Faye Kellerman - Decker 05 - False Prophet

by False Prophet

  "Add one for me, partner." Marge sighed. "So what do you think?"

  "Well..." Decker straightened up in his seat. "I have to get past her craziness and ask myself if it's an act or what."

  "Your conclusion?"

  "At first, I thought she was trying to protect Totes. Then when I suggested that maybe he and she were screwing, she went Looney Tunes. You know, Rina suggested to me that maybe Lilah's rape was a game gone too far—"

  "How'd she come up with that?"

  "She said that Lilah was real turned on when I got angry at her last night. Now I'm thinking maybe that's what happened between her and Totes. They were getting it on, playing this game, and it

  went too far. And she's afraid now that Carl will tell all. So she preempted him by saying there was no possible way they were fucking. What she really was doing was protecting her own butt in case Carl said anything. She doesn't want to look like a fool."

  "Sounds farfetched but who knows?" Marge shook her head. "Nothing makes any sense. The rape, the berserk horse, the theft, Merritt's murder. What vital thread am I missing?"

  "Damned if I know," Decker groused.

  There was a knock on the door. Hollander opened it a second later and stuck his head inside. "Pete, line three. Devonshire,

  Homicide."

  Marge smiled. "You talked to them about me?"

  Decker smiled sheepishly. "Actually, I haven't yet." He stood, punched the blinking light on the wall phone, and said, "Decker." The voice on the other end was raspy.

  "Scott Oliver, Homicide, Devonshire. Are you the one who caught the rape on Lilah Brecht?"

  "Yes, it's mine."

  "You got anything on that?"

  "Matter of fact, we have a suspect in custody. Why?"

  "We picked up a DB in a charred limo early this morning. No plates and the guy was close to toast, but there was enough skin on his fingers to lift a few prints. You know about hands reflexivcly curling in heat, protecting the fingertips?"

  "Yeah. Did you make an ID?"

  "Ran the prints for a CII number and got back a nice arrest trailer. Turns out our DB was arrested several times for B and Es. He's out on parole. When I called up his parole officer, the woman told me he was gainfully employed. Wanna know by

  who?" "Who?" "Davida Eversong. That's Lilah Brecht's mother, right?"

  Decker felt his heart beating. "Right."

  "Two major crimes in the same family... weird." Oliver cleared his throat. "1 thought if you had something on your case, it might be related to this case."

  "Possibly. Who was the DB?"

  "Mr. Toast? Eversong's chauffeur—a Russ Donnally. I'm assuming the limo was probably hers. Does- the name ring any

  bells?"

  "No, it doesn't." He turned to Marge. "Ever hear of a guy

  named Russ Donnally? He was Davida Eversong's chauffeur."

  Marge shook her head.

  "Want to know the interesting part?" Oliver said.

  "There's more?"

  "Is anything in life ever simple? 'Bout five minutes ago, I get a call from the lab. There was a wallet in the car. Burned, but enough paper to make an ID on the driver's license. Not Donnally's. We ran the owner's name through CII. He's clean so far as we know. Does the name Michael Ness ring any bells?"

  Decker closed his eyes and opened them. "Detective, we indeed have some mutual points of interest. Can I meet you somewhere in a couple of hours?"

  "Fine. Let's shoot for seven."

  "You got it."

  Oliver said, "You're at Foothill. We could meet halfway between the substations—Willy's at Roscoe and Woodman. Think the department will spring for a four-ninety-nine dinner special?"

  "We could make a damn good case for it. As long as you don't get greedy and order dessert."

  The dog barking, the television blaring, the kids talking to him at the same time. The phone rang just as Rina announced it was time for dinner. Not the kind of scene that inspired homilies for samplers, but it was Decker's chaos and don't it feel so good.

  Rina carried a platter of grilled chicken breasts to the table. "Is someone going to catch the phone?"

  "I'll get it."Jacob grabbed the receiver. "Hullo?"

  The dog yapped and jumped at Decker's heels.

  "Acknowledge the dog, Peter," Rina said. "Shmuli, can you help me out, please?"

  "Why me?"

  Rina said, "Because I asked—"

  "For you, Shmuli," Jacob said.

  "Call them back, Shmuel," Rina ordered. "We're actually going to try to eat dinner."

  The older boy rolled his eyes and went to the phone.

  "Don't look at me like that." Rina went to the kitchen and brought out a bowl of tossed salad. "Yonkie, turn off the TV. Then please bring in the pitcher of orange juice and a bottle of beer for your father."

  "Pass on the beer." Decker checked the back door. Securely locked. "I've got to go back to work."

  "Peter, you've been up for sixteen hours!"

  "I'd be happy to call it a day except crime doesn't keep businessmen's hours."

  "You should be raking in tons of overtime."

  "Unfortunately, saying it doesn't make it so." Decker sat at the dining-room table, the cherrywood top as shiny as the day he finished varnishing it. Rina took extra care with the furniture he'd hand-crafted. He placed a single chicken breast on each empty plate, then helped himself to two pieces. He broke a chunk of meat from the remaining breast and gave it to the dog. "How're you feeling, darlin'?"

