FAYE KELLERMAN
FALSE PROPHET
THE PETER DECKER/RINA LAZARUS NOVELS

As usual for my family

And for Liza Dawson, Leona Nevler, and Ann Harris

—thank you

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

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

Chapter 34

A Little Something Extra from Faye

Salsa Chicken

About the Author

Also by Faye Kellerman

Predator

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

Working off duty meant doing the same job without pay. But since the call’s location was only twelve blocks away and the case would wind up in his detail anyway, Decker figured he might as well jump the uniforms. Cordon off the scene before the blues could trample evidence, making his on-duty tasks that much easier. He unhooked the mike, answered the radio transmitting officer—and turned on the computer screen in the unmarked Plymouth. A few moments later, green LCD lines snaked across the monitor.

A female assault victim—suspected sexual trauma—no given name or age. The Party Reporting had been female and Spanish speaking. The victim had been found by the PR in a ransacked bedroom. Paramedics had been called down.

Decker made a sharp right turn and headed for the address.

The interior of the Plymouth was rich with the aroma of newly baked breads—a corn rye loaded with caraway seeds, two crisp onion boards, a dozen poppy-seeded kaiser and crescent rolls, and assorted Danishes. Goodies just pulled from the oven, so hot the bakery lady didn’t dare put them in plastic. They sat in open white wax-lined bags, exhaling their yeasty breath, making his mouth water.

Fresh bakery treats seemed to be Rina’s only craving during the pregnancy and Decker didn’t mind indulging her. The nearest kosher bakery was a twelve-mile round trip of peace and quiet. He enjoyed the early-morning stillness, cruising the stretch of open freeway, witnessing the fireworks on the eastern horizon. He reveled in the forty minutes of solitude and resented the intrusion of the call, the location so close he couldn’t ignore it, his mind forced to snap into work-mode.

He turned left onto Valley Canyon Drive, the roadside cutting through wide-open areas of ranchland. In the distance was the renowned Valley Canyon Spa Resort—a two-story pink-stucco monolith carved into the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. It looked like a giant boil on the sandy-colored face of the rocks. The guys in the squad room had shortened the spa’s name to VALCAN, which in turn had been bastardized to VULCAN. The running joke was that VULCAN’s clientele were secret relatives of Mr. Spock beamed down to get ear jobs. VULCAN had hosted more stars than the sidewalks of Hollywood Boulevard, its facilities among the most exclusive in the United States. That, and the fact that the place was run by Davida Eversong’s daughter, made it a national draw for rich anorexic women wanting to exercise themselves skeletal.

Davida Eversong was one of those self-proclaimed grandes dames of Old Hollywood. Scuttlebutt had it that she had burrowed herself into a bungalow on the spa’s acreage. Once Decker had spotted her at a local mom-and-pop market. Her features had been hidden by sunglasses and a black turban that wrapped around her cheeks and tied under her chin. It had been her getup that had attracted his attention. Who dressed like that at night except someone wanting to be noticed? But only he had given her a second glance. To the rest of the shoppers, she had been just another L.A. eccentric.

Decker was barely old enough to remember the latter part of her long film career—the last three or four movies where she’d been thrown some bones—courtesy parts. Then came the talk-show circuit promoting the autobiography. The book had been a best seller. That had been about fifteen years ago and nothing public since. Still, the name Eversong conjured up images of studio Movie Queens and Hollywood glamour. Eversong’s daughter was certainly not inhibited about using the connection. Maybe she was genuinely proud of Mama. Or maybe it just made good business sense.

Scoring the base of the spa’s mountain was a single file of multicolored sweatsuits; the ladies coming back from their morning aerobic hike. From Decker’s perspective, they looked like Day-Glo ants encircling a giant hill.

He reached inside one of the paper bags, broke off a piece of warm cherry Danish, and stuffed it into his mouth. Chewing, he called Rina on his radio, telling her why he wouldn’t make it for breakfast. She sounded disappointed but he couldn’t tell what bothered her more—his absence or the absence of her morning kaiser roll.

Not that she didn’t enjoy his company, but she was more preoccupied than usual. That was to be expected. Though he kept hoping her self-absorption would pass, he’d come to realize it was wishful thinking.

El honeymoon was finito. Time to get down to the business of living.

He remembered the physical exhaustion that accompanied a newborn—long nights of interrupted sleep, the bickering, the tension. His ex-wife had looked like a zombie in the morning. Acted like one, too. He also remembered the joy of Cynthia’s first smile, her first steps and words. He supposed it would be easier the second time around because he knew what to expect. But damned if he wasn’t going to miss being the center of Rina’s attention.

He bit off another piece of Danish, wiped crumbs off his ginger-colored mustache.

Well, that’s just life in the big city, bud.

He pushed the pedal of the unmarked, the car chugalugging its way up the curvy mountain road. The address on the computer screen corresponded to a ranch adjacent to the spa. The pink blob and its next-door neighbor were separated by ten acres of undeveloped scrubland, but he couldn’t find any definitive line dividing the two properties.

He found the numbers posted on a freestanding mailbox at the driveway’s entrance. Turning left down a winding strip of blacktop, he parked the unmarked in front of the ranch house. It was a white, wood-sided, one-story structure sitting on a patch of newly planted rye grass. Bordering the house were rows of fruit trees—citrus on the left, apricot, plum, and peach on the right. Between the trees, he could make out crabgrass and scrub, the foliage gradually thickening to gray-green shrubs and chaparral as the land bled into the base of the mountains.

He punched his arrival into the computer—a whopping two minutes, twenty-two seconds response time. Nothing like being blocks away to skew the stats in LAPD’s favor. He stepped out of the unmarked and gave the place a quick glance. Although the house was modest in size, there was something off about it.

The wood siding sparkled like sun-drenched snow—not a flake of paint dared to mar the surface. The flagstone walkway held nary a crack, and the wood shingles on the roof were ruler aligned. The porch was also freshly painted. It didn’t creak and held a caned rocking chair decorated with crocheted doilies draped over curved arms. The place was a perfect ranch house. Too perfect. It looked like a movie set.

Decker banged on the door and identified himself in Spanish as a police officer. The woman who let him in was frazzled and babbling incoherently, evoking Dios between hysterical sobs. She was around forty, her soft plumpish body squeezed into a starched-white servant’s uniform. Her dark eyes were full of fear and her fingers were clutching the roots of her hair. She led him into a trashed bedroom. The bed was a heap of jumbled sheets and broken glass. Drawers had been opened and emptied of their contents. But Decker’s eyes focused on the center of the floor.

She lay crumpled like a discarded article of clothing, blindfolded, partially nude, her skin bruised and clay-cold. Immediately, he knelt beside her, checked her pulse and respiration. Though her breathing was shallow, her heartbeat was palpable. Quickly, Decker eyeballed the body for hemorrhage—nothing overt. Though the floor was hard and chilled, Decker didn’t dare move her in case there were spinal injuries. He ordered the maid to bring him a blanket, then carefully removed the blindfold and gasped when he saw who it was.

Davida Eversong’s daughter—VULCAN’s owner. He’d seen her picture dozens of times in the local throwaways. Human Interest stories: the spa hosting a Save the Whales weekend extravaganza or a special two-for-one rate to benefit the homeless. Her stunning face gracing the front page of The Deep Canyon, Bellringer, arm in arm with a different star every week.

What the hell was her name? Everybody always called her Davida’s daughter. Even the local papers constantly referred to her as so-and-so, daughter of Davida Eversong. Her name was something exotic. Lara? Not Lara, Lilah. That was it. Lilah. Lilah B-something. So she lived next door to her spa. That made sense.

He could make out her beauty even in her current state. Her eyelids were puffy, her lower lip swollen and cracked. Her neck was imprinted with red indentations, but there were no deep ligature marks around her throat. She had welts over her upper torso as if someone had whipped her.

Decker took out his pocket spiral and started noting the injuries he saw. If she remained unconscious, unable to give consent to be photographed, his record of specific marks would be valuable evidence of the crime.

The poor woman. Her nightdress had been hiked over her pelvis. Some sexual activity had occurred. Decker smelled the musky odor of semen in the room. He finished some cursory notes, then lowered her gown and covered her as soon as the maid returned with the comforter. Smoothing blond wisps off her clammy forehead, he gently touched her cheeks, hoping the heat from his hands would warm her face. Streams of gentle breath flowed across his hands.

He whispered “Lilah,” but got no response. As the seconds passed, her cheeks seemed to take on color. Decker turned to the maid, told her not to touch anything, asked her to wait outside and direct the paramedics. In the background, he could hear approaching sirens.

Brecht! That was her name. Lilah Brecht. Her father had been an artsy German director, his name often bandied about in magazine and newspaper articles dealing with foreign films. With an actress mother and a director father, Decker briefly wondered why she hadn’t pursued a career in the performing arts.

His eyes went back to Lilah’s visage. At least the injuries seemed superficial, her facial bones appeared to be intact. Lucky, because her features were delicate and would have easily shattered under a well-placed blow. She had an oval face, a thin straight nose, high cheekbones leading to an angular jawline that tapered to a soft mound of chin. Making allowances for the swelling, Decker imagined her eyes to be deep-set and almond-shaped.

He heard footsteps approaching, pivoted around, and saw the paramedics cross the threshold. Two of them—a man and a woman, both wearing short-sleeved blue doctor’s jackets. Decker started to rise, but something immediately jerked him back down. A hand. Her hand! It had shot out of nowhere, clutching his arm with surprising strength. Grimacing in pain, he knelt down again, trying to ease the pressure. She was grasping his left arm—the one still recovering from a gunshot wound. As he tried to gently pry the fingers off, she increased her vise grip, forcing him to use some muscle to pull her hand away. Then he took it and cradled it in his own.

“Do you hear me, Lilah?” he whispered.

There was no response.

The female paramedic knelt beside Decker. She was young and had short, brown curly hair that accentuated the roundness of her moon face. Her name tag said Gomez.

Decker attempted to free himself from Lilah’s grip, but she wouldn’t let go.

“You seem to have made a friend,” Gomez said, as she shone a light on Lilah’s pupils. Then she checked her pulse and respiration.

“She must be conscious at some level,” Decker said. “She’s just not responding verbally.”

“You put the blanket over her?”

“Yeah,” Decker said. “She was cold and gray when I found her.”

“Shock.” Gomez pocketed the light. “Her pupillary response is normal. Her pulse is weak but steady.” She stared at the face. “Isn’t this … you know … the movie star’s daughter? The one who runs the spa?”

“Lilah Brecht.” Again, Decker tried to pull his hand away, but cold fingers had locked around his palm.

“I think she’s trying to tell you something.” Gomez pulled back the blanket, gave the blond woman’s body a quick check-over. “Lilah, can you hear me? Squeeze …” She looked at Decker.

“Sergeant Decker,” he said.

“Squeeze Sergeant Decker’s hand if you hear me.”

No response.

“Maybe it’s something primal,” Gomez said.

Her partner—a skinny kid with sloping shoulders—came in with the stretcher.

“Can you stay with her?” Gomez said to Decker. “I’m going to help Eddie with the gurney.”

“Yeah. Try not to mess things up for me.”

Gomez looked around the room. “You could tell the difference?”

“It’s the perp’s mess, not yours.” His back ached from kneeling. He sat on the floor. “Lilah, I’m Sergeant Decker. I’m here to help you. Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can.”

No response.

“Lilah, Miss Gomez—”

“Teresa.”

“Lilah, Teresa and Eddie are going to take good care of you. They’re taking you to the hospital. Everything is going to be okay.”

There was no hand squeeze, but tears leaked from under closed eyes.

“Lilah, I know you can hear me, but I also know you’re too weak to talk. Don’t even try. I’m going to try to find out what happened to you. When you’re feeling better, I’ll come to the hospital and talk to you. You just hang in. I have to take my hand away now, so the paramedics can get you to the hospital.”

But as he pulled his hand away, she tightened her grip.

Eddie said, “You can hold her hand.” His voice was tinny. “We can work around you.”

Again, Decker tried to extricate himself. “Lilah, I’d like to look around your house. It will help me find out what happened.”

Her hand remained affixed to his, fingers digging into his flesh. “Just hold her hand, Sergeant, while we load her,” Teresa said. “No sense upsetting her.”

Decker cooperated, but felt uncomfortable about it. Such desperation in her grip—and strength. Eerie because Lilah looked so beaten and weak. Maybe it was adrenaline reserve. He whispered, “You’re safe now, Lilah. No one is going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

“Lilah, we’re getting ready to move you,” Teresa said. “I’m just bracing your neck. You’re going to be okay.” She turned to Decker. “As long as you’re here, slip your hand under her back and help us load her.”

Decker nodded.

“Count of three,” Eddie said. “One … two … three, go!”

Like well-oiled machinery, the three of them loaded Lilah onto the gurney, her hand still gripping Decker’s. But at least now he was able to stand, roll his shoulders to loosen his back. Again he tried to take his hand away, but Lilah wouldn’t ease up.

Teresa craned her neck to look up at Decker. “From the grip she has on you, at least we know there’s no spinal break … from the waist up, that is.”

Eddie said. “Lilah, can you wiggle your toes?”

There was a slight response.

“Good, Lilah,” Decker said. “That was good. Can you understand me? Squeeze my hand if you can.”

A light squeeze.

“That’s great, Lilah! The paramedics are going to take you to the hospital now. You’re in excellent hands. The doctors are going to help you, run a few tests to make sure you’re okay. I want them to examine you very carefully for me. Is that all right? Do you understand me?”

Another squeeze.

Decker turned to the paramedics and said, “Where are you taking her?”

“Sun Valley Memorial,” Teresa said. “That okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Ask for Dr. Kessler or Dr. Begin and tell them it’s for Detective Sergeant Peter Decker. They’ve both done pelvics in these types of situations and are familiar with what I need for evidence collection. The usual—all the fluids, a good pelvic- and head-hair combing, nails cleaned, the debris slided for the lab—fingernails and toenails.” He stroked the hand that was clutching his. “Lilah, at the hospital, is it okay if someone takes pictures of your injuries? If I have pictures of your injuries, it will help me catch and convict the monster who did this to you. Do you understand me?”

She let out a muffled sound.

“Lilah, squeeze my hand if it’s okay?”

Another squeeze.

“Good, Lilah.” He faced the paramedics. “Tell the docs that I’ll be sending down a police photographer. I’ll also need her clothes and any other personal effects bagged. Please ask them to use gloves. I’ll pick her stuff up myself and send it to the lab.”

“You got it,” Teresa said.

Decker regarded the manicured hand, long slender fingers laced around his. “Lilah, this is Sergeant Decker again. I’m going to ask you a question. Squeeze my hand if the answer is yes. Do you know who attacked you?”

No reaction.

“Okay, I’m going to ask you the same question. Squeeze if the answer is yes. Do you know who attacked you?”

Nothing.

“You don’t know who attacked you? Squeeze if you don’t know who attacked you.”

Decker felt light pressure around his fingers. “Okay, that was great. I promise you, Lilah, you’re safe. You’re going to be all right. I have to let go now.”

Her fingers tightened around his.

“Lilah, I have to let them take you to the hospital and I can’t come with you.” He wrenched his hand out of hers and as he did, she let out a low moan. “I’ll be back, Lilah. I promise I’ll come back and talk to you.”

She moaned again, water trickling down her face. As they carried her out, Decker saw her hand stretching outward, reaching out to him. And those moans. He felt as if he were abandoning her and hoped she wouldn’t hold anything against him when he came to question her … if she’d even remember him. Assault victims were sometimes afflicted with amnesia, especially if the ordeal was particularly vicious.

Decker stretched his long spine, then ran his thick hand through carrot-colored hair. Looking over his shoulder, he noticed the maid at the entrance to the room. She was still trembling, her hand on the doorpost for support. He told her to sit down in the kitchen and pour herself a cup of tea. He’d be with her in a minute.

From his coat pocket, he pulled out an evidence bag and slipped the blindfold inside. With a grease pencil, he roughly outlined Lilah’s position on the floor. Then he unhitched his hand-held radio and asked to be patched through to Detective Marge Dunn. While waiting for her to respond, he took out a pen and his rape checklist and began to make detailed notes.

2

Tucked inside the rear corner of the bedroom’s walk-in closet, the freestanding safe was open and empty. It was a waist-high, green-colored block, lined with three inches of high-grade solid steel, and contained an inner safe that was bare as well. As Benny the printman dusted the vault, Marge Dunn danced around shards of glass as she drew a layout of the bedroom and divided it into grids for evidence check.

The place had been tossed; furniture had been knocked over. Old-looking pieces: the skinny, austere stuff without curves or embellishments. Could have been replicas, but were probably antiques. Lots of embroidered pillows and doodads, doilies in garish colors, were mixed in with the mess. Lilah had a four-poster bed, the rumpled spread made out of chenille. Like the spread Granny used to have, Marge thought, white and full of little pompons. She smiled, remembering how she picked at them until the knots fell apart.

A couple of baby uniforms named Bellingham and Potter were hanging around, not really getting in the way but not doing anything productive either. There were already a few blues outside securing the scene so the young ’uns weren’t needed here. Marge called them over.

