Faye Kellerman - Decker 05 - False Prophet

by False Prophet

  "Right after I change my clothes."

  "What time is it?" Decker asked. "What day is it?"

  "Friday, eight-forty-eight a.m.," Rina said. "Shabbos starts at seven-twenty-six. That should give you plenty of time to finish your business."

  "One can always hope," Decker said.

  Marge stood and wiped crumbs from her mouth. "Thanks for breakfast, Rina." She patted Decker's shoulder. "See you, sport."

  After Marge left, Rina said, "You send me away and she sleeps over? You're lucky I'm not the jealous type."

  "Not to worry, my dear, the last thought on my mind is another woman, least of all Marge. I can't even handle the one I got." Decker pulled his wife onto his lap and kissed her. "I missed you, darlin'."

  Rina repositioned herself on his legs. "I can tell."

  "I don't lie." Decker raised his brow. "It don't lie."

  "Just let me get the roast in the oven," she said. "Five minutes."

  "I'm setting my watch. In the meantime, I'll make my phone call."

  Rina got up. "Five minutes."

  Decker panted out loud as he dialed. Rina laughed as she left. A soft female voice answered the call. He asked for Perry Goldin, and after a beat, the bridge teacher came on the line.

  "Hey, Sergeant, thanks for getting back to me so soon."

  "No problem."

  "Wendy's been telling me that there've been more police cars driving by the legal clinic. I want to thank you."

  "You're welcome. I'm glad she feels safer."

  "She does." He paused. "Look, do you remember I told you about an old lady Lilah used to visit?"

  "Greta Millstein."

  "Righto, you can be my bridge partner. Among my many bad habits is sticking my nose where it probably doesn't belong. I don't know... for some strange reason, I felt compelled to call Greta and tell her what had happened to Lilah. They were close a long time ago; I figured maybe she'd want to know. I touched briefly on our meeting and she expressed an interest in talking to you. I hope I wasn't out of line."

  "The exact opposite. I've been wanting to talk to her."

  "Great. I know she has tea every morning around ten, ten-thirty. I'll arrange a meeting if you want."

  "That would be perfect."

  "It might be better if I went with you... someone familiar. Hell, I wouldn't mind seeing her. I abandoned her along with Lilah, so even if you don't go, I'll go anyway."

  "I'll meet you there at ten."

  Goldin gave him directions. "I'll wait for you and we'll go in together. The apartment complex is big and you can get lost unless you know where you're going. I'll be sitting in a red Ferrari Testarossa almost trashed beyond recognition."

  "Now that hurts," Decker said.

  "Not for me. I picked it up for a song and a dance. And if you knew my musical talent, you'd know how cheap that was. See you later."

  Decker hung up and checked his watch. "Time's up," he announced. "Are you ready?"

  Rina walked into the dining room and placed her hands on her hips. "Sweep me off my feet, my darling."

  Decker laughed and scooped her into his arms. "You've gained a little weight, dear."

  Rina slugged his shoulder. "So have you. So what's your excuse?"

  "Call it sympathetic pregnancy." Decker carried her over the threshold of their bedroom and lowered her onto the mattress. "I figure, why should you go it alone? I'm just that kind of guy."

  Dressed in clothes that didn't smell like a gym locker, Marge was ready for business. The ambulance had taken Lilah to a community hospital, but the floor nurse said in a huffy voice that Miss Brecht was in the process of being transferred to a private facility. Marge found the room and was pleased to see the door open. She took that as license to enter without asking permission.

  Freddy Brecht was playing the role of chief of staff, protecting his sister as rigidly as a palace guard. Freddy blocked not only the bed, but also Marge's view of Lilah.

  "She isn't up to seeing anyone, Detective," Brecht said, in a clipped tone. "Now if you'll kindly—"

  "It's all right, Freddy." A pale-faced Lilah peeked around her brother's shoulders and fell back on her pillow. "Let me talk to her."

  Brecht pivoted to his sister. "Lilah, you are in no condition—"

  "Freddy, I know you mean well, but you're being a pain. Go away and let me talk to her."

  Brecht was silent, his cheeks and bald head glowing pink. "You don't have to be rude, Lilah."

  "Freddy, I'm not myself. Don't be priggish."

  Brecht deepened in color. "You realize, Lilah, you're sounding more and more like Mother."

  "Yes, I know that and yes, it bothers me. But we can't help who we are, can we? Now please go away." A slender hand waved in the air. "Let me talk to her alone."

  Brecht was slow to leave. "Ten minutes, Detective. Despite what she says, she needs her rest."

  Marge waited until Brecht was down the hallway before she closed the door. The stress of the past few days had eroded some youth from Lilah's face. Her cheeks were gaunt, her blue eyes lusterless. Marge bit back pity as she pulled up a chair by the bed.

