Prayers for the Dead
Faye Kellerman

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the United States by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, 1996

This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Faye Kellerman 1996

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photography © Shutterstock.com

Faye Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008293550

Version: 2018-12-08

Dedication

To Jonathan for a quarter century

of love, laughter, and just plain fun

To Jesse, Rachel, Ilana, and Aliza,

the keys to my heart—

thanks for putting it all in perspective

To Mom, my lifelong friend—love ya, kid

And to Rita—for all the inappropriate giggles

Special thanks to

Dr. Isaac Weiner

Dr. Hillel Laks

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Keep Reading

About the Author

Faye Kellerman booklist

About the Publisher

Prologue

“This is a team effort, Grace. You know that.”

Even through morphine-laden stupor, Grace knew that. From her hospital bed, she looked up at her doctor’s face—a study in strength. Good, solid features. A well-boned forehead, Roman nose and a pronounced chin, midnight blue eyes that burned fire, tar-black hair streaked with silver. His expression, though grave, was completely self-assured. Someone who knew what he wanted and expected to get it. Truth be told, the man looked downright arrogant.

Which was exactly the kind of doctor Grace had wanted. What she hadn’t wanted was some young stud like Ben Casey or an old fart like Marcus Welby with the crinkly eyes and the patient, understanding smile. She had wanted someone bursting with ego. Someone whose superiority was touted, worn with pride like Tiffany jewelry. A self-possession that spoke: Of course the operation is going to be successful. Because I always succeed.

Because getting a new heart was serious business.

Grace Armstrong had to have the best and the brightest. Had the luxury to afford the best and the brightest. And in Dr. Azor Moses Sparks, she had gotten numero uno.

Dope was winning the battle of wits with Grace’s brain. Sparks’s face had lost clarity, sat behind a curtain of haze, his features becoming blurry except for the eyes. They peered through the muck like high-beam headlights. She wanted to go to sleep. But Sparks’s presence told her she wasn’t permitted to do that … not just yet.

He spoke in authoritative, stentorian tones. The sounds bounced around Grace’s brain, words reverberating as if uttered through a malfunctioning PA system. Doctor’s voice …

“… what we have here, Grace. A team comprised of me: the primary surgeon; you: the patient; and my staff—the other fine surgeons and nurses who’ll assist me in this procedure.”

Grace liked how Dr. Sparks had emphasized his fine staff. As if he owned New Christian Hospital.

Maybe he did.

She closed her eyes, anxiety now replaced by the overwhelming need to go comatose. But Sparks wouldn’t let up.

“Grace, open your eyes. We still have uncompleted business to finish.”

Grace opened her eyes.

“We mustn’t forget someone very important,” Sparks reminded her. “The most important member of our team.”

The surgeon paused.

“Do you know who that is, Grace? Do you know whose Hands really control this entire effort?”

Grace was silent. Though groggy and heavy, she felt her ailing heart fluttering too fast. He was testing her and she was flunking. She regarded Sparks through panicky eyes. The doctor smiled, gently patted her hand. The gesture reassured her immensely.

Sparks pointed upward. Grace’s eyes followed the narcotic-induced flickering path of the surgeon’s index finger.

Respectfully, Sparks said, “We mustn’t forget Him.”

“God?” Grace was breathless.

“Yes, Grace.” Sparks nodded. “We mustn’t forget our holy, heavenly Father.”

Grace spoke, her words barely recognizable. “Believe me, Dr. Sparks, I’ve been praying nonstop.”

Sparks smiled. It lit up his face, gave warmth to his stern demeanor. “I’m very glad to hear that. So let us pray together, Grace. Let us both ask God for His help and for His guidance.”

The surgeon went down on his knees. At that moment, Grace thought him very odd, but didn’t comment. Sparks’s manner suggested that the ritual wasn’t subject to debate. She closed her eyes, managed to put her hands together.

“Dear heavenly Father,” Sparks began, “be our guiding light through this time of darkness. Be a strong beacon to direct us through this upcoming storm. Show us Your mercy and Your love in its abundancy. Let Your wisdom be our wisdom. Your perfection be our perfection. Let Grace Armstrong be upmost in her fortitude. Give her strength and faith. In Your abundant love, allow me and my staff to be swift and sure-footed as we embark on another journey to heal the sick and mend the feeble.”

Grace winced inside at the word feeble.

“And now a moment of silence,” Sparks said. “You may add your own words of prayer here, Grace.”

Her own words were: Please, let me go to sleep, wake up and have this shitty ordeal behind me.

Sparks’s eyes were still closed. Grace’s head felt leaden, her brain so woozy it threatened to shut down. She managed to make out Sparks’s face, his lids opening. Suddenly, his eyes seemed injected with newly found vigor.

Grace liked that.

Sparks regarded his patient, swept his skilled hands over her lids, and gently closed them. “Go to sleep, Grace. Tomorrow you’ll be a new woman.”

Grace felt herself going under. No longer was her health in her hands.

It was up to Sparks.

It was up to God.

At that moment, they were one and the same.

1

The living room was dimly lit, the house motionless, reminding Decker of his divorced, bachelor days—days he’d be reliving soon if he didn’t start making it home earlier. To wit: The dining room table had been cleared—dinner long gone—and the door to Hannah’s nursery was closed, Rina nowhere in sight. Yes, she was a patient woman, but she did have limits. Decker often wondered how far she could be pushed before she’d explode on impact. Because as of yet, no one had developed a road test for wives.

He placed his briefcase on the empty table, his fingers raking through thick shocks of carrot-colored hair. Ginger came trotting in from the kitchen. Decker bent down and petted the setter’s head.

“Hi, girl. Are you happy to see me?”

Ginger’s tail wagged furiously.

“Well, someone’s glad I’m alive. Let’s go see what the crew had for dinner.”

Decker dragged himself into the kitchen, draped his jacket over an oak kitchenette chair. Rina had kept his dinner warming in the oven. He put on a quilted mitt and fished it out. Some kind of Chinese cuisine except, by now, the snow peas and broccoli were limp and khaki green, and the rice had developed a yellowish crust. At least the noodles appeared nice and crisp.

He set the dish on top of a meat place mat and took out cutlery. Washed his hands, said a quick blessing, but paused before he sat down. He noticed a light coming from under the door of his stepsons’ room. To be expected. As teens, they often went to bed later than he did. Perhaps he should say hello to the boys first.

That should take all of five minutes.

Kids had been preoccupied lately, hadn’t seemed to have much time for quality conversation. Maybe they were peeved at the late hours he’d been keeping. The more likely explanation was typical teenage behavior. His grown daughter, Cindy, had gone through sullen moments in her adolescent years. Now she was doing postgrad work back east in Criminal Sciences. A beautiful young lady who truly enjoyed his company. Ah, the passage of time …

He glanced at his withered food, eyes moving to the dog. “Don’t get any ideas. I’ll be right back.”

He knocked on the door to his sons’ room. He heard Jake ask a testy “What?” Decker jiggled the doorknob. It was locked.

“Someone want to open the door, please?”

Scuffling noises. Desk chair wheels sliding against the floor. The lock popped open, but the door remained closed. Decker hesitated, went into the room.

Both boys were at their desks, books and papers spilling over the work surface. They mumbled a perfunctory hello. Decker returned the greeting with proper articulation, and studied his sons.

Sammy had grown tall this last year. At least five ten, which, according to Rina, had already made him a couple of inches taller than his late father. From the pictures Decker had seen of Yitzchak, the elder boy strongly resembled his dad—same long face, pointed chin, and sandy hair. His complexion was smooth and fair, freckles dabbling the bridge of his nose. His eyes were dark and quiet in their intelligence. He was also nearsighted like Yitzchak; Sam wore wire-rimmed spectacles. Jake had been the one to inherit Rina’s stunning baby blues, her 20/20 eyesight as well.

The boys were still in their school uniform—white shirt and navy slacks. The fringes of their prayer shawls—their tzitzit—were hanging past the hems of their untucked shirts. Jake wore a knitted yarmulke, its colors designed to look like a slice of watermelon. Sammy had on a black, leather kippah embossed with his Hebrew name in gold letters.

“How’s it going, boys?” Decker asked. “What’re you doing?”

Sammy put down his textbook. “A paper on the evolution of the American Ideal through the literature of Mark Twain. A real conversation stopper.” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses, peered at Decker. “You look real tired, Dad. Maybe you should go eat something. I think Eema left you something in the oven.”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“No, I just thought …” Sammy frowned. “Jeez, try and be a nice guy around here. Do whatever you want.” His eyes went back to his notes. He picked up a highlighter and started underlining.

Well, that was spiffy, Deck. He shifted his weight, wondered what to do next. Jake came to his rescue. “You have a hard day, Dad?”

“Not too bad.”

“Felons took the day off?”

“Never.”

“But no famous people accused of murdering their wives.”

“No, not today.”

“Too bad,” Jake said. “You woulda looked cool on the witness stand.”

“Thank you, I’ll pass.”

Sammy said, “Jeez, Dad, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Adventure is for the young,” Decker said. “I’m just a stodgy old coot.”

“You’re not a coot,” Sammy said. “What is a coot anyway?”

“A simpleton,” Decker answered.

“Nah, you’re definitely not a coot.”

“As opposed to stodgy and old.”

“Well, better too stodgy than too cool.” Jake grinned.

“You read that article in the paper? ’Bout the father who was arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a minor or something like that with a stripper?”

“What’s this?” Sammy’s interest was piqued.

Jake guffawed as he spoke. “A father hired a stripper to perform at his son’s twelfth birthday.”

Sam wrinkled up his nose. “That’s gross.” His smile was wide. “Kinda fun, I bet, but gross.”

Jake was doubled over. “One of the kids … told his mother. The mother complained and they arrested the guy … stupid jerk. The father said he was just trying to be a ‘cool dad.’”

Now Sam started chortling. “Now, why can’t you be a cool dad like that?”

“Your rabbaim would really love that,” Decker said.

“Yeah, they’d get mad,” Jake said, his eyes wet with tears. “But only because we didn’t invite them.”

Both boys were seized with laughter. Decker smiled and shook his head. “How you talk about your elders.”

“A very stodgy response.” Sam got up, kissed Decker on the cheek, and patted his shoulder. “You don’t have to hire a stripper for my birthday to be cool. But I wouldn’t mind a motorcycle.”

Decker gave Sam a paternal smile that said “over my dead body.” Sam shrugged. “No harm in asking.” He sat back down at his desk. “Gotta get back to work. Huck Finn is calling.”

Jake looked at his homework—a tractate of incomprehensible Talmud. “Shmueli, you learned Baba Kama, didn’t you?”

“More like a few parts. What don’t you understand?”

“I don’t understand any of it.”

“You gotta do better than that, Yonkie.”

Jake squinted at the mini-print text in an oversized tome of Talmud. “Something about if a guy’s tied up in a field … and there’s fire in the field … if it’s murder or not?”

“It would be murder according to American law,” Decker said.

Jake bypassed Decker’s bit of professional input. “I don’t know what Rav Yosef is talking about. The man is on another planet.”

“Why don’t you ask Rav Schulman?” Decker suggested.

Jake gave him an “are you a moron?” look. “Dad, I don’t think a big Rosh Yeshiva like him has a lot of free time for basic questions.” The boy sighed. “Besides, I don’t want to look stupid.” His voice turned desperate as he spoke to Sam. “You didn’t learn this at all?”

“Sounds vaguely familiar. Read me the passuk.”

The conversation between the two continued. Feeling superfluous, Decker said, “I think I am going to go eat.”

Both boys said a quick good-bye, returning their attentions to their respective academic plight.

Decker trudged back into the kitchen, Ginger still parked under his chair. She picked up her head and made a pathetic squeaking noise. Throwing her a piece of overcooked beef, he sat down and picked at his shriveled dinner.

A minute later, Rina walked in the room, her cheeks pink with warmth. She had tied her ebony hair into a long plait, and her lids were still half-closed as her eyes adjusted from the darkness of the nursery to the white glare of the kitchen’s fluorescent lighting. She squinted at Peter.

“Are you a husband or a hologram?” She bent down and kissed his lips. “I do believe you’re flesh and blood.”

“Funny.”

Her eyes stopped at his dinner plate. “Chinese doesn’t appear to keep well. Let me make you something fresh.”

“Nah, don’t bother.”

“How about salami and eggs?” Rina proposed. “Easy to make and guaranteed to drive your cholesterol off the scale.”

Decker pushed the dish away. “Actually, that sounds great. How’s my baby daughter? Does she still remember me?”

“With much fondness. You look very tired, Peter.”

“As always.”

Rina began to rub his neck. “You’re very tense, Atlas. Why don’t you pass the world onto someone else’s shoulders?”

“I tried. No one would take it.”

Rina said nothing, continued the massage.

“Feels good,” Decker said.

“Maybe you can juggle some paperwork, put me on the department payroll as your masseuse. Isn’t that how the politicians work it?”

“Too bad I’m not a good politician.” Decker blew out air. “I’m not a good bureaucrat, either. I’m also lousy at delegating tasks. As a result, I’m swamped with paperwork. My own doing, of course.”

“Would you like a rope for self-flagellation, or perhaps a cat-o’-nine-tails?”

Decker smiled. “Where do you know from a cat-o’-nine-tails?”

Rina hit his shoulder, went over to the refrigerator and took out eggs and a roll of salami. Decker looked at his wife as she sliced and diced. As tired as he was, damn, if she didn’t look good enough to devour. He still marveled at how the gods had smiled on him. Seven years ago since they had met …

“It’s not that I don’t have my virtues,” Decker said. “In fact, I have many.”

Rina pushed sizzling salami around the pan. “That’s the spirit.”

“I sometimes miss working in the field, that’s all. I miss working with Marge as a partner. I’ve teamed her with Oliver. They work well together. But I think there’s friction.”

“Big surprise. Marge is a straight shooter, Scott’s a slick old goat.”

“He’s in his forties. That’s not old.”

“But he is slick and he is a goat.”

“True.”

“Is Marge complaining?”

“No, she’s too much the professional to do that. I should talk to her, find out if she’s happy. Tell the truth, I don’t want to open up a can of worms. I figure if there are real problems, I’ll learn about them sooner or later.”

“In other words, you’re playing ostrich, burying your head in the sand.”

“More like … selective ostrich.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “Sometimes, I have to look the other way. Otherwise, you spread yourself too thin.”

The phone rang.

Both of them looked at the wall, at the malevolent blinking business line. Rina poured the eggs into the pan and scrambled fiercely. “How about doing some fancy head-interring right now, Mr. Cassowary?”

“Lieutenant Cassowary.”

Wordlessly, Rina picked up the receiver, handed it to her husband. He took it, shrugged helplessly.

“Decker.”

“It’s Marge. We need you.”

“Can I finish my dinner?”

“You may not want to. Just found sixty-plus white male slumped inside an ’86 Buick. Gunshot wounds to the forehead, as well as multiple stab wounds to the chest. The man had ID on him. Pete, it’s Azor Sparks!”

It took a few moments for Decker to put flesh and bone on the name. “The heart doctor?” He felt a sudden pounding in his head. “Jesus! What happened?”

“What?” Rina asked.

Decker waved her off. Marge said, “The car was found parked in the back alley behind Tracadero’s. A busboy was taking out the garbage when he saw that the Buick had the driver’s seat door wide open. He went over to investigate … Oh Christ! … Pete, a stray was on top of him, snout buried in his chest—”

“I’ll be right over.” Decker hung up the phone.

Rina handed him his plate of salami and eggs. “You don’t have time to bolt it down?”

Decker’s stomach lurched. Not the time or the inclination. “It’s bad, Rina. You don’t want to know.”

“Will I hear about it on the news?”

“Probably.” Decker grimaced. “Dr. Azor Sparks, the famous heart transplant surgeon. He was found dead in his car … in a back alley behind a restaurant.”

Abruptly, Rina paled, brought her hand to her throat. Decker regarded his wife. As gray as ash. “Sit down, honey.”

“I think I will.” She melted into a chair.

“You want something to drink?”

“No, I’m …”

The kitchen went silent. Decker studied Rina’s expression. “Rina, did you know this man?”

Slowly, she shook her head no. “Not personally. By reputation.”

“I’m sorry you have to witness such ugliness through me.”

A baby’s cry shot through the room. Rina stood on shaky legs. “Hannah’s up. It’s like she has a sixth sense … I’d better see …” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Smiled at her husband, but left without a good-bye.

Decker waited a beat, then slipped on his jacket, puzzled by Rina’s strong reaction.

Odd.

But maybe not.

Homicides weren’t a daily occurrence in her life.

2

Tracadero’s was one of the few hoo-hah, nouvelle, chic, posh, pick-your-own-effete-adjective restaurants in the West Valley. Translation to Decker: Pay a lot for tiny portions. He had been there once. The inside had been done up to look like scaffolding. For that kind of money and atmosphere, he could have just as easily bag-lunched it at a construction site. The place was located midblock in a commercial strip of street.

A long block. As Decker fast-walked through a decently lit back alley, he noticed a pizzeria, a clothing boutique, a guitar store, a pharmacy, a hair and nail salon, and a tropical fish store. The night was foggy and cool, the glare of starlight spread behind a wall of filmy clouds. Yellow crime tape had been stretched across the alley’s main entrances, two black-and-whites nose to nose at the driveways, preventing pass-through traffic. As he came closer to the actual crime spot, the crowd grew dense. Uniformed and plainclothed officers swarming around a bronze Buick. The strong odor of garbage mixed with the metallic stench of fresh blood and excreted bowels.

