Faye Kellerman - Decker 05 - False Prophet

by False Prophet

  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?"

  "Nos sir. '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 sec 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 The empty expression in his eyes had been replaced by hot blue flames.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 back on his cowboy hat and shrugged ignorance. He said, "Are we almost done? All this talk is makin' me addled. And when I'm addled, I cain't work."

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

  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.

  The1 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

  "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 make 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, mi-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, mi-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?"