Nice-looking babies—tall and trim with well-scrubbed faces, eyes that seemed eager to work. Their enthusiasm made Marge feel old. Depressing, since she’d just turned thirty.

“Why don’t you two canvass the area?” she suggested. “See if anybody or anyone heard anything?”

Bellingham rubbed a spit-polished shoe against the floor. “Sergeant Decker told us to wait here. The nearest neighbor is the spa and he didn’t want us questioning anyone without him. But if you want us to go, Detective, we’ll go.”

Marge thought for a moment, fingering strands of blond hair. Pete was right. These kids weren’t savvy enough to handle the Vulcanites.

“I noticed a stable out back,” Marge said. “Why don’t you check that out? See if anyone’s hanging around, if anything looks suspicious. Count how many horses the stable holds.”

“Sure thing, Detective,” Potter said. “Should we report back to you or Sergeant Decker if we come up with anything?”

“Either one,” Marge said. “And don’t spend too much time on it. Just look around, jot down some notes, and report back. Then get on with your patrols. You two together?”

“Yes, ma’am … er, yes, Detective …” Bellingham blushed. “Sorry.”

Marge smiled, slapped him on the back. “Get your butts out there.”

After they left, she was glad to have some elbow room. The photographer had just finished, leaving Benny in the closet. The lab boys were checking the doors and windows in the front section of the house, and Pete and the maid were in the dining room.

“Detective?” Benny called out.

“Coming.” Marge squeezed her large frame inside the closet. Not an easy trick with Benny occupying most of the space. The man was big and blocky, just this side of fat. Today he was dressed in a starched white shirt and razor-pressed pants; not a spot of dust dared sully his clothes. Definitely the neatest lab man she’d ever worked with. “What’s up?”

“We got some beauties.” Benny’s voice was basso pro-fundo. “Unfortunately, they’re repeats. See right here … this is a right index, it shows up twice. Here we got a partial palm and two right thumbs on the dial. A middle over here. On the inner dials we have the same palm and index. You can see how small they are. Female. I’ll transfer them but I’m betting they belong to the lady of the house.”

“Anything else?”

“Not so far.”

Marge shrugged off the lack of progress. Most perps just didn’t leave calling cards, but almost all left evidence transfer. Even if she couldn’t find anything else, there was the semen. Marge could smell it as she approached the bed. She’d bag the sheets after she sifted through the mess on top of them.

She wandered into the master bathroom. Its walls were ceramic tiles of mint and hunter green in immaculate condition. The taps were old-style fixtures but the chrome was high-polished and scratch free. There was a beveled mirror on the back of the door. Open glass shelving served as the medicine cabinet. The racks held pottery crocks labeled in calligraphy—witch hazel, foxglove, mint, trefoil. No over-the-counter meds, not one prescription vial. The top shelf held a bowl of cinnamon-smelling pinecones and acorns. The bathroom window was clear glass, but obscured by a curtain of dangling crystal beads. They sent prismatic rainbows onto the walls.

Whoever messed up the bedroom hadn’t bothered with the bathroom.

Marge returned her attention to the bedroom. It was papered in something silky and cream-colored and dotted with a couple of dozen black-and-white photos of Lilah Brecht buddying up to celebrities. Or maybe it was the other way around. The stars looked thrilled to be in the snapshot. All the photos had been autographed.

To Lilah and Valley Canyon: With my fondest love, Georgina DeRafters.

To Lilah Brecht: the only woman who has seen me without makeup. Keep that cellulite off my thighs. Love, Ann Milo.

Georgina DeRafters and Ann Milo: old-timers who’d made strictly B movies. The As were probably hung on the spa’s walls. How did that make the Bs feel? Did they even notice? They were bound to; all actresses are narcissistic. What did Lilah tell them after they’d paid her hundreds a day and didn’t even see their pictures on the wall?

I keep my closest and dearest friends at home?

Marge shrugged. For every picture still on the wall, there were at least that many scattered about the room. The glass protecting the photographs had been deliberately smashed, as if someone had taken the pictures off the wall and smacked them with a hammer. One bull’s-eye in the center of each picture, broken seams radiating outward. The room twinkled with glass reflecting the bright midmorning light. The sunbeams coursed through two large windows—one on the eastern wall, one on the northern. Pete had found the bedroom windows locked: The lab men hadn’t found any pry marks on their sashes.

The nightstands flanking the bed had been pushed over, the table lamps crushed to dust. The impact of the lamps falling to the floor couldn’t have pulverized the ceramic bases to that extent. The table-to-floor distance was just not that great. Someone had smashed the suckers.

Someone had been pissed.

The dresser had been cleared of its contents, drawers pulled out and emptied, clothes tossed about carelessly.

Only Lilah’s bedroom had been trashed.

Maybe the perp was expecting to find something in the safe. When it wasn’t there, he’d searched the entire bedroom.

But then, why wasn’t the rest of the house tossed?

Maybe he found what he wanted.

Then he raped her.

Marge carefully fingered the broken glass on the bed with her gloved hand. She’d have Benny bag the pieces. Could be someone cut himself, leaving traces of blood. The lab man came out of the closet.

“I’m done inside, Detective. You want to search it for evidence, go ahead. I’ll start dusting the walls.”

“Find anything other than those female prints?”

Benny shook his head.

“Detective?”

Marge turned around. Officer Bellingham had returned, a very grave look on his face.

“We finished our interview with the stable hand. I think you’d better check him out personally.”

“Stable hand?”

“Yes, ma … Detective. He claims he lives there. There is a small hot plate inside one of the stables, some cooking utensils and work clothes. And there’s a chemical toilet just outside the barn. He could be telling the truth. But I don’t think the man has his full faculties.”

“He’s retarded?”

“Or very stupid, Detective. He answers in one-word sentences, won’t look you in the eye. Very suspicious. Of course, he claims he didn’t hear anything. And the stables are pretty far away from the house. But I think this man needs to be questioned. Officer Potter is with him now. Should we bring him here?”

“No, I’ll go out to the stables. You make sure no one unauthorized comes in the bedroom. This stable hand have a name?”

“Carl Totes. He says he’s worked for Miss Brecht for many years. Like I said, there’s evidence that he does reside inside the stables but I think he could be a suspect.”

“I’ll check it out.”

“By the way, Detective, there are six stalls and five horses inside the stable.”

Marge patted him on the back. “Good job, Officer.”

Bellingham tried to hold back a smile but didn’t quite make it. The left corner of his mouth spasmed upward. Through crooked lips, he said, “Thank you, Detective.”

It took three cups of tea and a half hour for the maid to calm down. Her name was Mercedes Casagrande, a thirty-five-year-old native of Guatemala who’d worked for Lilah Brecht for seven years. She wasn’t forthcoming with the answers, but guarded as she was, Decker sensed she wanted to help. She just didn’t want to jeopardize her job or the privacy of her patrona.

They sat at an oval dining-room table, the room furnished in early-twentieth-century pieces. The interior of the house had been done up in the style of Art Nouveau or Art Deco. Decker never could remember the difference between the two periods. As he made chitchat with the maid, she began to relax and answer his questions in halting English.

Decker slipped out his notepad and asked, “How many days a week do you work here for Missy Lilah?”

“I work all the days except Saturday and Sunday. I don’ work on those days ’cause I go to church.”

“What are your hours?”

“Seven to fife. But sometime I work diferente hours. If Missy Lilah need help in the night for the dinner. I work eleven to eight, mebbe nine o’clock. If someone take care of my kids.”

Decker said, “You never sleep in?”

“No.” Mercedes shook her head. “No duermo en la casa, no.”

Decker said, “So you weren’t here yesterday?”

“I work yesterday, jes.”

“But it was Sunday.”

Mercedes looked confused. “I work only four hours. Missy Lilah call me and say house is a mess. So I come. That is not every week. Mebbe I work Sundays one time a month. But only if someone watch my kids.”

“And what time did you leave?”

“I leave fife, fife-thurdy, mebbe. Everythin’ is okay. Missy Lilah tell me she go out with her brother so I don’ have to make dinner.”

Decker smoothed his mustache. “Missy Lilah was going out to dinner with her brother?”

“Jes.”

“Was she with her brother when you left?”

“No, he don’ come yet, but she say she go to dinner with him. She go to dinner with him mebbe one or two time a week.”

“What’s her brother’s name, Mercedes?”

“El Doctor Freddy.”

“El Doctor Freddy?”

“Jes.”

“Does El Doctor Freddy have a last name—nom de familia?”

“Same as Missy Lilah.”

“Freddy Brecht?”

“I thin’ his name is Señor Frederick.”

“Frederick Brecht?”

“I thin’ so.”

“And he’s a physician? Un doctor de la medicina?”

“Sí. He work at the spa. But he don’ work there all the time.”

“He has another office?”

“I thin’ so.”

“Do you know where his other office is? Usted sabe donde está su otra oficina?”

Mercedes shook her head.

Decker said, “You’re doing great. Muy bien. You didn’t see El Doctor Freddy come inside the house?”

“No.”

“Does Doctor Freddy have a key to the house?”

Mercedes scrunched up her forehead in concentration. “I thin’ … jes.”

Decker wrote down: No forced entry and Dr. Freddy may have a key. “And Doctor Freddy wasn’t there when you left to go home.”

“No, he don’ come yet.”

“But Missy Lilah was home.”

“Jes, she come home around four from the spa, all wet. She do very much exercise. She very, very skinny, but es okay ’cause she don’t throw up like muchas mujeres at the spa. She tell me all the women throw up to be skinny. I thin’ that’s no good.”

“I don’t think that’s good either.”

“But Missy Lilah no throw up to be skinny. But she do muchas exercise. Mucho tiempo corriendo. En la calle, en la montaña, todo el tiempo, ella corrió.”

Decker wrote: Lilah obsessive runner. “Does she ever run at night?”

“I don’ know.”

If she did, it would put a new slant on the incident. After dinner with her brother, Lilah went out for a midnight run. Then someone familiar with her habits waited for her to return exhausted from her jog, and forced his way in. After she opened the safe, he attacked her, then tossed the room. That play-by-play would also be consistent with no forced entry.

Decker excused himself a moment, stood and walked around the room, wincing as pain pierced his upper body. Even though the gunshot wounds were in the left arm and shoulder, he found that stretching his spine mitigated the throbbing in his extremities. He extracted a couple of extra-strength Tylenols from his shirt pocket and popped them into his mouth, swallowing without water, the movement as reflexive as breathing. Having worked his way off codeine, then Percodan, he’d been alternating with the over-the-counter analgesics—one day Tylenol, the next Advil. Almost eight months to the day, his recovery was good but still incomplete. The OTC tablets helped take the edge off, but he knew there’d come a time when he would have to learn to live without the medicine and with the pain.

He stretched again, then sat and said, “Mercedes, when you came in this morning, did you notice anything different about the house before you went into Missy Lilah’s bedroom?”

“No, nothing.”

“Everything was in order.”

“Jes.”

“None of the furniture was moved or the vases put on a different table … anything like that?”

“No. Jus’ the door to Missy Lilah’s bedroom is open. She like it closed.”

“But nothing different in the living room, dining room?”

She shook her head.

“The front door was locked?”

“Jes. I use my key to come in.”

“You have a key?”

“Jes.”

“Anyone else in your family know you have a key to her house?”

Mercedes’s face flushed with fear. “Ninguna persona! I keep it in especial place.”

“So you’re positive that no one has the key to Missy Lilah’s house.”

“Ninguna persona en mi familia. Jus’ me.”

Decker told her he believed her, but kept the question open in his mind. “When you came in this morning, did you go straight to the bedroom? Or did you do something else first? Hang up your coat and purse, start the washing machine?”

“I hang up my coat and look around. Everythin’ is okay. Entonces, I see the door open—”

“The bedroom door?”

“Jes, the bedroom door. I go to close it, I see Missy Lilah—”

Covering her face, she burst into sudden tears, sobbing for a full minute, Decker waiting until the crying subsided. Mercedes reached inside her purse, found wrinkled tissue and wiped her eyes. “She be okay, Missy Lilah?”

“I think so.”

“I pray to Dios—to Jesús—she be okay. I go to church today to pray for Missy Lilah.”

“It’s good to pray,” Decker said.

“Jes.”

“Makes you feel better?”

Mercedes nodded. “Everyone need ayuda—help.”

Ain’t that the truth. Decker patted her hand. “Mercedes, do you clean Missy Lilah’s room every day?”

“Jes.”

“You clean inside her closet?”

“Jes, I vacuum every day there. She don’ like the dust.”

“In the closet, there’s a big safe.”

“Jes.”

“You dust the safe?”

“Jes, every day.”

“Did you dust the safe yesterday?”

“Jes, every day.”

“Do you wear gloves when you dust the safe?”

“I don’ wear gloves, only when I clean the toilet.”

“So it’s possible that your hands touched the safe. Es posible que su mano ha tacado la puerta de la caja de seguridad?”

“Sí, es posible.”

Benny had pulled some latents from the safe. The maid was going to have to be inked for print comparison. But there was a good side to her compulsive cleaning; the safe had been wiped clean every day. If some of the latents belonged to Lilah, she had to have opened the safe after Mercedes cleaned it yesterday. Had she been forced to open it? Or maybe she put something valuable inside yesterday and someone had known about it.

Decker scribbled a few notes—questions he’d bring up with Lilah. Hopefully, she’d be completely conscious by late afternoon, in good-enough shape to be interviewed briefly. “We’re just about done, Mercedes. Just a few more questions. I want to talk about the man who works with the horses.”

“Señor Carl?”

“Yes. He says he lives in the stables. Is that true?”

“Jes.”

“How long has he lived there?”

“Four, fife years. He come after me, but he work for Missy Lilah for a long time.”

“You see him a lot?”

“No.”

“If something breaks in the house, who fixes it?”

Mercedes thought. “Missy Lilah send someone—different peoples. Sometimes people from her work.”

“From her work? You mean the spa?”

“Jes.”

“Which people?”

“Diferentes. I thin’ sometimes a boy comes to pick the vegetables.”

“A boy? A muchacho?”

“No. More old. His name is Mike.”

“Mike,” Decker repeated. “Do you know his last name?”

Mercedes shook her head.

“But he works at Lilah’s spa?”

“Jes, I thin’.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “So Señor Carl doesn’t fix things in the house.”

“No. Jus’ work with the horses, mebbe pick vegetables, también. I don’ know.”

“Do you ever make breakfast or lunch for Señor Carl?”

“No.”

“Do you make him snacks? Give him some juice when the weather gets hot?”

“No, he stay out of the house, I stay in the house. We don’ talk, mebbe jus’ one or two time a year. He come to the house and ask for Missy Lilah. But he never come in the house.”

“Does he ever use the bathroom in the house?”

“No, I thin’ he have a toilet.”

“You ever wash his clothes?”

Mercedes shook her head.

Decker leaned in close and whispered, “Does he scare you?”

The maid wrinkled her lips and shook her head. “No, he don’ scare me. Missy Lilah say he nice. I thin’ he nice, too. But I thin’, he’s a little …” With her right index finger, she made air circles next to her right temple.

“A little crazy?”

“Mebbe. But I thin’ he love Missy Lilah. One time, Missy Lilah and her brother have a bad fight outside. Missy Lilah don’ let her brother in the house and he get mad. Señor Carl hear it and he get real mad.” She demonstrated his anger by wrinkling her nose and balling her fist. “He go in of the stable and get a big shobel. He show it to El Doctor and jell at him, and make him go away.”

“It was a bad fight?”

“Jes, very bad.”

“Does Missy Lilah fight a lot with Doctor Freddy?”

“Oh, no!” Mercedes was wide-eyed. “Missy Lilah no fight with Doctor Freddy, never. This was el otro doctor, su otro hermano.”

Decker digested that. “She has two brothers?”

“Jes.”

“And both are doctors?”

“Jes. El otro doctor come here mebbe two or three time since I work here. Missy Lilah don’ like him. He come and dey fight. Señor Carl, he chase him away last time. Jell at him, shake his shobel. Say: ‘Go away. Go away or I kill you.’”

“What’s el otro doctor’s name?”

“Missy Lilah don’ tell me. She just call him su otro hermano.”

“How do you know he’s a doctor?”

Mercedes was silent. “I don’ remember. I jus’ know he’s a doctor.”

“When Carl chased him away, how long ago was that?”

“I thin’ mebbe two years ago.”

“You haven’t seen su otro hermano in two years?”

“No.”

“Okay, let’s go back to Señor Carl. You think he’s a little crazy? Un poco loco?”

“More estupid.”

“You ever see him be crazy with Missy Lilah?”

Mercedes shook her head.

“Did he ever act crazy with you?”

Again a shake of the head.

Decker checked his watch. It was almost noon and his stomach was growling. But before lunch, he wanted to check out Señor Totes himself. Marge should have picked the stable hand’s brain by now. He’d confer with her, then ask Totes about the fight Lilah had with her other doctor brother. Maybe send Marge down to the spa to check out this Mike character. He pocketed his notepad and thanked the maid for her time.

3

“Be it ever so humble …” Marge smiled. “May not be much, but Totes calls it home. Makes my place look pretty high-end.”