Marge and Oliver had already arrived. So had Martinez and Webster, the newest imports to Devonshire Homicide. Bert Martinez came from Van Nuys Substation, having worked Crimes Against Persons detail, Tom Webster was a transplant from Mississippi with ten years of gold-shield experience and a BA in music composition from Tulane. With veteran Farrell Gaynor, they would comprise the team for this case, as major homicides were usually worked in groups of five. Gaynor was on his way, his wife having reported that he had just left. The old man moved like a slug, but had a microscopic eye for details and patience for paperwork.

Decker reached inside his jacket, slipped on a pair of latex gloves. Marge noticed him first, pushed silk blond hair out of her brown doe eyes and gave a wave. She was a big woman, five nine plus, large-boned and all muscle. Unmarried as well. Not too many guys could compete against her in either the brains or brawn department. The others gave him nods as he approached their huddle.

First thing up: Clear unnecessary people. Decker said, “Martinez, Oliver, Webster, and Dunn. You stay here. How many cruisers were sent here? Anyone know?”

“Seven,” someone answered.

“Four of them are blocking the entrances to the alley.” Decker thought a moment. “All right, the other three loose black-and-whites, start making passes around the area. Use extreme caution if you see anything suspicious. And always call for backup. The rest of you, go back to the barricades and wait for further instructions. On your way out, don’t touch anything, watch where you step. Go.”

Slowly, the crowd scattered, leaving Decker full view of the car. The driver’s door was still wide open, legs protruded out, shoes scraped the asphalt. Good shoes. Quality black leather, maybe Ballys or Cole-Haan. They were splattered with sticky clots of blood. Decker advanced, peered inside the car.

An abattoir. Jackson Pollock in shades of red and brown. He held his breath and exhaled carefully, thankful his stomach was empty. Stab wounds had turned the doctor’s chest into a sieve, bullets had pierced through the great man’s head and neck. Carefully, he touched the cheek.

“Body’s still warm.” Decker looked at his glove. Wet with blood. He’d have to change it before he touched anything else. He checked his watch. Nine-twenty. “Anyone call up the ME?”

“Yo.” Oliver ran his hands through a mound of dark hair. His brown eyes flitted through the scene. “Called the coroner’s office, called Forensics as well. They should be here any moment.”

“What about Captain Strapp?”

Marge said, “I left a message for him, Pete … er, Loo.”

Oliver flashed Marge a white, toothy smile. She ignored it and him. Pity because Scott was well built and good-looking. He even had moments that could be roughly defined as charming. Just too few of them and way too far between.

Out of the corner of his eye, Decker saw a stoop-shouldered man wrapped in a cardigan sweater, inching toward them. Marge followed Decker’s stare, shook her head. “I think you woke him up from his nap.”

Decker waved Gaynor forward. The man attempted a trot but gave up. His belly was too big, his legs too spindly to carry that much weight while running. Oliver said, “I thought he retired. He should be retired.”

“C’mon,” Martinez whispered impatiently. He twirled the ends of his Brillo mustache. “Guy’s an antique. Don’t know why the department keeps him on. He doesn’t even help it out with affirmative action.”

Oliver said, “You know, this team would fail even the most liberal affirmative action qualifications. Too many white males. Not enough minorities. No blacks, Indians, Asians, women—”

Marge said, “Uh, excuse me—”

“Hispanics—”

“A-hem,” Martinez broke in.

“No deaf-blind paraplegics, no midget cretins, no mentally deranged or morally handicapped—”

“Look in the mirror, Scott,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “I don’t know where you fit in, Webster. Man, they don’t make ’em any WASPier.”

“Enough, Scott,” Marge said. But he did have a point. Tom was Mr. Perma-Prest with his perfect chip of blond hair falling in front of sleepy, bluebell eyes. Most detectives exuded an excitement when starting a case. Webster seemed injected with ennui, as if forced to put up with another hot and humid August day in Biloxi, Mississippi.

Oliver went on. “Actually, you’re more than WASP, Tommy Boy. You are down-home DWM.”

“Beg your pardon?” Webster drawled.

“Dead White Male,” Marge said.

“Don’t hate me ’cause ahm beautiful,” Webster said dryly.

Oliver smiled, started whistling “Here Comes Santa Claus” as Gaynor arrived, sweaty and winded.

“Hey, gentlemen.” Farrell looked at Marge. “And ladies.”

Oliver said, “We were all wondering why the department hasn’t put you to pasture since you don’t help them with affirmative action.”

Gaynor said, “I’m elderly. Gray power.” He held his fist in the air. “God, it smells awful.”

“It is awful,” Marge said.

“Take a look for yourself, Farrell,” Oliver stated. “If your heart can take it.”

“Old ticker’s stronger than you’d think.” Gaynor walked over to the car, looked inside, and winced. He slipped on gloves. “Gruesome. It’s definitely the primary crime scene.”

“I can see why they keep you on,” Oliver said. “Astute powers of observation.”

Decker said, “Sparks worked exclusively with New Christian Hospital, didn’t he?”

Gaynor said, “I know he was there a lot. Friend of mine used Sparks a couple of years ago for bypass surgery. It was done at New Chris.” He smiled benignly at Oliver. “One day you’ll know from these things.”

Oliver gave him a sick smile.

Decker said, “He must have had his office there, right?”

Blank stares. Gaynor said, “When I had my angiogram done, it was a hospital procedure. But my doctor had a regular office.” He thought a moment. “But he was a cardiologist not a surgeon.”

Decker said, “Dunn, find out where Sparks saw his patients when he wasn’t operating. In any event, I want you and Oliver to go over to New Chris, see if Sparks was coming from the hospital. While you’re on your way, make calls and find out who Sparks’s secretary is. If he kept his office at the hospital, tell the secretary to meet you there. I want to get hold of Sparks’s daily planner. Hopefully, nobody lifted it.”

“Got it,” Oliver said. “I’ll interview all the nurses personally. One by one. In private.”

Decker stared into space. “Parked in a back alley like this … Sparks wasn’t sightseeing. So what was he doing here?”

“Parking the car for the restaurant,” Martinez suggested.

“Then why wouldn’t he have used the valet up in front?”

“He was cheap,” Oliver said. “Lots of rich people are.”

“Or it was a carjacking,” Webster added.

Decker didn’t buy it. A carjacker wouldn’t make his drop in back of a populated restaurant. His eyes traveled back to the car, scanned the corpse. The scene hadn’t gotten any less horrifying. “Could be someone lured Sparks here. Let’s get a time frame for him. Try to reconstruct his day. Go back to New Chris and talk to anyone who saw him. Call me in a half hour for an update. Go.”

Marge and Oliver looked at each other. Oliver said, “You drive?”

“I’ll drive.”

Oliver flipped her the keys, and they left.

Decker said, “Anyone talk to the valet yet?”

Martinez said no. “Guy’s Hispanic. Want me to do it?”

“Yes. Find out if he heard or saw anything. Also the kitchen faces the back alley. Maybe the help heard something.”

“Si, si, Señor Wences.”

Decker turned to Webster. “You canvass the block?”

“It’s all stores, Loo,” Martinez said. “Everything’s shut down at this hour.”

“How about someone working late in one of the back rooms?” Webster said. “Some soul mighta heard something going down.”

Decker agreed. “Canvass the block. On your way back, Tom, check all the alley Dumpsters. We’ve got a gunshot wound, maybe we’ll find a gun. We’ve got multiple stab wounds, maybe someone chucked a bloody knife.”

Webster said, “Odd, Loo. We got gunshot and stab wounds.”

“Very.”

“Suggestive of more than one person?”

“Indeed.” Decker looked around. “This much blood spatter … maybe we’ll find more than one shoe print.”

Martinez said, “Or a bloody glove.”

“Man, you jest but somewhere there is a pile of bloody clothing begging to be tagged and filed. Be careful. And before you pick up anything to bag it, snap a picture. Anyone have a camera?”

“I got a thirty-five millimeter in my car,” Martinez said.

“Good,” Decker said. “If you got enough film, Bert, take a few pictures of the body for me.”

“Will do.”

“Y’always carry a camera, Bert?” Webster asked.

“The missus keeps one in the cars for spontaneous family shots,” Martinez answered. “I think I’ve got half a roll left over from our Labor Day picnic.”

Webster said, “Might be a good idea if you took that one in for developing, Bert. Separate the postmortems of Sparks from the family snapshots.”

“A very good idea,” Decker concurred. “Everyone be sure to cover your butt. It plays well on prime time.”

Martinez said, “Speaking of prime time, Loo, look who’s coming our way.”

Decker’s eyes strained in the darkness. Strapp with camera crews in tow.

“I’ll handle it.”

“Then we’re dismissed?” Webster said.

“Unless you want to talk to Strapp.”

Martinez waved good-bye. He and Webster headed down the alley, jogging away from Strapp.

Decker turned to Gaynor. “You stay here at the scene, wait for the ME and Forensics. Make sure no one … and I mean no one … screws up evidence. You watch them, Farrell, stand over their shoulders and direct if necessary. No screwups. Not while I’m in charge.”

“Where are you going, Loo?”

“I’m going to satisfy Strapp, and hopefully deflect the media. Get the field clear so my detectives can do their jobs. Then, I’m going to notify next of kin.”

Gaynor patted his back. “Brave man.”

Decker felt sick inside. “Someone has to take out the garbage.”

3

As the captain advanced with the television army, Decker held up his index finger indicating a minute. Strapp held out an open palm, telling the media troops to halt, and said something to a coiffed brunette in a teal-blue silk pants suit. She placed her hands on her hips, and shook her head defiantly. Strapp was not impressed and shot back a response, his face hard, his shoulders stiff. The brunette looked upward, threw up her hands, then went back to her underlings. Strapp approached Decker by himself. Gaynor stood back to guard the body, happy to be out of the picture.

Because the Captain was a formidable man. He was of average height—a lean man with lean features. But his eyes were knowing, intense. Strapp was a clear thinker and a good problem solver. Deliberate, almost cagy at times. Decker had trouble reading him. So far, the Cap seemed to be a man of his word.

Strapp said, “Fill me in.”

“I just arrived around fifteen minutes ago.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “I’ve sent Martinez in to interview the restaurant personnel, Webster’s canvassing the block. We’ve got at least three additional patrol cars making passes through the area. Gaynor’s waiting for the ME and Forensics. I’ve assigned Oliver and Dunn over to New Chris where Sparks operated and attended.”

Strapp nodded. “So you know who Azor Sparks is … was.”

“Yes, sir. That’s why I’m here.”

“Any murder is a blow for our community. Shit like this is an effing big, black eye. Whatever you need for this one. Just get it done and get it done quickly.”

“Absolutely.”

“If that means double shifts, then you work double shifts.”

“No problem.” Decker stuck his hands in his pockets, thought of Rina, made a mental note to send her flowers. Better make them roses … long stems.

Strapp said, “You looked at the body?”

“Yes, sir. It’s really bad.”

“Jesus, Decker, who’d want to murder someone like Sparks? He was New Christian Hospital. Without him, the place is going to fold. Because without him, they aren’t going to get the big donors.”

Decker didn’t answer. Though Strapp was thinking like the politician, his assessment was right on. Sparks had put New Chris on the map. A tiny hospital, it had become renowned, mostly because Sparks had turned it into his personal place of business. And the hospital had been a tremendous source of revenue for the West Valley, drawing in lots of philanthropists. There had been quite a bit of dollar overflow into the area, the hospital paying for extracurricular school programs, park programs, health programs, as well as extra community-based fire and police programs. Just six months ago, New Chris donated a dozen of its old computers to the detectives’ squad room.

Strapp said, “Anything you need to solve this sucker quickly, Decker. Whatever manpower it takes just as long as it’s done textbook clean. Has anyone on your team ever had a race or sex problem?”

“Not that I know of,” Decker said. “Scott Oliver does have a mouth. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s said things.”

“Pull him off.”

“No, I don’t want to do that.”

Strapp’s eyes shot up to Decker’s face. “Why not?”

“Because he’s a good detective. I’ve got him teamed with Dunn. She should keep him clean. Besides, there’s nothing controversial here. Sparks was white.”

“What if his killer was black?”

“Why don’t we take it one step at a time—”

“I’m just saying, I don’t want some A-hole liberal legal eagle making my men out to be monsters. You tell everyone to tread carefully, like we’re handling toxic waste.”

“Agreed.”

“You want to take the media, Decker?”

“Not much to tell them yet. Next of kin hasn’t been notified yet, so we can’t give out any names—”

“Too late. Networks already know who the stiff is.”

Decker was appalled. “How’d that happen?”

“Obviously some jerk slipped over the scanner.”

“Christ!” Decker felt his teeth grind together. “The family doesn’t even know.”

“So get over there and tell them. I’ll hold the media off as long as I can. But you know these guys. They eat a strict no-ethics diet.”

Decker checked his watch. Nine fifty-two. “I’m out of here.”

He sprinted back to his Volare, turned on the engine, and peeled rubber. Sparks had lived about ten minutes away from where someone had made his grave. If speed and luck were with him, he’d make it to the house before the ten o’clock news.

Decker identified himself behind a closed door. As soon as it swung open, he breathed a sigh of relief. Because the expression on the young woman’s face suggested apprehension mixed with ignorance.

She didn’t know.

She was pretty—regular features, peaches-and-cream complexion, grass-green eyes, clean, straight, shoulder-length pecan-colored hair. Appeared to be around twenty, looked like a coed with her body buried in baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. Very wholesome face, wore no makeup or jewelry except for a simple cross around her neck. A disembodied voice came from behind her. “Who’s there, Maggie?”

“It’s the police,” she answered.

“Police?”

Decker said, “Is your mother home, ma’am?”

“She’s rest—”

A young man suddenly appeared. Straggly dark curls falling over his forehead. Bright, nervous blue eyes peering beneath the curtain of tresses. Older than the girl, probably in his midtwenties. He was wrapped in an argyle sweater over a button-down Oxford shirt. His pants were beige chinos, his feet tucked into loafers without socks. “How can I help you?”

Decker’s face remained flat. “I’m Lieutenant Decker from LAPD. Actually, I came to speak with Dolores Sparks.”

The man said, “What do you want with my mother?”

“Is she in, sir? It’s an emergency.”

“Oh my God!” Maggie shrieked. “Is it Dad?”

The young man paled. “My father? Is he okay?”

“May I come in?”

The door opened all the way, and Decker stepped inside a three-story entry, quickly scanned the place. Living room to left, dining room to right, family room straight ahead. It held a set of French doors that opened outward. There were also lots of floor-to-ceiling windows topped with thick valances and tiebacks. Couldn’t make out much of the backyard. At this time of night, it was all fog and shadows.

Decker looked upward. A wrought-iron staircase snaked its way to the top. The house appeared enormous. But the interior, though neat and clean, had seen better days. Peeling wallpaper, scarred wood flooring, chips in the ceiling molding. And old furniture. Thirty years ago, it had been top-notch. But now the upholstery had faded, the pillows were lumpy and lopsided. A spacious house, even in this neighborhood of big homes, though it now sat in genteel neglect.

Decker focused his attention back on the young man with the curly hair and blue eyes.

“Are you Dr. Sparks’s son?”

“One of them. Michael. What’s this about?”

“I really need to speak to your mother.”

Michael stood his ground. “First, tell me what’s going on.” His voice turned shaky. “It’s Dad, isn’t it?”

“Sir, we found a homicide victim about an hour ago. I regret to say that we have reason to believe that it’s your fath—”

“Oh my God!” Maggie put her hands over her mouth. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God—”

“Maggie, call Bram.”

“Oh my God! Oh my God—”

Michael grabbed his sister’s shoulders. “Maggie, go to the phone and call Bram now!”

The order shook her out of her mantra. She dashed to the phone. Decker said, “I’m very, very sorry, sir. But I really do need to speak to your mother.”

Michael didn’t move. His skin had become as transparent as onion skin. In gross contrast to his ebony curls.

A soft voice came from above. “Michael, what is it?”

Again, Decker looked upward. A woman stood on the upstairs landing, her silver hair clipped short around a round, full face. She wore a multicolored caftan, her skin heavily flushed. Michael’s knees caved in, but he recovered before he fell.

Decker put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll handle it.” He started up the steps, but the young man dogged his heels. Before Decker could speak, Michael said, “Mom, I think you should go back to bed.”

“Why?” The woman was tall and stolidly built. Beads of sweat covered her forehead and sprinkled the top of her upper lip. Green eyes like her daughter. Clear, focusing sharply on Decker. “Who are you?”

“Mrs. Sparks, I’m Lieutenant Peter Decker of the Los Angeles Police—”

Michael blurted out, “He’s here about Dad—”

“Something’s wrong, then.” The woman looked squarely at Decker. But her eyes had already moistened. “Is it Azor? A car accident? He works late hours, doesn’t get enough sleep.”

Decker trudged on. “Ma’am, we discovered a homicide victim about an hour ago, and have reason to believe it’s your husband. I’m very, very sorry.”

The eyes continued to peer into his face. Tears went down her cheeks. She shook her head vehemently. “No, no, you’re wrong, then. Very wrong—”

“Ma’am.”

“Go back and check. Because no one would want to hurt Azor. You have to be wrong!”

Michael said, “Mom, maybe you should—”

Tears flowed openly over her ruddy face. “Michael, tell this man he’s wrong. Tell him he made a big mistake.”

“Mom—”

“I’ll call Father right now. Prove he made a mistake.” She stepped forward, then faltered. Decker caught her, kept her upright as she leaned on his strong shoulders. No easy trick. The woman was around five ten and weighed about one seventy. “Where’s her bed?”

“I’ll take her.” Michael gripped his mother soundly. He was slightly taller than her, but his hold was firm. “Let’s go back to bed.”

“Oh, Michael, what happened?”

“I don’t know—”

“Did you call Bram?”

