Faye Kellerman - Decker 05 - False Prophet

by False Prophet

"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 signed 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 at 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!

  "Dr. Brecht, are you all right?" Ness said. But he was staring at Merritt. He wore a muscle shirt and shorts and was wiping his neck with a towel. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir!"

  "The hell you will!" Merritt said. "My mother, Davida Ever-song, called me down here and I intend to speak to her!"

  "Ms. Eversong isn't in," Ness said quietly. "I'll tell her you stopped by."

  "Then I'll wait for her... young man!" Merritt said.

  "That wouldn't be a good idea... sir!"

  "Mike," Marge broke in, "why don't you take Dr. Brecht and give him some of your stress-reducing consomme. I'll stay down here and chat with Dr. Merritt until Ms. Eversong returns. When is she due back?"

  "I don't know," Brecht said. "In the meantime, this man is not welcome here."

  "You don't own the spa, Freddy!" Merritt shouted. "Lilah does!"

  "Lilah despises you!"

  "Then let her tell me personally!"

  "You both are creating quite a scene," Marge said. She smiled and jerked her head toward a small crowd that had gathered near the marble hearth. The men followed her glance and said nothing.

  Ness's eyes darted between Brecht and Merritt. Then he turned to Ms. Purcel. "It's okay, Fern, everything's under control. You can go back to work."

  Ms. Purcel scurried back behind the protective shield of the reception desk.

  Ness said, "Dr. Brecht, I have a couple of questions for you anyway. If you have a few minutes..."

  Brecht brushed off his trousers, but didn't speak.

  Ness gave a passing glance to Merritt. Then he said, "You know the ladies, Dr. Brecht. They ask technical questions I just can't answer. Let's talk in your office."

  Brecht nodded. Slowly, Ness led Brecht upstairs. Marge thought about the confrontation. What bothered her most was not Merritt and Brecht, but Merritt and Ness. They were addressing each other like strangers, yet Marge sensed that they knew each other.

  "... detest that excuse of a man." Merritt was saying.

  "Pardon?" Marge said.

  "Frederick," Merritt muttered. "I don't know how he has insinuated himself into Lilah's heart. She always did have a spot for the downtrodden. Probably why she married the Jew."

  "The Jew?"

  "Lilah's ex-husband."

  "Is he a physician as well?"

  "Perry? Good God, no!"

  Marge smiled to herself. The one Semite in the bunch and he wasn't a doctor. "Why don't we sit down while you wait, Dr. Merritt?"

  "Fine."

  Merritt parked himself in a wing chair; Marge sat in its mate. The two chairs were separated by a table piled high with VAL-CAN newsletters—the lead article entitled "Cellulite Reduction: Fact and Fiction." Merritt picked one up, absently scanned it, then crumbled it with disgust and threw it several feet. "Quackery passed off as medicine! If the place wasn't owned by my sister, I'd sic the Medical Board of Ethics on all of them."

  "If Perry's not a doctor, what does he do?" Marge said.

  "Pardon?"

  "Perry. Lilah's ex. What does he do?"

  "Perry?" Merritt shifted in his seat. "He's a bum—a bridge bum to be more precise. In actuality, he's a top-ranking bridge player so I suppose there is native intelligence somewhere. He plays for hire at a club in Westwood and I guess he makes enough money so he doesn't have to do honest work. Shame. Perry had a cunning mind, I'll give him that. Then again, most Jews do."

  "Their break-up..." Marge took out her notebook. "Was it amicable?"

  Merritt didn't answer.

  "Were there hard feelings between Lilah and Perry, Dr. Merritt?"

  Merritt shrugged. "I suppose so. Why
do you ask?"

  Because Marge had just found a new suspect. Lots of disgruntled exes do lots of vicious things—if Merritt was at all credible. She asked, "How did Lilah meet him?"

  "Ancient history."

  "Then how about a history lesson?"

  "First, young lady, please inform me what's going on with my sister!"

  "You tell me, then I'll tell you."

  "Quite an infantile approach, Detective. I really expected more from the LAPD."

  "Dr. Merritt, what was infantile was two supposedly mature, educated men—doctors no less—squaring off like adolescents."

  Merritt looked at her and smiled. "Touche, Detective, a most astute observation. Anger does turn even the most rational of men to savagery. Even those of us in the healing profession are not immune to emotion."

  Marge didn't answer.

  "All right," Merritt said with newfound resolve. "How did Lilah meet Perry? Unfortunately, I was the one who brought him into the house. Mother wanted to hone her skills at bridge and when I asked around, Perry's name kept coming up over and over. He was everything Lilah was taught to avoid in a man— brash, left-wing, uncontrolled, unrestrained in his opinions. A pushy Jew if you might permit me a bit of stereotype. He took pride in not caring about his appearance; his clothes were always old and out-of-date. Perry wasn't an evil boy, just not suitable for Lilah. And of course, having flirted with rebellion in her own adolescence, Lilah instantly became infatuated with him—in love with him. It was maddening. My beautiful, brilliant sister trailing after him. As if she were a starved mutt and his silly, do-gooder words were food. Every time he smiled at her, she swooned like a clay-eating Victorian gentlewoman. Later on in their so-called courtship, she would corner him in some quiet room and they'd talk for hours. I'd hear whispering, stifled giggling. Like children. God knows what they actually talked about. They had nothing in common."

  Merritt sighed deeply.