Decker smiled, his eyes examining the horseless stall. The wooden floor was clean, most of it covered by a moth-eaten, hand-loomed rug. An army cot lay in the middle of the area, brown standard-issue blankets folded neatly at its foot. Against the back was a two-burner hot plate plugged into an electrical socket. Jammed into the corners were piles of canned goods, a broom, a mop, and a dustpan. Wooden wall knobs, ordinarily used to hang tack, held dirty denim overalls and dust-covered work shirts on the left side, a bath towel, a circular kitchen towel, and a heavy skillet on the right. Not a lot of living space, but then again, the horses never complained.

“A bit of a contrast from the main house,” Marge said. “Notice all the antiques at her place?”

Decker nodded.

“And not just the furniture—all the vases and bowls and rugs and pillows and shit. She put a lot of money into decorating. Spa must do well.”

Decker shrugged. “Is there a john here?”

“He’s got a chemical toilet out back.” Marge wrinkled her nose. “Why he bothered to put it outside, I don’t know. Whole place smells. Lord, how in the world does he eat surrounded by this stink?”

“This ain’t nothing.” Decker took a deep sniff. “He’s got fresh shavings in here. You should have gotten a whiff before he raked the stalls.”

“Lucky me.”

“Did he rake while you were interviewing him?”

“No, he just sat on the cot and answered my questions—‘Yessim. Nossim.’ But I think he understood everything I asked him, Pete. Claims he didn’t see or hear anything. Now the stable is away from the house, but I would think that sound carries pretty well in these open spaces. There were a lot of smashed items in Lilah’s bedroom. Maybe he just tuned the noise out.”

“Maybe.” Decker related the incident with Lilah and el otro hermano. “Totes was very protective of her according to the maid, threatening Lilah’s nameless brother with a shovel. If he had heard something suspicious, he might have done something. He didn’t mention anything about the fight to you?”

“Not a word. But with a guy like Carl, you’ve got to know the right questions beforehand. He doesn’t volunteer a thing and I don’t think it’s because he’s holding back. He’s just too basic to improvise. I asked him if he knew anyone who didn’t like Lilah. He said ‘nossim.’ Now if I had asked him, did Lilah have a fight with her other brother two years ago, I probably would have gotten a ‘yessim.’”

“Specificity is the name of the game.”

“And short questions,” Marge said. “Anyway, he swore he didn’t hear or see anything when he got up this morning at four-thirty.”

“That’s his usual rising time?”

“Yes. It was dark outside. He didn’t see anything.”

“You think he was being truthful?”

“I think he was, but it’s hard to say. Remember that beekeeper’s retarded son last year? Totes was wary in the same way when questioned. Both didn’t look you in the eye.”

“He’s as retarded as Earl Darcy?”

“No, Carl’s higher-functioning,” Marge said. “He takes care of himself and the horses. Besides being the stable hand, he’s the grounds keeper. Takes care of the fruit trees, maintains the huge garden out back. She’s got a few acres here. Keeping it up is a lot of responsibility.”

“You know, the maid mentioned that Lilah sends people from the spa to fix things in her house, pick stuff from the garden. She mentioned someone named Mike.”

Marge said, “I’ll check him out.”

“What about Totes as a suspect? What does your gut say?”

“Gut-speaking, probably not. You told me Lilah didn’t know who attacked her. I don’t think Carl has enough smarts to plan an assault without being recognized.”

Decker said, “How long has Carl been working out the horse?”

“He took it out maybe a half hour ago, says he tries to work out each horse for an hour. Jesus, that’s six hours in the saddle every day. Guy must have nothing but a big callus for a butt.”

Decker slapped his notepad against his palm. “You get used to it.”

“Macho Pete.”

Decker smiled, thinking that Marge wasn’t so bad in the machismo department herself. At a fit five-ten, one fifty-five, she could successfully floor most men without breaking a sweat. Her most feminine feature was her eyes. Soft and doelike, they inspired trust. Everyone told Marge their secrets.

She said, “Why don’t you take a look around while I organize my notes?”

Decker agreed, strolling the stables, taking in the scenery. Lilah had prime horses—well-muscled with straight backs and princely gaits. The Lippizaner was the jumper, the two Thoroughbreds were young with fine-looking legs. The Appaloosa in the middle stall looked to be about twelve—probably dead broke and a great trail rider. Aps were good range horses—fearless and surefooted. He returned to Totes’s stall, sniffed the towels and bedsheet.

“His clothes are dirty, but his linens are clean. The maid said she doesn’t do his laundry.”

Marge said, “He’s got a small empty washbasin outside. Next to the toilet.”

“Who buys his food?”

“He told me Lilah gives him some canned goods—tuna, chili and beans. And then there’s the garden—actually it’s more like a farm. A half acre’s worth of vegetables, most of the greens and herbs grown for the spa. VULCAN advertises homegrown fruits and vegetables. Guess Lilah needs something to justify those rates.”

Decker smiled and rolled his shoulders.

Marge said, “Totes helps himself to the veggies. To the fruits in the orchards, too. I guess if you don’t mind simple living and the smell, it’s not a terrible life.” She checked her watch. “How about we grab some lunch after you’ve spoken to Mr. Totes?”

“I want to stop off at home,” Decker said. “I’ve got some baked goods in the car that were supposed to be Rina’s breakfast. Want to come over for lunch?”

“I’m sure Rina would love that.”

“I’ll need you as a buffer.”

“She giving you a hard time?”

“Nah,” Decker said. “She’s just being pregnant. Stop by with me. She likes you. Sometimes I think she likes you better than me.”

“You go it alone this time.” Marge stood on her tiptoes and patted his cheek. “You’re a big boy, you can handle it.”

Decker smiled. “You want to explain to Totes that I’m your partner? He’s already had one interview today. I don’t want to confuse the guy by suddenly presenting myself.”

“Sure.”

“While I’m talking to him, can you do me a favor?”

“Name it.”

“Frederick Brecht’s not at the spa and supposedly no one had his office number. The Vulcanites are very closemouthed.”

“I’ll look him up. You want me to call him?”

“I don’t know if he’s aware of what’s happened. The maid didn’t call him; the spa isn’t concerned about Lilah’s absence. The manager there … what the hell was her name?” He flipped through his notepad. “Uh … Kelley Ness … she told me that Ms. Brecht wasn’t expected in today, but she didn’t sound uptight.”

“Did you ask Kelley about this Mike person?” Marge said.

“No. If Mike’s there and involved, I don’t want to spook him. I don’t want to interview this Mike guy or Doctor Freddy by phone. I want to see their reactions to the news in the flesh.”

“Makes sense,” Marge said. “How about you talk to Totes while I break for lunch? Afterward, I’ll take a peek around the spa and you check out Doctor Freddy.”

“Sounds good,” Decker said. “By the time I’m done with Freddy, maybe Lilah will be able to talk.”

Marge said, “What should we do about Davida Eversong?”

Decker made a face and leaned backward. “What does she have to do with any of this?”

“You haven’t talked to Morrison yet?”

Decker was taken aback. It was unusual for the captain to stick his nose into Decker’s affairs. “Christ, what is it, Marge?”

“Just wanted to know a little about the case. Mentioned the fact that since Lilah was Davida Eversong’s daughter, it could get some press.” Marge sighed. “That maybe we might want to break the news to Ms. Eversong first and tell her to keep a low profile so we can do our jobs. I seemed to get the impression that he’s worried that Eversong might play this for some publicity. Should I try to dig her up?”

Decker thought for a moment. “Not just yet. Let me at least try to talk to Lilah first. She may have her own method of dealing with her mother.”

Plumes of dust obscured the corral’s ground as the palomino kicked up cloud banks of grit. The tomtom sound of hooves beating against the dirt, the horse rounding each bend of the fence seamlessly. In lesser hands, the stallion could have easily lost its footing, but Totes handled the animal with the combined expertise of professional cowboy and jockey.

Riding bare chested, the man was so thin he looked like an antenna. In his time, Decker had known many hands like him. Their strength was often deceptive. The guy was probably one wiry sucker.

Marge caught Totes’s attention. He pulled on the reins, stopping directly in front of them, spraying them with dirt. He untied the bandanna from around his neck and wiped perspiration off his face and neck. A watery sheen had coated his chest and stomach, but he didn’t bother to swab it away.

“Carl, this is my partner, Sergeant Decker,” Marge said. “If you don’t mind, he’d like to ask you a few questions.”

There was a moment of silence. Totes’s eyes were unreadable, hidden behind the shadow of his cowboy hat. He had a long face that matched his lean body. His nutmeg-colored cheeks were gaunt, hairless, and mottled with acne scars and moles.

“My partner needs to ask you a few questions, Carl,” Marge said.

Totes nodded.

“How ’bout we go in the stable?” Decker said. “You can brush your horse down while we talk.”

Totes nodded but made no effort to dismount. The palomino was prancing about, chafing at the bit, sweat pouring down his flanks.

Decker said, “You need to cool him off first?”

“Yes sir, I do.”

“Go ahead,” Decker said. “I’ll wait.”

Totes clicked his tongue and he and the horse trotted slowly around the corral.

“Swift, sport,” Marge said.

“Like you said, you’ve got to know the right questions.”

“I think you’ve got a good fix on the dude, Pete.” Marge slung her purse over her shoulder. “And now if I’m no longer needed …”

“Give me about a half hour.”

“You won’t need that much time, but go ahead.”

After Marge left, Decker leaned against the railing as Totes led the golden beauty through a series of cool-down exercises. The sky was clear and cloudless, the mountains studded with wild flowers. Watching Totes in the saddle, Decker felt jealous of the stable hand’s freedom, of his skill, too. Totes might be blunted mentally, but he’d mastered all the subtleties of riding. Fifteen minutes passed before Totes decided it was time to call it quits. He dismounted, took off his saddle, and led the horse by the reins around the corral. After the animal had been sufficiently cooled down, Totes brought him to the stable. Decker walked abreast of the horse, admiring his stately walk.

“Miss Brecht has some beautiful animals,” Decker said, once inside the stable.

Totes nodded and placed the horse in the middle stall opposite the Appaloosa. He took out a wire currycomb and brush and began to groom the beast. The comb had just made contact with the horse’s skin when Totes stopped, turned around, and looked at Decker.

“You can pull up a bucket and sit if you want.”

“I don’t mind standing.”

Totes didn’t respond. He paused, then returned his attention to the horse.

“Miss Brecht a good rider?” Decker asked.

“Yessir.”

“This one her favorite horse?”

“Yessir.”

“What’s his name?”

“Apollo.”

“Apollo,” Decker repeated. “After the sun god.”

Again, Totes stopped what he was doing and pivoted to look at Decker. He took off his cowboy hat, wiped his forehead with his arm, and put the hat back on. His hair was cropped short—one step above a five-o’clock shadow. Eyes, pale blue. They held a vacant stare.

“Apollo’s a great name,” Decker said. “Lilah must be a very experienced rider to handle a stallion. She doesn’t look like she has enough weight to manage him.”

Totes didn’t answer. He continued grooming the animal.

“How long you work for Miss Brecht, Carl?”

“Five years.”

“She have the horses before you came to work for her?”

“A few.”

“She have Apollo?”

“Yessir.”

“How old is he? Around six?”

“Yessir.”

Unimpressed.

Decker said, “Did she have the Appaloosa when you came here? He looks older, around twelve, thirteen, maybe?”

“Twelve and a half.”

“He’s in good shape.”

“Yessir.”

“Has Miss Brecht ever lived with anyone in the five years you worked here?”

No response.

“Has Miss Brecht ever lived with her brother Freddy, the doctor?”

Totes hesitated before answering. “Nossir.”

“Do you see Miss Brecht’s brother around here a lot?”

A pause. “Yessir.”

“Was he here last night?”

Totes stopped what he was doing, but didn’t turn around. “I don’t remember.”

“See anything strange last night?”

“Nossir. ’Ready told your lady pardner that.”

“I know you did,” Decker answered. “I’m just … you know … trying to figure out a few things. Did you happen to see anyone near Miss Brecht’s house during the night?”

Another pause. “Nossir.”

“Did you happen to see Miss Brecht last night?”

Totes continued brushing but didn’t answer. Decker didn’t know if he was thinking about the question or if he was just that dull. Dragging answers out of him was like wading through sludge.

“She don’t ride at night so I probably didn’t see her. I only see her when she rides.”

“Do you pick the vegetables for her spa?”

A pause. “Nossir.”

“Who does?”

“Who what?”

“Who picks the vegetables for her spa?”

“Someone from the spa.”

“Do you know a guy named Mike from the spa?”

“Don’t know him, nossir.”

Decker waited a beat. “Carl, do you ever see a guy named Mike from the spa picking vegetables for Miss Lilah?”

“I see him,” Totes said. “But I don’t know him.”

“But you know what he looks like.”

“’Course.”

“Was he here yesterday?”

“Nossir.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yessir.”

Decker sighed inwardly. “Carl, does Miss Brecht ever go running at night?”

“Don’t recall.”

“Maybe Miss Brecht went running last night,” Decker suggested. “You might have seen her?”

Totes turned slowly and faced Decker, a confused look on his face.

“Did you see Miss Brecht run last night, Carl?”

Totes shook his head.

“But she does run at night?”

Totes scratched his nose. “Don’t recall.”

Decker bit back frustration. “So nothing unusual happened last night?”

Totes nodded slowly.

“And you didn’t see Miss Brecht’s brother—Frederick Brecht—here last night.”

“Nossir.”

“What about Miss Brecht’s other brother—the one who had the fight with her about two years ago.”

Totes removed his hat. The empty expression in his eyes had been replaced by hot blue flames. “What about him?”

“He come around here a lot?”

“Not no more.”

“You chased him away last time he was here?”

“I did do it.”

“With a shovel.”

“I did do it.”

“Why?”

“’Cause he was yellin’ at Miz Lilah something fierce.”

“Did Miss Lilah ask for your help?”

Again, Totes seemed confused.

“Did she come running to you and say, ‘Carl, help me chase my brother away.’”

“Nossir.”

“But you figured she needed help so you chased him with the shovel.”

“I just didn’t like the way he was yellin’.”

“Was he swearing at Miss Lilah?”

“Swearin’?”

“Yeah, swearin’. Cussin’ at her.”

“He was yellin’. Maybe he was cussin’, too. But the yellin’ was ’nuf.”

“What were they yelling about?”

Totes spit. “None of my dang business.”

“I know you wouldn’t listen in on purpose, but maybe you overheard something?”

“None of my dang business.”

Decker shifted gears. “By the way, what’s Miss Lilah’s brother’s name?”

“Freddy.”

“No, Carl, the other one. The one she was yelling at.”

“He was yellin’.”

“Okay, the one who was yelling at her. What’s his name?”

Once again, the eyes became blank. “Name?”

“If you don’t know it, it’s okay,” Decker said. “I’ll get it from Miss Lilah.”

The eyes filled suddenly with water. “How’s Miz Lilah?”

Decker said, “I think she’ll be okay.”

“If King hurt her, I’m gonna kill him,” Totes announced.

Decker paused to write down Totes’s declaration in his notebook. “Who’s King, Carl?”

“King,” Totes said. “That’s Lilah’s brother. The one who was yellin’.”

Decker let that sink in. Had to go real slow with the guy. “Lilah’s other brother, the one who was yelling. Was his name King?”

“Yessir. I just remembered it.”

“Is King his first or his last name?”

Totes put his cowboy hat back on and shrugged ignorance. He said, “Are we almost done? All this talk is makin’ me addled. And when I’m addled, I can’t work.”

Decker stuffed the notepad back in his coat pocket. He patted Apollo’s butt and told the stable hand they were through.

4

The smell of food in the oven awakened Decker’s stomach. He placed the bags of bakery goods on his dining-room table and took off his jacket. Ginger dashed in from the other room, barking with excitement.

“Rina?”

There was no answer.

“What’s Mama cooking, girl?” Decker said, petting the Irish setter. He went to the kitchen, the dog at his heels. The counters were filled with cookie sheets containing hundreds of miniature knishes—tiny bits of puff pastry filled with potato, spinach, or buckwheat. He picked up a couple and tossed them in his mouth, swallowed them down with a tall glass of orange juice.

He looked outside the window, at his own acreage, then opened the back door to let the dog out. Rina was nowhere in sight. Maybe she was inside the barn. Again, he called out her name. No answer.

The timer on the stove went off. He opened the oven door, saw the tops of the knish dough had turned golden brown and turned off the heat. With stuff left in the oven, she was bound to show up soon. Or so he told himself. But he was determined to be calm. He was getting better at not worrying about her, but as with the mending of his wounds, it was proving to be a slow process.

He opened the kitchen drawer and fished out a yarmulke stuffed between a tape measure and a hammer, then bobby-pinned the skullcap onto his hair. He filled a plate with knishes and poured himself a glass of milk. Standing, he ate while he phoned the hospital. Everyone was out to lunch. After being relegated to hold six times, then being disconnected twice, he was finally put through to Dr. Kessler’s office. Kessler’s secretary announced that he was in a meeting, but Decker pushed her, and a few minutes later, the OB-GYN came to the phone.