“Right now—”

“Maybe he knows. Bram always knows.”

“Maybe, Mom—”

“Tell him to come right away!”

“I will,” Michael said. “Come on, Mom. You’ve been sick—”

“Just let me phone Father. To tell this man he’s wrong.”

“Mom, he isn’t wrong.”

“But he has to be wrong! It can’t be.”

She started to sob loudly as Michael pulled her into a room. Then the door closed in Decker’s face. Left him standing there, alone and useless. He could make out sounds behind the door—moans, sobs … no words. At these moments, he felt like a Peeping Tom, privy to private grief. Dirty and perverted. He could never understand why people watched talk shows. Why see people at their worst?

He exhaled slowly, hoping Dolores Sparks would have enough emotional and physical strength to make it through the night. He would have liked to have questioned her, asked her what her husband had been doing, parked in the back alley behind Tracadero’s … asked her about Sparks’s daily habits. But nothing would have sunk in right now because the woman was still in denial. Perhaps when the shock wasn’t as overwhelming, they could talk. Tomorrow, he would try again.

No sense standing around, so he went downstairs. Maggie was shaking, a phone receiver in her right hand. She turned to Decker, her cheeks soaked with tears. “He’s not in. What should I do?”

“Why don’t you sit down, Maggie. Is there a doctor I can call? Maybe a close family friend of your mother’s?”

Michael came running down the stairs. “She’s asking for Bram, Mag. Is that him?”

“He’s not home! I called his apartment three times and just got the machine!”

“You called his apartment?” Michael sighed. “Maggie, you should have called the church!”

“Oh God, what’s the num—auto dial one, right?” She held the receiver to her ear.

Michael began to pace. To Decker, he said, “I gave her a sedative … to calm her down.” He rubbed his face, continued to pace.

Maggie shouted into the receiver. “Bram, if you’re there, pick up the phone! This is an emergen … Hello? It’s Maggie Sparks, can you please get my broth—”

Michael grabbed the phone away from her. “Get my brother on the phone, now. This is an emergency!” To Maggie, he said, “Go upstairs and look after Mom. And try not to be so hysterical!”

Maggie dashed up the steps.

Michael yelled into the mouthpiece. “You’ve got to get over here quick! There’s been a terrible …” Tears exploded from Michael’s eyes. “Police are here, Bram. Dad’s been murdered.”

Decker could hear a voice over the line saying, “Oh my God!”

Michael said, “You’ll come over?”

Another pause. Michael saying, “She’s in the bedroom with Maggie. I gave her a sedative … No … not yet. Can you call them? I can’t … no … no … no … he said he thought it was Dad, but I’m not sure … Look, why don’t you talk to him.” He shoved the phone in Decker’s face, and resumed pacing.

Decker said, “This is Lieutenant Peter Decker. To whom am I talking, please?”

A beat. Then a soft voice said, “I’m Dr. Sparks’s son Abram. What happened?”

The voice was calm, especially when compared to the surrounding hysteria. Decker said, “It would be better if we talked in person.”

“How’s my mother?”

“Resting. Your brother gave her a sedative. Is that all right?”

“Yes, that’s all right. My brother said my father was murdered. Is this true?”

“Yes, sir, that appears to be the situation. I’m very sorry.”

“Are you sure it’s him? Has someone identified him?”

“His personal identification was on him—his license, his credit cards, his professional cards. Besides, your father is a recognizable person in this community.”

“I want to see him.”

“I’d be happy to escort you to make an identification.”

“Tell me where to go.”

“I’m sorry but I’ll have to escort you. Anything I can do to help you and your family through this terrible crisis.”

Another beat. “I’m so stunned, I don’t … May I please talk to my brother again?”

Decker noticed he said “may” instead of “can.” Shaken but in control. “Of course.” He handed the phone back to Michael.

“When are you going to get here?” Michael barked into the phone.

“I’m going down … to make sure it’s Dad,” Bram answered. “Someone has to call the others.”

“Can you do it? Maggie’s useless and I’m … I can’t handle Paul right now.”

“All right. I’ll do it.”

“When are you going to get here? Mom’s asking for you.”

“As soon as I can, Michael. Where’s Maggie?”

“With Mom.”

“Mike, watch Mom like a hawk. Keep her away from the medicine cabinet.”

“Right.”

“Also, get Maggie to take her Theo-Dur—”

“She seems okay—”

“As a precaution, Mike. Her attacks are usually delayed. I can’t deal with Maggie’s asthma right now. Tell Mag to lie down and rest until I can get there.”

Michael nodded.

“Are you there?”

“Sorry, yes. I’ll keep watch over Mom.”

“And Maggie, too. Take care of both of them. Are you getting this down, Michael?”

“Yes, keep watch over Mom. And Maggie, too. Just get here.”

“As soon as I can. Put Decker back on.”

“Who?”

“The lieutenant.”

“Oh …” Again, Michael gave the phone to Decker.

“Yes?”

Bram said, “Do you know where the Church of St. Thomas is, Lieutenant?”

“Of course.”

“How far is it from where my father …”

“I could meet you at St. Thomas’s if you’d like, Mr. Sparks.”

“Thank you very much. I’d appreciate it. I need to call my other siblings. To tell them what’s going on. I’ll meet you outside the church in twenty minutes.”

“That’s fine.”

The phone disconnected.

Michael said, “Is he coming over?”

“No,” Decker said. “First he wants to identify your father. I’m picking him up in front of St. Thomas’s.”

“God …” Michael paced furiously. “I hope he gets here quick. I don’t think I can handle the others by myself!”

“Who are the others?” Decker asked. “Your siblings?”

Maggie came running down the stairs. “Michael, she’s moaning. What should I do?”

“I’m coming.” Michael bit his nail. To Decker, he said, “Excuse me a moment.” He started up the stairs with his sister. “Oh, Maggie. Take your Theo-Dur. As a precaution.”

“I’m all right—”

“Just do it, Mag. Don’t argue.”

Maggie seemed angry but said nothing. As they climbed up a serpentine twist of staircase, they disappeared from view, leaving Decker down below in the faded dowager of a house. He took the opportunity to nose around, went into the family room.

The walls held no artwork. Instead, they were plastered with family photos. The Sparkses appeared to have lots of children, although some of the adults could have been daughters or sons-in-law.

The most striking photos were two fourteen-by-twenties framed in gilt. The sittings appeared almost identical. Obviously, they had been taken on the same occasion, and it had been a formal one. Dad had been decked out in a tux; Mom, in a blue sequined gown. The men wore dark suits, the women expensive suits or cocktail dresses.

The first photograph held many more people—the parents, their children with spouses, lots of grandchildren, ranging from teens to infants. Too many people for Decker to sort out.

The second photograph was more manageable. Eight people. The parents—Azor and Dolores—with four young men and two young women, among them Michael and Maggie. Probably their children because all of them bore resemblance to the parents. Though the dress had been formal, the posing had been much more casual. All of the parties seemed relaxed—no frozen smiles, no stiff postures. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.

The kids broke down into two groups: Dad’s side with black, curly hair and blue eyes, and Mom’s side with light brown hair and green eyes. Michael and another brother looked like Dad, Maggie, the other men, and a sister favored Mom.

Decker took a closer look at the photo. One brother wore a clerical collar. St. Thomas’s was a Catholic church. Perhaps brother Bram was actually Father Bram. No wonder he had been so composed over the phone. The clergy was used to dealing with crises.

A good-looking man in a pale, scholarly way. A face with regular features, and accented cheekbones. Sharp, sea-colored eyes behind the rimless glasses. Oak-brown hair and long. It fell past his shoulders.

Decker continued to examine the picture, then did a double take. Another brother standing next to Dad. Bram’s face but without the academic pallor and glasses. Fleshier in the cheeks with shorter, styled hair.

Michael came down the stairway. “She’s sleeping, but it’s restless.”

“Do you have a family doctor you want to call, Michael?”

“No, not really. Dad has always handled our medical care. We’re generally a very healthy bunch, including Mom. Maggie’s with her. She’ll be okay.”

Decker pointed to the picture. “You have twin brothers?”

Michael’s eyes went to the photograph. “Actually, triplets. Luke and Bram …” He pointed to the faces. “These two are identical twins obviously. They look even more alike now that Luke has taken off a few pounds.”

“Bram’s a priest.”

“Yeah. But we’re not Catholic. Only he is.”

“Who is the other triplet?”

“Paul.” Michael’s coloring had returned. “He looks more like me than his own twins. That’s genetics. Toss of the dice. This one is my older sister, Eva. She was born after the triplets. She’s kind of … well, my mother’s favorite after Bram. I think Mom was really happy to get a girl after three boys.”

“I can imagine. How old are your sibs?”

“Triplets are thirty-five, Eva’s thirty.”

“And you’re …”

“I’m twenty-five. Maggie’s twenty.”

“Your mom had children every five years.”

“I guess she did.”

“When was the picture taken?”

“For my dad’s sixtieth birthday … about two years ago. Seems like a hundred years ago.”

Michael rubbed his eyes.

“I feel like such a jerk. I’m a med student. Second year. I’ve been to Africa on missionary work. I’ve taken care of very sick people. I shouldn’t be falling apart like this. I should be doing better. Dad wouldn’t approve.”

“You’re doing great under the circumstances, Michael.”

“I don’t think so …”

Decker patted his back.

Dad wouldn’t approve.

Said a lot about the kid. Twenty-five, a med student, and still concerned about what Dad might think. Must be hard to be a son of a legend. Hard to forge that own identity. Said something for Michael that he chose to go into his father’s field knowing that people would always be making comparisons.

Michael said, “It’s just that it’s such a shock. What happened? How’d it happen?”

“He was found dead in his car.”

“Where?” Michael bit his nails as he walked back and forth. “In the hospital parking lot? I’ve told Dad those places aren’t safe. I’ve told him a hundred times that he should carry Mace or pepper spray. Something. Anything.”

“It happened in a back alley of Tracadero’s restaurant.”

Michael stopped walking. “What? Where?”

“In back of Tracadero’s,” Decker repeated. “Any idea what he was doing there?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Does your father eat at Tracadero’s?”

“Maybe for a special occasion. Like one of our birthdays. Dad does like good food.” Michael bit his lower lip. “Mostly, he ate at the hospital. He practically lived at the hospital.”

“Not home a lot.”

“Almost never except for Sundays.”

“Your mom is a nervous type?”

“No, not at all.” Michael became tense. “Why do you ask that?”

“Just because you keep sedatives in the house. I get the feeling she’s used to taking them.”

“Oh … only occasionally … to help her sleep. Usually she’s full of energy. The woman is tireless. Dad was never home when we were growing up. She raised us all really by herself. That’s why she needs sedatives … she’s so, full of energy, if she doesn’t take them, she doesn’t sleep.”

Nothing to do with anxiety, guy? Instead, Decker nodded sympathetically. How people deny. He checked his watch. “I’ve got to leave to meet your brother. Are you going to be all right by yourselves?”

“Yes … I’m … yeah, I’m okay. Just tell Bram … as quick as he can.” Michael looked seasick. “I mean … tell him everything’s under control … but if he could …”

“I’ll give him the message.” Decker regarded the young med student. He was dog-paddling, barely breaking surface, in an ocean of shock and grief. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Yes,” Michael insisted. “Yes, I can handle it. Thank you, Lieutenant. Thank you for … I don’t know why I’m thanking you … I don’t know what I’m doing. Please tell Bram to hurry.”

“He takes care of the family, doesn’t he?”

Michael wiped tears from his eyes. “Bram takes care of the world.”

4

Impressive in size and Gothic in style, the Church of the Holy Order of St. Thomas would have felt at home on the banks of the Thames. It was especially noticeable because West Valley architecture was typically confined to blocklong barrack shopping malls, and anywhere USA strip malls. True, there were a few magnificent million-dollar-plus housing developments. But the vast majority of the homes located within Devonshire Substation area were one-story ranch houses—three bedroom, two bath—serviceable and modest. The church’s spire loomed above its residential neighbors, overlooking its domain like a prison turret.

As Decker pulled the Volare curbside to the front steps, a thin man dressed in jeans, a black corduroy blazer over a black shirt, and running shoes bounded down the stairs. As he got closer, Decker saw the clerical collar. The man peered into the window.

“Lieutenant?”

Decker nodded, opened the passenger door.

The priest slid inside, shutting the door with excess force. Threw Decker a glance, then put on his seat belt. Decker studied the clergyman for a moment. Streaks of gray at the temple, wavy creases in his forehead. He was fine-featured, almost pretty. Dressed in satin and lace, he could have walked out of a Gainsborough. Except for the eyes—alert, too intelligent for peerage foppery.

Decker said, “I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Father.”

The priest nodded. “How’s my mother doing?”

“Pretty well, considering.” Decker pulled away from the church. “Michael’s anxious for you to be there.”

“I should be there. But I need to be here. I need a clone.”

Decker nodded. The priest had said clone, not twin. Ergo, the twin was obviously not a clone. Not the right time to press him on that.

Bram pushed locks off his forehead. His hair wasn’t quite as long as it had been in the pictures. But it still brushed his shoulders. Didn’t look like the padres Decker had seen growing up in southern Florida. Modern times. Modern priests.

“I managed to reach all my siblings except for my brother Paul. My brother-in-law is trying to reach him. Is there a way I can call out?”

Decker picked up the mike, asked for the number. The priest gave him the digits. A moment later, an angry male voice came through the static of dispatch.

Calmly, Bram said, “Hi, it’s me again. Did you reach Paul yet?”

“About two seconds ago. Are you at the house?”

“No, I’m—”

“You’ve got to get over there. Eva’s distraught. I don’t trust her to be alone.”

“Michael’s there—”

“Michael!” The voice turned sarcastic. “Oh, that’s a great comfort—”

“David—”

“I’m nervous … letting Eva drive by herself. You know how hysterical she can get. But she insisted. Our live-in’s vacationing in El Salvador and I can’t get a baby-sitter at this hour.” His voice grew louder. “It’s almost eleven. Where the hell are you, Bram?”

“With the po—”

“Paul’s asking me all these questions. Like I have the inside dope. How the hell do I know what’s going on? What is going on?”

“David, I hate to cut you off, but I’m talking on an open mike and the lieutenant can hear everything we’re saying. Let’s wait until we can talk in private.”

“Well, when are you going to the house?”

“As soon as I identify the body as my father’s.”

Silence. Then the voice said, “I’m sorry, Bram, I’m …”

“It’s all right, David. I’ve got to hang up now. We’ll talk later.” Bram handed the line to Decker who hung up the mike. The priest slumped in his seat.

Decker waited a beat. “They depend on you, don’t they?”

Looking out the window, Bram said, “How far are we from the spot?”

“About ten minutes away.”

“Where was he found?”

“In his car. It was parked in a back alley behind Tracadero’s.”

Bram faced Decker. “Tracadero’s?”

“Any idea why he would be there?”

“No.” He shook his head. “None.”

“Have you ever been there with him?”

Bram exhaled aloud. “Dad rented out the back room a couple of years ago for Mom’s birthday. There are about thirty of us with all the kids and in-laws. But there was nothing going on with the family tonight.”

“He never goes there without the family?”

“I wouldn’t think so. Dad rarely goes out because he’s always on-call.”

“Your brother said he practically lives at the hospital.”

Again, Bram brushed hair from his eyes. “Only thing I can think of is maybe Dad was meeting someone from the drug company for dinner.”

“Drug company?”

“My dad had developed an important surgery drug in his lab in conjunction with Fisher/Tyne Pharmaceuticals. It’s currently being tested by the FDA.”

Decker took in his words. “Your father developed a drug for Fisher/Tyne?”

“Yes. Curedon. Some kind of postsurgical, antirejection drug. A medical breakthrough according to my dad’s colleagues. My father’s a heart transplant surgeon. I guess you know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Decker paused. “I hate to ask you this, Father. This drug, Curedon, that your father developed. I take it there’s money involved?”

Bram thought a moment. “No doubt. Why?”

“We’re at the beginning stages of this investigation. I don’t have a smoking gun. I’m looking for suspects. I’m scratching for motives. Money’s always a good one. How much money are we talking about? Big amounts?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. You might ask Michael about it. He’d know more than I would.”

“So he often has dinner with someone from Fisher/Tyne at Tracadero’s.”

“Actually, I don’t know anything, Lieutenant. I’m just guessing.”

Decker smoothed his pumpkin mustache. “So your father is a chemist on top of his many other talents.”

“By default. About fifteen years ago, he decided he didn’t like what was commercially available. So he went back to UCLA and got a Ph.D. in biochemistry. The hospital—New Christian Hospital—built him a lab.” Bram clasped his hands tightly. “Could be he went out to dinner with one of his colleagues. But that doesn’t sound like my father, either.”

“Who are your father’s colleagues?”

“You mean names?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Bram nodded. “Dr. Reginald Decameron, Dr. Myron Berger and … goodness, I’m blanking … the woman … not Heather. That’s his secretary.”

“Who’s his secretary?”

“Heather … Heather …” Bram looked up. “At thirty-five, I’m going senile. Heather Something. The other doctor is also a woman.”

“They all work in your dad’s lab?”

“Yes.”

“So they’re your father’s employees?”

“I think there’s a bit more parity than a typical boss-underling relationship. They’re all doctors. But yes, my father did hire them.” He paused, his eyes darting behind his spectacles. “Fulton. Elizabeth Fulton. Doctor Liz, he called her. That’s the other doctor.”

“And you think your father might have gone out for dinner with one of them?”

“Maybe it was one of their birthdays. I don’t know.” Bram adjusted his glasses. “From the questions you’re asking, you don’t think it was a random murder, do you?”

“At this point, I’m still assessing information, Father. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful to you.”

