Hangman. Faye Kellerman

not?”

      “It’s a religious school.”

      “What religion?”

      “Jewish.”

      “I’m Catholic.”

      “It’s fine. You won’t have to do anything against your beliefs.”

      “I have no beliefs except in the innate evil of human beings.” He looked at her. “Except your parents.”

      “If it’s too much for you to handle, I can probably talk my mom out of it.”

      “No, it’s okay.” A pause. “I’ll deal. Do I need a notebook or something?”

      “I’ll get you an extra one. You’re in tenth grade, you said?”

      “I was.”

      “Algebra two or pre-calc?”

      “Pre-calc.”

      “I’ll take care of it. I also heard you play the piano.”

      His eyes showed a twinkle of animation. “Do you have a piano?”

      “My school does. Are you good?”

      For the first time, Hannah saw a genuine smile. He said, “I can play.”

      “Then maybe you can stay after school and accompany our choir. We’re terrible. We could use some sort of a lift.”

      “I probably can help you out there.”

      “C’mon.” She motioned him forward. “I’ll guide you through it. You may not know it, Gabe, but you’re looking at a BMOC.”

       CHAPTER SIX

      BY THE TIME Decker broke for lunch, he had done enough phone work and legwork to ascertain that there had been no activity on Terry McLaughlin’s cell since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. Her major credit cards hadn’t been used other than daily charges put through by the hotel, and even those had been earlier in the day. Her name hadn’t appeared on any American or United flight manifest—either domestic or international—but Decker certainly hadn’t the means and the wherewithal to check every single airline and every single local airport. If the woman had wanted to sneak out, she could have done it in a thousand ways. More to the point, her car hadn’t been spotted. All he could do was wait for news and hope it wasn’t bad news.

      Donatti wasn’t picking up his cell, either. According to Gabe, his father switched cells, often using throwaways. It could be that the number that Decker was given wasn’t the cell phone he was currently using. Decker did discover that Donatti had arrived on Saturday morning in LAX via Virgin America Airlines, the day before his meeting with his estranged wife. There was no record of his picking up any rental car. As far as locating where he had stayed before he had met with Terry, Decker started calling hotels, beginning on the west with the Ritz-Carlton in the Marina and slowly working his way eastward ho. When he was about to call the Century Plaza, there was a knock on his office door. He put down the phone. “Come in.”

      Dressed in a wheat-colored shirt, brown pants, and rubber-soled flats, Marge entered his office. Her brown eyes were wide and her face was ashen. Decker felt his heart sink. “What?”

      “A foreman at a construction site just found a homicide victim—a young woman hanging from the rafters—”

      “Good Lord!” Decker felt sick. “Hanging?”

      “From cable wire…at least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

      “Any identification?”

      “Not so far. The uniforms are at the scene, cordoning off the area.”

      “Has any one cut her down?”

      “No. The foreman didn’t touch her. He called 911 and the uniforms came quickly enough to preserve the scene. The coroner’s office has been notified.”

      Decker looked at his watch. “It’s two in the afternoon. And the foreman just discovered the body? How long had he been at the site?”

      “I don’t know, Pete.”

      “What’s the location?” When Marge told him the address, Decker’s heart started racing. His brain flashed to Terry’s face with a noose around her neck. “That’s not far from where Cheryl Diggs was murdered.”

      “I realize that. That’s why I’m telling you this.”

      Way back when, when Chris Donatti né Chris Whitman had been a senior in high school, Cheryl Diggs had been his teen girlfriend. On the night of the senior prom, Donatti had been accused of murdering her, and soon after, he went to jail because of some noble but misguided notion that he was saving Terry McLaughlin from the ordeal of testifying at his trial. It turned out that Chris had been innocent, probably the only crime that he was ever innocent of.

      Marge said, “I’m on my way with Oliver. Should I keep you updated or do you want to come?”

      “I’m coming.” He picked up his jacket, his cell phone, and his camera. “I’ll take a separate car and meet you two there.”

      “Anything I should be looking for?”

      “Do you know what Terry McLaughlin looks like?”

      “Last time I saw her, she was sixteen. A beautiful girl, as I recall.”

      “She’s matured, but she’s still beautiful.” Decker slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. “Of course, if it’s her, she isn’t going to look pretty at all.”

      CRIME WAS UBIQUITOUS, and while the community policed by the Devonshire substation had its share of assaults, burglaries, and thefts, it wasn’t considered high in the homicide department. So when murder did occur, it stood out as an anomaly. Hangings were as rare as L.A. snow.

      Decker drove down the main boulevard, twisting and turning until he arrived at one of the more affluent residential areas. It was a planned community and the homes were two-storied with three-car garages and half-acre lots. There were a few architectural styles to choose from: Spanish, Tudor, Colonial, Italianate, and Modern, which was basically an oversize box with oversize windows. Several homes were in the process of being built.

      At the given address, a sizable group of gawkers was milling about, craning their necks to see what was going on. One radio van had already arrived and no doubt several more were on the way. Decker parked about a half block away from the hubbub and walked over to the action. He flashed his badge to one of the uniforms and then ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape.

      The two-story house had been framed: the rooms had been delineated, the windows were in, and the roof was on. The crowd was gathered toward the back, mostly uniformed officers, but Decker could also see flashbulbs discharging at frequent intervals. Marge, riding with her partner, Scott Oliver, had beaten him to the scene.

      Scott was his usually natty self, wearing a houndstooth jacket, black slacks, a black jacquard silk tie, and a starched white shirt. As Decker got closer to the corpse, the air had turned fetid, filled with the stink of excretion. A funnel of blackflies, gnats, and other winged insects was encircling the space.

      Oliver was shooing the critters away. “Get lost, bugs. Go eat the carrion.”

      From his breast jacket pocket, Decker took out a tube of Vicks VapoRub and dabbed his nostrils with the ointment. He waved a hand across his face to disperse the insects as he stared at the body swinging from the rafters. The woman’s face was so discolored and bloated that she was almost unrecognizable as human. She was nude, her long dark hair vainly trying to give her some modesty. Cable wire had been looped several times around her neck, the terminus of the ligature knotted on one of the ceiling joists. Her toenails—painted red—just barely cleared the ground.