“Sergeant Decker?”

“Doctor,” Decker said. “Thanks for taking time to talk to me.”

“Sergeant, you rescued me from a committee meeting,” Kessler said. “You did a big mitzvah.”

Decker laughed. Imagine a Jewish doctor treating him like an MOT—a member of the tribe. Of course, he was Jewish. But it still took him by surprise that others could think of him as a Jew.

“Glad to be of service, Doc,” he said. “Did you happen to admit Lilah Brecht this morning?”

“I sure did,” Kessler said. “Isn’t Lilah Brecht the one with the famous actress mother?”

“Davida Eversong,” Decker said.

“Yeah, that’s it. Star of late-night television. She always played vamps, didn’t she?”

“I think so. Davida’s a little before my time.”

“Mine, too. If you can hold the line a few minutes, I’ll get Lilah’s chart.”

“Sure. How’s she doing?”

“She’s doing very well, all things considered. We did a CAT scan, radiographed her orbits. Nothing showed up, but that doesn’t mean anything. Takes a while for the blood to clot if there’s subdural hemorrhaging, so we won’t really know until after twenty-four hours. But I’m encouraged. As of an hour ago, she was still woozy, but she was oriented. Knew her name, her address.”

“That’s good news. She seemed pretty bad when they loaded her into the ambulance.”

“Yeah, she was probably in shock. If you get to them before the body temperature sinks, they recover remarkably fast. She not only knew who she was but also why she was in the hospital.”

“She knew she’d been attacked?”

“She knew she’d been raped. Hold on, I’ll get the chart.”

As Decker waited, he heard his front door slam, followed by Rina’s voice calling his name.

“I’m in the kitchen.”

She walked in, carrying bags of groceries, looked at Decker’s plate piled with food, and placed her parcels on the counter.

“Peter, what are you doing?” She pulled his plate away. “Can’t you tell these aren’t for you? How can you just take without asking?”

Decker rolled his eyes. “Sorry.”

Rina sighed, her shoulder sagging. “I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous. I’ve got more than enough.” She put the plate back in front of him. “Eat as many as you want.”

“Save them. I’ll grab something else.”

“No, take,” Rina insisted. “Take more. Take as much as you want.”

“I’m fine, Rina. I’m getting full.”

She piled another half-dozen knishes on his plate. “Here. Take.”

“I don’t want any more,” Decker said.

Rina looked at him, her eyes suddenly moistening. “You don’t like them?”

“No, no,” Decker backtracked. “They’re delicious.”

“You really like them?”

“Yes.”

“The spinach, too?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Rina, you’re a fabulous cook. I like everything you make. Who are you baking for anyway?”

“I’m going to freeze them,” Rina said. Then she added quickly, “It’s for the bris … or the naming if it’s a girl.”

Decker held his temper. “I thought we agreed that it was too much work for you to do all that cooking. We were going to hire a cater—”

“Just a few appetizers.”

“You should be resting. Isn’t that what the doctor said?”

“What does a man know about pregnancy?”

Decker wasn’t about to be suckered into that argument. “You’re going to tire yourself out.”

“Why do you say that? Do I look tired?”

“No, Rina. You look great.”

She did. From the back, Decker couldn’t tell she was pregnant. The front told another story: Six months gravid, but her face was as finely featured and beautiful as ever. Her milky complexion was flawless, her cerulean eyes clear and bright. Her hair had grown very long. She’d braided it and wore a tam on the crown of her head. According to Jewish law, married women had to cover their hair, but Rina had allowed the jet-black plait to escape down her back. It was thick and shiny. She simply glowed with health.

Kessler came back on the phone. Decker held up his palm.

“Okay,” the doctor said. “I did all the tests you wanted, sent them to your lab. She was bruised vaginally, but there was no semen inside of her.”

Decker looked at his wife. “Could you hold, Doc? I want to change phones.”

“Don’t bother on my account,” Rina sulked. “I’ll go in the other room.”

“Rina—”

“No, I insist.” She opened the back door and let the dog inside. “C’mon, Ginger. You can keep me company.”

Decker knew better than to protest and waited until she was out of hearing range. Then he said, “You do a mouth and anal swab as well?”

“Everything. No one ejaculated inside any of her orifices.”

“The sheets smelled like semen.”

“Then he came on the linen and not inside,” Kessler said. “I did find a trace of dried seminal fluid on her leg. I put it on a slide and sent it to the lab.”

“Doc, did you happen to ask her about previous voluntary intercourse?”

“I’m on top of it, Sarge. I knew you wouldn’t want your results confounded. She said no.”

A premie rapist? Decker knew lots of them were. “Was there any anal or oral bruising?”

“Nothing showed up clinically.”

“Any foreign hairs?”

“Nothing that looked obvious—either on the pubis or the head. She’s blond all the way around, so if there was anything dark, it would have popped out at me. You comb, you’re always going to pull out hairs. Whether they’re hers or not, the lab will tell us. But if you have semen on the sheet, you have evidence.”

“What did you do with the clothes?”

“They’re bagged,” Kessler said. “The ambulance driver told me you were going to pick them up yourself.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Think I’ll be able to talk to her?”

“Like I said, she’s still woozy. But she may be able to answer a few questions. You know, come to think of it, she asked about you.”

“She did?”

“Yes, she asked for you by name, matter of fact. Twice. ‘Is Sergeant Deckman in?’”

“Deckman,” Decker said. “Close enough. So she remembered me from this morning.”

“Seems that way,” Kessler said. “If her brain stays clear, she should heal up pretty quickly. She’s in great shape physically—her pulse was slow, her blood pressure’s nice and low. Her lungs were clear. She had an abbreviate neuro earlier in the morning, is scheduled for another one tomorrow. Her reflexes were normal, good range of vision. She checked out normal on both the fine and gross motor. Good muscle tone, too.”

Decker remembered her grip. Her muscle tone had been more than good.

Kessler went on, “Her face is swollen, some subdermal bleeding below the orbits. Looks like someone belted her in the eyes. They’re black and puffy. But no broken facial bones. That’s good. She’s a stunning woman. You can see her beauty right through the bruises and the cuts.”

“Agreed. If someone can tell her I’ll be down in the late afternoon, I’d appreciate it.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks.” Decker hung up and walked into the living room. In the heat, the room seemed to sweat the scent of pine and leather. Ginger occupied one buckskin chair; Rina was in the other, feet propped up on the ottoman. She looked as if she’d swallowed a watermelon. He went over and kissed her forehead. She looped an arm around his neck and pulled him down next to her, running her fingers through thick shocks of red hair.

“I’m tired. You’re right. I overdid it. But I felt so energetic this morning. I even baked cupcakes for the boys. Do you want a cupcake?”

“No, thank you.”

“Did you have enough to eat?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

She slipped her hand underneath his shirt. Decker felt dizzy from the aroma of her skin. “You telling me something, darlin’?”

“You have time, Peter?”

He sat up and loosened his tie. “Honey, I’ll make time.”

“Aren’t I lucky to have a man who makes his own hours.”

“Good perks, huh?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Decker unbuttoned his shirt. He was glad Marge hadn’t come.

Stepping onto Planet VULCAN was like entering another world.

One that Marge at least had never seen before.

The lobby of the spa was a ballroom-sized rotunda, the ceiling domed and imprinted with gilt-tinged vines and flowers that trailed down the plaster walls. The floor was cut from peach-veined marble and partially covered by a thick, green-and-peach Chinese rug thirty feet in diameter. Atop the rug were several seating groups. A brocade sofa, flanked by gold-trimmed occasional tables, was occupied by three sunlamp-tanned women looking to be in their thirties. They were dressed in short shorts and T-shirts and were giggling like teenagers. They also had perfect figures—too perfect, not an unwanted bump or bulge anywhere. The two velvet wingbacks were taken up by leotard-clad, college-age girls. Towels draped around their necks, they sipped some tropical drink made with lots of crushed ice and examined their long red fingernails.

Three middle-aged women sat in burnt-leather club chairs around an oversized onyx backgammon table, laughing loudly, showing off white teeth. Two love seats near the fireplace held pairings of young and older women—mothers and daughters possibly. The ladies were using the marble coffee table placed between the settees as a footrest.

The hearth was set into the rear wall, the carved mantel curved to hug the circumference of the room. Against the left wall was a highly polished mahogany staircase that ended at a second-story landing. The reception desk—done in more peach-veined marble—was to the right.

A tuxedoed waiter, carrying a tray of something flesh-colored in highball glasses, walked up to Marge, eyes heavy with disapproval. But he kept a stiff upper lip.

“Your guava-passion-fruit refresher, ma’am?”

His accent was affected-English.

“Any of them laced with Stolichnaya?”

“Pardon?”

“Or just plain bar vodka will do.”

“No alcohol is allowed—”

“Forget it, Jeeves.”

She patted his back and strolled over to the reception desk. A bespectacled young woman—also in leotards—looked up from the cashier’s desk. Her initial smile dimmed when she saw Marge.

“May I help you, madame?”

Not madam, mind you, ma-dame. Another little taut body with big boobs. This one had short short hair and features sharp enough to cut meat. Her name tag identified her as Ms. F. Purcel.

“It’s mademoiselle if you want to be technical,” said Marge, “and yes you can help me. I’m Detective Dunn from the LAPD. I’d like to speak with Kelley Ness.”

Moving her lips, Purcel studied the ID card. “May I ask what this is about?”

“Why don’t you let me talk to Kelley Ness. Then if she wants you to know, she can tell you herself.”

Purcel sighed. “One moment. Have a seat—No … maybe you could just wait in the corner.”

Marge smiled but didn’t move. The clerk gave up and went to the switchboard, back turned as she talked into the phone. It took about a minute before she hung up.

“I’m unable to locate Ms. Ness. May I take a message?”

Marge leaned over the desk. “Why don’t you call again, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Call again.”

Ms. Purcel opened and closed her mouth, then about-faced and picked up the phone. Another minute passed before she returned.

“I’ve located Ms. Ness.”

“The phantom returneth.”

“Excuse me?”

“Where is she?”

Purcel became very official. “Take the staircase on the left to the second floor. Ms. Ness is in office B on the right side.” Then she added, “She’s very busy.”

Marge said, “Well, aren’t we all, ma-dame.”

The office was wedge-shaped. Austere-looking, especially when compared to the ornate lobby. Its walls were hung with cheap poster art. Small windows looked out to an Olympic-sized pool. The desk, piled high with loose papers, was functional and nothing more. The woman in the secretary’s chair looked to be around twenty-five. Her face was pretty but angry, brown eyes smoldering. She tossed poker-straight hair over her shoulders and shuffled some papers.

Marge waited until Little Miss Irate had the decency to acknowledge her. The squaring off took about a half minute. Irate raised her eyes and waited for Marge to speak.

“You’re Kelley Ness?”

“You’ve found me.”

Marge started to pull up a chair.

“You needn’t bother to sit, Detective. The civil suit was frivolous enough. Ms. Betham is just furthering her troubles by going to the police. Miss Brecht is not expected in today, but if you give me your card, I’ll give it to her and she can forward your name to our lawyers. I’m sure they will educate you.”

Marge sat, thought a moment before she spoke. “Do you know where Miss Brecht is?”

“She checks in with us frequently. I assure you she’ll get the card.”

“Did she check in with you today?”

Kelley hesitated, her eyes suddenly thoughtful. “I’ll forward your card. Now if you’ll excuse—”

“Was Miss Brecht expected to come in today?”

“What difference does it make? She won’t talk to you without advice of an attorney—”

“I’m not interested in talking to Miss Brecht, Kelley. I only want to know if Miss Brecht was expected to come in today. Or did she take the day off?”

Kelley bit her lip. “You’re asking strange questions.”

“On the contrary, they’re not strange questions. They’re just not the ones you expected. So keep things simple and answer them.”

Kelley paused. “Miss Brecht took the day off.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Not at all. She frequently takes Wednesdays off. She experiments with new recipes for the kitchen. What’s this all about, anyway?”

“She hasn’t called in, has she?”

“No, she hasn’t.”

“Then you probably don’t know.”

“Know what?”

“Miss Brecht was attacked last night—”

“My God!” Kelley’s hand went to her throat. “Who … Is she all right?”

“She’s going to be okay. She was beaten. She’s in the hospital now, but she’s conscious. I need a guest and employee list—everyone who was on the grounds last night. Especially the men.”

Kelley covered her mouth and shook her head. “This is outrag … God, I’m shocked. This is horrible. Does her mother—?”

“We’ll take care of her mother, Kelley. I’m requesting that you don’t talk to anyone about it.”

“Of course. How about Frederick? Does he know? Frederick’s her brother.”

“He’s being contacted.”

“I don’t know what to say …” Kelley said. “I’m …”

“Were you here last night?”

“Of course. I live on the premises.”

“Then you know who else was here last night. I’ll need that list as soon as possible.”

“You don’t suspect any of the guests—”

“We’ll be as discreet as we possibly can.”

“Where is Miss Brecht?” Kelley said. “Can I call her?”

“My partner is going to talk to her soon. I’ll tell him you’d like to speak with Miss Brecht. Back to the list, Kelley. I’m especially interested in the men who work here—cooks, janitors, handymen, teachers. Do you have male instructors?”

“Just Eubie Jeffers and my broth—Oh, you can’t possibly think they had anything to do with Lilah.”

“What kind of suit is this Ms. Betham involved with?”

Kelley wrinkled her forehead. “Ms. Betham is a psychotic old witch. She actually had the audacity to claim that … that one of the men who works here made a pass at her.”

“Which one?”

“The whole suit is ridicu—”

“Which man?” Marge pushed.

Kelley hesitated, then said, “My brother, Mike. If you knew my brother, you’d know how inane the suit is. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but since you’re not investigating that … she was the one who made a pass at my brother. And when he refused, she became vicious. We have none of that kind of nonsense in Valley Canyon Spa. Most of our clients have been referred to us by former clients. She was what we call a ‘walk-in.’ They’re always the ones who give us the most problems.”

“Was your brother, Mike, here last night?” Marge asked.

Kelley’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m not even suggesting anything, Kelley, I’m simply asking. Was your brother on the premises last night?”

“He lives here.”

“Your brother often visits Miss Brecht’s house, doesn’t he?”

“No, he doesn’t often visit Miss Brecht’s house!”

“I mean to pick vegetables from the garden, maybe fix the sink … that kind of thing.”

“Oh …” Kelley relaxed her shoulders. “Yes. Lilah does send him on errands for her. That should show you how much she trusts him.”

Marge remained casual. “You want to start compiling that list, I’ll look around the grounds, get my bearings. You don’t mind, do you?”

Kelley had turned pale. “I’m not sure I should do anything without Ms. Brecht’s say-so.”

“Ms. Ness, why aren’t you jumping to help out? Your employer was attacked, beaten. Don’t you want to find who did it?”

“Of course I do! It’s just such a shock—My God, this is unbelievable!”

Marge stood, slung her purse over her shoulder. “You know the best thing to do when you’ve been jolted by something like this? You do something concrete. Like make a list. The little details always bring you back to earth. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

“I guess—”

“I’ll be wandering around,” Marge said. “Page me when you have the list.”

“Detective!” Kelley blurted out. “Detective, no offense, but I don’t want to scare the women by having the police nose around.”

“I understand completely. I guarantee you, I won’t be disruptive.” Marge winked. “Hey, I’ll grab myself a guava juice and blend in with the crowd.”

5

The group had begun the cool-down portion of the workout when Mike Ness heard his name over the loudspeaker. Towel wrapped around his neck, tank top soaked with perspiration, he told his ladies to “keep it moving” while he answered the page. The afternoon high-impact aerobics class was held in the Jazzarena, its back wall a giant mural of famous musicians. The room’s phone was embedded between Dizzy Gillespie’s eyes. Ness picked up the receiver.

“Mike, I just want to warn you. The police are here, poking around.”

Ness couldn’t answer. He felt his heart race.

“Apparently something happened to Lilah last night—”

“What!”

“She was attacked, Mike.”

Ness felt his knees buckle. Why did everything he touch turn to shit? “Wha … what happened, Kell?”

“I only know that she’s in the hospital. I don’t even know which one. I’m going to do some calling around. You don’t know anything about this, do you?”

“Of course not!”

Kelley paused. “Please. Just act normal. If the detective asks you where you were last night, say you were sleeping in your room, okay?”

“I was sleeping in my room. What the hell are you saying?”

Kelley sighed. “I’m nervous, Mike. I mean, the detective—she’s a woman by the way—she was professional but pushy. All of us should just stay calm and cool, all right?”

“I am calm and cool.”

“Well, bully for you.”

“That was mature, Kell.”

Kelley paused again. “Michael, I’m scared!”

“Have you spoken to Davida?”

“She’s not in. I don’t even know if she knows about it. The detective didn’t want me talking to her but screw that! I can’t get hold of Freddy, either. I don’t know what to do, Mike.”

“There’s nothing to do, Kell. What are you worried about?”

“I just didn’t like her attitude. She was too inquisitive.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t detectives supposed to be inquisitive?”

“No, it was more. She was like accusing everyone.”

Ness felt the phone slipping out of his hand. He wiped his sweaty palm on his gym shorts. “Accusing who?”