Bram looked out the window, rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “What a nightmare!”

“I appreciate you coming down to make a positive identification. Better you than your mother.”

“That’s for certain.”

“Is she a well woman?”

“Why? What happened at the house?”

“Nothing at all. It’s just that … well, she takes sedatives.”

“And …”

“Uh, no. Nothing else. I was just curious why she took medication to help her sleep.”

“Lots of people do. It means nothing.”

“True.”

Bram said, “You’re sure it’s him? The body, I mean.”

“Certain enough to call you.”

The priest looked upward. “Are you going to perform an autopsy?”

“With a homicide, it’s the law.”

“So burial will be delayed.”

“Hopefully it shouldn’t take too long. Several days. Maybe a week.”

“Perhaps that’s better,” Bram said. “Maybe we’ll do some kind of … memorial service … for the public tomorrow. For Dad’s friends and colleagues. Get the circus over with. Then, when you release the body, we can have a private burial service for just the family.” He sighed. “I’m thinking like a priest. Step one, do this. Step two, do that.”

“Someone has to make arrangements. Your family seems to depend on you.”

Bram fell quiet.

Decker said, “Michael told me you’re not only an identical twin, but actually a triplet. Three boys.”

“Yes.”

“Is your twin a priest?”

“No.”

“What does your brother do? Your twin.”

Bram looked away, pretending not to hear. The priest was forthcoming when talking about Dad and his professional life. As soon as Decker brought up the family, Bram reverted to one-word answers.

“Does your brother work?” Decker pressed.

“What?” Bram’s eyes stared at nothing. “Pardon?”

“What does your twin brother do?”

“Luke’s a drug and alcohol rehabilitation counselor.”

“Another one in the helping profession,” Decker said.

Bram was quiet.

“Where does he work?” Decker paused. “Are my questions getting on your nerves, Father? I don’t want to upset you.”

“You can call me Bram. Everyone else does.” The priest rubbed his eyes. “I know you have to ask basic questions. I don’t resent them or you. Luke works at the Bomb Shelter.”

Decker paused. The Bomb Shelter was a halfway house with a reputation for hiring former addicts and rehabilitated ex-cons as counselors. “Does he live there?”

“No.”

“He’s married? Single? Divorced?”

“Luke’s married. Has a couple of kids.”

“Is your brother an ex-user?” Decker asked.

“Lieutenant, if you want personal information about Luke, ask Luke.”

“Fair enough. How about your brother Paul? What kind of work does he do?”

“He’s a stockbroker. Married. Four kids. My sister Eva’s married as well. She and her husband own a chain of clothing stores. They have four children under the age of seven. A fertile bunch. Making up for me. You’ve met Mike. He’s in his second year of medical school, lives at home, going with a very nice girl from the church. Dad’s church, not mine. I’m the only Catholic in the bunch. Magdeleine’s the baby of the family. She’s in her second year of college at UCLA. Psych major. She wants to be a social worker. That’s the family in a nutshell.”

“I appreciate you talking to me.”

Bram sank into silence.

Decker glanced at the priest, but said nothing. Usually, people under these circumstances … all they needed was a prompt or two and they became fountains of verbal diarrhea. They spoke from raw-edged nerves, from gut-stinging anxiety, spitting out whatever came to mind. This one was quiet. Not uncooperative, but he spoke with measured words.

And then it dawned on Decker. Bram was a priest. Secrecy was his stock-in-trade.

They drove without speaking the rest of the way, Decker slowing as they neared the spot. “Over to the right.”

Bram glared out the window. “There are television cameras! How did they find out before I did?”

“Networks have people listening to local police scanners. A famous name like your father’s pops up—”

“Oh for goodness …” Bram was taut and angry. “Is there no privacy even in grief?”

Decker was quiet.

“What a crazy town,” the priest said. “Bare your soul to the world for your ten minutes of fame.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you through. You might want to duck just in case someone gets pushy.”

Bram slid down into his seat. Quickly, Decker drove up to the barricades, flashed ID to the uniforms who kept watch over the scene. Before Decker could roll up the window, a microphone was jammed into his face. Holding it was a woman crowned with an oversprayed hive of blond hair. Decker pressed the accelerator to the floor, almost taking the mike with him as the Volare thrust forward. In the distance, he could hear the blonde swearing.

Bram sat back up, his complexion wan. “It’s not that I haven’t seen bodies … or haven’t seen people die as a matter of fact.”

“It’s different when it’s your own.”

The priest said nothing. As they closed in on the Buick, a gasp escaped from his lips. In stark view was the meat wagon. Bold letters holding nothing back—LOS ANGELES COUNTY MORGUE.

Bram looked at his lap. Decker felt for him. Welcome to hell, buddy. How long will you be staying?

Two white-coated lab assistants gleamed like headlights under the back alley illumination. They were hunched over, peering inside the Buick, one of them holding the body bag. Next to them was the police photographer who was making lightning with her Nikon. Jay Craine’s car was parked a few stores down. Decker couldn’t see the Medical Examiner. Probably kneeling, examining the body.

Decker shut the motor. Bram started to open the door, but Decker held his arm. “Wait here.”

The priest had turned gray.

Decker said, “Do you feel sick?”

“Just the stench,” Bram said. “It’s okay. I’ll get used to it.”

“Give me a moment, Father, to clear things. You’re sure you’re not sick?”

“I’ll survive.”

Decker got out of the car. Farrell Gaynor met him in front of the Buick’s grille.

“Sparks is still in the car?” Decker asked.

“Yep. Craine’s just about done. Ready to load him on the wagon.” Gaynor scratched his nose. “Who you got in the car?”

“Sparks’s son. One of his sons. He’s a priest.”

“So the son is actually the father.”

Despite the grimness, Decker smiled. “I don’t want him to see his father sprawled out like that. We’ll bag him first, put him on a stretcher. Then I’ll bring the son over to make the ID.”

“Will do.”

Decker went over to the car. Craine stood up from his knees, took a step back when he saw Decker, and brought a hand to his chest. “Do you always sneak up on people, Lieutenant?”

“Sorry, Jay. What do you have?”

Craine appeared pensive. “Body’s still warm, no rigor evident. The homicide’s quite recent. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

Gaynor said, “Yeah, Loo, I meant to tell you. Scott Oliver called while you were gone. Sparks was at the hospital today. Last anyone remembers, he finished up a meeting with a bunch of doctors around eight. Nobody seems to know what Sparks was doing here. At Tracadero’s, that is. Because he had dinner at the hospital. At least, that’s what his secretary said. Her name is Heather Manley.”

“Is she still at the hospital?”

“I don’t know where Scotty talked to her. On the phone or at the hospital.”

“So the great man was last seen about eight.” Craine snapped up his black bag. “It’s now quarter to eleven. You have an accurate time frame. Better than the one that science could have provided.”

“Did you know him, Jay?”

“I knew of him, Lieutenant. Everyone knew about Dr. Sparks.” Craine turned away. “This is very difficult. Seeing such a man as he … butchered like this.”

“Tell me about the murder.”

“Shots to the head and neck. Severed his brain stem. Most likely that was the primary cause of death. The other savagery … the chest wounds. I’d say they were postmortem. Someone was very strong and very angry. To crack the sternum and rib cage and expose his heart. A long knife with a big blade. I found some pulverized bone matter. Anything might have been used to smash the chest cavity. A crowbar, a baseball bat. A hammer or a mallet.”

“Things easily found in any car or toolbox or kitchen,” Decker said.

“Yes,” Craine agreed. “Whoever did this was a strong person.”

“Male, then.”

“I would think. Even a strong woman … to do this much damage …” Craine furrowed his brow in concentration. “If I were you, I’d be looking for someone with a penis.”

Gaynor held back a smile. “Smashing up the chest and exposing the heart. Sounds like someone was making a statement.”

“Indubitably.” Craine took off his gloves. “We’ll take him to the morgue now. Autopsy will be done first thing tomorrow.”

Decker said, “I have one of Dr. Sparks’s sons in the car. He’s come down to make the ID.”

“It’s Azor,” Craine said. “I’ll state it formally, if you’d like. Save the man some agony.”

“I think he knows it’s his father. I think he just wants to see it for himself.”

“Good gracious why?”

“He’s a priest,” Gaynor said. “Maybe he wants to perform last rites on him.”

“Can you do last rites on someone who’s deceased?” Decker asked. “Besides Azor Sparks wasn’t Catholic.”

“He was very religious,” Craine said. “Everyone knew about Azor Sparks, his Fundamentalist beliefs, and his commitment to God.” The ME paused. “Perhaps he did have a hot line to the Supreme Being. He certainly saved a lot of lives.”

Decker said, “I’ll bring the priest over as soon as your men put him in the bag and on the stretcher. I don’t want him to see the crime scene.”

“Very considerate of you, Lieutenants,” Craine muttered. “Very considerate. Copious amounts of spatter. The image is haunting even for the most professional of us. Good night.”

Gaynor watched as Craine got into his car and drove away. “He seemed upset. Well, maybe not upset. More like … affected.”

“Aren’t we all.” Decker shook his head. “Where’re Webster and Martinez?”

“On Dumpster patrol.” Gaynor pointed into the darkness. “See those blips of light?”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Good thing about getting old,” Gaynor said. “You become very farsighted. I see the flashlights. Maybe they’re about a block and a half, two blocks down. Want me to get them on the walkie-talkie?”

Decker peered down the empty space, trying to make out light. “No, I’ll talk to them later. Let me get the identification over with.” He turned his eyes back to the scene. They had loaded Sparks onto a stretcher. “Clear the decks for me, Farrell. Give the son some breathing room.”

Decker walked back to the Volare, opened the passenger door. Bram got out, balancing his weight on the car before he stood up.

“You need help?”

“No.”

“Over here.” Decker led the priest to the stretcher, the body encased in a vinyl bag. He nodded to an attendant who unzipped a portion of the plastic sheath.

The priest glanced downward, quickly averted his eyes, then stepped backward. “Dear God!”

Decker peeked. Dead eyes stared upward at the foggy moon. He took the priest’s arm, but Bram shook him off.

“I’m all right.” He covered his mouth, then let his hands drop. “I’m all right. I want to see him again.”

Decker stared at him.

“Please,” Bram said quietly. “Please, I need to see him again. Have them unzip the bag.”

Decker nodded to the attendants. Again, they opened the vinyl casket. The priest came forward, forced his eyes downward. Without warning, he dropped to his knees and crossed himself. Closed his eyes and clasped his hands. He brought his fists to his forehead and prayed, his mouth incanting a slurry of what sounded like Latin. Decker crooked his finger, beckoning the lab men away from the stretcher.

Give the man his illusion of privacy.

5

The last registered event in Dr. Azor Sparks’s daily calendar was an in-house dinner meeting with three people: Reg, Myron, and Liz. It took only a quick call to Sparks’s secretary—Heather Manley—for Oliver to find out that Reg was Dr. Reginald Decameron, Myron was Dr. Myron Berger, and Liz was Dr. Elizabeth Fulton. This entry was one of many that had appeared in Sparks’s business book—a semiweekly research meeting of some sort, according to the secretary, Heather. And the dinner meetings were always held in Sparks’s conference room, not at Tracadero’s. That was all he could glean before Heather’s hysteria broke through.

Oliver’s eyes moved off the pages of Sparks’s daily planner and scanned the office. Place was twice as big as his apartment. A hell of a lot nicer, too. Wood-paneled walls, plush hunter green carpeting, surround-sound stereo speakers, wet bar, and fridge—all this plus a canyon view of the nearby mountains. True, there was no booze in the bar, only fruit juices, but that could be remedied. He cast his gaze on the ceiling-mounted television set. To Marge, he said, “Maybe we should turn on the TV.”

Marge shut Sparks’s top desk drawer. Nothing of substance in it. She tried the file drawers in his walnut desk, then the ones in his credenza. Locked, of course. “Think you’re outta luck, Scotty. He probably doesn’t subscribe to Adam and Eve.”

“How kind of you to sum me up as a horndog.” Oliver began putting stickums on Sparks’s planner. “I just wanted to see if the murder hit the networks yet. Because as soon as it gets out, hospital’s going to be thrown into a panic. Just like his secretary. Where the hell is she? She said she only lives fifteen minutes away. It’s not exactly rush hour.”

Marge investigated a wall of built-in bookshelves, her finger moving over the spines of thick medical tomes. “Didn’t she say she was going to call up his coworkers?”

“Three doctors. How long does it take to call up three doctors?”

Marge shrugged. “Sure, turn on the set.”

Oliver stretched and flipped the power on the ceiling-mounted TV. The monitor filled with a dark image—the climax of some series cop show. He watched an actress in a police uniform chase a bad guy, her breasts jiggling and heaving as she followed him to an alley. Her pants were skintight, showed off a well-formed ass as she peeked around a garbage can. Oliver’s eyes crept over to Marge. She was dressed in a baggy pantsuit and had gunboats on her feet.

“See anything interesting in his book?” Marge asked.

“Nothing that means anything to me.” Oliver paged through his notes. “Patient names, procedures, surgeries, staff meetings, reminders for birthdays and anniversaries … quite a few of those. Maybe he owned stock in a greeting card company.”

Marge glanced at the wood paneling. Interspersed with numerous diplomas and certificates were family photographs. “Looks like Sparks had lots of children and grandchildren. What a shame!”

Zing went the bullet against the trash can on TV. The heavy-breasted actress jumped back. Her makeup was still perfect, not a drop of sweat sullied her brow. Man, if that had been him, he’d be browning his jockeys. Oliver said, “Sparks had lots of meetings with various companies.”

“Which ones.”

“Biolab, Meditech, Genident, Bloodcell, Armadonics, Fisher/Tyne—that name came up on a regular basis. About once a month. Isn’t that a drug company?”

“Yeah.” Marge scratched her head. “My God, he was a busy bee. Wrote two medical textbooks, coauthored another four, and was an editor of a dozen others. Where did he find time to do all this?”

Oliver’s eyes went back to the TV. The big-boobed cop was now draped in a filmy nightie. She lay in bed, nestled in the arms of a stud with a deep voice and a cleft chin. As she talked, Mr. Cleft looked at the babe with the expression “Jesus, I’m an earnest guy” stamped across his puss. Okay, so he wasn’t humping her bones. Which would have been the real picture if this was real life. Okay. So maybe they had just humped, and he was older and had a long refractory period. Oliver could maybe buy that. What he couldn’t buy was the fact that he was listening to her. In real life, the guy would be completely zoned out, thinking about tax dodges or rotary baseball.

Marge checked her watch. “Manley does seem to be taking her time.”

“Lucky the janitor had a key,” Oliver said. “What’d you think about her reaction to the news?”

“After I got my hearing back?”

“Yeah, I could hear her scream across the room. Most people, upon hearing news that their boss was popped, are stunned. They don’t say anything.”

“Heather’s obviously the hysterical type.”

“All women are the hysterical type,” Oliver pronounced. “But Manley letting go with a wallop like that … weird. My head’s still ringing.”

Marge smiled, continued going over the books in Sparks’s shelves. “Heather reacted as if she was more to Sparks than just a secretary.”

“I have no trouble believing that,” Oliver said. “According to his daily calendar, he spent most of his waking hours at the hospital. And Heather is a nice piece of pie.”

“How do you know what she looks like?”

“Pictures on her desk.”

“She keeps pictures of herself on her desk?”

“Nah, pictures of her and some guy. But you know how it is. Secretaries and their bosses. Especially someone like Sparks. Power is the ultimate lady-killer. How else do you explain ugly, old guys getting laid by nymphets?”

“Well, if Sparks was boffing her, he’s your typical religious fanatic hypocrite.”

“Don’t let Decker hear you say that.” Oliver paused. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s got three bookshelves filled with religious material—Christian newspapers and magazines, lots of prayerbooks and numerous Bibles.” Marge shrugged. “Maybe Sparks and Heather read Bible together.”

Oliver laughed. “Well, I have no trouble believing that sweet Heather was on her knees.”

The door pushed open. A female voice screaming, “Just what do you think you’re doing!”

Marge brought her index finger to her right ear and rubbed it against the skinflap. Oliver held out ID.

The young woman was in her late twenties with big, big hair. Lots of it spilling down her shoulders and back. She was slim, wore a red knit dress that showed off curves. She whacked Oliver’s shield away. “I don’t care who you are. You have no right to invade my boss’s privacy!”

The news came on the TV. Sure enough, Sparks’s death had made the headlines. The young woman burst into a crescendo of wails. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it!”

“Ms. Manley,” Oliver said tentatively, “why don’t you sit down.”

She pulled on her overteased tresses, her saucer eyes spilling tears as she yanked. “Who would hurt the doctor? He was the gentlest person on the face of the earth! Why would anyone hurt him?”

“Ms. Manley, why don’t you sit down.” Marge mouthed to Oliver, “Turn the damn thing off!”

Oliver cut off the newscaster midsentence. Heather was still moaning. He said, “Why don’t you sit, Ms. Manley?”

She continued to pace.

Oliver said, “Sit down, ma’am … as in sit down in a chair.”

The secretary stopped treading, stared at Oliver. He pulled out the chair. “Please?”

She sat, the hem of her dress resting mid-thigh over smooth, white legs. Oliver did a rapid once-over, then said, “We need your help, ma’am. Did you get hold of any of the doctors that were at Sparks’s six o’clock meeting?”

Heather sniffed loudly. “Dr. Decameron said he’s on his way over here. Dr. Fulton … she can’t come down because she can’t get a baby-sitter. And her husband isn’t home yet. The dirty rat is never home. He’s a real jerk, suffers from a Peter Pan complex.”

Marge took out her notepad. “Now this Dr. Fulton is one of Dr. Sparks’s co-workers?”