  "I'm fine." Rina set a glass dish down on a trivet. "As big as a horse, but still on two feet. Careful, this is hot."

  Decker lifted the lid and a cloud of steam poured out—roasted red potatoes with jalapeno peppers and onions. He took two heaping spoonfuls.

  "I chose Southwestern as our dinner theme tonight," Rina said. "Tres chic. Or maybe it's muy chic. Yonkic, bring in the salsa for the chicken. Shmuli, get off the phone!"

  "In a minute, Eema."

  Decker cut a piece of chicken and popped it into his mouth. "Anyone interesting call?"

  "Cindy." Rina frowned. "I think I sounded overanxious."

  Decker picked his head up. No noise outside—just his imagination. "Overanxious about what?"

  "About trying to make her feel welcome." Rina speared a forkful of salad. "She was so sheepish about asking you to stay for the summer. I feel a little guilty. As if our relationship changed your relationship with her."

  "That's ridiculous," Decker chewed.

  "It's an adjustment for her, Peter. She's used to having you to herself. Now, she has me in the picture." Rina thought about her words. "I'm close to my father. I can understand her confusion."

  "She's always gotten along well with you," Decker said. "Besides, her mother remarried first—takes the heat off you. She'll be okay once she's out here."

  "Once she sees I'm not really a wicked stepmother." She looked over her shoulder. "Shmuli, get off the phone now!"

  Jacob smiled. "Don't worry, Eema. I'll tell her you're not any wickeder as a stepmom than you are as a regular mom."

  Rina stared at him. "Thank you, Yonkie. And wickeder isn't a word."

  "More wicked." Sammy sat down. "Pass the salsa."

  Decker spooned sauce over the boy's chicken, lifted his head

  again, then returned his attention to his potatoes.

  "Are you expecting anyone, Peter?" Rina asked.

  "No. Why?"

  "You seemed preoccupied."

  Decker shrugged. "Hard to switch gears."

  Rina patted his hand. "Try to relax, dear."

  Sammy stuffed his mouth full of potatoes. "Yeah, we could use one calm parent around here."

  "Are you suggesting I've been less than a model of patience, Shmuli?" Rina asked.

  "God forbid!" Sammy smiled impishly. "You make dynamite potatoes, Eema."

  Rina gave him a look of mock disapproval.

  "Ginger, stop begging," Jacob said. "Can I give her some of

 
; my chicken?"

  "No, you've already doused your meat with salsa," Rina said. "That's all her poor stomach would need."

  "Maybe she'd like some salsa, Eema," Sammy said. "Add a little spice to her life."

  Rina said, "So you're volunteering to clean up her mess if she gets indigestion?" The boy shook his head quickly. "Any other calls?" Decker asked. "Nothing important."

  Decker poured himself a glass of orange juice. "Like what do you mean by nothing important?" Rina laughed. "What?"

  "I mean, what calls did you get that you don't consider important?"

  Rina looked at him. "What's on your mind, Peter?" "Nothing's on my mind. I'm just asking about calls." She continued to stare at him.

  "I was just wondering if you've received any hang-ups... someone calling and hanging up... without speaking."

  Rina said, "Peter, your obvious attempt to be casual is making us all nervous. What is it?" Decker said, "Lilah—" Rina banged down her fork. "Again?"

  "Is she the maniac who woke us all up this morning?" Sammy said.

  "Yes," Decker answered.

  "Don't worry. Dad," Jacob said. "She tries anything funny, Eema'll just shoot her!"

  "That's what I'm afraid of," Decker said. "Maybe it'd be a good idea if you visited your parents tonight."

  Rina sat back in her chair. "Did she threaten me?"

  "No."

  "Then what did she do?"

  "She..." Decker put down his fork. "She... cursed us—"

  "You're upset because she used the f-word?" Yonkie asked.

  "No, not swearing," Decker said. "Cursing... like what witches do."

  "Cursing as in klalah," Rina clarified to the boys. "Not nivul peh." She mock spat several times into the air. "Pooh, pooh, pooh! That's what I think of her curses. And just let her try anything— incur the wrath of a grumpy, hot, pregnant woman. It's no contest, Peter."

  Decker buried his head in his hands.

  "I'm just teasing you," Rina said. "Are you really worried? If you're worried, we'll schlepp out to my parents'."

  "It would make me feel better."

  "Do you want us to spend the night there?"

  "If I think I'll be home by nine, I'll call. If not, maybe a night at Grandma's and Grandpa's would be a good idea." Decker sighed. "This is really going to endear me to your mother.... 'You put my daughter in danger.

  "You do a terrible Hungarian accent." Rina turned to her sons. "Finish up, then go pack your bags. I need to talk to your father for a minute."

  Jacob faced his brother. "He's gonna tell her the gory details in private."

  "There are no gory details," Decker said.

  "Finish up, please," Rina said.

  Sammy stood. "Great grub, Eema." He kissed his mother's cheek. "Let's go, Yonkie. It's a long ride to Savta's and Saba's. If there are any gory details, we'll get them out of her."

  "There are no gory details," Decker insisted.

  After the boys left to pack, Rina whispered, "What are the gory details?"

