Memory Man (Amos Decker 1)

4

DECKER SAT ON his bed in his one room about the size of a prison cell. For dealing with clients he used a table in the dining room of the Residence Inn, where his monthly payment included a daily buffet breakfast. They were definitely losing money on him with that arrangement. He would just pick up entire plates of food from the buffet and carry them to his table. He could have used a backhoe instead of a fork.

He had gotten his check from Mr. Marks’s emissary. A buddy on the police force had recommended Decker to the rich guy to handle this delicate matter concerning his vapid daughter who was always falling in love with the wrong guy. He’d never met with the old man, only his reps. That was okay; he doubted Marks would have wanted him soiling his fancy furniture. They had met at the breakfast bar—two young jerks in thousand-dollar suits who declined to even sample the coffee. They were probably more into double espressos spit out from those shiny little machines manned by a barista. He could tell from their expressions that they knew exactly how good they had it and how not good Decker had it. He’d worn his best shirt to the meeting, meaning the other one.

Daddy Marks had authorized up to a hundred grand to get rid of the albatross around his little girl’s neck. After sizing up the con, Decker had told the reps he could get it done for a lot less. And he had. For the price of a one-way ticket, in fact. Chump change. You’d think Daddy Warbucks would have bonused him at least a percentage of the six-figure savings. But he stuck to the letter of their agreement and Decker just got his flat hourly rate, though he’d padded that considerably and made a nice payday for himself. Yet a percentage would have been good. Probably how the rich stayed rich. But it had been worth it, to see a con conned. And he figured Jenny Marks would be in the same boat in a few more months and he’d get called up again. Maybe he should ask Daddy Warbucks for a retainer.

He left his room and made his way to the dining area right off the inn’s lobby. It was early and he was the only one there other than eighty-year-old June, who was enjoying her golden years by shoveling greasy home fries onto a platter at the buffet stand.

After loading up his plate he sat down to eat at his usual table.

His first forkful was halfway to his mouth when he saw her come in.

She would be forty-two now, same age as he was. She looked older. Her job just did that to a person. It had done so to him.

He lowered his gaze and his fork and salted everything on his plate four times over, including the pancakes. He was hoping that a man of his considerable size could shrink to invisibility behind a wall of protein and carbs.

“Hello, Amos.”

Well, apparently not.

He shoved a forkful of congealed eggs, grits, bacon, home fries, and ketchup down his throat. He chewed with his mouth open, hoping that the sight would prompt her to hit a U-turn and go back to where she came from.

No such luck.

She sat down across from him. The table was small and she was small as well. But he was not. He was huge. He took up most of the table just by being there.

“How’re you doing?” she asked.

He stuffed more food into his mouth and smacked his lips together. He didn’t look up. What would have been the point? There was nothing that she could possibly say that he would want to hear.

She said, “I can wait this out, if that’s how you want to play it. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

He finally looked at her. She was stick-thin because of the cigarettes and the gum, which she always substituted for food and drink. He was probably having more food at this one meal than she put away in a month.

Her hair was a pasty blonde, her skin wrinkled and splotchy. Her nose was crooked—some said from an encounter with a mean drunk when she was a beat cop. Her small, pointy chin seemed overwhelmed by her disproportionately large mouth where uneven and nicotine-stained teeth lurked like bats hanging in a cave.

She was not pretty. Her looks were not what made her memorable. What made her remarkable was that she had been the first female detective in the Burlington Police Department. As far as he knew she was still the only one. And she had been his partner. They had made more arrests leading to more convictions than anyone in the history of the department. Some on the force thought that was just great. Others thought they were full of themselves. Starsky and Hutch, one rival had called them. Decker never knew which one he was supposed to be, the blond or the brunet.

“Hello, Mary Suzanne Lancaster,” he said, because he somehow couldn’t not say it.

She smiled, reached over, and poked his shoulder. He winced slightly and drew back a bit, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I didn’t know you even knew my middle name.”

He looked down at his food, his limited chitchat quota exhausted.

She ran her gaze over him, and when she was done Lancaster seemed to silently acknowledge that all reports of Decker having hit rock bottom were spot on.

“I won’t ask how you’ve been, Amos. I can see not too good.”

“I live here instead of in a box,” he said bluntly.

Startled, she said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“You need something?” he asked. “I have a schedule.”

She nodded. “I’m sure. Well, I came by to talk to you.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“You mean how did I know you were here?”

His look told her that was obviously his question.

“Friend of a friend.”

“Didn’t think you had that many friends,” said Decker. It wasn’t a funny line, really, and he certainly didn’t smile. But she forced a chuckle as a potential icebreaker, but then caught herself, realizing, probably, that it was stupid to do so.

“Well, I’m also a detective. I can find out things. And Burlington isn’t that big. It’s not New York. Or L.A.”

He smacked his lips, shoveled in some more food, and his mind started to wander back to colored numbers and things that could tell time in his head.

She seemed to sense his withdrawal. “I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you. You lost a lot, Amos. You didn’t deserve this, not that anyone does.”

He glanced at her with not a single emotion evident in the look. Sympathy was not going to hold his attention. He had never sought sympathy, mainly because his mind didn’t really get that particular sensation. At least not anymore. He could be caring. He had been caring and loving with his family. But sympathy and its even more irritating cousin, empathy, were no longer in his wheelhouse.

Perhaps sensing that she was losing him again, she quickly said, “I also came to tell you something.”

He ran his gaze up and down her. He couldn’t help himself, so he said, “You’ve lost weight. About five pounds you couldn’t afford to lose. And you might have a vitamin D deficiency.”

“How do you figure?”

“You were walking stiffly when you came in. Bone ache is a classic symptom.” He pointed to her forehead. “And it’s cold outside but your head is sweating. Another classic. And you’ve crossed and uncrossed your legs five times in the brief time you’ve been sitting there. Bladder problems. Another symptom.”

She frowned at this very personal appraisal. “What, did you start medical school or something?” she said crossly.

“I read an article four years ago while I was waiting at the dentist’s office.”

She touched her forehead. “I guess I don’t get out in the sun much.”

“And you smoke like a rocket, which doesn’t help anything. Try a supplement. Vit D deficiencies lead to bad stuff. And quit the cigarettes. Try a patch.” He glanced down and saw what he had seen when she first sat down. He said, “You also have a tremor in your left hand.”

She held it with her right, unconsciously rubbing at the spot. “I think it’s just a nerve thing.”

“But you shoot left-handed. So you might want to check it out.”

She glanced down at the slight bulge on the right side of h

er jacket at the waistband where her pistol rode in a belt holster.

She smiled. “You have any more Sherlock Holmes stuff to throw at me? Want to check out my knees? Look at my fingertips? Tell me what I had for breakfast?”

He took a prolonged sip of coffee. “Just have it checked out. Could be something else. More than a tremor. Bad stuff starts in the hands and the eyes. It’s an early warning, like a canary in a coal mine. And departmental firearms recert comes up next month. Doubt you’ll pass with your grip hand going wacky on you.”