“She wants a list of all the men who work here.”

“Was Lilah raped?” Ness whispered into the phone.

“I don’t know.”

Ness took a deep breath. “Give her what she wants. I’ve got to button up this class—”

“The detective will want to talk to you.”

“So?”

“So … is that okay?”

“Yes, it’s okay!”

“I’m sorry, Mike, I’m just so nervous!”

Ness sighed. Little Kelley always did have a nervous tummy, always throwing up before finals. “Calm down, sis. Do some deep breathing.”

“It’s just that this job is so important to me—”

“Kell, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later.”

Ness hung up, clapped his hands, jogged to the front of the room. Its mirrored wall was bisected horizontally by a ballet barre.

“Nice job, ladies. Real nice job. Now that you’ve burned off approximately two hundred and fifty calories and sweated off your weight in salts, you should immediately be thinking about what?”

A middle-aged woman in striped leotards yelled out, “Electrolytes!”

“Exactly,” Ness said. “Your electrolytes are sorely in need of rebalancing, so we have for your dining pleasure our famous potassium-rich broth and organic veggies grown in Lilah Brecht’s own garden. These comestibles are being served in the lobby from three-fifteen to three-forty-five. Be sure to partake of the feast and your body will say thank you. I’ll see you all at four for yoga.”

Wiping his face and neck, Ness waited in the rear as the women filed out. After the ladies left, he walked over to the video-camera stand, peered into the camera’s lens, and stuck out his tongue. Then he turned off the machine.

No sense worrying about fuckups when they’re out of your control.

He removed the camcorder from the stand. It was one of those tiny buggers—fitted snugly in the palm of his hand. Perfect for shooting on the sly. He’d check the tape later, see if it picked up all his body exercises, how he moved to the beat. He enjoyed watching his tapes, liked seeing his lithe body move and sweat, liked the defined muscles of his arms and legs. He knew he’d never be Schwarzenegger—he wasn’t the buffed-up type—but at least now he felt good about the way he looked. You had to look good always or it was all over with the ladies …

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a chickadoodle approaching him. Just what he needed—another sex-starved teenybopper. She was built, and not shy about showing it off. Her smile was too white to be natural.

“Hi, I’m Aurora,” she said.

“Hi.” Ness shifted his weight and folded his arms across his chest. “Have a good workout?”

“Great.”

“Good to hear, Aurora.”

“Really gets the endorphins going, ya know?”

“It can, that’s true.”

“I can feel it.”

“Good.” Ness started backing away. “Keep it up.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Ness looked at his watch, then at the chick. She seemed nervous, waiting for him to make his move. She was going to wait for a long time. “What’s up?”

“Umm … I wanted to know if we should be taking salt pills?”

A good fake, Ness thought. What she really wanted to know was if he was available for fucking.

“Not necessarily, Aurora,” Ness said. “Our consommé is a perfectly balanced electrolye replenisher—sodium as well as potassium.” He strolled toward the door. “That’s why it’s so important that you take your broth break. The liquid contains everything your body needs. We sell it at our health-food store. Be sure to buy some when you leave the spa. After your home workout, your salts will be depleted same as here. If you have our broth, you won’t have to worry a bit about your electrolytes.” He stopped talking when he hit the threshold. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s okay. I can see you’re in a hurry.”

“You just caught me at a bad time.” Ness flashed what he hoped was a disarming smile. “I’ll be here for yoga if you think of anything else.”

“Thanks. I’m going in for the broth right now.”

Ness waited until she was gone before he allowed the anxiety to resurface. What the hell had happened last night to bring the police out nosing around? He tossed the damp towel in the hamper and was about to lock the door. Sensing someone behind him, he turned. He knew without introduction that he had found the chick detective.

Actually, it was more like she had found him.

As he cruised the 405 Freeway south, Decker thought about the baby. It had been his idea. Not that Rina hadn’t wanted children. But she would have preferred to wait a couple of years, let everyone get to know one another as a family before adding another member. Even though he was forty-two, she was only thirty and it was maternal age that was the big factor in problem pregnancies.

Rina’s plan would have prevailed if he hadn’t been shot. It had been an odyssey that had led him from coast to coast until he found the missing kid and the psycho who abducted him. Unfortunately, the psycho had a gun. Psychos always have guns.

After the initial recovery from the gunshot wounds, Decker had been insistent that the baby schedule be pushed ahead. After all, he wasn’t a youngster and both of them had had previous fertility problems with their first spouses. What if it took a long time? What if medical intervention was needed? Why wait, only to discover a problem that could take years to fix? Rina understood his logic and agreed.

But the truth of the matter was, he’d needed this baby. After his brush with the other side, he’d hungered for something life-affirming. What better way to regain a sense of potency than to sire a baby?

He rolled up the window of the unmarked, shutting out noise as well as air, and turned on the air conditioner. A Freon-scented wind blasted his face.

Deliriously happy when Rina had told him the news, he had taken the whole squad room out for happy hour and actually gotten drunk. Not seriously plastered, but tipsy enough for Marge to have to drive him home.

Then reality had come knocking. Another body to feed and clothe and educate, stretching his paycheck that much further. Then there was Rina’s morning sickness and moodiness, and the cold shoulder given to him by his stepsons. Both had been slow to adjust to the idea of an interloper. Lately, things had been better; all those Sundays spent in the park launching model rockets definitely helped. But Sammy and Jake were still wary critters.

Fair enough. With time, he’d prove them wrong.

What hurt most of all was the reaction of his nearly adult daughter. Cindy had seemed so independent. She’d spent last summer in Europe, was away at college this year. She rarely wrote, never called. Never stayed on long when he phoned. But when they did speak, the conversation had always been friendly and upbeat. She had seemed to adjust well to his marriage to Rina. In fact, Cindy and Rina had always gotten along. Great—better than he could have hoped.

It shocked him how she had responded to the news—that awful silence. Would it have actually hurt her to tell him congratulations when she finally did open up?

Man oh man, did she know how to hit.

Don’t you think you’re rushing things, Dad?

It had been his turn to pause.

Well, if we did rush things, Cindy, we can’t exactly take it back now, can we?

That’s true.

Another silence.

Well, good luck.

Snide tone. As in good luck, you’re gonna need it, pal.

Cindy, I love you—

Look, Dad. I’m an adult, not a child. You don’t have to reassure me. I’m well aware of the fact that you will love me no matter how many other children you’ll have. And I’m sure you’ll have lots because Rina’s young. If that’s what you want, I wish you well.

Cindy, I’m not reassuring you—

Yes, you are. Don’t lie about it.

Okay, maybe I am. But it’s not as if it’s a horrible thing for a father to say to his daughter.

Stony silence.

Decker sighed. I’m sorry if I upset you—

I’m not upset.

If I upset you by trying to reassure you.

Oh. Pause. It’s okay.

Would you like me to call you tomorrow?

Whatever.

Then I’ll call you tomorrow.

Sure. She had paused a moment. How’s your arm, Daddy?

Don’t worry about me, honey, I’m just fine.

Yeah, you’re always fine. I’ll talk to you later.

He had called her the next day. And the next and the next, receiving the same frosty attitude each time. Nothing more than a perfunctory chat, a sincere inquiry into the state of his health, and a cold response when he told her he was okay. He knew she wanted him to confide in her, but it simply wasn’t his style. He refused to complain to anyone, let alone his daughter.

And so it went. Finally, Rina suggested he wait until Cindy came to him.

Of course that conversation had led to a fight, he accusing her of interfering with his daughter. Later, he regretted his words but didn’t feel like apologizing. Rina didn’t push it; she was good about things like that.

After he cooled off, he admitted to himself that Rina’s advice had been good. He knew that his constant calling was giving Cindy the message that he was insecure about their relationship. Over the months, he’d weaned himself down to a phone call a week.

And each time Cindy remained aloof.

Well, maybe she’d warm up after the baby came.

And maybe he’d win the lottery, too.

Frederick Brecht’s office was in Tarzana on the western end of Ventura Boulevard—the glitzy shopping strip for the San Fernando Valley. Decker had expected a medical building, but instead, the address corresponded to a two-story mini-mall; Brecht’s practice was sandwiched between a travel agency and a health-food store. Each business was allowed only two parking spaces. Brecht’s spaces, marked RESERVED FOR DOCTOR, were occupied. Decker pulled into one of the health-food store’s slots, hoping the owner wouldn’t call and have the car towed away.

The door to the office was glass backed by an attached white curtain that prevented unwanted onlookers from peeking inside. The glass was stenciled in gold

FREDERICK R. BRECHT, M.D.

HOLISTIC AND WELL-BEING MEDICINE

ACUPUNCTURE AND NUTRITION

CONSULTATION BY APPOINTMENT ONLY

Decker went inside and halted in his tracks.

The waiting room was unoccupied and without conventional furniture. Couches and chairs were replaced with brown mats that covered the waxed wooden planks of fir. In the center of the room was a pile of specialty magazines: Journal of Holistic Health. Annals of Eastern Medicine. The Vitamin Digest. Hanging from the ceiling were silk-screened lanterns emitting soft, filtered light. The wallpaper was imprinted with some kind of Chinese farm scene—kimonoed men and women with one-dimensional features tilling soil and pulling some kind of root from the ground. New Age synthesizer music, along with the odor of incense, wafted through the air.

Decker pondered the reception window, then stared at the cushioned floor, unsure if he should remove his shoes. He decided to brave the trek in shod feet, but found himself tiptoeing. He knocked on the frosted glass and a middle-aged woman slid open the panel. She wore no makeup but was decked with jewelry. Dozens of bracelets, a couple of silver necklaces, and earrings that were large and beaded and hung down to her shoulders. Her brown hair had been cut short, her eyes were deep-set. Her voice was a tinkle—like wind chimes—and at odds with the mature face.

“Yes?”

“I’m Sergeant Peter Decker of the LAPD.” He showed the woman his badge. “I’d like to speak with Dr. Brecht.”

“Dr. Brecht is not in today. Would you like to leave a message?”

Tinkle, tinkle.

Decker said, “Where is Dr. Brecht?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has he checked in today?”

Suddenly the light voice was as sharp as broken glass.

“I don’t know if I should answer your questions.”

“Why? Are you hiding something?”

“Of course n—”

“So why wouldn’t you want to answer a simple question? Has Dr. Brecht phoned in today?”

She was flustered. “Uh, I’m sure he will soon.”

“But he hasn’t come in yet?”

“No.” She sighed. “He left a message on the machine. ‘Althea, cancel all my patients today. An emergency came up.’ So I canceled his patients.” She played with a beaded earring. “No big deal. Today would have been a light day—three stress consultations, two deep-body massages, one biofeedback.”

“What time did he leave the message?”

“It was on the machine when I arrived at eight this morning. His first appointment wasn’t until ten so I had lots of time to cancel.”

“Does your answering machine record the time that the call was made?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Dr. Brecht has another office at his sister’s spa, is that correct?”

Something malevolent clouded Althea’s eyes. “It’s not an official office. You can’t make an appointment to see him there unless you’re a registered guest. Freddy helps his sister out. Which is more than I can say for her.”

“How often does he help out at the spa?”

“Too often.”

“Give me an estimate.”

“Maybe once or twice a week. Which may not seem like a lot to you, but it really does cut the efficiency of a practice. You know, Freddy is a very unique doctor. It was his treatment that cured my backaches and I really believe in him. So do a lot of people. He works very hard for his patients. I resent his jumping whenever his sister calls. He’s just too nice and she takes advantage of him.”

“How about his mother?” Decker asked.

“The great Davida Eversong? She and his sister are two of a kind. You think she’d ever help him out? To her, everything is Lilah, Lilah, Lilah. Of course whenever she needs a massage, she calls him and he comes running. Do you think she even pays him?”

“No?”

“Not a dime.” Althea sighed. “Well, I’ve just talked too much.”

“Do you think Dr. Brecht might be with his mother?”

She sighed again. “I didn’t lie, but I didn’t tell you the whole truth. I don’t know where he is but I do know he’s not at the spa. I’ve also called his house and his mother’s apartments. No one answered.” She suddenly blushed. “I wasn’t checking up on him. It’s just there are a few business matters I need to tell him about.”

“Business matters?”

“It’s of no concern to the police.”

Decker paused a moment, letting her know that at the moment everything was of concern to the police. “Why don’t you give me the addresses and phone numbers of Ms. Eversong’s and Dr. Brecht’s residences. I can get it myself, but you’d be saving me a few steps. And time may be of the essence here.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“There was an incident last night concerning Dr. Brecht’s sister.”

“An incident?”

“She was attacked.”

“My God! What happ—”

“I know Dr. Brecht met her last night for supper,” Decker broke in. “Now you tell me he hasn’t shown up for work. I’m wondering if something might have happened to him.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Not that I have any reason to believe that something did happen—”

“Oh, dear Lord!” Althea tugged at her earring. “Omigod, omigod. Of course I’ll give you those numbers.” She yanked on a drawer and shakily drew out a piece of paper and a pen. “Why didn’t you tell me your business in the first place?”

She was scolding him. But she was giving him what he wanted so Decker let it pass.

6

A split second to decide how to handle it. Act surprised, resigned, indignant or cooperative or maybe even friendly. No, scratch friendly. Cops were wary of anyone too congenial. If she was good—inquisitive like Kelley had said—she’d probably heard his name paged over the loud speaker and would wonder what that was all about. Ness knew he could probably pull off playing dumb, but now was not the time to audition for the Oscar. Keep it simple and keep her off guard. At least Kelley’s call had prepared him. No weak knees or sweaty hands.

“Hi,” Ness said. “I’m assuming you’re the detective since you’re not dressed for yoga.”

Marge paused a moment, surprised he knew who she was, surprised at how smooth he was around her. Most people were jumpy around cops. “Did you just talk to your sister?”

“Yeah. She’s totally freaked out, wasn’t making a lot of sense to tell you the truth. Something about Lilah being attacked and you’re here looking into it? Whenever Kelley gets freaked, she calls big brother. What happened?”

“You’ve got some time to talk?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“I’ve got ’bout half an hour before my next class.” Ness swallowed hard, stepped back inside the Jazzarena, and gently placed his camcorder onto a mat. “I’m all dehydrated. You mind if I grab a cup of broth? We can talk in here. Hard to find privacy around this place.”

“Your sister tells me you live on the premises. We can talk in your place.”

“Nah, too far of a walk. I’ll be back in a jiff. Hang tight.”

He was out the door before Marge could protest. She paced around the gym. Against the side wall, there were a pile of fresh towels, a large wicker basket filled with dirty towels, and stacked blue exercise mats. In front of the mirrors was a CD player resting on the floor. With no chairs available, Marge leaned against the ballet barre.

Physically, Mike Ness wasn’t at all what Marge had expected. She’d figured on a muscle man and wasn’t prepared for someone on the slight side. He was sort of androgynous-looking, actually, except for the well-trimmed two-day stubble that covered his face. Shiny black hair that fell over big blue eyes. Truth be told he was almost as pretty as his sister. Though his muscles weren’t over-inflated, they had been worked on. He had the wiry kind of definition in his biceps and calves.

He came back a moment later, carrying two steaming cups, and kicked the door shut with his foot. If the guy was guilty of anything, good old sister Kelley had taken away the key element of surprise.

“I brought an extra cup for you, Detective.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

Still holding the cups, Ness sat down cross-legged without spilling a drop. “I don’t know but I’d imagine there’s a certain amount of tension in your job. The broth is a great stress reducer. And it’s low-calorie.”

Marge sat next to him, pulled out her notebook. “I’m not on a diet.”

“Take it anyway. It won’t kill you.” Ness’s lips unfolded in a half smile. “Poor choice of words, I guess.”

Marge returned his expression with a half smile of her own. “Drink mine for me, bro. I’ve already tanked up on guava juice.”

Ness broke into unexpected laughter. “I detect sarcasm. You know that cynicism is a prime toxin builder, Detective.”

“So is assault.”

Ness grew serious. “What happened to Lilah last night?”

“She was attacked.”

“Was she raped?”

“A full report hasn’t been filed yet. Do you know anything about it?”

“Me? Not a clue.”

Marge studied his face. There was some concern but he wasn’t overdoing it. Good eye contact. Didn’t seem real fidgety. Either he wasn’t worried about his ass or he was a top-notch psychopath. “How do you get along with Lilah?”

“I adore her.” He smiled slowly. “As a friend. She’s the greatest boss I’ve ever had. Lets me make my own hours, great about giving me time off. The pay here isn’t great, I’ve gotta be honest. But when you factor in the perks—free room and board—the paycheck isn’t as small as it looks on paper. This isn’t the job I want to do all my life, but it’s a great pit stop.”

Mr. Sincere.

Marge asked, “How long have you worked for her?”

