Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 05

by False Prophet

  “Yes.”

  “Lilah, what happened after the men were done? Did you hear them leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what time that was?”

  “No.”

  “Did you try to call anyone?”

  “No…I was too scared to move.”

  “I understand. Were you raped on your bed?”

  “Yes.”

  Decker paused. “Do you remember how you got on the floor?”

  “He…pushed…kicked me…tore up my bed. I closed my eyes and tried to blank it out. Eventually, I must have passed out. The next thing I remember was your voice. Your…beautiful voice.”

  Decker nodded and put his pad away. “You did great.”

  Lilah’s eyes moistened. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Decker stood and handed her his business card. “If you think of anything else—need me for any reason—call the station house and I’ll get back to you.”

  “This is the station house’s phone number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you have another number where I could reach you?”

  “No.”

  She looked at him. “You don’t have a personal phone number, Peter?”

  Intense anger had seeped into her eyes. Too bad, Decker thought. He felt bad for what had happened to her, but wasn’t about to give her free rein of his personal life. He waited until she seemed to sense the finality of his decision. Then he said, “This number’s better, Lilah. They can get to me twenty-four hours a day.”

  She nodded without enthusiasm. “You can call me at the spa if you have any other questions, Sergeant.”

  Sergeant. Her formality was a punishment for his refusal to relinquish his home number. Or maybe she just didn’t feel the need for intimacy anymore. He said, “I have a partner—”

  “A woman named Dunn?”

  Decker nodded.

  Lilah said, “I phoned the spa last night and my executive director told me your pal Dunn was there yesterday, asking questions. Kelley was not pleased.”

  “Detective Dunn is very discreet. After all, your house is right next door to the spa.”

  “I realize that, but I assure you no one from the spa had anything to do with this. But if she must ask questions to satisfy your superiors, I’ll make sure Kelley cooperates.”

  “Thank you. You seem to have a great deal of trust in your staff.”

  She turned to him, broke into a strange smile. “As I stated before, my family’s distrustful by nature. I, on the other hand, can afford to trust because I can sense honesty. Look at the length of employment of my staff. Very little turnover. I think God gave me this power to compensate for my overbearing mother. She doesn’t believe in my powers or in me. But then again, Mother really doesn’t know me very well.”

  Mike Ness adjusted the dials of his video camera, placed the instrument gingerly on the narrow wooden bench, then opened his locker. The tap on his shoulder made him jump. Goddamn, after all these years she could still sneak up on him. Generally, he took it good-naturedly. Now he felt like strangling her. Instead, he took a deep breath and let it out to the count of eight.

  “Small as it is, this is the men’s locker room, Kell.”

  “No one’s here.”

  “You’re getting on my nerves—”

  “I’m getting on your nerves—”

  “Yes, you’re getting on my nerves.” He slipped off a gray T-shirt. “Everything’s fine. Quit bugging me.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re worse than the police.” He pulled out a Body Glove T-shirt from the locker and put it on. God, she could be a pain in the ass. “Ever think about joining the Marines? You’d make a great drill sergeant.”

  “Just answer me, Michael.”

  He turned around, placed both hands on her shoulders. “I was giving Davida a massage. In her room for two fucking hours listening to her prattle on about some goddamn actor she used to ball. It was thrilling. I left at twelve, then unplugged the phone and tried to get some goddamn sleep.”

  “I knocked on your door—”

  “Then I didn’t hear you.”

  Neither spoke. Ness sat down on the bench and began to lace his Nikes.

  Kelley said, “Do you know where Eubie was last night?”

  “No.” He looked up. “Why?”

  “The lady asked about Eubie and the rape.”

  Ness let out a full laugh. “Are you crazy, Kell? Eubie wouldn’t rape Lilah. Fuck her, yes, but rape?” He faced his sister. “Wanna know where Jeffs was, ask Nadia. He probably bunked down with her.”

  “Nadia’s a dyke.”

  “Not according to Jeffs.”

