Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 09

by Prayers for the Dead

  “All of a sudden being right wasn’t important anymore.”

  His eyes were wet and hot. Decker kept his gaze steady, his face impassive. Then abruptly, Sparks’s face went slack, a candle sculpture melting into exhaustion. “So let them dump on me. I can take it.”

  He checked his watch.

  “It’s late. Don’t you have a wife and kids at home?”

  Decker was quiet.

  “That was rude. I apologize. What else do you need?”

  “Nothing at the moment.” Decker stood. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Something else pops into your head, feel free to call, drop in.” The priest plugged the phone back in. “Because it’s a certain fact that I’m not going anywhere.”

  Turning on the lamp. More of a symbolic gesture than anything else. Because Rina had given up on sleep a long time ago. Her eyes took a minute to adjust to the harsh light. She checked the clock.

  Half past two.

  Peter said it was going to be a long night.

  A very long night.

  Her fingers brushed over the phone. The name of the place escaped her. A vague recollection, but nothing clear came into view.

  With determination, she hoisted herself out of bed and retrieved the Yellow Pages. Plopped back into bed and began looking under C for churches. It took her just a moment to find The Holy Order of St. Thomas’s.

  That was it.

  Was a church even open twenty-four hours a day? Synagogues weren’t. But pulpit rabbis often had emergency beeper numbers. In case there was a crisis with one of their members.

  She dialed. Two rings, three rings. The machine kicked in. An anonymous female voice…

  She had reached the Holy Order of Saint Thomas Church. “Please leave a message at the sound of the beep. For emergency counseling and immediate consultation with Father Abram Sparks, please dial…”

  Rina waited patiently while a series of numbers and instructions were recited. Finally, she heard the beep.

  It took a moment for Rina to find her voice. Then she said, “Yes, this is Rina…” A beat. “This is Rina Lazarus…Decker placing a call to Father Abram Sparks. I just wanted to—”

  “Hello?”

  Bram’s voice cut through the line. And with a single sound a thousand memories flooded her mind. She couldn’t talk. Dead silence between them.

  Bram said, “Phone’s been ringing off the hook. I put the machine on because I haven’t had the stomach to talk to anyone. But you…” His voice cracked. “I can’t tell you what this means to me.”

  “Bram, I’m so sorry, I’m…”

  “I know.”

  Nobody spoke.

  Rina said, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Your calling is enough.” He paused. “Your husband just left my office. Actually, he came to the house about three, four hours ago.”

  Rina didn’t respond.

  “Asked us some questions,” Bram said. “He treated everyone with sensitivity. He’s a good man, Rina. I’m sure Yitzy would have liked him.”

  Rina felt her throat constrict as ghosts talked to her from the grave. “Your father was a very important man. I’m sure Peter has every available man…oh dear, that sounds so…”

  Bram didn’t answer.

  “Can’t I do anything for you?” Rina pleaded.

  Bram said, “We’re holding a service tomorrow for my dad at his church. Not a funeral…body is still in autopsy…but it’s a remembrance more than anything. Three P.M. Be nice if you came.”

  “Of course, I’ll be there. Where is it?”

  “It’s going to be mobbed, Rina. My father was a respected man with many admirers. I won’t see you if you come on your own. Let me pick you up—”

  “Bram—”

  “I’ll meet you in front of the Yeshivat Ohavei Torah at two tomorrow. I’m going to see Rav Schulman in the morning anyway.”

  “He called you?” Rina paused. “Of course, he’d call you.”

  “Five minutes after the news broke. He wanted to come to the service, too. But he told me he’s not feeling too well lately. What does that mean?”

  “He had a minor stroke about a year ago. He’s as alert as always. But it’s hard for him to walk.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s been a while since I’ve visited him. Anyway, I’m going out there. I’m giving the eulogy tomorrow. I’ve found a couple of verses of Tehillim that I think are particularly appropriate for my father.”

  Rina noticed that Bram said Tehillim instead of Psalms.

  “I want to go over them with Rav Schulman,” Bram continued. “I’m sure he’ll give me a fresh insight. The man is a wellspring of knowledge.”