“Yes.” Heather pulled a Kleenex out of her purse, blew her nose, and dried her eyes. “She works with Dr. Sparks on Curedon. They all do.”

“Who’s all?” Oliver was having trouble following Heather’s train of thought.

“Dr. Decameron, Dr. Fulton, and Dr. Berger. They work with Dr. Sparks, testing his drug, Curedon.”

Oliver perked up. “Dr. Sparks discovered a new drug?”

“He didn’t discover a drug,” Heather corrected. “He developed one. After years of research in his laboratory. Curedon is an antirejection drug. Fisher/Tyne bought it.”

“What do you mean bought it?” Marge asked.

Heather sighed. “I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask Dr. Decameron and hope for the best.”

“Hope for the best?” Oliver asked.

“Reggie is a jerk. Try getting any answers out of him. I don’t know why Dr. Sparks puts up with him.” Heather wiped her eyes again. “Actually, I do know why. The doctor was the best boss I’ve ever had. The most honest, sincere, nicest, gentlemanly … not that he didn’t have his moments. But once you understood his genius …” She exploded into a new wave of sobs.

“How long had you worked for him, Ms. Manley?” Oliver asked.

“Five years,” she cried.

“You were close to him?” asked Marge.

“I loved him!” she wailed.

Marge and Oliver exchanged glances. Heather caught it. “Not in the way you think. I loved him as in ‘hopelessly in love’ with him. He never laid a finger on me.”

Maybe not a finger, Oliver thought.

Heather said, “He was a gentleman in every way. Completely devoted to his wife and family. He wouldn’t ever think of touching another woman, much less have an affair. He was deeply religious.”

Again, Marge and Oliver looked at each other. Oliver said, “You sound like you’re pretty sure about that.”

“I’m positive!”

“You know, Heather, if you’re trying to lead us down the wrong path—”

“I’m not—”

“I’m not saying you are,” Oliver said. “All I’m saying is that if something was kinky with Sparks, it’s going to come out.”

“Nothing … and I mean nothing … was ever kinky with Dr. Sparks! The only thing he ever got into trouble for was being too good.”

“How’s that?” Marge asked.

“Like I said, he was deeply religious. He had tremendous faith in God and didn’t understand those who didn’t—”

“Oh please, Heather, spare them the Jesus on the cross routine.” A forty-plus man stuck out his hand to Marge. “Reginald Decameron. This is just horrible! It’s already made the news! I heard it coming over. Someone want to tell me what’s going on?”

Marge regarded the doctor. Slender, well-coiffed, well-dressed. Thin features, piercing dark eyes. Self-assured to the point of haughtiness. He wore white shirt, gray slacks, and a blue cashmere blazer. Pocket handkerchief in the blazer, silk hand-painted jacquard tie around his neck. She took the proffered hand. “Thank you for coming down.”

“How could I not come down.” He turned to Heather. “Where are Dr. Berger and Dr. Fulton?”

“They can’t make it—”

“What?” Decameron was outraged. “Azor is … murdered, and they can’t see fit to talk to the police?”

“Dr. Fulton couldn’t get a baby-sitter, Dr. Decameron. Her husband wasn’t home when I called.”

“And what was Myron’s excuse?” Decameron raised his brow. “Bad hair day?”

Heather glared at him. “How can you be so awful at a time like this?”

“What better time,” Decameron snapped back. He hugged himself, looked Oliver up and down. “This is truly horrid. What in the world happened?”

Oliver squirmed under Decameron’s intense but rapid scrutiny. Overt, sexual overtones. The man was gay. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out, Dr. Decameron.”

Marge stepped in. “As we understand it, Dr. Decameron, you, Dr. Berger and Dr. Fulton last saw Dr. Sparks at a dinner meeting.”

“Yes, one of our weekly staff get-togethers. Started around six, ended around eight.”

“Anything unusual happen at the meeting?”

It was Decameron’s turn to squirm. “Well, I might as well fess up. Myron’s going to jump at the opportunity to tell you this. It might as well come from me.”

The room fell silent.

“Azor was miffed at me,” Decameron admitted.

“What happened?” Oliver asked.

“Well, our research meetings are ostensibly an open forum to exchange ideas. Sometimes I get a little aggressive in my opinions offending our great Grand Imperial Wizard.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Heather piped in.

“I’m getting to that, child. Hold your hair, for goodness sakes.” Decameron turned to Marge. “Azor became miffed at me. I peeked at some of the great doctor’s data on his fax machine before he had a chance to see it. Not a terrible thing. But not courteous, either.” He paused. “Azor was angry. After the meeting … after Myron and Liz had left … I smoothed things over with him. Of course, they weren’t around to witness it. But I am telling you the truth.”

“What time was this, Dr. Decameron?”

“A little before eight. I remember it distinctly because we ended earlier than usual. Azor had received a call from one of his sons and cut the meeting short.”

“Okay.” Marge wrote furiously. “Does this son have a name?”

“Paul.”

“Was Dr. Sparks planning to meet Paul somewhere?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. His sons call often. They’re always hitting him up for money.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Heather interjected.

Decameron paused. “Okay. Paul and Luke are always hitting him up for money. True or false?”

Heather snapped her lips together, folded her arms across her chest.

“How many sons does Dr. Sparks have?” Oliver asked.

“Four,” Decameron said. “The youngest one, Michael, he’s what we call a legacy med student. Someone who gets in because of … connections. I call them capons.”

“Michael’s not bright?” Oliver asked.

“Neon, he’s not,” Decameron replied. “But he is young. He could season if he’d cut the strings. He still lives at home, so the little snot gets whatever he wants—”

“You don’t like his kids, do you?” Oliver said.

“I don’t like anyone, so don’t go by me.” Decameron sighed. “No, I don’t like his children. They’re all suck-ups. Except the priest. He’s independent so far as I can tell. And a good man.”

“Who’s he?” Oliver asked.

Heather said, “Father Bram.”

Decameron said, “Azor was livid when Bram took his orders. First, Bram had the nerve to convert from Azor’s strict Fundamentalist Church to Catholicism without asking Daddy’s permission. And then when he became a priest … well, what can I say? The truth hurts.”

“What truth?” Heather said.

“Darling, what do you think?” Decameron’s eyes roved between Oliver and Marge. “Bram is clearly gay—”

“What are you talking about?” Heather said.

“The whole family’s in heavy denial. Because to Azor, et al., homosexuality is still an abomination before the Lord. He couldn’t deal with it—his beloved son being a faggot.”

“Dr. Decameron, there’s no reason to use pejoratives,” Marge said.

“Oh come, come. Surely you can tell I’m talking from personal experience. Yes, Azor can deal with gays like me on a professional level. Just like he can deal with Jews like Myron Berger. But between me and these walls, I’m sure he thought of both of us as hopeless sinners.”

“I think you’re wrong!” Heather exclaimed. “And what does it have to do with poor Dr. Sparks being murdered?”

“I’m just giving them background, Heather.”

“When did he receive this call from Paul?” Oliver said.

“About seven-thirty.”

“Was he upset when he came back to the meeting?”

“Well, he was upset with me. But he didn’t seem upset by the call.”

“What’s this project you’re working on?” Oliver asked. “This Curedon?”

“So you know about Curedon.” Decameron squinted at Heather. “We’ve been talking, haven’t we.”

Marge said, “Dr. Decameron—”

“All right, all right. What do you know about Curedon?”

Oliver said, “It’s an antirejection drug, whatever that means.”

“You know what Azor Sparks is noted for, don’t you?”

“Heart transplants,” Marge said.

“Yes.” Decameron looked upward. “Heart transplants. The man is … was one of the greatest surgeons ever to land on our fair planet. Even I can’t joke away his genius.” He gazed at Marge. “Because Azor was a genius in every sense of the word. Terrible. For someone to cut him down … and with his death, dies all his skill and knowledge. Too bad Azor didn’t live long enough to set up a protocol for a brain transplant.”

Decameron cocked a hip.

“Now that might have been interesting. His brain in my body.”

“That would have been obscene!” Heather muttered.

Decameron rolled his eyes. “Curedon was just one of Azor’s many contributions to medical science. One in which I was privileged enough to participate. May I sit?”

Marge pointed to an empty upholstered chair. “Please.”

Decameron sat. “How to explain this.” He thought. “Whenever a transplant of any kind is effected, the human body has a natural tendency to reject it.”

Oliver said, “I’m lost.”

“Our bodies are amazing inventions. It almost makes you believe in God.” Decameron paused. “Almost. We have a wonderful invention called the immune system. It recognizes the Huns out there, the invaders of our bodies, and wipes them out. Any foreign substance—a virus, a bacterium, a cancer cell—will eventually be discovered as an interloper and destroyed if one has a properly functioning immune system. A very good thing. Without it, we’d all take the route of AIDS patients.”

Decameron looked at Oliver.

“Okay, so far,” Oliver said. “Go on.”

“Well, sometimes you can have too much of a good thing. Sometimes the immune system is overactive. For most of us, if we get an irritant up our noses or get a bee bite, we might sneeze a bit … or swell up locally. But eventually everything settles down. A few unlucky souls have immune systems that overreact—send out droves of histamines to fight off a little interference. Cellular walls break down, fluid is poured into the tissues, and the body swells up.”

“An allergic reaction,” Marge said.

“Exactly,” Decameron said. “The most dangerous sequela of an allergic reaction is in the lungs. The breathing apparatus can become so inflamed that often air can’t pass through.”

“So what does this have to do with Curedon?” Marge asked. “It prevents an allergic reaction?”

Decameron nodded. “In a sense, that’s what it does. When a heart is transplanted into a body, the body’s in-place immune system doesn’t recognize the heart as a necessary part of the body. It sees it as a foreign substance, and sends out white cells to destroy it.”

Oliver said, “So it’s like the patient has an allergic reaction to his or her new heart.”

“Essentially, yes,” Decameron said. “Without proper medication, the immune system would eventually eat the heart away.”

Marge said, “I thought that transplant patients are tested to make sure there’s a fit between the new heart and the old body.”

“Of course, we type-match, Detective. We do the best we can. But often it isn’t enough. There’s a sad shortage of hearts and lots of people with heart disease. We have to make do. That being the case, we have to work around the immune system. We have to undermine it. Hence, the class of drugs known as immunosuppressants. Cortisone for example.”

“You give heart transplant patients cortisone?”

“No, but surgeons give them related immunosuppressants. Like prednisone. The most commonly used drugs are Imuran and Cyclosporin-A. With severely compromised renal patients, surgeons often use the more experimental class of immunosuppressants—Orthoclone or OKT3—and the other Ks like FK506. Sorry to bore you with details, but it will help you understand the importance of Curedon.”

The room fell quiet. Marge wrote as fast as she could.

“Curedon has a completely different chemical structure from the other immunosuppressants. The way it binds and interacts with T-cells through the production of interleukin 2 … Curedon seems to subdue the immune system without suppressing it. What that means is, we see far less unwarranted side effects. This is very, very important. Because transplant patients are on immunosuppressants for life.”

“Forever?” Oliver asked.

“Ever and ever,” Decameron said. “We put them on as minimal a dose as possible. But even so, there are side effects.”

Marge asked, “Such as?”

Decameron ticked off his fingers. “Pulmonary edema, ulcers from mucosal sluffing, chills, nausea, fever, dyspnea.” He shook his head. “It’s a long road for these patients, and our goal, as members of the healing arts, is to make them as comfortable as possible. Curedon is as close to any miracle drug as I’ve ever seen in my twenty years as a physician and researcher. Azor had worked years on it. I learned more about 2.2 resolutions and X-ray crystallography than I’d ever wanted to.”

Decameron fell quiet.

“But I did learn.” His eyes became moist. “I did learn. And it was an honor for me to be part of something so cutting edge.”

“What’s going to happen with Curedon now that Dr. Sparks is gone?” Oliver asked.

“Not much probably. The initial trials of Curedon have been quite successful in general.” Decameron’s smile was tight. “Although we have had a few ups and downs lately. That’s why I was so pleased when I saw Azor’s data coming through his fax. I just couldn’t wait for him to come out of surgery. But it was wrong. An invasion of his privacy.”

Marge tapped her pencil against her pad. “What do you mean ‘ups and downs’?”

Decameron looked pained. “A small rise in the mortality rate—”

“That’s death rate in common folk language,” Marge interrupted.

Decameron smiled. “Yes. Death rate.”

“With Curedon.”

“Yes, with Curedon.” Decameron looked at Marge pointedly. “The patients aren’t dying from the drug, they’re dying from heart and renal failure. The sharp rise is puzzling, but kinks aren’t uncommon. Ah, the glamorous life of a research physician. Probably data error. Or a transcription error … or, alas, it could actually be a problem with the drug.”

“And if it is a problem with the drug?” Oliver asked.

“We’ll work it out. Curedon’s been a marvel. Too good to be true. Some bumps are inevitable. But mark my words. The drug will come on the market within the next five years.”

He paused.

“For Azor not to see the fruits of his labors … that is a tragedy of Greek proportions.”

Oliver asked, “Who do you do the trials on?”

“Actually, our team doesn’t run the trials. The FDA—Food and Drug Administration—analyzes the numbers in conjunction with Fisher/Tyne, which actually runs the trials.”

“Wait a minute.” Marge turned to Heather. “I thought you said Fisher/Tyne bought the drug from Sparks.”

“They did buy it from Sparks,” Decameron stated. “I don’t know how much they paid for it. But I do know Sparks received a huge initial cash deposit and was promised a percentage of the profits after the drug hit the marketplace.”

“Who will get Sparks’s percentage now that he’s dead?” Marge asked.

“I don’t know,” Decameron said. “Certainly not me. Effectively, Fisher/Tyne owns the rights to produce and market Curedon. Those rights were sold to them by the cash deposit.”

Oliver looked over his notes. “I’m confused about something.”

“Sorry. Teaching isn’t my forte.”

Oliver asked, “What do you mean when you say that the FDA is testing the drug in conjunction with Fisher/Tyne?”

“Fisher/Tyne, under our guidance and protocol, is running the lab tests for Curedon. The FDA gets copies of the results and analyzes them. At the moment, I’m the liaison between Fisher/Tyne, Dr. Sparks, and the FDA.”

“Fisher/Tyne is running the FDA tests for a drug it owns?” Marge was taken aback. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Happens all the time, my dear,” Decameron said. “Who do you think ran the tests for Prozac? Eli Lilly, of course. The FDA doesn’t have the skill, manpower or knowledge to test all the thousands of drugs that get put on the market. The FDA is the drug police. They determine policy and safety, but in general, they do not test. They rely heavily on the drug companies for their results.”

Oliver and Marge traded looks.

“That’s incredible!” Marge shook her head. “Who protects the consumer?”

“The integrity of the drug company.”

“We’re in big trouble,” Oliver stated.

“Actually, it’s not as bad you think,” Decameron said. “It’s not that drug companies are the bastion of honesty. But they are practical animals. An unsafe drug goes on the market, it spells L-A-W-S-U-I-T-S. They have a vested interest in making sure the drug is safe.”

“How about safe and effective?” Oliver asked.

“Effective?” Decameron raised his brow. “Of course, the drug must be effective.” He paused. “How effective? Well, that’s another issue entirely.”

6

The accusing voice hit Decker in the face like a bucket of ice.

“What the hell is going on!” it boomed.

Bram said, “Can you please let the man walk through the door first?” He stepped aside, allowing Decker to enter.

A sea of eyes upon him. With a sweeping glance, Decker took them all in. By now, he could tell who was who. Luke appeared older than his twin, his face fleshier and heavily lined, his eyes weary and cushioned with deep pouches. He was dressed in jeans and a sweater, his feet housed in sandals and socks. Unlike his twin, he wasn’t wearing glasses. Could be he had on contacts.

Mr. Booming Voice was Paul, the odd man of the trio. Handsome, though, with fiery blue eyes that held a nervous twitch. He blinked often and hard. He wore the standard gray business suit, but the tie was off, the white shirt was open at the collar.

Maggie and Michael sat on the sofa, eyes on Bram’s face. The remaining sister, Eva, was off to the side staring into space. Her complexion was as smooth as alabaster, her features fine and delicate. Her hair was pulled back, gold earrings clamped to her lobes. Garbed in a pale pink silk pants suit, she was very striking in an unapproachable way.

Michael got up, took Bram’s coat. “You’re white,” he said. “Let me get you some tea.” He turned to Decker. “Would you like some tea, Lieutenant?”

Decker shook his head.

Maggie stood. “I’ll brew a pot, Michael.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

Bram kissed his sister’s cheek. “Thanks, Mag. Did you take your medication?”

“Yes.” The young woman’s face crumpled. She ran off, disappearing down a hallway.

Paul blinked rapidly. “Can I talk now or do I have to raise my hand?”

Bram gave him a tired glance. “Why don’t we all sit down.”

“I don’t feel like sitting,” Paul said.

“Fine, Paul. You stand. I’ll sit.” Bram went into the living room and sank into the floral-faded overstuffed couch. Paul continued to pace, Eva remained leaning against the gold flocked-papered wall of the entry hall, staring upward at the dusty chandelier. Some of the brass fittings had been corroded rusty red.

Decker surveyed the room once again. The worn sofa took up most of the space. It was a three-piece sectional and faced two lumpy overstuffed chairs. A distressed-wood coffee table stood amid the seating. It held a half-dozen garden magazines and the King James Bible. In the far corner was a black grand piano, the sound box lid shut tight. Again, Decker was struck by the absence of any art on the walls. Just montage after montage of family photographs. He sat in one of the chairs.

Bram asked, “How’s Mom doing?”

“She’s sleeping.” Michael tugged at his sweater. “I gave her tea to keep her fluids up. She drank a little. Main thing is to keep her quiet—”

“I believe you used the word medicated,” Luke said.