  "I was hoping you'd be Peter." Defeat was woven through Lilah's voice. "Hoping but not expecting."

  Marge waited a beat. "How're you feeling?"

  "I'll tell you this much." She sat up. "Frederick's constant hovering is a drain, but at least he had the decency to show up. Unlike other relatives I have."

  "Your mother?"

  "Who else?"

  "Maybe she doesn't know."

  "She knows. She doesn't care. Perhaps she's too busy avoiding the police—driving back and forth between Malibu and the spa. Sources say she's found another driver after knocking off Russ." Her laughter was mocking. "Good luck to anyone stupid enough to take that assignment."

  Marge pulled out a notebook. "How do you know she knocked off Russ?"

  "I don't know. But who else would have sent Russ over to kill Kingston?"

  "You think your mother sent Russ over to kill your brother?"

  "What difference does it make what I think?" Eyes watered, then overflowed with tears. "King's gone and what I think won't bring him back."

  She shielded her face with her hands and cried bitterly. Marge waited, pencil poised to write. After a minute, Lilah dried her eyes and lowered her head onto a pillow.

  "It's funny... King and I had been estranged for so long. He was overbearing, but..." Her voice cracked. "But deep down, I knew it was because he cared. Yesterday, when he called me, so comforting..." She turned to the wall.

  "What did you and Kingston talk about yesterday?"

  Lilah shook her head and started to cry. Softly, Marge said, "Why'd you take the pills, Lilah?"

  "I don't know... I felt so... so guilty about King's death... and resentful, too. Impulses aren't often well thought out. It wasn't

  the first stupid thing I've ever done. I'm sure it won't be the last."

  "Like taking Carl Totes's sheets?" Marge said.

  Lilah jerked her head up. "He told you?"

  Marge didn't answer. Lilah let out full laughter. "Well, I fell right into that! No, Carl wouldn't..." She laughed again. "Not Carl. He'd have sat in jail forever rather than..."

  "Rather than disclose your little secret?" Marge asked.

  "Something like that."

  "Why'd you set him up?"

  "Who said I did, Detective?"

  "Carl's being brought up for rape charges, Lilah. Does he deserve that?"

  Lilah waited a long time before she spoke. "That... it also wasn't well thought out. It... I..."

  "Why'd you do it, Lilah? Why did you fake your rape?"

  Lilah didn't answer.

  Marge said, "We're going to get to the bottom of the whole mess, Lilah. Help us out. It'll save us a lot of energy and time, so we can concentrate on who killed your brother and why."

  "I didn't have anything to do with King's death!" Lilah insisted. "I want you to know that."

  "Go on."
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  Lilah twirled a strand of her hair. "I'm only telling you my part because I do care about Carl... and my brother."

  Marge nodded encouragingly.

  Lilah said, "After Freddy dropped me off from our weekly dinner, I knew instantly that my safe had been tampered with. I keep an inch of Scotch tape across the door. When I walked into my bedroom and saw that it was gone, I rushed to the safe—to the inner safe. The memoirs were gone! If I had known Kingston was in on it, I wouldn't have bothered with the rape business."

  Marge sat up. "How do you know Kingston was in on it?"

  "He intimated that he had something that was mine when he called me... that Mother had put him up to something. When we met for dinner, he was going to tell me more."

  Lilah covered her mouth with her fist, then lowered her hand to her lap.

  "But that evening, at that time, all I knew was that somehow, someway, my mother had finally gotten her paws on my memoirs. They've been preying on her mind for months, though she's tried

  to hide it. I don't know specifically what's in the papers that's driving her crazy. As I've told you before, I've respected my father's wishes and haven't read them."

  Lilah's nostrils suddenly flared in anger.

  "Mother took them and that is truly unforgivable. They belonged to me! Not her Me! I had to do something! You do understand, don't you?"

  Marge was impassive.

  Lilah said, "So I stormed out of my house and took a late-night jog around my property! A slow jog... I can think when I do a slow jog. Confronting Mother was an exercise in futility. She's a marvelous actress and can lie as easily as breathe. I had to get the police involved. And I had to make sure the police would be just as eager to find the memoirs as I was." She drew her hospital gown tightly across her chest. "As I was jogging by the stable, I heard Carl..." She looked down. "I've heard him before. I knew what he was doing. He was... playing with himself... over me."

  Tears formed in Lilah's eyes.

  "He's in love with me, has this picture of me..." She looked at Marge. "I never meant to hurt him. I was just so furious at Mother, I couldn't think rationally. So I waited until he was done, then went in and took his sheets and towels."

  "And he wasn't suspicious when you visited him in the middle of the night?"