  Kelley bit her lip to keep it from trembling. “What did you and Davida talk about?”

  “I just told you! She was talking about some weirdo she used to fuck. She was heavily into ‘the good old days.’”

  “Just…” She pushed hair off her shoulders. “Just swear to me that you were in your room all night, Mike.”

  He broke into a grin. “You think I raped Lilah, Kell?”

  “Stop it, Michael.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “I…I just want to make sure that you…”

  “I swear I had nothing to do with Lilah.” He patted her shoulder and gave her one of his assured big-brother smiles. “I swear, I swear, I swear! Now can I please have a little privacy? Or do you get a thrill out of seeing me naked?”

  Kelley blushed. “You know you can be positively disgusting!”

  “Then if I’m so disgusting, please leave me alone. The detective’s just asking questions because that’s what she’s being paid to do. If the police know what’s going on, they don’t bother asking lots of questions.”

  “What is going on?”

  “How the fuck do I know? All I know is that Davida’s happy. If she’s happy, I’m happy. Now relax, all right?”

  Kelley bit her lower lip again. “All right, Mike. I believe you.”

  Ness regarded his sister. She believed him. She always believed him, God bless her.

  10

  A gracious lady, Davida accepted her chauffeur’s proffered hand, resting her fingers lightly upon his wrist as if ready to dance the minuet. Carefully she stepped up from the curb, waiting until she had one foot in the limousine. Then she turned to her young driver, eyes gliding down his well-built body, and handed him twenty dollars.

  “There will be a slight delay, Albert. Why don’t you get yourself something to eat.”

  The chauffeur, whose name was Russ Donnally, thanked her and pocketed the bill in his uniform pants. After scrounging to earn a buck for years, Donnally had landed a pretty good gig. A friend of a friend had told him about the position. The old lady not only paid decently, but she had tucked away a fleet of bitchin’ cars—a drop-dead Rolls Silver Cloud III, a Bentley Flying Spur, a new Bentley Turbo, and two old Packard touring sedans. And of course the limos. Cars he was allowed to start up and take out. He just loved to cruise the streets, girls giving him the eye. Big beauties like these machines had definite advantages. He’d fucked more than a few babes in backseats as large as a double bed.

  As far as Davida went, the old broad was okay. She never asked personal questions—too busy talking about herself or checking out his crotch. Just as long as he did the old lady’s bidding and tossed her compliments, she was happy as a hype in a pharmacy. Donnally didn’t like being called Albert—Alberts were skinny old bald dudes with English accents—but hey, no job was perfect.

  “Thank you, Miss Eversong.” Donnally eased his mistress into the car and glided a palm over a crown of slicked-back black hair. “Can I get you something to eat?”

  “No, Albert, I’m not due to eat again until noon. Mustn’t let my girlish figure go to seed.”

  “That would be criminal, madam.”

  “Albert, you’re a shameless flatterer. Keep it up.”

  Donnal
ly smiled. “When should I be back?”

  “Thirty minutes. Don’t be late.”

  “You got it, Miss Eversong.” He waved good-bye and shut the door.

  Davida sighed and studied her nails.

  “That boy is a repulsive worm, Mother. Why do you keep him?”

  “Because I’m whimsical.” She turned to her son. “And he performs my assignments well. Which is more than I can say for you. Frederick, she was beaten up, the poor child! What happened?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “You should know!” Davida opened the compartment door to a built-in nail set and pulled out an emery board. “You were the last one to see her.”

  “She was absolutely fine when I dropped her off. You make horrid insinuations, Mother! I would never hurt her—”

  “Just shut up, Freddy, and turn on the overhead light. The interior’s dark and I can’t see a thing.”

  Brecht ran his handkerchief over his face and flipped the switch. “Something must have gone wrong—”

  “Damn right something went wrong. On top of this shit with Lilah, my jewels are gone.” She filed an index finger furiously. “God, that pisses me off!”

  “Whoever took your jewels must have hurt Lilah.”

  “Whole thing makes me sick!”