“I came on about eight months ago.” Ness finished one cup of broth, crunched the paper cup in his hand. “My sister brought me over, actually. She’s worked here close to two years and loves her job. Kelley’s a great kid, but she worries too much about me. I was unemployed about a year ago. Didn’t bother me, but it drove her crazy. She talked me into coming here. More like dragged me over. But I’m not sorry. Like I said, the position is okay until I figure out what I want to do.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I sure as hell wouldn’t mind owning a place like this,” Ness said, wistfully. “But since that doesn’t seem likely in the future, I’d like to have enough clients to support myself as a personal trainer. You build up lots of contacts here. I’ve already filled up Tuesday and Saturday evenings with people. Lilah’s really good about that, she gives me the time off. But as of this moment I don’t have enough of a client load—enough income—to make ends meet on my own.”

“Did you meet your clients at the spa?”

“Sure, most of them. A few of the recent ones are referrals. See, that’s how the ball gets rolling.”

“Lilah doesn’t mind you stealing business?”

“I don’t steal business—”

“If you train women at home, who needs the spa?”

Ness slowly took a sip of his second cup of broth. “It doesn’t work that way, Detective. The spa and I are synergistic. We feed off of each other. Look around. Most of the women you see here are in terrific shape. They come here for peace and quiet and want a safe environment to relax where they won’t gain weight. Sure we have some men here—mostly husbands whose wives asked them along—but the majority of our clientele is female. They can hang out without feeling that some guy is going to hit on them.”

“That how Ms. Betham felt?”

“I knew you were going to bring that up,” Ness said. “You ever meet Miz Betham?”

“No.”

“She’s around fifty and has a face like a pineapple. Now I have nothing against ugly people except when they give me troubles. I don’t know what her problem is, but she isn’t going to bring me down. I hope the garbage she’s saying isn’t giving you funny ideas about me. I don’t hit on women. And I certainly wouldn’t ever do anything to Lilah. You haven’t told me too much about that.”

“Lilah will be okay,” Marge said. “If she wants to tell you about it in detail, I’m sure she will.”

“She know who attacked her?”

Marge was silent.

“Probably not,” Ness said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be questioning me. Ask me anything you want. I’ll do anything to help you find the bastard who hurt her.”

“You like her a lot.”

“I told you, I adore her.”

“But just as a friend.”

“Yep.”

“Was there ever anything sexual between you and her?”

“No. Not that I’d mind, but …”

Marge waited.

“I guess I’m not her type.”

“Who’s her type?”

“Lilah’s?” Ness paused. “Wouldn’t know. I once heard she’d been married. I try not to delve too deeply into my boss’s affairs. I think that makes a lot of sense.”

“Were you here at the spa yesterday, Mike?”

“Yesterday was what? Sunday? Yep, I was here. I attended the seven o’clock lecture. Honestly, I don’t even remember what it was on. They blur. Afterward, I worked out for an hour by myself. Then I drank a little herbal tea with some of the ladies.” He smiled. “You know, trying to drum up a little business. I went to bed around eleven, maybe it was closer to twelve.”

“Did you see Lilah anytime during the evening?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was she at the lecture?”

“Was she? I don’t remember. My sister, Kelley, might know. She’s the one who’s good with details.”

“So no one can verify where you were between the hours of twelve and seven.”

“Nope. No one. ’Cause I was sleeping by my little lonesome.” Ness shrugged. “Is Lilah unconscious or something? Otherwise, why are you questioning me? She could tell you I didn’t do anything to her.”

“She’s conscious.”

Ness nodded. “That’s good. So just ask her—”

“We intend to question her extensively when she’s feeling better. In the meantime, we haven’t ruled anyone out. You know anyone who might have a bone to pick with Lilah? A disgruntled employee, maybe?”

Ness shook his head. “Everyone loves her. Never heard anyone say a bad word … except … well, he didn’t say anything bad about her. He didn’t say anything about her … which was odd.”

Marge looked at him.

“About two, three months ago, a guy claiming to be Lilah’s brother came here,” Ness said. “Actually he wanted to see Davida because it was her birthday. He had a gift. No one was around. He left the present at reception and split.”

“That was it?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t know,” Ness said. “I’d never seen the guy before. He hasn’t been back since. I know how close Lilah is to Freddy. It just struck me as odd that this ‘brother’ would be such a mystery man. He was quite a bit older than her or Freddy. Looked to be in his middle forties. Strange.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t remember it. I do remember it was a blueblood name, though—like Thurston Howell the Third or something.”

“Does the name King ring a bell?”

He paused, then shook his head. “That wasn’t his name.”

There had been something in Ness’s eyes—a glint of recognition. Marge said, “You’re sure his name wasn’t King something or something King?”

“No, that wasn’t the name on the card.”

“You peeked at the birthday card?”

Ness smiled. “He left his business card along with the present, too. Weird. You ever hear of someone leaving their business card with a present? Especially a family member?”

Marge didn’t answer.

“I figure he’s not a close family member,” Ness said. “He was a doctor, by the way. I saw M.D. after his name on his card.”

“You saw his card but don’t remember his name.”

“Sorry, no.”

“What’d you do with the card?”

“I gave it to Kelley. She probably still has it unless she threw it away. I doubt she did. She’s compulsive. Ask her.”

“I will.” Marge planted a large hand on his bony shoulder. “In the meantime, Mr. Ness, you stay close.”

“No problem, Detective, I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

Marge stood, flipped the cover over her notepad, and toed the tip of the video camera. “What do you do with this?”

Ness picked up the camera. “I tape myself working. To see how I move. I take my job seriously and don’t want to look like an ass in front of the women. You want a peek?”

Marge looked at her watch. “Sure.”

Ness got up. Marge followed him to the back of the Jazzarena. He opened a cupboard. Inside was a thirteen-inch TV attached to ancillary equipment. Ness opened the camera and slid the tape into a video machine. His image filled the monitor, shots of him moving with the grace of a ballet dancer. Marge asked him if he had had lessons.

“Long ago.” Ness’s eyes were fixed to the monitor.

“Unusual for a boy to have ballet.”

“My parents were unusual people.” He turned to her. “Can I eighty-six the tape?”

“Be my guest.”

Ness flipped the switch and the monitor turned dark.

Marge said, “Thanks for your time, Mr. Ness.” As she headed for the door, he called out her name. She turned around.

“Sure you don’t want to stay for yoga? It soothes the savage spirit.”

Marge smiled. “I like my spirit savage, Mr. Ness. It keeps me on my toes.”

Decker leaned against a pink column near the entrance to the spa and read the business card Marge had given him.

John Reed M.D. FACOG

Obstetrics, Gynecology, Infertility

Two phone numbers were printed on the lower right corner; a medical license number was on the lower left. He flipped the card over. Nothing written on the back.

A hot, dry wind whipped through the air, the sun flashing off the chrome bumpers that spangled the parking lot. Decker loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, and rolled up his sleeves.

“Is this card legitimate?”

“I called the number right before you got here.” Marge checked her watch. “Must have been about four-thirty. It’s a doctor’s office. Apparently Reed had canceled all his afternoon appointments because he was stuck at the hospital for deliveries.”

“Stuck?” Decker said.

“His secretary’s word, not mine.”

“Find out which hospital?”

Marge shook her head. “I asked her but she didn’t answer and I didn’t push it. I don’t even know if he’s relevant to the case. I wasn’t able to get too much out of the receptionist, period, but she did tell me that yes indeed John Reed is Lilah’s and Freddy’s brother.”

Two bikini-clad women came out of the spa, laughing loudly, arms linked together. Nubile young ladies—one blond and one brunet—tossing long damp hair over their tanned shoulders. Decker followed their sway until they disappeared inside a silver Porshe Carrera. The car zoomed off and Decker stared at the empty space for a moment.

“There’s at least a couple dozen more like that inside,” Marge said.

“You like that color for a Porsche? Mine could use a new paint job and I’m sick of red.”

“You looking at the girls or the car, Pete?”

“At first I was looking at the girls. Then I got distracted by the car.”

Marge burst into laughter. “Rina has nothing to worry about.”

Decker smiled. “I could have told you that. So if this Reed is Lilah’s doctor brother, who’s Totes’s phantom named King?”

“I asked Reed’s girl about him. At that point, she started asking me questions. When I wouldn’t answer hers, she refused to answer mine. But I had the feeling that this unknown King is a real person. Whether he’s a brother or not, I don’t know.”

Decker said, “So far, Lilah has got what … three doctor brothers including a phantom brother named King?”

Marge shrugged.

Decker said, “I’ve got Hollander looking up sex offenders who live in the area. I’ve also asked him to punch the crime into the computer and see if it matches anything else that has gone down in the city. Until I’ve spoken with Lilah, we don’t have too much to go on.”

Marge said, “You speak with Davida Eversong yet?”

Decker frowned. “Did Morrison ask about her again?”

“I called in for messages,” Marge said. “He was just curious whether we’ve contacted her or not. Why’s he in an uproar over her?”

Decker said, “A famous actress’s daughter is raped—could be big news if it got out. Lots of actresses are attention junkies. I’m sure Morrison doesn’t want publicity after dealing with the fallout from the Rodney King beating.”

“A new concept in Totally Hidden Video.” Marge furrowed her brow. “You think you could lose it like that, Pete?”

“I think we’re all just a step above apes.”

Marge smiled. “You make contact with Freddy Brecht?”

“He wasn’t in.” Decker filled her in on his conversation with Brecht’s secretary. “I don’t know why he canceled his patients. Maybe he found out about Lilah and rushed over to see her. I’d like to talk to him. He supposedly saw her last night and maybe he’d remember something.”

“I’ll call the hospital and ask if he’s been there to visit her.”

“Thanks.” Decker wiped his brow, damp with perspiration. Mercury must have hit the ninety-degree mark today. Poor Rina. Next couple of months were going to be hell for her. “So tell me about Kelley’s brother, Mike. Is he the same guy who picks the vegetables?”

“Yeah. He gave me an eerie feeling. But you told me Lilah didn’t know who attacked her and she knows Mike.”

Decker said, “She was blindfolded, so the perp could still be someone she knows. I just shot out the question. She probably didn’t even know what I was asking. I’ll ask her again.”

“Maybe she does know who he is and the guy has her terrorized.”

“Is Ness scary?”

“No, more like wily—sly,” Marge answered. “Guy didn’t flinch when he turned around and saw me staring him down. I’ve nothing concrete against him—he was cooperative—but I don’t trust him. At first glance, he isn’t physically prepossessing. Then you see him move. He tapes himself exercising.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he had a video camera and I asked him what he used it for. He tapes himself. Played me the tape without hesitation. Man, the way he moves, maybe he’s not a lion, but he’s sure a jaguar. In total control of his body.”

“Want me to look him over?”

“Let me work him over first.” Marge told Decker about the Betham complaint. “I’ll get back to you on that. See if the suit’s legit.”

“Go for it, Margie,” Decker said. “I’m off to the hospital to talk to Lilah.”

The entrance doors to the spa parted once again. Out came a young lass in cutoff jeans and a tank top. A way-too-small-for-her-chest tank top. And she wasn’t wearing a bra. Decker felt he had to notice these details because noticing details honed one’s skills of observation—the primary tool of detection.

Marge tapped him on the shoulder. “You want to switch assignments, Pete?”

“No.” Decker eyes shifted from the bouncing bosoms back to Marge’s face. “No, Detective Dunn, that wouldn’t be an efficient division of labor. You finish up your hit list. I’m off to the hospital.”

7

The drive to Sun Valley Memorial was a westward stretch of freeway that had Decker riding into the late-afternoon sun. Squinting, he yanked down the unmarked’s visor, which did little to mitigate the glare, then fished around in the glove compartment until he felt a pair of sunglasses. Cheapies—the lenses were gridmarked with scratches. But it was better than driving blind.

Maybe Lilah had been able to see something from under the blindfold. It had been made of lightweight material folded over several times, but it hadn’t been form-fitting. She could have sneaked a glance or two out of an open corner.

If he got lucky.

He took the Branch Street exit, turned left, then traveled another mile on surface streets. The winds were blowing dust, little eddies of soot that looked like gold powder in the late-afternoon light.

The Foothill Substation of the LAPD patrolled the east end of the San Fernando Valley—the last bastion of rural Los Angeles filled with miles of grazing land. Slowly and steadily, commercialization was eroding the undeveloped acres, but the ranchers were a stubborn lot, often refusing to sell even if there was profit to be made. Creatures of habit, they, like Decker’s father, wouldn’t know what to do with the money if they didn’t have their work—tasks that challenged the body and roughened the hands.

As he veered the Plymouth away from the mountains and onto Foothill Boulevard, the terrain changed. Open fields yielded to lumber- and brickyards, scrap-metal dealerships, roofing companies, wholesale nurseries, and block-long discount stores advertising everyday sale prices. The boulevard twisted and turned through large open lots until the hospital came into view.

Sun Valley Memorial—a three-story square building plastered in green stucco—shared the block with a flower farm abloom with mums and marigolds. Decker parked the car in the half-full EMERGENCY ONLY lot, stuck his OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS card on the dash, and took the elevator up, getting off on the second floor.

The visitors’ area was small and nearly empty. To the right a woman and teenaged boy sat playing cards. On the other side of the room was a man reading a magazine and an elderly woman listening intently as a doctor, still dressed in surgical scrubs, spoke to her in hushed tones. No one was sitting at the desk marked INFORMATION.

Decker bypassed the lobby and walked down the long corridor until he found the nurse’s station. He presented his badge to a young man wearing a white uniform.

“Sergeant Decker of the LAPD. I spoke with Dr. Kessler earlier in the day and he told me I could come down and interview Lilah Brecht. She’s in room two-fifty-five.”

The man leaned over the counter to study the badge. “Lilah Brecht …”

“Yes, Lilah Brecht. She was admitted this morning, victim of an assault.”

“Lilah Brecht …” the man repeated.

With a smile, Decker asked, “Can you page Dr. Kessler for me?”

“I know who Lilah is. I’m her floor nurse. I seem to remember Dr. Kessler saying something about you coming down. I’m sure he wrote it in her chart.”

Decker waited.

“I’m not sure where the chart is now,” the nurse said. He scratched a hairy forearm. “Maybe down in Neuro. But it doesn’t matter. She’s out of it right now.”

“She’s sedated?”

“No, no.” The nurse frowned. “You don’t sedate people with possible head injuries. She’s asleep. It’s been a long day for her. Her brother tried to talk to her about a half hour ago, but she was—”

“Her brother? You mean Dr. Brecht?”

“Yep.”

“He was here?”

“Why is that weird? He’s the patient’s brother.”

“I’ve been looking for him,” Decker said. “Left messages at his office, at the hospital—”

“I never got any messages from you.”

Decker let out an exasperated sigh. “Did he just get here or has he been here all day?”

“I’d say he came about a half hour ago. When he saw she was sleeping, he said he’d be back in a half hour. But like I said, that was a half hour ago. So he should be back around … now.”

“I’m going to take a quick peek in Lilah’s room,” Decker said.

“Okay,” replied the nurse with hairy forearms. “But don’t wake her.”

Decker said he wouldn’t. Her room was at the end of the hallway—one of the few privates available in the hospital. She was sleeping sitting up in the bed, glucose trailing down an IV line threaded into her arm. Her hair had been brushed off her forehead, her scrubbed face showing the bluing and swelling of her ordeal. Both eyes were puffy, with scratches and cuts above her brow. Her mouth was open; the dry air had caused her red lips to crack. Her skin tone had markedly improved. She was still pale but the cold, ashen complexion was gone. She wore the standard hospital gown backward, the split open in the front. But her modesty was protected by a bedsheet across her chest. Softly, he called out her name.

No response.

He checked his watch and decided to wait a few minutes. He pulled a chair up to the bed, about to stretch his legs when a stern voice jerked his head around, demanding to know who the hell he was.

The man appeared to be in his early thirties, medium height and weight, prematurely bald with just a few plugs of thin blond hair sticking up from a pink scalp. He made up for his lack of cranial hair with a full sandy-colored beard and thick eyebrows. He had close-set, pale-blue eyes and a long beaky nose. He wore a long white coat over an embroidered work shirt and jeans. On his feet were an ancient pair of Earth sandals—the kind where the toe was higher than the heel. Decker thought those had gone the way of the Nehru jacket.

“I’m Sergeant Decker of the Los Angeles Police.”

The man paused. When he spoke again, he had lowered his voice. “I don’t think she’s equipped to talk to the police at the moment. Maybe tomorrow.”

“You’re Frederick Brecht?”

“I’m Dr. Frederick Brecht, yes.”

With an emphasis on the doctor, Decker noticed. He stood, overshooting Brecht by around six inches. He put him at about five-ten, one-seventy. Even though his coloring was similar to Lilah’s, brother and sister bore little resemblance.

“I’m handling your sister’s assault, Doctor. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

Brecht’s scalp turned a deep shade of rose. “Why is that a concern of the police?”

“You went out with your sister last night,” Decker said. “Maybe you noticed something—”

“Nothing,” Brecht said. “If I had, I would have contacted you. Anything else?”

Decker said, “Doctor, how about we grab a cup of coffee in the cafeteria as long as Lilah’s resting? Maybe you can help me out by answering a couple of questions.”

“But I have nothing to tell you,” Brecht insisted.

Lilah moaned.

“Patients, even in sleep, are still receptive to their surroundings,” Brecht lectured. “I think this conversation is upsetting her. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave at once.”