“If absolutely necessary,” Michael answered.

Bram asked, “Did you give her something else?”

“Nothing since we last spoke.”

“Good,” Bram said. “One should last her through the night.”

“Which is good.” Paul paced the carpet, his lids twitching as he talked. “Because the news is on TV. Shots of the car. I don’t think she could stand it.”

“Phone’s been ringing nonstop,” Michael said. “I’ve unplugged it here, but you can hear it from the kitchen.”

“Machine on?” Bram asked.

“Yeah, but it’s running out of tape pretty quickly,” Michael said.

Bram said, “Why don’t you do this? Make another announcement tape. Uh … something like … ‘Sparks family wishes to thank all of you for your concerns and sympathies. If you wish to pay your personal respects to Dr. Azor Moses Sparks, there will be a preburial, memorial service for him at …’” He looked around the room. “What time, guys?”

Paul said, “You’re doing the service?”

“Don’t worry, it won’t be Catholic,” Bram said. “Or you can do it, if you want.”

Paul didn’t answer, continued to pace, eyes moving like shutters.

Bram said, “What time?”

“Two?” Luke asked.

Michael said, “What about Uncle Caleb? He’s going to want to be here.”

“You’re right,” Bram said. “I’ll call him. How about three? That should give him enough time to get out here.”

Nods all around.

Bram turned back to Michael. “‘A memorial service at three P.M., First Church of the Christ Child. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made in Dr. Sparks’s name to local charities.’ Sound okay?”

The room fell silent.

Bram spoke to Michael: “Go make the message, Mike, then call Dad’s service and let them know the plan.”

“I should get this cleared with Pastor Collins,” Michael said.

“Fine. Call him up. I’m sure you won’t have any problems.”

Without protest, Michael left the room.

Bram looked at Decker. “My father was a very prominent man. I’m sure he’ll get a big crowd. Any way the police can help us direct traffic so we can make this thing as orderly as possible?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Decker said.

“Thank you,” Bram said. “Who wants to pick up Uncle Caleb from the airport?”

“I’ll do it,” Paul said. “Just get me the information.”

Again, nobody spoke.

“How’d the news get out so fast?” Paul demanded of Decker.

“Newspeople have lots of contacts.” Decker took out a notebook. “Somebody had a big mouth and leaked it. I’m sorry.”

Maggie came back in with the tea, handed it to the priest. He said, “You should lie down. You’re pale.”

“I’m fine,” she said weakly.

Bram said, “Then come sit with me.”

Maggie nestled deep into her brother’s arms.

Paul sat down, blinking hard. “Can someone tell me what’s going on?”

Decker took out a pad. “Your father’s car was discovered by a busboy in the alley behind Tracadero’s, around … eight-thirty tonight.” Decker said, “The Buick was parked at an off angle. He peeked inside and saw a homicide victim—”

“How …” Paul asked. “How did it—”

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Maggie interrupted, “but I don’t want to hear details.”

“I don’t, either.” Luke turned to his twin. “It was bad?”

Bram just shook his head. Decker’s eyes moved between the twins. They not only looked alike, but sounded exactly alike. Soft, deep voices, similar inflections.

To Paul, Decker said, “If you’d like, Mr. Sparks, I can tell you more privately. But first, let me say this. We haven’t got a suspect or a motive right now. I’ve got men at the scene—”

“Does anyone know what Dad was doing at Tracadero’s?” Luke asked.

Bram said, “Lieutenant Decker and I were talking about that. I don’t have the faintest idea.”

“Me, either,” Michael said, reentering the room.

Paul stood, stared at the ceiling. It seemed to calm his tic. “Maybe it was somebody’s birthday. Somebody at the hospital.”

“Your brother Bram mentioned that as a possibility,” Decker said. “But I just found out that Dr. Sparks had dinner at the hospital.”

“That sounds like Dad.” Michael turned to Decker. “You should be questioning people at the hospital.”

Decker said, “I’ve got detectives at New Chris right now. We will be questioning hospital personnel extensively. Tonight, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow … as long as it takes until we’re satisfied.

“After I leave here, I’m going back to the crime scene. Right now, I have men canvassing the area, going door to door, questioning everyone around the area. All the necessary forensic professionals have been called in. I’m investigating every angle of this case. Which means …” Decker tapped a pencil on his notebook. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask all of you some questions.”

“Now?” Paul said. “It’s after eleven.”

“I know it’s late, Mr. Sparks. But these things tend to get solved quickly once we get leads. Best time to get leads is within twenty-four hours of the onset of the case. Information that you may think is trivial could turn out to be vital to us. I hope I won’t take up too much of your time. But we’re pushing hard on this. Help us out.”

“No objections,” Luke said.

Paul batted his eyes. “Me, either.”

“Eva, are you with us?” Bram asked.

She turned her head, eyes red and angry. Bram said, “Sit next to me.”

She did, sitting on his left side, her spine ramrod straight. Bram put his arm around her. She collapsed under his touch and leaned against her brother. It relaxed her coiled features.

Decker said, “My questions might upset you. I’m sorry if they do, but I have to ask them.” He turned to Paul. “Can I start with you?”

“Me?” Paul blinked furiously. “Why?”

“Because I also found out from my people that you called your father around seven-thirty. Can I ask you what it was about?”

Paul became crimson, his eyes a series of spasms. “It was private. Why is this important?”

Decker didn’t answer.

Paul said, “It has nothing to do with my father’s death. I don’t have to answer it.”

The room was quiet. Luke said, “Must be money.”

Paul shot his brother a deadly glance.

Luke said, “It’s no big deal, Paul. So you borrowed money from Dad. We all did from time to time.”

Nobody spoke.

Decker looked at Paul.

Paul’s eyes worked like strobe lights. “I called to ask him for a small loan—”

Michael let out a small laugh. Bram threw him a razor-sharp glance that shut him up.

Paul said, “Anything else?”

Decker said, “You asked him for money. What did he say?”

“He said, yes, of course. My father was a generous man.”

“Did you make the call from home?” Decker asked.

“From work. I work at Levy, Critchen, and Goldberg. I’m a stockbroker.”

“You were at work the entire evening, then?”

Paul’s eyes worked furiously. “No.” A meaningful pause. “After I made the call, I took a ride … by myself.”

“Must have been a long ride,” Decker said. “You made the call at seven-thirty. Your brother-in-law didn’t get hold of you until around ten-thirty.”

Silence.

Paul looked upward again. “Well, there goes any semblance of my privacy.”

“If you’d like, Mr. Sparks, I can ask you these questions one on one.”

Paul was quiet, his hand mowing through his pile of black curls. “Oh what the hell!” His smile was bitter. “I had words with my wife over asking my father for money. I was angry and didn’t feel like going home.”

More silence.

Paul said, “I had just asked my father for money about four months before. I didn’t feel like hitting on him again. My wife didn’t understand that.”

“What was the last loan about?” Decker asked.

Paul glared at Bram. “Why don’t you tell him. I know Dad tells you everything.”

Bram’s face was flat.

Paul blinked hard. “I had a margin call and didn’t have enough cash to cover it. Dad footed me a loan, one that I’m currently in the process of paying back rapidly because my stocks have since shot up. Tonight’s phone call had to do with the kids’ tuitions. You have no idea how expensive private schools can be. I didn’t want to do it, but my wife practically accused me of being a negligent and rotten father if I didn’t.”

Paul fell into the empty overstuffed chair.

“So those were my last words to my father. Asking him for money.” He dammed back tears. “Wonderful.”

Again, the house turned quiet.

Eva said, “Well, while we’re on the subject of loans, I guess you’re going to find out anyway. We borrowed … my husband and I … borrowed money about a year ago. My dad co-signed the loan. We’re also in the process of paying it back.”

Paul threw his sister a grateful look.

“Can I ask what the loan was for?” Decker said.

“My husband owns a chain of discount clothing stores.” Eva pronounced the word discount with disdain. “He took over the family business, thank you very much. Retail apparel took a dip. He had to close up some of the smaller boutiques and with the leases and mismanagement, he accrued some debt.” Her face grew tense as she talked. “I didn’t want to ask him. But my husband put me in a bind. Because he got caught in an interest crunch and had already taken out a second loan on the house to expand two years before. Rather than get stuck with exorbitant rates, David asked Dad to cosign a secured loan based on his assets.”

“Which are many,” Luke added.

“It seemed easier at the time,” Eva said. “And it hasn’t cost Dad a penny. David’s paying it back.”

“Where were you this evening?” Decker asked Eva.

“At home until I heard …” She looked down and turned away.

Decker’s eyes went to Luke.

“I was at work,” he said. “I finished up with a client around eight and was in my office doing paperwork until Bram called me.”

“You work at the Bomb Shelter?” Decker asked.

Luke rolled his eyes. “Yes, I work at the Bomb Shelter. Yes, I was an addict. Yes, I no doubt ingested thousands of dollars up my nose. Yes, I am now flat broke. Yes, I am now also sober. Yes, I’ve been sober for three years. Yes, I was alone for two hours in my office. No, nobody saw me. And no, I didn’t kill my father.”

Bram stifled a smile. Luke caught it and smiled back. Paul said, “I’m glad you two can find humor at a time like this.”

Luke said, “My dad is … was a wealthy man, Lieutenant. He and my mom hardly spent a dime. They, unlike me, are simple, modest people. I also went to him when I needed something especially in my glorious drug days. We all borrowed from Dad … well, not Bram. He’s the golden boy—”

Paul said, “Guy made a vow of poverty, and he’s the only one of us with money in the bank.”

“Church gives him everything,” Luke said to Decker.

Quietly, Bram said, “Can we change the subject?”

Luke said, “All I know is you’ve upward of fifty grand—”

“Luke!” Maggie said.

“What would you like me to do with my stipend, Lucas?” Bram said.

“Give it to me,” Luke said.

“Speaking of money,” Bram said, “did Dad have a will?”

No one answered.

Michael said, “I know Dad has a lawyer. The guy from the church.”

“Which guy, Michael?” Luke asked. “There are lots of guys—”

Michael glared at Luke. “With the white hair and the veiny, red nose.”

Luke said, “Well, that narrows it to about three thousand—”

“He’s an elder on the council,” Michael tried again. “He lost his wife a couple of years ago. Gosh, I can’t think of his name!”

“I know who you mean,” Maggie said. “Waterman.”

“Waterson,” Luke and Paul said simultaneously.

“William Waterson,” Bram said. “Paul, you take care of the funeral arrangements so Mom doesn’t have to be bothered with them.”

Paul’s eyelids twitched. “You expect me to pay?”

Bram was patient. “No. If need be, I’ll pay. But if Dad had a will and left us anything, maybe we can borrow against some of the funds to pay for the funeral. Save Mom some unnecessary heartache. And since you know about finance, it makes the most sense for you to call up Waterson and ask the questions.”

Paul’s voice was tight. “I have no problem with that, Abram. I just didn’t know what you meant.”

“So, now you know,” Bram said. “I’ll handle the service tomorrow. I’ll do as much of the calling as I can tonight, then I’ll finish up in the morning. I’m not going to sleep anyway. Any objections?”

No one spoke.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get started. Dad had lots of friends and admirers, and it’s going to take me a while.” Bram turned to Decker. “Can you drive me back to St. Thomas’s?”

“I’d be happy to,” Decker said. “I just need a little bit more information.” He turned to Eva. “Can I get your last name, ma’am?”

“Shapiro.”

Decker’s pause was fractional before he wrote it down. Suddenly, Eva burst into tears. “It was all so stupid!” She looked at Bram with wet eyes. “Why is life so stupid!”

“I don’t know why.” Bram turned to Paul. “Maybe you should take her home.”

“Everything is so meaningless!” Eva opened a Gucci bag, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and dabbed her eyes. “I didn’t even have a chance to say good-bye. Or to say I love you. And just when we were starting to get along!”

Maggie broke down into heavy sobs. Bram said, “Michael, could you check on Mom? It’s been a while.”

Wordlessly, Michael went up the stairs.

Eva faced Decker. “My parents and I haven’t been on very good terms for some time.”

Bram said, “You don’t need to get into this, Eva.”

“He’s going to find out anyway,” Eva said. “It’s actually my husband and my father. They don’t get along. I’m caught in the middle.”

Bram said, “Eva, honey, maybe we should save this—”

“You see, my parents are very devout people,” Eva continued. “Religious, good people. But …”

“But your husband’s Jewish,” Decker said. “It’s created some problems.”

Eva stared at him, dumbfounded.

Bram rubbed his eyes. “Last name, Eva. It’s a giveaway.”

Decker said, “I can understand how intermarriage might cause conflict.”

“It isn’t that David’s religious,” Eva said. “Quite the contrary, he isn’t religious at all. Neither are his parents. David never grew up with any kind of religious training. And from the start, he’s had no objection to me raising the kids as Christians. They’ve been baptized and confirmed. The kids and I attend church regularly. David doesn’t care. But for some stubborn reason, he refuses to convert! Jews are very stubborn peo—”

“Eva,” Bram chided.

“Bram, you can’t deny that it says right in the Bible that they’re stiff-necked—”

“Eva, enough.”

“It doesn’t say that in the Bible?”

“You’re quoting Bible to me?”

Eva stood up from the couch, fire in her eyes. “I’m telling you what it says right in the holy book.” She picked up the Bible from the coffee table. “Would you like me to find the passage?”

“Exodus thirty-two, nine,” he said wearily. “You’re being literal—”

“And you’re being condescending.”

“Eva, can we save the biblical exegesis—”

“You know, Bram, maybe I don’t know Hebrew like you do. But I do know Jews—”

“Fine, Eva, you’re a mavin on contemporary Jewish Zeitgeist. Can we move on?”

“What in the world is a Zeitgeist?” Paul asked. “Sounds like something from a fifties horror flick.”

“Honestly, Bram, I think you pull these words out of a hat!” Eva exclaimed.

“Isn’t it a sociology term?” Maggie said.

Bram said, “It’s the intellectual, moral, and cultural state of a people in a given era.”

“Sure, I knew that,” Luke said.

“What’s a mavin?” Paul asked.

“Expert,” Bram said. “Comes from the Hebrew word lehaveen—to understand.”

“So why didn’t you just say ‘so you’re an expert on Jews.’” Eva crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “You’re just infuriating sometimes. Always complicating everything. Just like David. He couldn’t make things easy on me and the family and just convert. No, he had to be spiteful—”

“Maybe the poor guy was just trying to assert himself,” Paul said. “Dad can be very intimidating.”

“The word is bossy,” Luke said.

“How can you talk about him like that after what happened to him!” Eva yelled out.

“You know, Eva, you don’t have a monopoly on grief,” Luke said. “I’m just as devastated as you are.”

Eva went on. “If David really cared about his family, he could have converted. Of course, now it’s too late!”

“Cold nights ahead for David,” Luke muttered.

Paul stifled a smile. A beeper went off. The priest looked at his belt, checked the number, then stood up. “Excuse me for a moment.”

After Bram left the room, Eva turned her ire to Paul. “You know when Spencer was sick, David sure didn’t mind Dad handling all the surgeries and the medical expenses. Suddenly, Dad’s take-charge attitude didn’t bother him a bit!”

“What was wrong with Spencer?” Decker asked.

“He was born with a cleft palate,” Eva said. “It was a very difficult labor. Afterward, I ran a high fever and started hemorrhaging. David was completely useless. Couldn’t deal with it. He just went off and buried himself in his work. Left me to fend for myself—”

“He was very upset, Eva,” Paul said. “He just didn’t know what to do.”

“Well, he might have stuck around instead of bolting.” Eva looked at Decker. “My father had to step in—not only for me but for Spencer. My mom took over the care of my other children while David composed himself. And you know what, Lieutenant. My father never lorded it over my husband—”

Luke interrupted, “Well, that’s not quite true—”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Eva said forcefully. “I’d like to check on my mother now. Any other questions I can answer?”

Decker kept his face flat, shook his head.

Eva turned on her heels and trotted upstairs.

The woman had her opinions. Then Decker remembered her position in the family. The little girl after three boys. No doubt Eva had been indulged.

Luke said, “I loved my father dearly, Lieutenant. But it wasn’t that simple.”

Maggie said, “It’s Eva’s business.”

“I just don’t want the lieutenant here thinking that David’s a total jerk.”

Maggie said, “He was a total jerk—”

“Dad emasculated him—”

“He did not!” Maggie broke in. “So he berated David. David deserved it. Deserting Eva like he did.”

Paul said, “No offense, Mag, but you don’t understand how wives can be.”

“Amen,” Luke said.

“I don’t believe this,” Maggie said. “Another stupid boys against the girls argument.”

Michael came back down. “Where’s Bram?”

“He had to use the phone.” Paul turned to Decker. “Do you really need to hear all this?”

Decker stood, folded his notepad. “No, I think I have all the information I need right now. I’ll leave as soon as Bram gets off the phone.”

Luke said, “We’re bickering like when we were children. It’s all the stress.”

Michael said, “We all loved Dad very much. I think I speak for everyone when I say, anything you need from us to find whoever …”

“Absolutely,” Maggie said.

“Anything,” Paul said. “Just find the bastard and bring him to me. I’ll handle the son of a bitch!”

Decker said, “Let the police handle it, please.”

“Fucking asshole—”

“Paul, please!” Maggie said.

“Probably some bastard carjacker.” Luke began to pace. “Crime’s unbelievable in this city.”

Paul looked pointedly at Decker. “That’s what happens when the police handle it.”

Decker said, “Sir, I know—”

“Dad didn’t drive an expensive car,” Michael butted in. “Why would anyone carjack a Buick?”