  "Nothing," Decker said. "Lilah Brecht is very unstable at the moment—a rape, a near-death horse ride, and now her brother's dead. She's taking it out on me and on you by extension. I don't

  feel comfortable leaving you home alone while I work—-at least

  not tonight."

  "What are you working on?"

  "I've got an appointment with someone from Devonshire regarding a homicide that might be related to the case." "Someone else besides the brother is dead?" Decker nodded.

  "Is that why she suddenly cursed you?"

  "No. We arrested her stable hand for the rape today. We have physical evidence against him. Lilah was furious at us for arresting him—swore he wasn't the right one. Then 1 suggested the evidence was pretty convincing unless she and Totes had had sex that night. That pushed her button. Her reaction was so disproportionate, I immediately thought they must have some kind of affair. Honestly, I don't know what to think."

  Rina shuddered. "Too many murders. Please be careful, Peter." Decker leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I'm always careful. Especially now. Got lots of people depending on me." "Lots of people who love you, Peter."

  Decker regarded his wife's beautiful face, then held her hands and kissed them. His wife. She had actually married him! What the hell was he doing right'?

  The number for stolen or lost credit cards was closed for the evening. Ness slammed down the phone, then told himself to breathe deeply. Sitting on the center of his bed, he adjusted his weight until he was in a perfect lotus position. Correct posture, but an incorrect attitude—a goddamn spiral. The body couldn't unwind unless the mind was at peace and how the hell could you clear your mind if your body was coiled steel? He felt soft warm hands begin to rub the nape of his neck. Under his sister's touch, he allowed himself the luxury of relaxation.

  "Do me a favor, Kell. Look up the twenty-four-hour number for lost or stolen credit cards." "What bank arc you with?"

  "Security International." Ness banged his fist against his head. "I can't fucking believe... somehow... some way... it's gonna screw me up. Story of my life." "Here's the number." Ness copied on a piece of scrap paper and dialed. Busy. Gently

  he placed the receiver in the cradle. "What's my chance of anything

  working out?"

  "Michael, where do you think you left it?" "I don't even know if I left it anywhere. Somebody might have

  lifted it from me. I think someone's trying to screw me." "We'll think of something. I'll think of something." He shrugged off her hands and patted his mattress. "Sit." Kelley hesitated, then sat beside him, her eyes focused on her

  hands folded in her lap. "If only I hadn't insisted you come out

  here—"

  "Stop flogging yourself, Kell. You know Davida. Once she wants something, she's unstoppable. Actually, I should take it as a compliment. Rich old broads like her could have hired herself a zillion studs and she wanted me." Ness shrugged. "Hasn't been terrible. Steady money. Regular sex—now that's a first. Beats blowjobs from drunken sailors—" "Oh, Michael!" "Or zoned-out whores." "Mike, please let me help you!"

  Ness kissed his sister's cheek. "You stay out of this mess. Let me take the heat."

  She threw her arms around her brother's neck. "Mike, can't you just tell the cops the truth? That you had nothing to do with any of this—" "That's not exactly true."

  "You had nothing to do with the murder." She paused. "Or with Lilah's rape, right?"

  Ness pivoted around, feeling a spinal chill as cold as a blustery wind. "Try to sound convinced when proclaiming my innocence." Kelley whispered, "I believe you, Mike. I've always believed you—believed in you, haven't I? Unlike others. Was there ever a single point in our lives where my faith in you was destroyed?"

  Ness saw it all in his sister's eyes—the pain he'd caused her— and felt the heat of shame. He held out his arms to her and she came to him, burying herself in the cocoon of his embrace. "I'm sorry—" "Stop—"

  "No, let me say it, Kcll." Ness cleared his throat. "I love you and I'm sorry... sorry for everything." She didn't answer him, but he felt her tears on his shirt.

  Had to be the one wearing the mirrored Porsche shades with the blue blazer slung over his arm, fingers gripping a lizard briefcase. As soon as Decker caught his eye, the man stood, removed his glasses, and held out a hand, introducing himself as Scott Oliver. Late thirties, five-eleven, one-eighty, a broadness across the shoulders that came from weight lifting. Wavy black hair full on top but clipped short at the sides, and deep-set dark eyes under thick black eyebrows. Razor-straight nose, smooth skin stretched over high cheekbones, a white, wide smile. Marge was going to like the scenery at Devonshire. Decker took the proffered hand. "I'm glad you called, Scott. I could use a break." "You and me both."

  Oliver winked at the peroxide-blond hostess and told her they ; were ready to be seated. They followed the sway of her behind to a brown Naugahyde booth in the back of the coffee shop. She handed them menus and asked if
anyone would like coffee. Both j

  said yes.

  Oliver said, "I must be going senile or something. You're the guy they got slated to fill MacDougal's slot. You gonna take it?" "It might work out. How's the climate over there?" "Not bad. The Dee-three's a pretty good guy and the new Loo seems to be working out—doesn't play politico twenty-four hours a day. Last guy we had was a real schmuck. Left after landing police chief in some cracker town. Our garbage is now someone else's dinner. Anyway, you ever do Homicide before?"