"Feels good," Kelley purred.
"Big brother knows what's best, right?"
She didn't answer. God, she was just impossible. Ness said, "What's the problem, Kell?"
"What did the lady detective want?"
"She wants a couple strands of my hair!" Ness shook his head, laughed, then flopped down on the bed and faced her. "Get this: They want to tissue-type it against the semen sample found on Lilah's bedsheets. Can you believe it?"
Kelley bit her thumbnail. "What are you going to do?"
"What do you think? I'm gonna give her a sample!"
Kelley was quiet.
"Stop biting your nails." Ness took her hand and patted it. "Everything's gonna be ducky, I promise."
Kelley drew him into an embrace. He didn't react, then felt his hands snake around his sister's small waist.
"I love you," she said.
"I know," Ness responded. "I love you, too."
He broke away from her and lay back down. Aw, sweet slumber if only a brief catnap. In a half hour, he was scheduled to lead late-afternoon low-impact aerobics. No jogging, jumping, or bouncing, please. Just lots of marching. Hup two three four, hup two three four, all the little soldiers standing at attention. Firm bodies tar-dipped in black leotards and tights—yes, mama, yes!
"Are you all right, Mike?"
Ness reached out and found Kelley's hand. "Are you all right?"
Kelley said, "I am if you are."
"I'm fine.. just great! And don't worry, Kell!" He felt himself grinning. "I guarantee you the sample won't match!"
The Bridge Emporium was located above a supermarket. Decker hunted around the building's exterior, looking for a stairway, and found the entrance in the back near the garbage—a warped door stenciled with black letters: emporium. Behind the door was a flight of steps lighted by a lone bare bulb.
The bridge club must have been a warehouse at one time-about three thousand square feet of open space floored with worn.
faded tiles. Bright fluorescent fixtures lighted an expanse filled with tables and chairs and people studying the splay of cards before them. It was hot. A few fans twirled phlegmatically, pushing around stale plumes of cigarette smoke.
Decker scanned the room for someone not involved in the play. In the far right corner, two kids were engaged in a game that utilized dice. Decker could hear the muted sound of cubes tumbling over felt. He walked over and saw that the game was backgammon. The younger of the two boys had acne—not a bad-looking kid, but he obviously never bothered putting any work into his physical appearance. The older one was actually an adult, early or even mid-twenties, but the way he presented himself—his gawky face, his skinny frame in clothes a size too big, black-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose—was more reminiscent of an awkward adolescent. He pushed his glasses up and studied the game board.
"You need something?" Glasses said.
Decker said, "I'm looking for Perry Goldin."
"Still playing." Glasses rolled a pair of double sixes—one of the best tosses possible in the game. Neither player reacted. Glasses moved his men into strategic positions. "He's at his usual spot."
"What's his usual spot?"
The younger one said, "One. North."
"Table one, north position?"
"Yep." The younger one shook the dice in his cup and let them go. His roll left his men open for the pickings. He frowned and looked up. "He doesn't take appointments until after the game. You'll have to wait in line just like the rest of them."
Decker took out his gold shield. "I'm a detective."
That got their attention, but only minimally. The older one said, "What's Goldin wanted for?"
"Felonious finessing," Decker answered.
Glasses rolled the dice and said, "Ask a stupid question..."
Decker smiled and looked at his watch. "When's the shindig due to end?"
The younger one checked the clock. "Few minutes at most."
"Have a seat," Glasses offered. "You play?"
"Enough to know that if I was betting, I'd bet on you."
Glasses smiled and rolled another double. The younger one pushed the board aside. "If I didn't know you, Dave, I'd swear you were using loaded dice."
"It's your board, Steve," Dave said, evenly.
"This is true."
Steve looked at Decker. "You want to go a round?"
Decker shook his head. "I hear Goldin's a real bridge bum."
Dave straightened his glasses. "Perry a bum? He must make a hundred gees a year. His wife's pulling in another seventy, eighty gees. I reserve my tears for the needy."
"He makes a hundred gees a year playing bridge?"
"Private tournaments, teaching, renting himself for matches..." Steve shrugged. "Renting is where Perry makes most of his bread. I think his going rate's a grand a day—"
"What?"
"Lot of rich people out there dying to be life masters," Dave remarked. "Makes them feel real special."
Decker pulled out his notebook. "Is his wife a professional bridge player, too?"
"Nope, she's a lawyer," Steve said. "She also plays, but Wendy's strictly amateur. She's got her gold points, though. Perry made sure of that."
"And he didn't even charge her," Dave said, deadpan.
"There are other pros who play just as well," Steve said. "Perry's beauty is in his bidding. He has this uncanny ability to manipulate it to his advantage. Most of the time, he fixes it so he's declarer. That way his partner never has a chance to louse up the play. You want gold points and you want them fast, you hire Goldin."
