if anyone was hard of hearing?”

      “Not that I recall. Of course, I don’t routinely check for hearing aids. Why do you ask?”

      “Never mind.”

      By the time he left Marris, it was nearly four. Decker slid into the unmarked and pulled out the list of Lindsey’s friends. He had time to see one or two before heading back to Bates’s. The first one on the list was a boy named Brian Armor. After thirty minutes on the Golden State Freeway North, he swung onto 134 East—wide open lanes of asphalt that cut through the San Gabriel mountains. The air was crisp, the sky a brilliant blue; a beautiful smogless day not atypical of L.A. winters. He passed the La Crescenta city line and ten minutes later pulled the Plymouth into a circular driveway. He killed the motor.

      The house was a graceful two-story colonial—a downscale replica of an antebellum mansion. During Decker’s childhood, family vacations had often included excursions into the deep South, where majestic plantations loomed larger than life in the little boy’s eyes—the stately scrolled columns; the massive, two-story double entrance doors; the porticoes dripping flowers, set into acreage that expanded to the horizon. As he grew older, Decker’d lost his lust for mansions, but he had always retained a love of land.

      He walked up to the door and pushed the bell, which chimed resonantly. The kid who answered had a football player’s build and a very cocky expression on his face. The look was tempered a second later when he realized he was looking up at Decker.

      “Whaddaya want?” he asked, in a voice surprisingly high and squeaky.

      Decker flashed his badge.

      “I’m looking for Brian Armor.”

      The last remnants of cockiness disappeared.

      “He’s not home.”