“They use the car for crime,” Paul said. “They see an old guy, they think easy target. Knowing Dad, he probably resisted.” To Decker, he said, “My father was tough. He wouldn’t give up without a fight, I could tell you that much.”

Bram came back in.

“Emergency?” Michael asked.

“No, somebody from my church just using my emergency line. I have a feeling I’m going to get a lot of that tonight. Where’s Eva?”

Paul pointed up.

Bram sighed, looked at Decker. “Can I go make peace with my sister? We are all kind of fragile right now.”

Decker nodded. Bram left the room. Luke said, “Eva’s marriage is …” He splayed his hand and rocked his wrist back and forth.

“It’s not any of his business,” Michael said.

“But it does explain her behavior,” Luke said.

Bram came down a moment later, hugging Eva, who was sobbing in his arms. The priest said, “Maggie, can you take Eva into the kitchen and make her a cup of tea?”

Maggie swooped her sister into her arms. As they headed for the kitchen, Maggie began to cry.

Luke said, “I think the reality of what happened is finally dawning on us.”

Bram closed and opened his eyes. “Who’s staying with Mom?”

“Nobody has to stay,” Michael said. “I can take care of Mom.”

“You’re going home, Paul?” Luke asked.

“No, I don’t want to go home tonight. I just can’t face …” Paul stopped talking, sighed. “Maybe I’ll take a drive.”

“Be careful, bro,” Bram said.

“Yeah.”

“I mean that.”

“I know you do, Golden Boy.”

A moment passed. Then Paul and Bram embraced.

“Get some sleep,” Bram told his brother.

“A nice thought, but not likely.” Paul left, gently closing the front door behind him.

To Luke, Bram said, “What about you?”

“Think I’ll stick around.” Luke averted his eyes. “Can you do me a favor, Golden Boy?”

“What?”

“Call Dana for me.”

“Lucas—”

“Abram, I can’t deal …” Water seeped from Luke’s eyes. He squeezed them shut, tears rolling down his cheeks. He made a quick swipe at them, then headed for the kitchen.

“Everybody’s falling apart!” Michael threw up his hands and paced. “Of course, everyone’s falling apart. What did I expect!”

Bram said, “Why don’t you go into the kitchen, Mike? Go drink some tea.”

Michael opened his mouth to speak, but instead just shook his head and left the room.

Decker placed his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Ready?”

Bram nodded. On the way out, he said, “Thank you for helping me through that terrible ordeal earlier in the evening.”

“Are you all right?”

Bram shook his head. “I don’t know. I had to see him … to make sure. But heavens, it was … painful …”

“I hope I can give you all some resolution quickly.” Decker opened the passenger door to the Volare. “I’ll get you a traffic cop for tomorrow’s service.”

“Thanks.”

Decker got in and started the car.

Bram said, “You handled my family well. Low-key works well with us.”

“They depend on you a lot, don’t they?”

Bram looked out the window. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Decker waited for more. Nothing came. The priest had shut down.

“Do me a favor, will you, Father?”

“How can I help you?”

“Watch your brother Paul. I don’t need a vigilante for homespun justice.”

“He’s just talking.”

“He’s agitated.”

“We’re all agitated. Right now, I think we’re all too dazed to do anything.”

“Sometimes that’s when people lash out.”

Bram sat back in his seat. “Violent city we live in. No regard for human life. It’s terrible.”

“Often these things do get solved if you’re persistent and patient,” Decker said. “I try to be optimistic. But I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up too high.”

Bram laughed, a sad sound. “I fervently believe in God, Lieutenant. But I’ve given up believing in miracles.”

7

Cradling the phone in the crook of his neck, Scott Oliver flipped through his notes. The machine must have had a hands-off feature, but Oliver couldn’t figure out how to use it. To Decker, he said, “The secretary claims she left the hospital around eight. Decameron says he left with Sparks about a quarter to. They walked out to the doctors’ lot together. Decameron had pissed Sparks off and was trying to smooth things over.”

“Which means Decameron was probably the last person at the hospital to see Sparks alive,” Marge spoke from the extension in Heather Manley’s office.

“How’d Decameron anger Sparks?” Decker asked.

“Apparently, Decameron read some of Dr. Sparks’s data without his permission. A big no-no.”

“I can see that,” Decker said. “I hate snoops.”

Marge said, “He wasn’t snooping really, just excited about some positive data concerning Sparks’s pet research project.”

Oliver said, “Decameron said he apologized and Sparks accepted it. End of story.”

“Up front with it,” Marge said. “Told us about it right away.”

Decker said, “When Sparks left the hospital, did Decameron notice if his boss seemed in a hurry?”

“We asked him that.” Oliver transferred the phone to his other ear. “Decameron didn’t notice anything special. But he added that it wasn’t Sparks’s style to rush. Even when he was under pressure, he appeared calm, completely in control.”

Decker said, “Any idea if he was meeting someone?”

Marge said, “We asked that, too. Sparks didn’t say. But if he was meeting anyone, both Decameron and Manley thought it was probably his son Paul.”

“Because Sparks cut the meeting short after he received Paul’s call,” Oliver added. “Did you meet Paul, Loo?”

“I met all of Sparks’s children. These aren’t TAC lines, so I’ll talk about it later. Where are Decameron and Manley now?”

Oliver said, “The night staff has called an emergency meeting. Decameron is briefing them on how to proceed with Sparks’s cases. It’s a mess here—a very nervous hospital filled with panicky patients.”

Marge said, “Sparks did all sorts of cardiac procedures, not only transplants. The great majority of the hospital are his heart patients. Everyone is anxious.”

Decker asked, “Is Decameron a practitioner as well as a researcher?”

Marge said, “He’s trained as a cardiac surgeon, but he doesn’t have many clinical patients anymore. His energies are directed to transplant research. He did say—albeit grudgingly—that Myron Berger, one of their colleagues, is a very good surgeon, capable of filling in for Sparks.”

“Grudgingly with a capital G,” Oliver added. “Decameron works with Berger, but he hates him. Course, Reggie boy doesn’t seem to like anyone. He’s also a flounce.”

“Flamingly gay,” Marge said. “Proud of it.”

“You gotta kind of admire him for that,” Oliver said. “And he’s real smart. Clever as well as academic.”

Decker paused. “I wonder if Decameron’s gayness created tension between him and a Fundamentalist like Sparks?”

“Not according to Decameron,” Marge said. “He said Sparks could work with anyone on a professional level.”

“He also mentioned that Sparks had a gay son who was a priest,” Oliver said. “Maybe that made Sparks more tolerant.”

Decker thought for a moment. Bram didn’t seem overtly gay. But that didn’t mean anything. “What about Dr. Berger? Anyone talk to him yet?”

“Can’t get hold of him,” Marge said. “We’ve left a half-dozen messages—”

“I don’t like that at all.”

Oliver said, “We didn’t either, Loo. Sent a cruiser by there a half hour ago. House is dark, but nothing appears out of order. Just looks like no one’s home.”

“So where is he?” Decker asked. “If Berger’s a surgeon with clinical patients, he must have a pager.”

“Yeah, we tried his beeper,” Oliver said. “His answering service said he wasn’t on-call tonight. A resident named Kenner is covering for him. I guess Berger shuts down when he’s off.”

Unlike Sparks who basically lived at the hospital. Decker said, “Sparks also worked with a woman named Elizabeth Fulton. What do you know about her?”

Marge said, “Now, we did reach Fulton. She can’t come to the hospital at the moment, because she can’t swing a baby-sitter.” She was silent for a moment. “Isn’t that weird. A doctor of her stature not having twenty-four-hour help?”

“But she’s not a practitioner,” Oliver said. “Strictly research.”

Marge said, “Still, she’s a busy woman. You’d think she’d have a live-in.”

Oliver said, “Anyway, she’s more than willing to talk to us if we want to come to her place.”

Decker checked his watch. Almost midnight. “Call her up. Tell her you’ll be down there tonight. Did you check out the rest of the hospital staff?”

“Not yet,” Oliver said.

“We’re going to do that now,” Marge said. “Unless you want us to see Fulton first.”

Decker said, “Webster and Martinez are just about done over here at the crime scene. I’ll send them over to the hospital. You go interview this Dr. Fulton. What happened to the secretary, Heather Manley? She still around or did she go home?”

“Went home,” Marge said.

“No reason to keep her.” Oliver felt his lips arc upward into a grin. “Well, I’ve got a reason to keep her, but it doesn’t have anything to do with the case.”

“Good-looking?”

“Very nice, Loo.”

“Affair material?”

“Definitely,” Marge said. “But Heather claims no. Sparks was way too close to Jesus to do something like that.”

“What do you think, Scott?”

Oliver brushed the lapel of his Armani blazer. Got this baby used from a secondhand shop, but it was in perfect condition. Wonderful fabric, the wool was lightweight but warm. “What do I think? Sure I think it’s a possibility despite what Manley says.”

“He doesn’t sound like the kind to me, Pete.” To Oliver, Marge said, “You know, there are some men who don’t do it, Scotty.”

“Two classes of men, Marge,” Oliver said. “Those who cheat and those who’re going to cheat. Only thing that separates them is timing.”

Decker said, “Who’s taking over Sparks’s patients right now?”

“Residents,” Oliver said. “As soon as Dr. Berger is reached, Decameron is sure that he’ll fill in. There have also been lots of surgeons from other places volunteering to help out. Everyone speaks highly of Sparks.”

Decker said, “Okay. Go interview Dr. Fulton. By the way, did Decameron mention a drug called Curedon to you?”

“Did he mention Curedon?” Oliver laughed. “Marge and I have doctorates in immunosuppressants.” He brought Decker up to date on Sparks’s research.

“See, that’s why Decameron swiped the data from Sparks’s fax machine,” Marge said. “It was good news. Lately, Curedon had undergone some problems in its death rate. This particular batch of data was positive. Decameron said he just didn’t want to wait until Sparks handed him the sheets.”

“And that was the only thing that pissed off Sparks?” Decker asked. “Sure there wasn’t more to the argument?”

“Not according to him,” Oliver said. “Of course, one of the other doctors might offer a different version.”

Decker said, “Why should Decameron care so much if it’s Sparks’s drug? He doesn’t make money off of it, does he?”

“Decameron says no,” Oliver said. “But …”

Marge said, “He told us that as of right now, he is the liaison between Fisher/Tyne, the FDA, and Sparks’s lab.” She paused. “I know this may sound corny. But I get the feeling that Decameron takes his job seriously, has a great deal of pride in his work. He had a personal stake in Curedon’s success if not a financial one.”

“Hmmmm,” Decker said.

“You know differently?” Oliver asked.

“Nah, just my normal suspicious nature,” Decker said. “Someone should go talk to people at Fisher/Tyne ASAP. Find out if the company did pay Sparks a hefty sum for the right to manufacture the drug. Because where there’s money, there’s motive for murder.”

Oliver said, “We don’t even know where Fisher/Tyne is located, Loo.”

“Ask Decameron,” Decker said.

Marge said, “What if they’re out of state?”

“If necessary, we’ll send you there.”

Oliver smiled. “Let’s hope for Florida.”

“There’re gators in Florida,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “There’re gators everywhere, Margie. Most of them are just two-legged.”

Decker took a final sip of coffee, hung up the mike, then heaved his body out of the Volare. He lurched forward into the cold mist, checked his watch again.

Midnight.

Most normal people were retiring for bed.

Bed was a very nice thought.

Bert Martinez walked over to him. Decker offered the detective some coffee from his thermos.

“No thanks,” Martinez answered. “Wife packed me a jug full of Mexican coffee. Strong stuff. Spicy. Want a cup?”

“Where were you ten minutes ago … before I tanked up on this swill?”

Martinez smiled.

Decker stuck his hands in his pockets. Rocked on his feet to give them circulation. Man, it was cold out here, fog attacking the skin with tiny, icy needles. Standing in a back alley perfumed by rotting food, cold asphalt seeping into the soles of his shoes.

He said, “Take it there’s nothing to report. Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking about coffee.”

Martinez closed the zipper on his windbreaker, streaks of silvered-black hair plastered to his sweaty brow. He blew on his hands, then stuck them in his pockets. He was more squat than tall, but his muscles could pack a wallop.

“The problem is that the restaurant’s dishwashing area faces the back alley.”

Even with the kitchen door closed, Decker could hear the hum of machinery combined with the rhythmic blare of trumpets. Someone had the radio on.

“You think the noise is bad out here,” Martinez said, “nothing like it is inside. Dishwashers running full tilt, the help have cranked up the music to earsplitting level. Besides, there’s lots of noise coming from the front portion of the kitchen. Appliances running, pots and pans clattering, and the chef screaming at everyone.”

“No one heard anything?” Decker asked.

“That’s the consistent story,” Martinez said. “Believe me, I interviewed everyone in the back en español so no one can say they didn’t understand my questions. Between the whoops of the salsa music and the whir of the dishwashers, you can’t hear yourself think. Besides, you know Latinos. Especially the green-card holders. Close mouthed when it comes to the police. Half of them think we’re in cahoots with INS. Hard to get their confidence, hard to get them to talk. Especially the men. It’s a macho thing, a way they can play one up on us.”

Decker smoothed his mustache. “So Sparks was shot and carved and, supposedly, no one heard a thing.”

“It could be the truth. Maybe the guy used a silencer. Maybe he worked fast.”

“The more likely explanation is we’re working with more than one person.”

“Because of the dual MO.”

“Exactly,” Decker said. “Was there any cash in his wallet?”

“Few bucks in cash and his credit cards were still there. Either it was an incomplete mugging, maybe someone spooked the muggers. Or robbery wasn’t the motive.”

“Shit,” Decker muttered. “Be nice if we could have traced credit cards or something!” He cursed again. “What about the valets, Bert? Did they hear anything?”

“They park the cars in front of the restaurant, not in back.”

“Sound travels at night,” Decker said.

“The street’s a main thoroughfare at eight-thirty. Lots of cars with loud radios, backfires, and revved-up motors.”

Webster sauntered over to them, wearing a set of earphones. He removed them, stowed them in his pocket.

“What are you listening to?” Martinez asked.

“Selections from Saint-Saëns. Specifically, Danse Macabre. Eerily apropos.” He kicked a clod of broken asphalt with his shoe. “Not much in the way of trash, Loo-tenant. Y’all want me to search again, I reckon I have the time. Still got a Samson and Delilah CD to listen to.”

“Got another assignment for you two,” Decker said. “I’m sending you both out to New Chris to interview the staff there.”

Martinez said, “You want us to talk to everyone or just the people who Sparks worked with on a regular basis?”

Decker said, “Talk to everyone.”

“I see you don’t b’lieve in sleep,” Webster said.

“I’m not sleeping, buddy, you’re not sleeping.” Decker’s brain was buzzing. Too much coffee. “We have a gruesome murder and so far the only remote motive we’ve pulled out was an academic tiff between Sparks and one of his colleagues. That’s not much.”

Webster said, “It’s a start.”

“It ain’t enough,” Decker said emphatically. “I’m not saying we’ve got to solve this within the twenty-four-hour cutoff. But we got to do better than this. Sparks was known as a rich man. Could be some hospital worker intended to tail him and rob him. Find out who called in absent today.”

“Anybody know what he was doing here?” Martinez asked. “In back of Tracadero’s specifically.”

“No,” Decker said. “Call me in an hour to brief me on your progress.”

Tom nodded. “You want to drive, Bert?”

“No problem. You want some coffee?”

“You got coffee?”

“A whole jug of Mexican stuff—strong and spicy. I also got some pasteles and fried tortillas with powdered sugar. Wife’s a good cook.” Martinez patted his gut. “Too good.”

“Y’all don’t have to eat it.”

“If it’s in front of me, I eat it.”

Decker watched them disappear in a swirling snowstorm of street-lit mist. Decker folded his arms over his chest, let out a fog-visible sigh. Farrell Gaynor was still poking around the scene. Decker walked over to the Buick.

“Impound should be here momentarily, Loo.” Gaynor was half in, half out of the car, legs dangling from the interior. Finally, he began to push his body out. It looked like the Buick was giving birth to a breech baby. He straightened his spine, handed some paper to Decker. “Couple of gas credit slips. He kept his car real neat. Not surprising considering what he does.”

“Yeah, think you would want your heart surgeon to be the compulsive type.”

“Now, this is more interesting, Loo.” Gaynor offered Decker a white business card.

“Wait, let me put my gloves on.” He slipped on latex, then took the piece of paper.

The background was imprinted with the Harley-Davidson logo—wings attached to a big H. Bold Gothic letters were overlaid across the center of the card.

Everyone needs an Ace In The Hole.

Because Sparks fly hard and hot.

Born to be Wild.

No address, no phone number on the front. Decker flipped the card over. Nothing on the back, either.

Gaynor said, “What do you make of it?”

“Where’d you find it?”

“In the glove compartment,” Gaynor answered. “Stuck between the pages of a Thomas guide. Only other thing in the compartment was the owner’s manual.”

“Ace In The Hole? Sparks fly …?” Decker laughed. “Azor Sparks. Ace Sparks?”

“Maybe the good doctor is a secret Hell’s Angel.”

“Yeah, he’s really a kingpin crank supplier who’s been manufacturing meth out of his hospital lab,” Decker said.

“Can’t you see it in the headlines?” Gaynor said. “Head doctor is secret head.” Suddenly, he grew pensive. “You know, Loo, the case does have the look of a drug retaliation hit.”

Decker laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

“Lots of brutality. You yourself said it looks like a gang hit. I know it sounds lunatic. But maybe it’s worth checking out.”

“It’s absurd.”

“So is finding that card in Sparks’s car.”

“Unless it isn’t his. Could belong to one of his kids.”

“Ace sounds like Azor to me.”