"Gold with Goldin," Dave said.
Decker noticed some people standing up and stretching. Others were leaving the tables. The room began to hum with conversation.
"Ah, the game endeth," Steve said. "And our work beginneth. We're on scoring detail. Are you good with numbers. Detective?"
"Only if they're associated with mug shots." Decker stood. "See you boys."
Dave said, "Stick around, Detective. I guarantee you Table Number One will come in first."
"Don't people get resentful?" Decker asked. "Goldin winning all the time?"
"Nah," Dave said. "The Emporium is jazzed just to have him play here. It's like letting Nolan Ryan pitch on your Softball team.
He attracts people who pay the admission fee just to watch him. He's great for business."
"Who owns this place?" Decker asked.
Dave broke into a pleasant grin. "I do. It beats the hell out of law school."
Decker waited patiently while three expensively dressed ladies with clawish red fingernails arranged their schedules so they meshed with Goldin's. Judging by the way the bridge pro was flipping the pages of his appointment book, he was booked up far in advance.
Goldin looked to be in his forties, which would have made him quite a bit older than Lilah. Maybe he was younger, age artificially advanced by gray streaking through his shoulder-length hair and beard. He was around six feet with an ectomorphic build—long nose, high cheekbones and forehead. His emerald-green eyes were so unnatural-looking, Decker wondered if he wore contacts. He had on a black T-shirt under a black blazer, faded jeans, and Nikcs. Goldin talked in a clipped, professional tone, not a moment wasted on pleasantries. When it was Decker's turn to introduce himself, Goldin spoke first.
"You're not interested in bridge."
Decker showed him his badge.
Goldin's eyes went wide. "Oh, my God! Wendy!"
Decker said, "It's not about Wendy."
"This isn't about my wife?"
"No."
At least not your current one. Decker found Goldin's reaction odd. You see a cop, you don't immediately think of your wife. Goldin seemed to sense his confusion.
"My wife..." He brought his hand to his chest, then dropped it slowly. "She runs a legal clinic for the indigent downtown— sitting ducks despite the fact that they're only a few blocks from the police station."
The statement seemed pointed. Decker was quie
t.
Goldin said, "I can't tell you how many times the place has been burgled or robbed. Then last week a clerk was shot in the arm...." He swallowed dryly. "I have no idea what you want from me. Is it a quick question or a little more?"
"It's a little more."
"Can I finish up my business first?"
"How long will that take?"
"Can you give me ten minutes?"
"That's fine. I noticed a coffee machine in the corner. I'll wait for you there."
"Thank you." Goldin exhaled slowly, then turned to the next person in line—a junior exec in a suit and tie.
Decker found the machine and sat down at an empty table. He had just finished his coffee when he saw Goldin coming his way. The bridge pro sat down, rested his head in his hands.
Decker stood and said, "Can I buy you a cup, Mr. Goldin? You look like you can use it."
"I won't refuse."
"How do you take it? Cream? Sugar?"
"Black."
Decker punched the button and brought the cup over to the table. "You look tired, Mr. Goldin. Maybe this'll wake you up."
"Perry." He sipped his coffee and checked his watch. "I've got an appointment in a half hour."
"This shouldn't take too long."
"I'm not rushing you. I'm just wondering if you want me to call and cancel. I don't mind canceling. I don't mind talking to you, either. Just don't talk about bridge."
"We talk bridge, the meter runs?"
"No..." Goldin shook his head. "No, that's not it at all... well, yeah, I like to get paid. Hell, that's the only thing I like about bridge now. God, I'm sick of it all—the backbiting, all these puny little egos vying for stupid little points."
"The disillusioned pro."
"Yeah, though I suppose it's better than the dissolute pro." Goldin smiled. "You see those women I was talking to? For them, I'm a cheap and respectable way to buy a day's worth of attention—sort of an intellectual variation on screwing the tennis instructor."
"Do you screw them?"
"Me?" Goldin laughed soundly. "Put it this way. Detective. I'd rather take thumbtacks in the scrotum."
Decker smiled. "They don't look that bad. Well preserved if you asked me."
"Tuck and roll no longer refers to car upholstery," Goldin said.
"They've all been sucked, stuffed, and stitched many times over. In fact, Pat, the blonde, has a knock-out body. I know because one day I came to her house for her weekly bridge lesson and she greeted me stark naked. I felt like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate when Anne Bancroft walks in... no, no, no, this isn't what I had in mind." He chuckled to himself. "No, I don't do anything that jeopardizes my marriage. Other men want to louse up their lives, I wish them well and hope they're squirreling away money for alimony. We Californians live in the land of community property."