  Rina mumbled a “yes” as the word Tehillim bounced around her brain. Tehillim. Prayers that spoke of God’s many praises. How many times had she uttered them as her first husband, Yitzy, lay dying. They were prayers for the dying. Prayers for the dead.

  Rina said, “Two o’clock in front of the yeshiva. I’ll be there.”

  Bram hesitated. “Have you told your husband? That you know me…through Yitzy?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him since he got the initial phone call. He’s been gone all night. Besides, it’s not really relevant, is it?”

  “It’s not relevant. But it is a good idea. To tell him we’re…well acquainted. He is investigating my father’s murder. It’s best to keep everything in the open. If he finds out we know each other through a third party, like Rav Schulman for instance, he might get upset.”

  Rina said, “I’ll tell him tomorrow after the service.”

  “Rina, he’ll probably be at the service.”

  “If he is, I’ll handle him, Bram. I can handle my own husband.”

  “I won’t say another word.”

  Rina bit her lip. “I’m an idiot, jumping on you—”

  “It doesn’t matter—”

  “Bram, every time I mention Yitzy, it unnerves him.”

  “I can understand his feelings.”

  “I do understand them. That’s why I want to tread lightly. But you’re right. I’ll tell him first thing tomorrow morning. He should know we’re friends. Certainly from a professional standpoint. I don’t want anything hidden that might interfere with your father’s investigation.” She sighed. “Even if it means opening past wounds.”

  “Rina, if it’s too painful for you, I can pretend this phone call never happened.”

  “Absolutely not, Abram. I wouldn’t hear of it.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll meet you…tomorrow at two.”

  “Thanks for calling, Rina. It means the world to me.”

  She hesitated, then said, “You knew I’d call, Abram.”

  “Yes, Rina,” he answered. “This time I knew you’d call.”

  Sadness washed over Rina. She said nothing.

  Bram said, “Good grief, that was stupid!”

  “It was a well-deserved rebuke, Abram. I was wrong.”

  “So was I.”

  Rina said, soothingly, “Just goes to show you. Sometimes two wrongs do make a right.”

  10

  The third floor of New Chris was taken up by the Cardiac Care Unit—six divisions, each with its own central nursing station surrounded by a dozen private suites. The rooms, radiating from the center like spokes on a wheel, reminded Decker of biblical leper caves—isolated, dark, quiet, ominous. No human noises, just the occasional electronic whine of high-tech equipment at work.

  Decker leaned against the wall, watching it all, fascinated by the sci-fi medicine. Someone tapped his shoulder. He straightened and turned around.

  A heavyset nurse with muscular forearms. Young and well scrubbed. In another life, she might have been a milkmaid. She whispered, “Dr. Berger will be with you in a moment. Would you like more coffee?”

  “No thank you,” Decker said softly. The nurse’s ID tag told him her name was Tara. “I’m pretty much coffeed-out. What exactly is Dr. Berger doing?”

  “Pardon?
”

  Decker cleared his throat. “It’s almost three in the morning. Aren’t most of the patients asleep?”

  Tara said, “He’s just finishing off two o’clock vitals check. Normally, we nurses record the numbers, dispense the necessary medicines according to the doctor’s orders. But Dr. Berger wanted to familiarize himself with Dr. Sparks’s patients. It will help ease the transition …as much as that’s possible.” She swallowed hard. “Dreadful!”

  “Horrible.”

  “Who would do such a terrible thing?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am.” Decker leaned in close. “You wouldn’t have any thoughts about it, would you?”

  “Why no!” Tara looked down. “Well, I have thoughts. But they don’t mean anything.”

  “Tell them to me anyway.”

  She started to talk, stopped, then bunched her facial muscles in concentration. “Well…to me, it sounds like…maybe he picked up the wrong person.”

  Decker looked around the room. “What do you mean by ‘picked up’?”

  “Like a motorist who he thought needed help. But the motorist was really a robber. Isn’t that a possibility?”

  Decker slipped out his notebook. “Have you ever known Dr. Sparks to pick up people?”

  “Not hitchhikers. But he was a take-charge kind of man. And he was a doctor.”