Decker rolled his tongue in his mouth. As of this moment, he didn’t have squat. What would it hurt to look at this through every possible lens. He pocketed the business card. “I’ll look into it.”

“It’s stupid, but what the hey.” Gaynor rubbed his shoulders, massaged his neck. “Cold out here.”

“Call it a night, Farrell.” Decker took off the gloves and blew on his hands. “I’ll wait for impound. You go back to the station house and finish up the paperwork. Tomorrow, start the paper trail on Sparks. His bank accounts, his credit cards, brokerage accounts if he has any. And I’m sure he does because his kid is a stockbroker.”

“That doesn’t mean he invested with him.”

“Find out. If he didn’t, that says something. Tomorrow, you also begin a paper trail on his children, starting with son Paul. He owed his dad some bucks. And so did Sparks’s daughter, Eva Shapiro. Those are the only two who fessed up to being in arrears with Dad. But I want you to check all of them out.”

“You going home after impound, Loo?”

“No, I’m going by Myron Berger’s house. Something’s way off with that.”

“Be careful.”

“Always am.”

“See you, Loo.”

“See you.” Decker rubbed his hands, then his arms, watching Gaynor totter back to his car. The man had two more years before he’d be forced to hang up his shield. Forty-five years of police service: thirty-five of them as a detective third grade, fifteen of those as a Homicide detective in brutal gang territory. And yet the guy was always neat, clean, punctual. As dependable as Big Ben and still had a bounce in his step at twelve-thirty in the morning.

Way to go, Farrell.

8

Something Marge could never understand: why someone would buy a house abutting the foothills. A bad month of rain and, lo and behold, a thousand-pound avalanche of mud occupied space that once was the living room. Yet, Pete’s house sat at the edge of the mountain. So did the home belonging to Dr. Elizabeth Fulton. For her domicile, she had chosen a sprawling one-story ranch thing made out of wood siding. A big piece of property. At least a couple of acres separated her from her nearest neighbor.

Unlatching the metal gate, Oliver said, “Guess the doctor isn’t a bug on landscaping.”

Marge nodded. The lot was fenced with chain-link, the lawn a scratch pad of scrub grass. No flowers, no shrubs, no bushes, no plants that hadn’t come from airborne seeds. In the background, behind the house, Marge could see several rows of tall citrus. She could smell them too, blossoms giving off a tart, sweet scent. They walked up to the front entrance. The doctor answered the door before they knocked, her complexion mottled gray and dappled with perspiration.

No wonder, Marge thought. The doctor was wearing sweats and a sweater. Internal chill. Her face appeared childlike, probably because of her eyes. The size of beach balls, they seemed to take up half her face. Big, brown irises, red-rimmed at the moment. Between the orbs sat a button nose spangled with freckles. Her mouth was wide with lush lips. Woolly henna hair was pulled back into a ponytail. At a quick glance, she looked to be barely twenty. But with smile lines apparent and ripples in her neck, Marge figured her age closer to forty.

“Dr. Fulton.” Oliver took out his badge and ID. Fulton gave it a cursory glance, then motioned them across the doorway. “Please, come in.”

The living room had been decorated pseudo-country. Cheerful floral prints covered a traditional sofa and two matching chairs. A wall-sized bay window was topped with a pleated valance and the tiebacks were sewn from the same flowered fabric. The actual window curtains were drawn, made from lace that allowed light to pass through. At one in the morning, the outside view was a screen of still shadows. In the middle of the bay stood a polished pine rocker resting on bleached oak flooring that had been pegged and grooved. The fireplace was going full blast. It was hot, and Marge could feel wet circles under her armpits. The hearth was masoned from bouquet canyon stone, the plaster mantel hosted a half-dozen photographs of a chubby toddler boy.

“Sit wherever you’d like,” Fulton whispered.

Oliver chose a chair, Marge took the sofa. The doctor stood next to the fireplace screen and rubbed her hands together. “I shouldn’t be here. I should be there … at the hospital … helping.” She brought her hands to her face and cried into them.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit?” Oliver asked.

“No.” She wiped her eyes with her fingers, folded her arms across her chest. “What happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Marge said.

“Was he kidnapped? Carjacked? I mean no one would have hurt him if they had known who he was, right?”

Oliver took out his notepad. “You sure you don’t want to sit, Doctor?”

“Positive.” She shook her head. “I mean … why?”

Oliver said, “If you could help us with the why, you’d be doing everyone a service. When was the last time you saw him, Doctor?”

“Last night. At our research meeting.”

“The Curedon meeting,” Oliver clarified.

“Yes. How did you— You’ve spoken to Dr. Decameron, then.”

“Yes.” Marge took out her pad. “You have regularly scheduled meetings?”

“Yes and no. Dr. Sparks sends us a memo when we’re to meet. It works out to about once or twice a week.”

“You don’t mind that?” Marge asked.

“Mind what?”

“That he sends you a memo at his … discretion?”

Fulton threw Marge an impatient look. “He’s a very busy man. Of course, we work around his schedule.”

“When was the last time you actually saw him?” Oliver repeated.

“Oh gosh! He cut our research meeting short. It must have ended around seven-thirty, maybe quarter to eight.”

“Why did he cut the meeting short?” Marge asked.

Fulton said, “Well, he really didn’t cut it short, per se. He just summed things up rather quickly after he took the phone call from his son. He gave no reason for hurrying things along.”

“Did he seem upset after the phone call?”

“He was upset when he took the call. He was angry at—” She stopped short.

Oliver said, “Dr. Decameron told us he had an argument with Dr. Sparks.”

“It wasn’t an argument. Dr. Sparks just became a little irritated shall we say.”

“Irritated at Decameron.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Her eyes grew suspicious. “Dr. Decameron didn’t tell you?”

“We’d like your opinion,” Marge said.

She stared at Marge, appeared to be weighing her words. “Dr. Decameron read some of Dr. Sparks’s faxes. The latest Curedon trial results. Of course, Reggie apologized right away. He was just excited about the data. You see, there had been some slowdown of Curedon’s efficacy rate. The newest numbers however were very encouraging.”

“Yeah, Dr. Decameron told us something about that,” Oliver said. “How you’ve been getting a lot more deaths lately.”

She bristled. “Not a lot. Just some … Dr. Decameron seems to feel it might be a lab or computer processing error.”

Oliver said, “Maybe he’s making excuses because he’s anxious to bring Curedon to market.”

Marge said, “Big boost in his career as an academician, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Maybe he’s even been promised a piece of the profits,” Oliver suggested.

“No, no, no,” Liz protested. “That’s entirely false. The only one who would gain anything monetarily is … was Azor. You’re way off base.”

“You’re sure about that,” Marge said.

“Sure I’m … at least to my knowledge.”

“Let’s go back to the meeting,” Marge said. “It ended around seven-thirty maybe quarter to eight?”

“About that time, yes. Then Dr. Sparks and Dr. Decameron walked out together. Maybe that was ten minutes later.”

“Did Dr. Sparks seem in a hurry?”

“Well, he did push the meeting. But no … he didn’t seem as if he was rushing to get somewhere. Of course, that wasn’t Dr. Sparks’s manner … to hurry things.”

Marge said, “Did Dr. Decameron and Dr. Sparks often have arguments?”

Fulton gave a mysterious smile. “One doesn’t argue with Azor—with Dr. Sparks. Yes, we do have some academic exchange of ideas. But you try not to displease him. If you do, then you figure out what you’ve done and make amends. You either play his game or you’re not on the team.”

“That doesn’t make you feel … hemmed in?” Oliver asked.

“Hemmed in?” Fulton gave him an incredulous look. “Sir, that’s just a given when you work with someone of his stature. That’s how it is with medical academia. Dr. Sparks owns everything that comes from his lab, even if he’s only worked tangentially on the project.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Marge stated.

“That’s research science,” Liz said. “Get on Azor’s good side, you might get some credit. And you need credit if you want to advance. You must publish the right material under the right people. Someone with clout. For that privilege, you have to eat … you know.”

“Sparks make you eat a lot of … you know?” Marge asked.

“Well, he was graceful about it. He could afford to be because he knew who he was. I’ve worked for him for the last four years. It’s nice to have a boss who’s a benevolent tyrant. Because I’ve worked under the other kind, too.”

“Benevolent tyrant,” Marge repeated.

“Tyrant is too strong a word.”

“Dictator?” Oliver tried.

“Put it this way. After a while, you know when to suggest something and when to keep your mouth shut.”

“Does Decameron know the rules as well?”

“Reggie is an individualist. More forceful than I am, certainly. More than once at our meetings, he played devil’s advocate. But he knew when to stop. The man is no fool.”

“Dr. Sparks was deeply religious,” Marge said.

“Yes.”

“How’d he feel about Dr. Decameron being homosexual?”

“I don’t know. It never came up in any of our conversations.”

“Never talked about ‘those’ kinds of people?” Oliver said.

“Not to me.”

“A passing derogatory phrase never slipped from his lips?”

Fulton smiled. “Nothing slips from Dr. Sparks’s lips. If he ‘utters’ something, it’s for a reason.”

“Dr. Decameron said that one of Sparks’s sons is gay. You know anything about that?”

“Which one?”

“The priest.”

She waved Oliver off. “That’s ridiculous. I mean I don’t know if Bram is or isn’t. But I don’t know why Dr. Decameron would know, either. Unless he’s indulging in wishful thinking. Bram’s a nice-looking man.”

Marge said, “I take it you never detected Sparks having a problem with Dr. Myron Berger being Jewish.”

“Dr. Berger and Dr. Sparks have known each other for thirty-plus years. They attended Harvard Medical School together.”

“So they’re … peers.”

“Yes,” Fulton said.

“Being his peer,” Oliver said, “is Dr. Berger just as … respectful of Dr. Sparks’s rules? Or does he have more independence than either you or Dr. Decameron?”

“We all had independence,” Fulton said testily. “We aren’t chattel.”

Oliver said, “You know what I’m getting at.”

“Frankly, I don’t,” Fulton said.

“Was Sparks Berger’s boss?” Marge asked.

“Of course.”

“And that didn’t create resentment?” Marge asked. “Two of them going to medical school together, and now Sparks is above him?”

Fulton rubbed her shoulder. “If Dr. Berger felt resentful, he certainly had the skills, the experience, and the publications to move on. Being as he hadn’t, I’m assuming he’s comfortable with the relationship he has … had with Azor … with Dr. Sparks.”

“What kind of relationship did Dr. Sparks have with his family?” Marge asked.

“They adored him.”

“Did they ask him for money?” Oliver said.

“I don’t know,” Fulton said. “He didn’t divulge things like that.”

“Ever?”

“No.”

“Dr. Decameron seemed sure that his children asked him for money. Where did he get his information from?”

“I don’t know where Reggie digs up his gossip.”

“His son Paul called Dr. Sparks tonight,” Marge said. “Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what it was about?”

“No.”

“Did Dr. Sparks say he was cutting the meeting short to meet his son?”

“No. He didn’t say anything.”

“Did his kids call him often?”

“I didn’t monitor his calls. Ask Heather.”

“From your perception, Doctor,” Oliver said. “Did they call him often?”

“I can’t tell you yes or no because I don’t know how you’re defining often. Yes, they called him. Yes, his wife, Dolly, called him, too.”

“In the middle of meetings?”

“Sometimes. And if they did, the doctor usually interrupted himself to take their calls. He loved his family. And they loved him.”

Marge said, “Did his wife or any of them ever visit Dr. Sparks at work in the hospital?”

Oliver said, “Maybe they’d drop in to say hello or have a cup of coffee with Dad?”

“You don’t drop in on someone like Dr. Sparks.”

“Did you ever meet his wife and children?”

“Occasionally, I would see one of his kids visiting with him at the hospital.”

“What about his wife?”

Liz thought a moment. “She’d come to the holiday parties.”

“What’s she like?” Marge asked.

“Reserved, religious like him. But very, very proud of her husband and family. Beams when she talks about them. An old-fashioned woman. Her family is her life.”

Oliver said, “And you observed all this by her presence at a Christmas party?”

Liz shook her head no. “Once Azor was gracious enough to invite us to the house for Sunday dinner. Dolly … Mrs. Sparks must have spent most of the time in the kitchen, serving the food, happy to do it … to play hostess. We told her to sit, but she just laughed. Said she only sat for dinner on her birthday. What a feast! A mound of food. All of Azor’s children and grandchildren were there. Sunday was a big day in his life. Like I said, Azor was very religious.”

“And everyone seemed to get along.”

“To my eye, yes.”

“No tensions?” Marge asked.

“Not when I was there.” Fulton rubbed her eyes. “My husband and I used to joke they were a Norman Rockwell poster from a bygone era. Especially when you compared them to us—” She stopped talking.

“Compared to you, how?” Marge pressed.

“My personal life isn’t relevant.”

As if on cue, a rumbling motor belched loudly then suddenly stopped, leaving in its wake an uneasy silence. The door opened and a man stumbled in—long-limbed and skinny! A marionette of bones wearing a leather vest, torn jeans, and scarred black leather boots. His facial features were hidden behind several days of beard growth, unruly blond curls of hair hovering around his shoulder blades. He was sweating Scotch … could smell it as soon as he came flying past the doorpost. He looked at his wife, looked at the company with bleary eyes.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Fulton’s face had become red, a portrait of anger. “I’m going back to the hospital, Drew. An emergency.” Her eyes filled with tears.

Drew looked confused. “Huh? What time is it?”

“A quarter past one.”

“Why’re you goin’ to the hospital?”

“Because Dr. Sparks has been murdered—”

“What?”

“The hospital needs help, Drew. I have to go. Excuse me.” Covering her face, Fulton flew out of the room.

“Mur …” Drew was dazed, slumped in the pine rocker and looked at Oliver. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“God … that’s …” Drew scratched his cheek, rubbed watery blue eyes floating in seas of pink. “Think she’ll lose her job?”

Marge stared at him. “I don’t know.”

“What happened?”

Oliver walked over to the door and opened it. Anything to air the place out. Maybe the jerk would take the hint and leave. He didn’t. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“You’re the police?”

“Yes.”

“God, this is serious stuff, huh.”

Marge asked, “What’s your full name, sir?”

“My name?”

“Yes, your name.”

“Drew McFadden. I’m not under suspicion or anything.”

Marge and Oliver traded looks. Oliver walked over to him, leaned against the bay, looked down on Drew. “Why do you think you’re under suspicion?”

Drew looked up, puzzled, had no answer. “Is Liz under suspicion?”

“Should she be?” Marge asked.

“I don’t think so.” Drew laughed. “But I don’t know much.”

A good insight, Marge thought. “She and her boss were close?”

“Real close. I often—” He stopped talking. His wife had returned. She had changed into a white shirt, black pants, and a white lab coat, ID tag with her name and picture resting on its lapel. To the police, she said, “If you need any further information, I’ll be at the hospital.” She glanced at her husband. “Henry’s bottle is in the fridge. In case I don’t get back, Marta is due in at seven.”

“I’ll take care of it, Liz.”

“Right.”

“That’s too bad about Dr. Sparks, Liz. I’m sorry.”

Fulton’s face softened. “Thank you, Drew. Go get some sleep.” To Oliver and Marge, she said, “Can I walk you out?”

“Like to use the phone first, if I could,” Oliver said.

“Help yourself,” Fulton said. “Good night.”

The door closed softly. Drew stared at the cops. “You can use the phone in the kitchen.”

Marge said, “You were saying that your wife and Dr. Sparks were very close.”

“Yeah. Yeah, they were.”

“In what way?” Oliver said.

“What way?” He wrinkled his nose. “Are you asking me if they were fooling around? I don’t think so. Liz isn’t the type. She’s like …” He sliced air. “Straight arrow. At least, I think she is. But hell, I don’t read women too well. She could be messin’ with my head and I wouldn’t know it.”

“Are you a straight arrow, sir?” Marge asked.

“Huh?”

Oliver’s smile was oily. “She means do you get around?”

Drew smiled back, but said nothing.

Oliver placed his hand on Drew’s bony shoulder. “I mean she is gone all the time.” He winked. “I know how it is.”

Drew started rocking, gave Oliver a conspiracy grin. “Liz gets pissed at me. But hell, it wasn’t my idea to get married.”

“No, I imagine it wasn’t,” Marge mumbled. Oliver shot her a dirty look. He said, “How’d she talk you into it?”

Drew smiled enigmatically.

“You knocked her up. She gave you an ultimatum.”

“Hey, I didn’t mind. I like Liz. Love the kid. Man, he’s a cute little sucker. You know, I think that’s what gets to her. I’m home a lot with the kid. We’re like real tight. Then she waltzes in on the weekends and the kid doesn’t want to go to her. ’Cause he’s used to me, unnerstan’?”

“I understand,” Oliver said.

“Pisses her off. I keep telling her it’s only because I’m home so much. She shouldn’t worry. Once Henry figures out what a jerk his old man is, he won’t want nothing to do with me. So … I’m enjoying him while I’m still something in his eyes.”

Drew shook his head, smelled his armpits. “I really stink. I’m sorry.”

Oliver smiled. It was sincere. “You weren’t expecting company.”

“No, that’s for sure.”

“Are you a musician?” Marge asked.

“Yeah. Bass player. I’m part of the house band at Smokey’s. Regular gig. Steady income. Not much income, but it’s steady. I mean, what does Liz expect? You know, you start out in this business, thinking you’re gonna be the next Eddie Vedder or Axl Rose. Hell, I’m thirty-four, man. Not too many people break it big at thirty-four. I’m real grateful to Liz. I mean real grateful. Rest of the band’s living in shit, and I got this nice house, a decent car. It’s not a Porsche but it’s no broken-down Honda, either.”

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