"Sounds like you've been burned."
"Not at all. I got away scot-free the first time around. I do believe my ex's family would have paid me handsomely to divorce her. They sure as hell offered me the moon not to marry her. Too bad I was after true love instead of money. 1 should have read the writing on the wall—wasn't too swift back then." Goldin sipped coffee. "Well, I've come down with a nasty case of verbal diarrhea. I'm sorry. What can I do for you?"
"Actually, we're on the right subject, Mr. Goldin."
"Perry. What subject is that?"
"Lilah Brecht."
Goldin's expression was pained. "Oh, man, she's come back to haunt me." He buried his head in his hands. "What did she do this time?"
"She didn't do anything," Decker said. "She was raped a couple of nights ago."
Goldin snapped his head up and placed his hands on the table. "Is she all right?"
"Yes. She's out of the hospital, her bruises seem to be fading."
"She was beaten, too?"
"Knocked around."
"That's terrible," Goldin whispered. "Just awful... I'm really sorry to hear that." He stared at Decker. "Did she ask for me or anything?"
Decker shook his head.
"Then... why are you telling me this?"
Decker didn't answer.
Goldin pointed to his chest. "You suspect me? Is that it? You suspect me of raping and beating my ex-wife whom I haven't seen in what? Six years?"
Decker was quiet.
"Jesus!" Goldin leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Give me the exact date and time and I'll tell you where I was." He held up his appointment book.
"May I see that, Perry?"
Goldin dropped it on the table. Decker picked it up and leafed through the pages. Goldin had been at a bridge tournament on the night in question. Decker pointed to the date. "How long did the tournament last?"
"Till eleven-thirty, twelve. Then there was the postmortem with my student. I probably got home around one. Call my wife. She was home when I stumbled through the door."
Decker carefully studied the pages, looking for names: Brecht, Merritt, Reed, Eversong, Ness, Totes. Nothing. He returned the book. "Thank you."
"Anything else?" Goldin slipped the book in his jacket.
Decker said, "What went wrong with the marriage?"
"Jesus, just help yourself to my personal life."
"Mr. Goldin—"
"Perry."
"Perry, I was hoping you could help me out. I'm having a hard time getting a fix on your ex-wife."
"Detective, you are asking the wrong person for aid and succor. We did not part best friends. You can't reason with Lilah because she's flipped. The whole family is flipped."
Decker pulled out his notebook. "Tell me about it."
Goldin tapped his fingers on the table. "I've got to make a phone call... my appointment."
Decker fished a quarter out of his pocket. Goldin looked at the coin and laughed.
"That wasn't a hint, Detective."
"Take it. Perry. It's on the department."
Goldin palmed the quarter, tossed it into the air, and caught it. "Be right back."
T,
he bungalow offered little room to pace.
Clutter, Davida thought. She pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a jewel-encrusted lighter. Goddamn room was nothing but clutter. She snapped the lighter shut, dropped it in the pocket of her silk kimono, then tapped her foot. Redone in Georgian style, most of the antique pieces picked up in Bath, the heavily wooded room now seemed ponderous—out of character with the semi-arid climate that surrounded the spa. Southwestern would be more in keeping with the terrain. But that look was old and tiresome.
She drew nicotine into her lungs and flicked ashes in an empty Baccarat vase.
Where the hell was he?
She stared at the bar, then the clock—ten after seven. Though she needed nourishment, she knew she had to keep her head clear. Again, she surveyed the room. The John Constable landscape. The Sir Joshua Reynolds portrait—veddy English. Nice but passionless. Jimi had suggested buying into Diego Menendez or Pedro Aguilar while Latin prices were still reasonable.
Davida thought for a moment. An hacienda look, perhaps? Hand-painted tiles, wrought-iron fixtures, textured plastered walls and polished pine frames for the windows. And of course, the mandatory furniture hunt across the border. All those handsome hombres with their dark mustaches, drinking tequila...
An idle moment of fantasy. Her eyes returned to the clock and she was back in reality.
Where was he?
She picked up the phone, then put it down when she finally heard footsteps. She drew back a maroon velvet curtain for a peek, dropped the drapery, and did a quick run to the mirror. When the door opened, she was scanning a magazine and didn't bother to look up.
"What took you so goddamn long?"
"And good evening to you, too, Davida." Ness tossed a sweat-soaked towel on a pink damask divan and took out two crystal tumblers from the bar. "What can I get you?"
Davida looked at the towel, then threw the magazine across the room. "I left a message for you over an hour ago!"
> "I just picked it up, Davida! I don't run to my box every two min—"
"I hate to be kept waiting!"
"So I'm here—"
"Where the hell were you?"
Faye Kellerman - Decker 05 - False Prophet Page 22