  “Why are we waiting around, Mother?”

  “A detective wants to talk to me about the jewels.”

  “The tall redheaded man?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “Of course you don’t. He’s competent.”

  “Go ahead and insult me, Mother. And the next time you need an errand boy, call Kingston. See if he drives up to Malibu.”

  Davida laughed loudly and patted his knee. “Do I detect a note of fraternal competition in your voice? Now just because you’re adopted doesn’t mean I don’t love—”

  “Mother, if I hear that speech one more time, I’ll throw up!”

  She patted his knee again. “Poor Freddy. I do grate on your nerves. The detective should be down soon. I’ve made it quite clear I value my time. I’ll describe my jewels to him; then we can all go home and forget about this mess.”

  “I’m not very comfortable about the police nosing in our affairs,” Brecht said. “I’m surprised you are.”

  “Frederick darling, be logical. He’s not nosing in our family affairs, he’s trying to solve a crime. He’s interested in Lilah…and maybe he’s interested in my jewels, too. If he happens to become sidetracked, I’ll sic some reporters on him. Last thing the police need—especially in this area—is press. In the meantime, let him look for Lilah’s attacker. I’m not hiding anything.”

  “I’m not either, Mother.”

  Davida blew air on her nails. “Then we’ve both got nothing to worry about. Stop fretting, Freddy. If things get complicated, I’ll take care of it—and you. That’s what mothers are for.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t nominate you for the Mother of the Year award.”

  “Freddy, don’t be so mean. You don’t have the knack for it.” She kissed his cheek. “You know my sharp tongue. It’s just an unrestrained ego talking.”

  Brecht flicked his wrist and checked his Rolex.

  Davida said, “Pressed for time?”

  “A bit.”

  “You mean you actually have patients?”

  Brecht turned red. “Lilah asked me to stop by the spa and make sure things were running smoothly. And then, yes, Mother, I do have patients. As a matter of fact, I have an untold amount of patience for you.”

  Davida regarded him. “A pun, Frederick! How very Noel Coward of you!”

  Brecht glared at her. “Mother, I think I’ll take a cab back to the spa. If you’ll excuse me…”

  “Frederick, before you go, could you press back my cuticles for me. I want my nails to look nice when I shake the red-haired detective’s hand.”

  Marge thought: Ten-thirty and the women had already been exercising for three and a half hours. Sweat streaming down their skin as they marched and kicked and squatted and made hundreds of arm circles to head-banging metal music. Enough physical activity to send a heart into overdrive. Yet, for the spa, the day was still young, four more classes scheduled in the afternoon. How did these women have the strength? The regimen seemed especially ridiculous because the gals weren’t porkers. They were skinny women. And they paid lots of money for this torture. Hell, they could have joined the army and saved themselves beaucoup bucks.

  The girl leading this class was blocky but agile. She was shouting in an accented voice over the music, with a look of grave intensity plastered to her damp face. Marge hadn’t talked to her, but decided it wasn’t in anyone’s best interests to interrupt the class. Kelley Ness’s attitude this morning had been cooperative, but she still wasn’t friendly.

  Marge decided to try her luck with the tennis instructor—Eubie Jeffers—maybe catch him between lessons. The spa should have his schedule mapped out at the front desk. She strolled through the ornate lobby and went over to the reception area, which was devoid of personnel. Resisting the urge to ring the little black bell, she leaned against the counter, her eyes instinctively shifting to the man at her left. He was fair and bald and looked agitated. Rocking on his feet, he rang the bell several times in quick succession.

  “Where’s help when you need it?” Marge said.

  The man startled at the sound of Marge’s voice. He wore a black silk shirt over jeans, and open-toed sandals.

  “The help here is usually exemplary.” He turned to Marge. “I’m Dr. Frederick Brecht—Valley Canyon’s physician. Perhaps I can help you.”

  “Perhaps you can.” Marge stuck out her hand. “Detective Dunn. Maybe we could talk a little.”