  “Meaning?”

  Tara dropped her voice even further. “Let’s say he thought he saw an accident. I’m sure he would have pulled the car over to help, no?”

  The woman was making sense. Decker said, “Go on.”

  “But suppose it wasn’t a real accident. Suppose it was a dodge…to entrap some poor unsuspecting motorist. And of course, Dr. Sparks would pull over. And when he did, he was carjacked. Robbed. Taken to a dark place…” She shivered. “It’s awful to think about it.”

  “Do you know if Dr. Sparks ever did that before? Stopped at the scene of auto accidents?”

  “Once. The driver had had a heart attack and had crashed into the sidewalk.” She paused. “Everyone was talking about it the next day…it became a joke.”

  “A joke?”

  “Yeah, the bad news is you had a heart attack at the wheel of your car. The good news is Dr. Sparks was in the neighborhood. And it’s true. The accident victim was lucky. She wouldn’t have made it if Dr. Sparks hadn’t stopped.” Tara thought a moment. “You know that wasn’t the only joke going around.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Everyone used to josh that Dr. Sparks secretly carried a paramedics scanner.”

  Decker wrote sloppily, his tired brain trying to decipher what she was saying. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure why. Maybe to hear if there were any auto accidents near to where he was. So he could help out. One of his many famous lectures dealt with the importance of the first few minutes when treating the victim of a cardiac infarct. Or it could be the joke came about because of Dr. Sparks’s incredible dedication to saving people’s lives. If someone needed help, he was there—Oh, there’s Dr. Berger. Excuse me.”

  Tara scuttled away.

  Round but compact, Berger moved quickly toward Decker. But his carriage belied his energy level. Of medium height, he appeared to be in his sixties with fleshy features—a bulbous nose and thick lips. His lids drooped, puffy pillows under his eyes, cheeks sagging with wan flesh. A face that had been dragged under the wheels of exhaustion. The dome of his head was pink, shiny skin dotted with sweat. A small gray ring of hair clothed the bottom and sides of his cranium. His clothes were stylish but in need of a pressing. In fact, his whole body seemed wrinkled with fatigue.

  “I really am very busy, Lieutenant.”

  “I know you are, Dr. Berger. All I need is just a few minutes of your time.”

  Berger nodded. “Step out into the hallway.” On his way out, he said, “Tara, what the hell is going on in 4D?”

  Tara looked up from behind the nurse’s desk. “Pardon, Dr. Berger?”

  “Where is Mrs. Gooden?”

  “She was moved to 6B yesterday.”

  “Who moved her? Dr. Sparks?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, move her back here. I want all my patients in one wing, okay?”

  Tara paused. “You want me to move Mrs. Gooden now?”

  Berger barked, “By eight o’clock tomorrow. Unless she’s fibrillating. Then you can leave her until she stabilizes. You might think I’d be allowed to have one division to myself since Dr. Sparks has the other five.”

  Tara blinked rapidly. “Yes, sir.”

  Berger glanced back at Decker, a blush rising to his cheeks. “This way.”

  Decker followed Berger into the hallway.

  Berger said, “It may seem petty to you, but it makes my life a hell of a lot easier…to have all my patients together.”

  Decker didn’t answer.

  Berger rubbed his eyes. “What do you need from me? I told the other detective, Wooster or Werber—”

  “Webster.”

  “That’s it. Mr. Southern Boy. I told him that my wife and I were at a dinner theater in Tustin. As soon as I heard the news, I came rushing back. What else do you need from me?”

  “I’m just trying to get a timetable for Dr. Sparks—”

  “I saw Dr. Sparks leave with Dr. Decameron around a quarter to eight. Which means these questions are best directed to Dr. Decameron. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a hospital to run.”

  He started to walk away. Decker said, “Lucky for New Chris that they found someone to fill Dr. Sparks’s shoes. And so fast.”

  Berger stopped, pivoted around. “Are you being snide?”

  “No.” Decker’s face was flat. “Just that everyone keeps saying Sparks is a one-of-a-kind. It’s fortunate that he had you on his team to take over in this crisis.”