  "Mother blamed me, of course. Mother has to blame someone when things don't go according to her plan. Up until Perry, I'd always had a good relationship with Lilah. More than good, we'd been very close. We are not a demonstrative family, but you'd have to be an idiot not to see how much I cared about my baby sister. I was her father as well as her big brother. There's an sixteen-year difference between us. Who do you think took care of that child while Mother gallivanted around? I nurtured that little girl despite the fact that I had a full university course load. I remember teaching her to ride a bike, holding the handlebars with one hand and my biochemistry book in the other. She learned to ride a two-wheeler while I learned the Krebs cycle. How's that for dedication? When she wanted to marry Perry, I

  had the audacity to side with Mother, and things between Lilah and me have never been the same since.

  "Of course the union was a disaster. Giggling does not a marriage make. It lasted two years. But Lilah would never admit that I was right and she was wrong. She somehow viewed her doomed relationship as my doing. Maybe Mother gave her those ideas, I wouldn't be a bit surprised. Mother has a way of turning everyone against everyone else." His eyes met Marge's. "So that's the saga of Lilah and Perry. Now it's your turn. What's going on with my sister? Whom I still care for very much despite her rejection of me."

  . "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Dr. Merritt. Lilah was attacked yesterday—"

  Merritt bolted upright. "Good God, no!"

  Marge stood. "She'll be all right, Doctor."

  "No!" Merritt began to pace. "No, it can't... that's impossible'. What in God's name happened?"

  "I don't know—"

  "Who hurt her? Do you suspect Perry? Is that why you were questioning me about him? I'll kill him—"

  "Doctor—"

  "I'll kill him!"

  "I don't know anything about this guy, Doctor," Marge said. "Just what you told me—"

  "But you suspect—"

  "No, I don't suspect—!"

  "Where is my sister?" Merritt interrupted.

  "Last I heard she was at Sun Valley Memorial."

  "I must go see her right away."

  "Be my guest." Marge paused then said, "What about your mother?"

  "What about my mother?" Merritt orated. "My mother can damn well wait—that's what about my motherl"

  Decker knew he shouldn't make the call under time pressure. Davida had given him twenty minutes. But the pay phone in the hospital hallway was unoccupied, begging for use. And if past be indicative of the future, the conversation wouldn't last more than a few minutes, anyway.

  Go ahead, Deck. Live dangerously.

  Using his phone card, he dialed the New York number by rote. As luck would have it, she was in. Her hello was breathless.

  "Hi. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

  "Oh, hi, Dad. I've got a final in an hour. I was just doing some last-minute cramming."

  "Good luck. I'm sure you'll ace it."

  "Yeah, I guess."

  She sounded preoccupied. Whenever she spoke to him, she was preoccupied.

  "Love you, kiddo."

  "Uh, Dad?"

  "What?"

  "You happen to speak to Mom recently?"

  "No. Why?"

  "Uh, nothing. I just wondered if she... it's not important."

  "What's not important?"

  "I'd really rather not get into it right now. Regards to your family."

  "Cindy, first of all, you're my family, too. Secondly, if you're going to bring things up, I'd appreciate it if you'd carry the conversation to a natural conclusion."

  "Oh, that's really great, Dad. Push me right before a final. Thanks a heap!"

  Decker exhaled forcefully. "You're right. My timing stinks. I'm sorry."

  No one spoke for a moment.

  "I'm sorry, too, Daddy. I know I've been difficult, lately. I'm not without insight."

  "You've been fine."

  "No, I haven't, but thanks for saying it anyway. Can I call you back in a few days? I'm really nervous."

  "Princess, you can call me anytime you want, twenty-four hours a day. I'll be waiting."

  Her voice became small. "Thank you."

  "You sure you're okay, Cindy?"

  "I'm fine."

  Then she burst into tears.

  "Is there anything I can do for you, honey?"

  "No." She sniffed. "I should get going. I really should."

  "Love you."

  "I love you, too, Daddy. Bye."

  The line went dead, the only thing to show for his effort, a knot in his gut. He looked at his watch. The conversation had lasted forty-eight seconds. Business as usual.

  D

  ecker was about to reach for the door when it swung open, almost clipping him in the ribs. He took a quick shuffle backward, then a seductive voice beckoned him to enter. He slid into the backseat of the limo and closed the door. Davida had removed her veil. Guess the mourning period had passed.

  "May I call you Peter?" Davida asked. "Isn't that what Lilah calls you?"

  Straining to keep his eyeballs from rolling back, Decker answered yes.

  "Peter." Davida placed her hand on his knee. "I see you more as a Pete."

  Whatever she called him, he was sorely tempted to drop her hand back in her lap. But at her age, she was harmless. Why ruin the rapport before the interview even began?

  "A Pete?"

  "Yes, definitely a Pete," she said. "Not in those clothes of course. What exactly are you wearing? Standard detective garb? I'd never cast you as a policeman. Yes, you're big and all that crap, but your coloring is all wrong. Redheads do not connote 'tough guy.' And your skin—too smooth and too fair. You're not sinister enough for a cop... except in the eyes. You have very piercing eyes."

  Decker thought: That's 'cause you're looking in the mirror, lady. Talk about hard eyes. Hers could scratch diamonds. She'd been lifted by an excellent cosmetic surgeon. Tightened in all the

  right spots, yet the skin didn't look as though it would crack if she smiled. The knife work emphasized her str
ongest points—the great bone structure, the angular chin, the wide mouth. Her lips were still full and sensual, probably been helped along by collagen injections. Up close, she was still a nice-looking woman—discounting the eyes. There wasn't a scalpel sharp enough to excise the titanium lodged inside those irises.