The Forgotten. Faye Kellerman
There’d be trouble at home, but Decker would tolerate it. His strategy had worked. Even before he had cleared out of the yeshiva, Decker had phoned and received an appointment with Headmaster Keats Williams from the exclusive Foreman Prep boys’ school. If the rabbis had agreed to a check, what excuse did the others now have?
Decker was at his car when Yonkie caught up to him. Almost seventeen, the boy had heart-throbbing good looks with piercing ice-blue eyes and coal-black hair. Even in the school’s uniform—white shirt and blue slacks—he was more matinee idol than bumbling teen. The kid was glancing over his shoulder, his body jumping like fat on a griddle.
He said, “This had nothing to do with my former drug use, right?”
“Right.”
“Because you couldn’t have orchestrated all this just to check up on me.”
“Correct.”
“I mean, even you don’t have that kind of power.”
“No, I don’t have that kind of power, and that would be a big abuse of power.”
“Yeah … right. So there had to be another reason.”
Decker could have kissed the boy. “Very good.”
“My friends don’t know that, though. They’re totally wigged. They think you’re pissed at me and taking it out on them.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I told them that you’re not from Narcotics. That this is a separate thing. So this whole drug search is probably a screen for something. Does this have anything to do with the shul being vandalized?”
Decker hesitated. “Who told you about that?”
“Dad, it’s all over the school. Everyone knows and is pretty freaked out about it. Now you’re here … You couldn’t think that one of us did it? I can’t believe you’d think that. It’s ludicrous.”
Decker didn’t answer.
“Oh, man!” Yonkie turned away, then faced him again. His face was moist and flushed. “You know, they’re going to talk against you. About how you’re picking on your own people because we’re easy targets. Eema’s going to take a lot of flak. If you had to do this, why did you come personally? To show your bosses that you’re not biased? You should be biased. You should have excused yourself. You should be at Beckerman’s or Foreman Prep. Or do the rich get special privileges?”
Yonkie was a mass of burning indignation, and Decker tried to take it in stride. What had to be done, had to be done. But the words hurt more than he’d like to admit. “I’m not responding to this. You’d better go back to class—”
“It’s not enough that they snicker behind your back,” Yonkie shot out. “You have to make me and Eema and Hannah pariahs as well?”
The barbs cut deep. Such venom from the mouth of a child that he had raised and had taken on as his own. “Jacob, I’m sorry that my position as a cop put you at odds with your friends. But it can’t be helped. I really have to go.”
“Where are you going?” Yonkie demanded to know.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to Foreman Prep.”
The boy was quiet, his mind tumbling for something to say. He had reddened with embarrassment. “So you’re like … checking out all the schools?”
Decker offered him a tolerant smile. “I’m checking out everything. The vandalism was vicious. It qualifies as a hate crime that carries extra weight and extra punishments. I’d like to nab the perps. I assume you’d like that, too. That much we can agree upon. Good-bye.”
Jacob blurted out, “Did I just put my foot in my mouth?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The boy turned his head away but didn’t move. “I used to keep my mouth shut. I never spoke my mind no matter what I was thinking.” He scratched his face. Bits of beard stubble were shadowing his cheek and it irritated him. Jacob used to have a stunning complexion. Porcelain smooth with hints of red at the cheekbones. His skin was still blemish free, but coarser now, like that of a young man. “What the hell happened to me?”
“You had secrets, and were afraid to talk. Now you don’t have secrets. The trade-off is a big mouth. It’s fine, Jake. I’m a tough guy; I can take a little sassing. I’ll see you at home tonight.”
“This whole thing was just a setup.” Jacob was whispering, more to himself than to Decker. “So you could go to the other places and say, ‘I’m checking out everyone, including my own son’s high school.’ Then they wouldn’t have an excuse.” He looked at his stepdad. “Am I right?”
“Shut up and go back to class.”
“I’m really stupid.”
“More like impulsive.”
“That’s true, too.” Instinctively, the kid reached out and hugged him quickly. Then he took off, embarrassed by his sudden display of emotion.
Decker bit his lip and watched him run away. Standing alone, he whispered, “I love you, too.”
Driving up to Foreman Prep, Decker was sorely reminded of the difference between parochial private schools and preparatory private schools. The acreage of Foreman was vast and green, shaded by specimen willows and stately sycamores. Behind the layers of arboreal fence were sprawling, Federalist-style, brick buildings. Or probably brick-faced, because architects did not design solid brick structures in earthquake-prone Los Angeles. Whether they were brick or brick-faced, the edifices were impressive and sufficiently ivy-covered to evoke dreams of the eastern universities. Decker didn’t care about the form, but he did care about the content. Foreman Prep had a course catalogue that could rival those of most colleges. Both Decker’s stepsons could have gotten in, but Rina wouldn’t hear of it. Religious education was paramount even if the current yeshiva had minimal grounds and rotating teachers. For her—and for the memory of her late husband—some things were nonnegotiable.
The headmaster, Keats Williams, was a double for Basil Rathbone except for the bald head—a topographic map of veins and bumps pressing against shiny skin. His eyes were hazel green, and his speech held a slight British accent. Affected? Probably. But at least he allowed Decker to present his scheme without sneering. As the headmaster lectured back his response, Decker’s eyes sneaked glances, trying not to widen at the richness of Williams’s office—something that Churchill would have been comfortable in. He wasn’t just a headmaster. Nor was he just a doctor of sociology as indicated by his Ivy League diploma. No, Williams was more. Much more. Williams was a friggin’ CEO.
“We just had an all-school drug check,” the headmaster informed Decker. “We have a zero tolerance for drugs at the school. Drugs, weapons, and explicitly sexual material. Even the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated is not to be brought to school, although it isn’t grounds for suspension—the first time. It’s impossible to keep teenage boys from thinking about sex. It’s always there just like a pulse. Still, that doesn’t mean it has to be addressed all the time. We’re out to train progressive minds.”
Decker said, “I heard about that. I’ve also heard that your school offers a very liberal freedom-of-speech policy, including platforms on abortion, legalization of opiates and prostitution, and euthanasia.”
“You’ve heard correctly.”
“You don’t shy away from controversy.”
“Indeed. But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that these are but some of the issues that have come before our