“Doctor, I know this is a bad time for you—”

“Bad is an egregious understatement, Sergeant. I’m in no mood to be interrogated.” Brecht touched the tips of his fingers to his forehead. “I can’t think clearly. Maybe tomorrow.”

Decker was struck by Brecht’s manner—incongruent with the informal, guru appearance. He’d expected a palsy-walsy interaction and was getting anything but.

“Sure, tomorrow’s fine,” Decker said. “It’s just … you know. Well, maybe you don’t. Time is really important in these kind of cases, Doc.”

Brecht closed his eyes, then slowly opened them. “I suppose a few minutes …”

Decker walked over and looped his arm around the doctor’s shoulder. Gently, he guided Brecht out the door. “You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”

“I never drink caffeine,” Brecht said weakly.

“Now’s a good time for an exception.”

“No, no.” Brecht sighed. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine. Well, that’s not true at all. I’m very shaken. Who wouldn’t be?”

“True.”

They took the elevator down to ground level. It was after five and the cafeteria had begun to serve dinner, the special was meat loaf with mashed potatoes, peas, and coffee or soft drink for $4.99.

“Hungry?” Decker asked.

“I never eat red meat,” Brecht said.

Decker picked up an apple.

“That’s been sprayed,” Brecht commented. “If you must eat chemically adulterated items, may I suggest an orange as opposed to an apple. Its peel, being thick, absorbs most of the pesticides, leaving only traces of the poison in the meat of the fruit.”

Decker stared at him. “Maybe I’ll just stick to coffee.”

“Caffeine has been implicated in heart disease and infertility.”

“My wife’s pregnant,” he said, then wondered why.

“Good God, I hope she has enough sense not to drink coffee. Caffeine’s been implicated in birth defects!”

Decker was quiet. Now that he thought about it, Rina was suddenly drinking mint tea. He wondered if that had been implicated in anything, but didn’t ask. He filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee and led Brecht to a corner table. He pulled out his notebook.

Brecht said, “How long have you been with the force?”

Decker held back a smile and sipped axle grease. “I’ve been with LAPD for seventeen years, fifteen of them wearing a gold shield.”

Brecht looked at Decker, then at the tabletop. “I … apologize for interrogating you … was it Officer Decker?”

“Sergeant Decker. Detective Sergeant if you want to get technical.”

“I’m usually very professional in my behavior, Sergeant. But now … well, surely you can understand …”

“Of course.”

“What …” Brecht hesitated. “When did it happen?”

“I’m not sure of the exact time,” Decker said. “I was hoping you could help me with that. You were out with her last night.”

“Yes, I was. But she was fine when we parted. When did you find out about …?”

“The call came through dispatch a little before seven in the morning,” Decker said. “Maid phoned it in. How’d you find out?”

“I called my office.”

“When?”

“Around an hour ago. My secretary was panicked by your visit. It took me at least five minutes to calm her down and find out what had happened. She was very worried that … that something had happened to me as well.”

“She seems like a loyal gal.”

“Althea has my interests at heart.”

“Why’d you wait so long to call your office for messages?”

“I … it had been an unusual day. I was very busy.”

“With what?”

“What does my business have to do with Lilah?”

Decker waited.

Brecht sighed. “Well, if you really must know, I was preoccupied with my mother.”

“Davida Eversong.”

“The Great Dame of the Silver Screen.” Brecht frowned. “She can really put it on, that woman. But she is my mother. What can I do?”

Decker said, “You were at the spa all this time?”

“No, no, no,” Brecht said. “At her beach house. In Malibu. Mother’s there at the moment. She doesn’t know a thing about Lilah and I’m insisting that you don’t tell her.”

“How much do you know about the case, Doctor?” Decker asked.

Brecht stiffened. “What are you implying, Sergeant?”

“Take it easy,” Decker said. “I was speaking in medical terms. Have you read your sister’s chart?”

Brecht paused, uncoiling slowly. “Not yet. It wasn’t on her door when I arrived and I haven’t had the energy to go searching for it. I’ve put in a call to her attending physician.” He looked Decker in the eye. “Is there anything I should know about?”

Decker didn’t answer.

Brecht’s voice turned to a whisper. “She was sexually assaulted, wasn’t she?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Dear God!” He gasped out. “Dear, dear God, I don’t believe …” He gasped again. “Could you get me some water, please?”

Decker bolted up and retrieved a glass of water. Still trembling, Brecht clutched the cup and gulped down the water.

“Do you need another drink?” Decker asked.

Brecht held up his palm and shook his head. He took a deep breath. “No … no, thank you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes … quite. It’s … the shock.” He inhaled deeply once again. “What happened?”

“We’re still putting pieces together, Doctor. I hope to have a better picture after I talk to your sister.”

“I just can’t believe …” Brecht buried his face in his hands, then looked up. “Ask your questions, Detective.”

Decker said, “When did your mother call you to come down to Malibu?”

“This morning,” Brecht said. “She was in terrible pain and I rushed out to treat her.”

“What time did she call?”

“Around eight-thirty, nine.”

“Is that why you canceled all your appointments?”

“Yes. My appointments that day started at ten. I knew by Mother’s tone that there’d be no way that I could get away with just a simple treatment. Once I was out there, I just didn’t feel … I decided to give her the entire day.”

“Your secretary said your cancellation message was already on the machine when she arrived at eight.”

Again Brecht’s scalp deepened in tone. “Well, maybe Mother called at seven-thirty. I really don’t remember exactly.”

Decker let his words hang. Forget about the phone call for the moment. From Malibu to Tarzana was a toll call. If Mama Eversong did dial sonny boy up, Decker could get the exact time by checking phone records. “What’s wrong with your mother?”

“Age.” Brecht sounded weary. “She’s over seventy with diabetes, arthritis, bursitis, osteoporosis—oh, why bore you with the details? Conventional drugs alone have had little success. In conjunction with my holistic regimen, Mother does a bit better handling the pain and skeletomuscular problems. But basically she’s just wearing out and not doing it gracefully.”

“You usually treat her whenever she calls?”

Brecht sighed. “I evaluate each incident individually. If I hear a demand for attention and not genuine pain in her voice, I put her off. This time she sounded as if she really needed help.”

“And you received her call around seven-thirty?”

“I suppose. Anyway, if you need her to verify my presence at the beach house, I’ll have her write you a note. I’m afraid I can’t give you her home number.”

“That’s all right,” Decker said. “I have it.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You have my mother’s beach house number?”

“All of your mother’s numbers. I’ve called all day and nobody answered.”

“My mother doesn’t believe in answering phones. She claims that’s for secretaries.”

“Does she have a secretary?”

“No.”

“There were no machines answering the numbers, either.”

“She claims machines are uncivilized.”

“So she never answers the phone when it rings?”

“Not at the beach house. Or at her apartments. At the spa, anyone wishing to speak with her leaves a message at the desk. She does pick up her messages from time to time.”

“Then why does she bother having phones?”

“To make outside calls—as she did to me this morning.” Brecht blew air out of his mouth. “As I started to say, if you need her to verify my presence, I’ll make sure she writes you a note.”

As if a note from Davida Eversong would carry enough weight to explain anything away. The arrogance of the rich. Or maybe Brecht was used to Mama taking care of him. A note—as in grade school. Please excuse Dr. Freddy for being absent.

“I’ll even insist Mother have the note notarized,” Brecht added.

Decker said, “I’d like to interview her.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“It just is. At least right now. I can’t elaborate. Perhaps in a day or two.”

Decker let it go. Brecht was being cooperative but only up to a point. Was he protecting Mama or protecting himself? Not that Decker had any reason to actually suspect Brecht. Still, Lilah’s safe was wide open. What the hell was inside?

“You went out to dinner with your sister last night.”

“Yes. I picked her up around …” Brecht stopped, stared at Decker. “Now do I have to tell you the precise time?”

“Do the best you can, Doctor.”

“I came to her house around eight. We went out to a vegetarian restaurant in the Fairfax district. A Sikh establishment that uses only rennetless cheese. You’d be surprised how many of these vegetarian places use cheese with rennet. Rennet is—”

“I know what rennet is, Doctor. It’s a chemical used as a binder in cheese making, derived from the gut of a cow.”

Brecht stared at him. “Your nutrition IQ just rose a notch in my book, Sergeant.”

Actually, Decker knew about rennet from keeping kosher. Rina had explained to him in great detail why ordinary cheese without certification was considered unacceptable. It didn’t make a lot of sense to him for a chemical to be considered unkosher—a designation he’d thought was reserved for edible food only. But it didn’t matter. Kosher cheeses were just as good and it made Rina happy. If she was happy, he was happy.

“When did you arrive back at your sister’s home?” Decker asked.

“Around eleven, eleven-thirty. The restaurant is a ways from her house. There’s quite a bit of traveling time.”

“Did you go in the house afterward and talk?”

“No, I was fatigued from a rather stressful day and I was anxious to get my rest.”

“You dropped your sister off?”

“Of course not! That would be cloddish and I am not a clod. I parked the car and walked her to the door. After she was safely inside, I drove away.”

“Everything appear normal when she went inside?”

“Yes. She turned on the living-room light, told me good night and closed the door.”

“Does she always leave the living-room light off when she goes out?”

Brecht stopped. “Good God, here we go again with the precise details. Next time, remind me to take my Dictaphone and video camera!”

Decker waited.

“Maybe the light was already on,” Brecht said. “I don’t remember.”

“Was the bedroom light on?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You couldn’t see?”

“I suppose I could technically see her bedroom window from my car, but I didn’t pay any attention.”

“Did you hear anything unusual?”

“Not at all.”

“See any strange cars parked around the house?”

“No.”

“You say you walked your sister to the door around eleven, eleven-thirty?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t go into the house?”

“No. Lilah asked me if I wanted to bunk down in the guest bedroom for the night, but I said I’d rather go home. Now I wish to God that I had. I’m feeling terribly guilty about it.”

Decker nodded.

“Of course, I had no way of knowing …”

“None at all,” Decker said.

“Damn, if only I had been there!”

“If you’d been there, maybe you’d have ended up in worse shape than Lilah.”

“Better me than her!”

“All I’m saying is, it might have been both of you.”

“You just don’t understand.” Brecht took a deep breath. “I’m not myself. Do you have any idea who did this horrible thing to my sister?”

“We’re investigating every avenue right now, Doctor.”

“In other words, you have no suspects.”

Decker was quiet.

“Are we done, Sergeant?”

“Almost. By any chance, do you have a key to your sister’s house?” Decker asked.

Brecht’s voice hardened. “Yes, I have a key. Why?”

“Just checking out every avenue,” Decker said. “Did you know your sister has a safe in the bedroom closet?”

Brecht shifted in his seat. “I don’t like this line of questioning.”

Decker waited.

“Yes, I know she has a safe in her closet! What of it?”

“Do you know what she keeps in—”

“Of course not!”

“Not even a hint?”

“No, Sergeant.”

“Do you have the combination—”

Brecht rose from his seat. “Why would I have the combination to her safe!”

“My brother and I have the combination to my parents’ safe,” Decker said. “I don’t have any idea what valuables they keep inside, but they gave us the combination in case something happened to them.”

Brecht seemed suspended in midair, then he slowly sat back down.

Decker shrugged. “With you being so close to your sister—you have a key to the house—well, I thought she might have trusted you with the combination.”

“She didn’t.” Brecht touched his fingers to his forehead. “May I assume the safe had been opened?”

“You can assume anything you want.”

Brecht clasped his hands together. “There was a robbery in addition to the assault?”

Decker said, “Maybe.”

Brecht said, “You don’t say too much, do you?”

“I’m just trying to do some fact-finding. A few more questions and we can call it quits, Doctor. What did you do after you dropped Lilah off?”

“I went straight home.”

“Make any calls?”

“No, not at that hour.”

“Check in with your service?”

“Uh … no.”

“Don’t you usually check in with your service before you go to bed?”

“If there is an emergency, they’ll page me. I believe in leaving well enough alone.” Brecht folded his hands across his chest. “I think we’re done now.”

“Doctor, please bear with me. How many brothers do you and Lilah have?”

Brecht opened his mouth and shut it. “What?”

“How many brothers do you have? Straightforward question.”

“Uh … two.”

Decker looked at him. “You’re sure, now?”

“Of course I’m sure. We have two other brothers—half brothers, really.”

“Their names?”

Again, Brecht paused. “What do they have to do with any of this?”

Decker shrugged. “Every avenue.”

“Good God,” Brecht said. “No, they couldn’t have. They couldn’t. Could they?”

Decker didn’t answer. Brecht hadn’t brought up his brothers, but now he sure seemed eager to implicate them.

“It’s my understanding that your sister had quite a noisy argument with King.”

“The maid must have told you that.” Brecht made clucking noises with his tongue. “Kingston scared the daylights out of her. If it wasn’t for Carl, who knows what he might have done to Lilah. Not that I’m implying Kingston had anything to do—with Lilah.” He looked at Decker. “I shouldn’t be telling you this …”

But he was going to tell it anyway, Decker thought.

“Kingston has always been insanely jealous of Lilah, though he disguises it as being protective. The fact is, he’s irate that she’s the sole heir of Mother’s estate. For years, he’s been pressing Mother to change her will. Even though Mother slips him money from time to time.”

“Slips him money?”

“Just to shut him up, I think. I really don’t know much about Kingston’s affairs. We’ve been estranged from each other for quite a while.”

Decker nodded, knowing that old Freddy Brecht was no objective character witness for brother King. Still, it never hurt to listen to opinions.

“You think Kingston might have broken into his sister’s safe to steal money?”

Brecht suddenly reddened. “I have no proof … I really don’t know why I said that. Probably because Kingston’s always hard up for cash. Even though he makes untold hundreds of thousands at that mill he’s running.”

“Mill?”

“Abortion mill.” Brecht scrunched up his face. “I think he’s branched out into other things—infertility is the latest rage. First women pay money to kill their babies, then they pay money to have them.”

“Kingston is an OB-GYN?”

“Yes. Imagine a specialty for something as natural as childbirth.”

“Excuse me, Doctor, but isn’t your other brother an OB-GYN as well?”

“Indeed. But at least John seems to be a little bit more respectful of fetal life.” He wagged his finger. “Not that I’m against abortion like those crazy right-to-lifers. But Kingston’s mill is positively repulsive. His so-called practice is the antithesis of what we physicians profess to represent.”

Decker couldn’t tell if Brecht’s ranting was a heartfelt opinion or yet another way of venting against his bro King.

“Are you close to John, Doctor?”

Brecht shook his head. “He’s closer to Kingston. The two of them are of the same generation and in the same field, so I suppose it’s natural.”

“Does your mother slip John money as well?”

“I don’t know,” Brecht said. “John seems to mind his own business. I have little to do with him, but I harbor no animosity toward him.”

“Can you spell Kingston’s name for me, please?”

“Spell?”

“I want to make sure the maid gave me the right spelling.”

“K-I-N-G-S-T-O-N M-E-R-R-I-T-T.”

Kingston Merritt. Obviously, he and John Reed were half brothers as well.

“Do you have phone numbers for either of them?”

“No. They’re both in the book. John’s practice is in Huntington Beach; Kingston’s is in Palos Verdes.” Brecht stood. “If you don’t mind, it’s been a terribly long day and I’d like to check on my sister. With all these questions, I hope you haven’t lost sight of the fact that there is some maniac out there who hurts people.”

“I’m well aware of that.” Decker stood. “I’ll go up with you … see if Lilah’s up for talking.”

“And if she isn’t?”

“I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“I’ll phone the nurse’s station and find out if Lilah’s up,” Brecht said. “Save you a trip if she’s still sleeping.”

Decker hesitated.

“Or you can make the call, if you’d like,” Brecht suggested.

Decker pointed Brecht to the house phone in the cafeteria. Brecht made a quick call, then hung up.

“She’s still sleeping.”

Decker evaluated his face and felt he was telling the truth. Even if he wasn’t, he couldn’t get much of an interview from Lilah with Freddy standing over his shoulder. Maybe it would be better if he came back tomorrow, refreshed from a good night’s sleep. He thanked Brecht for his time. Only thing left to do was running Lilah’s bagged clothes over to forensics. Then his working day was over.

The house was deserted. Almost seven and no dinner on the table, no sons greeting him with a hug at the door, no wife taking his coat and nonexistent hat, and no dog bringing him the paper.

His fantasy of marriage—shattered in a single blow.

“Yo,” he called out. “Anybody live here?”

He walked into the kitchen. Empty. Then he looked out the back window. Rina was barbecuing, tending the fire with savoir faire. She wore a denim shift under a white butcher’s apron. She was laughing and her long black hair was loose and blowing in the wind. The boys were racing the horses, yarmulkes flapping as they cantered, profiles burnished by the sinking sun. Ginger was chasing after them, panting and yelping, enjoying the exercise.

Domestic bliss, except he wasn’t in the picture.

He went outside.

“You made it!” Rina kissed his cheek. Her skin smelled of hickory smoke. “Go change. Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes.”

He glanced at the grill—marinated skirt steaks. Rina had also made coleslaw and macaroni salad, and had a couple of bottles of Dos Equis on ice. The patio table had been set for four so at least she’d been expecting him home. “I didn’t know they made maternity aprons.”