  Brecht looked at her hand, then finally shook it. “I’ve already spoken to the police. I have nothing to tell you. I really wish I did, but I don’t.”

  Marge focused in on his face. The man dressed casually but was as tight as a bad case of constipation. “I’d like to talk about the spa and the people who work here. It’s very close to your sister’s house.”

  “No one here would hurt a hair on my sister’s head. Everyone in her employ loves her. There are thousands of maniacs on the streets of Los Angeles. Why don’t you start investigating them?”

  Marge was about to respond when sharp-featured Ms. Purcel returned to her post behind the front desk.

  “Nice of you to join us, Fern,” Brecht said.

  Marge smiled as Fernie-poo blushed.

  “I…I’m terribly sorry—”

  Brecht waved her away, then faced Marge. “Somewhere out there is a maniac who beats and rapes women. Go find him.”

  “You bet we’ll keep investigating,” Marge said. “But in the meantime, maybe I could speak to the men in Miss Brecht’s employ. Just to be…thorough.”

  Brecht sighed forcefully. “I suppose it would be all right. Do try to be discreet, Detective. We cater to a very exclusive clientele.”

  “Well, well, well!” a deep baritone voice boomed. “Who emptied the gutters?”

  Marge and Brecht turned to its source. He was tall and well-built. He appeared to be in his middle to late forties with icy-blue eyes, pale lips, and a Roman nose. He had a florid complexion crisscrossed with tiny spider veins throughout the nose and cheeks. His salt-and-pepper hair had been cut long enough to form a cap of curls, but the tresses were short enough to be neat. He wore a dark-blue linen blazer, a white shirt with a tab collar, a blue-silk jacquard tie, and white-and-blue-striped seersucker pants. Around his flat belly was a dyed-white lizard belt secured with a gold buckle. His feet were housed in white Cole-Haan calfskin loafers; a white-silk handkerchief fanned out from his breast pocket. Marge looked at him, then back at Brecht, whose bald head had reddened from anger.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Brecht spat out.

  “Visiting Mother, Frederick.”

  “You’re not welcome here,” Brecht fired back. “Leave a
t once or I will call the authorities.” He glanced at Marge. “Make yourself useful, Detective, and arrest this man. Dr. Merritt is trespassing on private property.”

  “I was invited down here—”

  “Arrest him, Detective!”

  Marge said, “Dr. Brecht—”

  “Arrest him this moment!” Brecht whined.

  Merritt’s thin lips turned into a mirthless smile. He took a step forward; Marge blocked his advance. Merritt’s eyes narrowed.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m the police, Dr. Merritt,” Marge said. “Why don’t we all sit down and try to have a civilized chat—”

  “You don’t know this man,” Brecht said. “You can’t be civilized with him.”

  Merritt threw him a contemptuous look, then turned to Marge. “Why are the police here?”

  “Investigating your sister—” Marge said.

  “What kind of mischief has Lilah gotten into now?” Merritt asked.

  “She hasn’t gotten into anything,” Brecht said.

  Merritt’s eyes lost some of their self-confidence. He turned to Marge. “So why are you investigating her?”

  “If she had wanted you to know, she would have told you, Kingston. Why don’t you leave poor Lilah alone. She doesn’t need you anymore.”

  Merritt’s nostrils twitched. He sidestepped Marge until he was face-to-face with Brecht. “You little twit, don’t you dare tell me how to treat my baby sister—”

  “You can’t talk to me like that!” Brecht said.

  “Gentlemen—”

  “I can damn well talk to you however I please!” Merritt gave Brecht a firm shove. “Now get out of my way!”

  “Get your hands off me!”

  “I’ll put my hands wherever I please!”

  Marge stepped between the men and separated them with her arms. “BACK OFF! BOTH OF YOU! BACK OFF NOW!”

  They stopped, shocked by the force of her voice.

  “What the hell is going on here!”

  Marge turned to the new male voice. Mike Ness—behind him a very worried-looking Ms. Purcel. She’d called in the guard dog. Great! Another puffed-up male ego to appease!