  Berger’s cheeks turned crimson. “I’m not saying I’m Dr. Sparks, sir. I’m just saying there are patients here and someone has to take care of them.”

  “Absolutely,” Decker agreed. “Dr. Decameron said you were a fine surgeon.”

  Berger stared at him. “He said that, did he?”

  “He did.”

  “Well, I’ll have to thank him for the vote of confidence. Now if you’ll excuse—”

  “Will you also take over the FDA trials of Curedon, Dr. Berger?”

  Berger pursed his lips. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far in advance.”

  “I was just wondering if Curedon was more Dr. Decameron’s bailiwick.”

  “Not at all—”

  “Being as Dr. Decameron…and Dr. Fulton for that matter…are primarily researchers. And you’re primarily a practicing surgeon—”

  “You can stop right here, Lieutenant.” Berger held out his palm. “You’ve got some facts turned around and right now, I don’t have time to correct your wrong impressions.”

  “When will you have time?” Decker asked. “Don’t want to go around with a wrong impression. Might cause me to jump to wrong conclusions.”

  Berger tossed Decker a mean smile. “I’ve got work to do. If you come back…say a half hour before my six o’clock rounds, I’ll talk to you.”

  Decker looked at his watch. Three-fifteen A.M. Berger wasn’t the only one with work to do. “Five-thirty, it is.” He slipped on his jacket, bade the doctor a good night.

  Bunking down at Devonshire made infinitely more sense than waking up Rina. At his desk, Decker left a message on their answering machine, telling his wife that he loved her and that he’d call in the morning.

  He went inside the squad room—empty except for Homicide. The team was filling out thick stacks of forms, mowing through paperwork. Though there were a half-dozen open computer stations, much of the pencil pushing was still done by hand. They needed a break. Decker put on a fresh pot of decaf and called a meeting.

  The detectives’ squad room was wide-open space, the perimeter outlined by filing cabinets and shelving units containing hundreds of blue case notebooks. Taped onto
the walls were an assignment board, a preprinted poster of procedure rules, lots of Gary Larson pig cartoons, and a dozen street maps of the division’s territory, one of them overlaid with a dartboard outline. The different details—GTA, CAPS, SEX, JUVENILE, BURGLARY—were demarcated by placards hanging from the ceiling. Narcotics and Vice sat upstairs. Homicide took up the back area, cordoned off from the others by a filing cabinet barrier. Like other LAPD units, the detectives’ desks in Devonshire were set up in a capital I configuration. After pouring coffee for everyone, Decker took a seat at the crosshatch. He opened his notebook.

  “We’ll start with the basics. Random or not random. Pros. Cons. Marge, you go first.”

  She pushed wilted dishwater hair from her tired eyes. “Could be random carjacking, the drop point being the back alley. Why else would Sparks’s car be there? If he had come to Tracadero’s willingly, I think he would have used the parking valets in the front.”

  “Maybe he was cheap.” Martinez chewed on his mustache. “Or maybe he didn’t trust the valet to drive his wheels.”

  “How about a gang robbery thing?” Webster said. “Tracadero’s attracts rich blood. Not a bad place to hang out if you want to hit someone with cash.”

  Martinez said, “He had cash on him, Tom.”

  “Maybe something scared off the muggers,” Webster retorted. “Maybe Sparks fought back, they killed him and left.”

  “Awful lot of damage for panic-stricken muggers,” Marge said.

  “Maybe Sparks made the muggers mad.”

  Decker said, “Either way, carjacking or robbery has to be at least a two-person attack.”

  “The shooting and stabbing,” Marge said. “Unusual that one perp would use two methods.”

  The detectives agreed.

  “I had an interesting conversation with one of New Chris’s nurses, maybe a half hour ago.” Decker downed coffee. “Seems that Sparks had a reputation for being a good Samaritan with auto accidents.” He told the group Nurse Tara’s theories.

  Marge said, “That supports a carjacking over a restaurant robbery.”

  “Weird.” Oliver pulled out a comb and ran it through thick, black hair. “He can’t break out of his doctor mold even when riding home in his own car.”