“I must look like a tent.”

“A beautiful tent. I’ll live inside of you any day of the year.” He hugged her from behind. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. I took a nap after you left.”

“I like that. You should be babying yourself while you can.”

She turned around and hugged him as best she could. “Are you okay?”

“Sure.”

“You seem wound up. You’re walking stiffly.” She reached up and gently squeezed the nape of his neck. “Oh, you’re all tight, Peter.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Want a massage?”

“Later, thanks.” He picked up a beer bottle, then noticed cans of soda sharing the cooler space. Coke. With caffeine. He shifted his weight, trying to appear casual. “You allowed to drink this stuff while you’re pregnant?”

“I stay off soft drinks. Bad for the weight. Besides, Coke has caffeine and I don’t drink caffeine. That’s why I don’t drink your coffee in the morning anymore.” She smiled impishly. “Or hadn’t you noticed, Peter?”

He hadn’t and felt stupid because of it.

Sammy, the older of the two boys, spied his stepfather from afar and waved. “Hey, Peter, look at me.”

He began racing his horse at top speed toward the edge of the mountain. Jacob, seeing his brother hogging parental attention, kicked the flanks of his horse and tried to catch up with him.

Cupping his hands, Decker yelled out, “Good going, boys. Keep it up.” He turned to Rina. “They’re having fun.”

“You sound envious. Why don’t you join them?”

Decker hesitated. His arm and shoulder were throbbing. He’d forgotten to take his afternoon dose of analgesics, but wasn’t about to do it in front of Rina. “Nah, it’s okay. I’ll keep you company.”

“Don’t be silly, Peter. Go ahead.”

“I said it’s okay.”

“Is your shoulder bother—”

“My shoulder’s fine, Rina. Just peachy!”

Rina looked down.

Swell, he thought. She was hurt. He felt bad for sniping at her, but he was sick of her asking, sick of telling her it was okay when it wasn’t. Why didn’t she stop asking?

Why didn’t he stop calling his daughter?

“Cindy phone?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Super.”

Rina took his hand but didn’t say anything. Cindy was hurting him and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. She couldn’t even comfort him. As with his gunshot wound, the topic of his daughter was off limits. “Rabbi Schulman called about an hour ago. He’s expecting you in his study at nine tonight.”

“I’ll be there.”

“He also told me that he’d asked another man to join you two. A ba’al tshuvah who’s in a lower shiur—”

“Someone is actually below me?”

Rina didn’t answer, hating it when he denigrated himself. His progress in Torah studies was yet another taboo subject. Judaism was a hard religion for a newcomer. Even though Peter had made such marvelous advances, he was still uncomfortable with his newfound faith—nervous about what he didn’t know instead of praising himself for what he did. He was so smart. If only he could just relax and enjoy his God-given brains. “Rav Schulman asked me to ask you if that’s okay. He thought you’d be the perfect role model for the new kid on the block.”

“Fine.”

His face was impassive as he rebuffed the compliment. Rina looped her arm around his waist. “You want me to run you a hot bath?”

“Thanks, darlin’, but I’ll wait until after dinner to bathe.”

Again, he stared longingly at the boys. Rina knew he was caught between a desire to ride and the pain the activity might inflict.

Jacob shouted to his stepfather. “Look, Peter.” He took off for the mountain again.

“I wish they wouldn’t ride so fast,” Rina said.

“They’re okay.”

“Maybe you should go out there and supervise them. Why don’t you take White Diamond, Peter? She’s gentle. She shouldn’t jostle you too badly.”

Between clenched teeth, Decker said, “I told you I’m fine.”

Rina sighed. “So you did. Rather forcefully, I might add.”

“Okay.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay, I’ll be honest. Maybe my arm hurts a little.” With that admission, he pulled out two Advil tablets and gulped them down with a swig of beer. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes, but right now I’m a tad uncomfortable. You win. I emoted. Are you happy?”

“I’m still in a state of shock.”

Decker laughed and threw his left arm around her. “You’re a good sport, know that?”

“Yes, I know that.”

“I try.”

The boys headed up the mountain.

“You’re going too far!” Rina yelled. “Come back!”

Ignoring their mother’s pleas, they rode farther on the steep trails.

“Peter, tell them to stop!”

“They’re having fun.”

“It’s getting dark. They’re going to get lost.”

“They’ll be fine, darlin’. Stop worrying.”

“I’m not worried, I’m concerned. There’s a difference.”

“All right,” Decker groused. “I can see you won’t relax until I go after them. I won’t even bother to change my clothes. Will that make you happy, Rina?”

“If your arm—” She stopped herself. “Yes, that will make me happy, Peter.”

“Swell.” He planted a kiss on her forehead and muttered as he walked away. But inside he was thrilled that she’d given him an excuse to saddle up. And no White Diamond for Cowboy Pete. The hell with the pain, he was going for Cobra, the biggest damn stallion in the stable. Up on the mount—man, he was king. But damned if he’d tell Rina how he felt. He’d emoted enough for one day.

8

What better way to start the day than with a bowl of wheat flakes and twenty-five files of registered sex offenders. As Decker scanned the rap sheets, Rina poured him a glass of orange juice. She glanced down at the table. A scowling mug shot met her eye.

“At least they’re not morgue pictures.”

Decker looked up. “I can do this later.”

“No, I’m fine.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think. Must be a big case if you’re working at home.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary as far as the crime goes.” Decker pushed his cereal bowl away. “But the brass think there’s potential for publicity. Foothill’s a tad camera-shy since the King beating.”

Rina sat down and picked up a spoonful of soggy flakes. “If you’re going to make the world safe, you must get adequate nutrition. Open up.”

Decker smiled, took the spoon, but didn’t eat. He aligned the papers and placed them in his briefcase. Rina frowned.

“No one’s blaming everyone in the division, Peter.”

“Ah c’mon,” Decker snapped. “The entire police force has been tarred with the same ugly brush. Makes me furious at the guys who did it. And deep down inside, I get furious at myself, too. Because truthfully, I remember times when I felt pretty damn inhumane.”

“But you didn’t act like an animal. That’s the difference.” Rina took his hand. “Your guilt is irrational, Peter. They beat the guy, you didn’t. It was horrible, it was sickening. But you had nothing to do with it!”

“Collective responsibility. Whole department’s sinking under the weight. You know Morrison. He’s not the type to get hands-on with my cases. Do you know he’s called Marge and me four times with this current case. No direct pressure, just wanted to know if we’ve got something. Because, like I said, it’s a case that could get some public attention. Before Rodney King, he wouldn’t have given a hoot. A crime was a crime, no matter who was involved.”

“So he’s a little more hands-on,” Rina said. “That’s not terrible … as long as he’s not an obstacle.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a fine line between being hands-on and being a stumbling block.” Decker threw up his hands. “I’m just nattering. Don’t pay any attention to me.”

“Of course I pay attention to you,” Rina said. “I love you and worry about you.”

Decker smiled and patted her hand. “I’ll be fine.”

“That was an ‘I don’t want to worry Rina’ smile.”

“So what’s wrong with that?” Decker said.

“You worry too much.”

“I ain’t gonna change.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Decker caught Lilah just as she was about to tumble to the floor. With one hand around her tiny waist, he carefully led her back to her hospital bed and she crawled under the sheets. She seemed so frail. With a Kleenex, she wiped the cold sweat off her forehead and peered directly into his eyes.

“You seem to have made a habit of rescuing me.”

Decker didn’t answer. Her voice was sultry and bored at the same time, like a Tennessee Williams character. He regarded her face. The swelling below her eyes had gone down, though the skin was still black. It was the first time he’d seen her eyes open. The whites were bloodshot, the irises bright blue. Her lips were covered with something waxy, but the cuts underneath looked to be healing nicely. Her flaxen hair fell over one eye, cascading down to her bare shoulders. Her skin was pale except for a tinge of red over pronounced cheekbones.

He pulled up a chair and sat to the right of the bed. She shifted to her left until their faces were no more than a foot apart. Just like yesterday, he felt some desperation in her, a need for something to hold. But there was something unhealthy about the way she was asking for comfort. He inched back in his seat, trying to regain a margin of personal space.

“You know who I am then,” Decker said.

“Sergeant Deckman, was it?”

“Decker. Very good. You must have heard a lot more than I thought. It’s good to see you talking, Miss Brecht.”

Her eyes glazed over. “Thank you.” Her voice was a throaty whisper. She flung hair over her shoulders. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“I didn’t exactly do that, but you’re welcome. Everyone treating you all right?”

“This hospital is dreadful.”

“Most hospitals are. Nature of the beast.”

“Well, let it be a beast for some other poor soul. I’m leaving tonight.”

Decker paused. “Dr. Kessler’s discharging you already?”

“I’m checking out either with a discharge or against medical advice. Freddy will take care of me.” Her eyes found his. “I understand you’ve met Freddy.”

“Yesterday while you were asleep.”

“He didn’t like your questions. He thought you had a hidden agenda.”

“Not at all. Just being thorough.”

“Freddy is distrustful. It’s a trait he’s picked up from Mother.”

“I hope you trust me enough to answer a few questions, Miss Brecht.”

Lilah lowered her eyes and nodded.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” Decker asked.

“It’s not the physical, but emotion …”

She burst into tears. Decker handed her a box of Kleenex and waited. Ordinarily, he might have patted her hand or shoulder. But something stopped him from touching this woman.

“I’m very sorry,” he finally said. “I really want to find the bastard who did this to you.”

“Bastards,” she said. “There were two of them.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Only two?”

“Yes. Just two.”

“Were you asleep when they came into your bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear them come in?”

“Hear them?”

“Did they wake you up?”

She looked down. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“Take your time, Miss Brecht—”

“Lilah!” she interrupted. “I’m sorry. Just … please. Call me Lilah. The … distance … the formality. I need to feel close to you. To be able to tell you … do you understand?”

Decker nodded.

“Do you have a first name?”

“Peter.”

“Peter,” she repeated, then looked away. “Do you do these kinds of interviews often, Peter?”

“I’ve dealt with many sexual-assault cases.”

“How do you do it?”

Decker raised his brow. “They’re hard on me, but not as hard as they are for the survivors. I get a good deal of satisfaction when I apprehend a perpetrator. I like putting bad people behind bars. And that’s what I’d like to do here. But to do that, I need your help.”

She met his eyes, then retreated. “I woke up … and then … this … something was on top of me, smothering me.”

“Literally?”

She shook her head. “There wasn’t anything over my face … just this horrible presence crushing down. And then the gun. It was … terrifying.”

“Did you scream?”

“I was in shock! Should I have screamed? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, you acted perfectly—”

“I should have done something!”

“You did do something, Lilah. You survived. That was all you had to do and you did it.”

Again her eyes moistened. “You say the most perfect things, Peter. Thank you!” She grabbed his hand. “Thank you so much!”

That familiar grip. He waited a beat, gave her a light squeeze, then wriggled out. Her eyes held his for a moment, throwing him off balance. He looked down at his notepad. “Did you happen to catch a glimpse of either of your attackers?”

She closed her eyes and seemed to enter a trance. “I see them perfectly. The first one is slight, dark-complexioned, blue eyes, black hair, thick eyebrows, a mole right under his lower lip. High cheekbones, thinnish lips, prominent chin but no cleft, birdlike neck …” She opened her eyes. “You’re not writing. Am I talking too fast, Peter?”

Decker said, “I’m a little confused.”

Lilah looked puzzled. “How so?”

“Miss Brec—Uh, Lilah, you’re giving me a lot of detail—”

“Faces—as well as bodies—are my business, Peter.”

“I’d like to ask a police artist to come down. I want you to describe your attackers to him.”

“Certainly.”

“I’d also like you to look through some mug shots I have in my briefcase. Maybe these animals have done something like this before and you can pick them out.”

“As you wish.”

He handed her the photos of the local sex offenders and used the hospital phone to place a call to the station. As he waited for the lines to connect, he noticed Lilah flipping through the pictures with little interest. He finally made contact with the police artist, then hung up.

“Someone will be here in about twenty minutes,” Decker said. “None of these men look like—”

“No, none.”

“You’re sure—”

“Very.” Lilah sank back into her pillow. “My God, I’m tired.”

“I’m sure you must be,” Decker said. “What were you doing walking around?”

“Just trying to feel … human again.” She brushed a tear away from her eye. “I’ll heal outside. I hurt, but I know I’ll heal. It’s the inside …” She regarded him, took his hand. “May I hold your hand?”

“Of course,” Decker answered.

He knew that women reacted very differently to sexual assault. Some couldn’t bear the sight of a man; others wanted their husbands or boyfriends to make love to them immediately after the ordeal. Some crawled into shells and never came out; others acted as if nothing of significance had happened. If the primary detective on the case was male, rape survivors often developed a kind of transference with him, either good or bad depending on the rapport. Some women had been so grateful for Decker’s sympathetic ear, they had named their babies after him. But there was something odd about Lilah.

“Are you up to answering a few more questions?” Decker asked.

Lilah brought his hand to her cheek and nodded.

“Okay. Then let me ask you this. When did you manage to make out your attackers so clearly?”

“I saw them as soon as they touched me.” Her lower lip began to tremble. “I was so … can you hold me, Peter? Just for a brief moment.”

She came to him, then abruptly pulled back and brought her hand to her mouth.

“No, forget I said that. I can see by your ring that you’re married. It’s just that I’m feeling so vulnerable right now. I need someone to lean on. May I take your hand again?”

She took it without waiting for a response, began to play with his wedding band. Though he had comforted many survivors, none were as overtly sexual—as deadly sexual—as this one. He kept his face impassive and said, “Do you have a boyfriend you want me to call?”

Lilah’s eyes suddenly grew cold. “No.”

“How about your bro—”

“Give me a break!” She jerked her hand away.

“Would you feel more comfortable if you were interviewed by a woman?”

“Would you feel more comfortable if I was interviewed by a woman?”

“Lilah, I want to nab the monsters who did this to you. Take them off the street so they can’t do it to some other woman. But to do that, I need your help. I really need your help.”

Again, her eyes moistened. “It’s just so hard.”

“I’m sorry. I really am sorry.”

She grabbed his wrist before he could pull away and brought his hand to her cheek. “I connect with you.”

Ignoring the impulse to tug his hand away, he said, “I’m glad you connect with me. Maybe you can connect me to your attackers.”

Lilah broke into laughter and tears at the same time. Slowly, she kissed his fingers one at a time.

Despite himself, he felt a pull down below and decided to break physical contact. “Can you talk about what happened?”

She settled back. “Yes, I can. I feel strong now.”

“You say you didn’t hear them come in?”

“No.”

“You were asleep.”

“Yes.”

“Do you happen to know what time you awoke?”

“No.”

“You woke when you felt them on top of you.”

“Actually, I sensed them. Before I felt them, before I opened my eyes. But I couldn’t wake myself up fast enough. I couldn’t react … then … it was too late. They were on top of me … slapping me … hitting me … with … their fists … beating …”

Decker realized she was gasping and told her to wait a moment. When Lilah regained a steady tempo of respiration, she said, “Why didn’t they just break open the safe and leave? Why did they have to destroy my belongings? Why did they have to hit me? Why did they hurt me? Why did they rape me?”

“Because these guys are monsters and they enjoy hurting women.”

“But why! Oh, hell, I know there aren’t any simple answers. You’re not like that, Peter, I can tell. I feel so safe. So … protected when I’m with you.”

“That’s what the police are for.”

She locked eyes with him, not pleased with his response. He knew it, but continued anyway.

“I’m going to have to ask you some sensitive questions. Do you think you’re up to answering them?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you start to feel panicky, stop until you’re calmer. I don’t care how long it takes. I want to make this as comfortable as possible for you. All right?”

She nodded.

“Did both men rape you?”

“Just … I … only one.”

“You’re sure?”

“Just one. I’m positive.”

“Did he penetrate you vaginally?”

Her face whitened but she answered yes.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Did he penetrate you anally?”

She shook her head.

“Did he attempt to penetrate you anally?”

“No.”

“You’re doing great, Lilah. Just a few more questions. Did he ejaculate inside of you?”

“I …” She buried her face in her hands. “I don’t remember really. While it was happening, I blanked it out.”

“That’s okay. That’s normal, Lilah. Did either of your attackers force you to copulate orally with them?”

“No.”

“All right. Did both attackers hit you?”

“I think so … I was hit first … held down …”

“Take your time.”

“First … hit. Then they … one of them … went to the safe while the other … raped.”

“Okay. One of them opened the safe while the other raped you.”

“Yes.”

“Then what happened? Do you remember?”

“He … someone started breaking things … I think the first one was still raping me … while the other broke things. It seemed to last forever.”

“Did either one of them talk to you?”

“No.”

“Not even at the beginning?”

“I … I’m sorry. Everything is such a blur. One of them might have said, ‘I have a gun.’ But I really don’t remember.”

“Do you know which one raped you?”

“I could describe his face, yes.”

“Did you see a gun, Lilah?”

“He … at … I think I felt the gun at my head. I felt on my temple … you know. He must have been holding it. I was … it hurt. I thought I was … going to die.”