  "It wasn't the middle of the night. It was around eleven. And no, he wasn't suspicious. I told him I'd brought him new sheets and towels. He was pleased, more than pleased. He was ecstatic. Any attention I had ever bestowed upon Carl was greeted with unabashed, unquestioned gratitude. So 1 changed his sheets and towels and told him not to mention my visit to anyone. It would give certain people with filthy minds the wrong idea. He said he understood."

  "You didn't have sex with him?"

  Again, Lilah's nostrils flared. "The thought is repugnant!"

  What Lilah was saying was consistent with what Marge and Decker had found at Totes's stable. Marge remembered Decker remarking that the linens in the stable were clean. "Then what did you do?"

  "What did I do?" Lilah blinked back tears. "I... decided to get the police involved in a big way. I systematically destroyed my

  room. It wasn't hard because I was enraged. When it was close

  to morning, I knew I had to do something with myself to make the crime seem realistic. So I... hit myself at strategic places... squeezed myself actually. I'm very fair, I bruise easily. What didn't look swollen enough—mean enough—was enhanced by judicious application of the spa's astringents—special caustics we use on clients with skin problems." She wrinkled her nose. "Then before Mercedes was due to show, I took an ice-cold shower to lower my body temperature. Then the maid came... there you have it."

  "And the horse?"

  "Now, that was truly stupid! I loved Apollo. I was devastated when he died."

  "You gave him too much PCP?"

  "No, I was very careful. Apollo must have had a strange reaction. In the past when I've given a horse PCP, it simply dropped off to sleep. I give my horses tranquilizers all the time when I'm cleaning their teeth or some other such minor procedure. I was shocked... scared. If Peter hadn't rescued me, I'd have been dead."

  "Lilah, why'd you go to all that trouble to fake a crime?" Marge asked. "You had a real crime—the theft. Why didn't you just report it?"

  "Why?" Lilah's laugh was soft. "Detective, how much priority would you... or Peter... or anyone in the entire police force have given a theft of some old papers? Ah, but a rape... and a rape where jewels were stolen... now there's a crime worth looking into! I was hoping once you started investigating you wouldn't stop until you found the memoirs."

  She shrugged.

  "So you figured out my little subterfuge. So what? You're doing exactly as I envisioned. The case has taken on a life of its own. As far as Apollo went... that was to ensure that the case wouldn't stagnate, that it would be moved on. That Peter would believe me when I told him someone was out to get me... and he did believe me."

  "We still haven't found the memoirs, Lilah."

  "But now you'll look for them, won't you?"

  Marge didn't answer. She knew that Lilah was absolutely right—the case had taken on a life of its own. And she had the police figured out as well. With all the violent crime plaguing the

  streets, nobody on the force would fret too much about some old lost memoirs. The woman wasn't a prophetess. But she was very clever.

  "Who killed your brother?" Marge asked.

  "Talk to Mother. Kingston implied she was involved in the theft. I'm sure she was involved in his murder."

  "Who else might have been involved?"

  "Mother has managed to create quite a following—Michael, Kelley, even Freddy. After all, he did take me out the night the theft occurred. Any one of them is a potential errand boy for her."

  "Do you have any idea how someone broke into your inner safe?"

  "No idea." Lilah suddenly looked sheepish. "You are going drop the charges against Carl, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "I told you he didn't rape me."

  Marge didn't answer.

  "Are you going to bring charges against me?"

  "That's not up to me," Marge said. "You know, in your eagerness to keep the case alive, you probably did more harm than good. We were out looking for a rapist when we should have been looking for a thief."

  "At least you were out looking for something." Lilah regarded her hands, then smiled smugly. "No harm done if charges are brought against me. As a matter of fact, the publicity will be enormously beneficial to the spa's business. The more notorious, the better." She leaned over and whispered. "The rich just love a delicious dish of dirt!"

  Marge folded the cover of her notebook and stowed the pen in her pocket. "This probably isn't the last of my visits."

  "Ask whatever you want. At this point, I have nothing more to hide."

  "Then let me ask you this," Marge said. "Where are your mother's jewels?"

  The blue eyes suddenly set in stony hatred. "Not to worry, Detective, I have them. And I'll return them when I fucking feel like it."

  Decker thought, File this one under things that make you groan: a Testarossa shaped into abstract sculpture. The passenger's side

  was a gray crater of primer and blood-red paint, the door held shut by elearical tape. Its nose had been blunted, both its bumpers denuded of chrome and trim.

  Goldin stood on the curb and watched Decker gaze at his junk heap. He tucked his T-shirt into his jeans and stuck his hands into his back pants pockets. "You look like you're ready to deliver a eulogy."

  "How can you stand driving it in that condition?"

  "I'm making a statement, Sergeant."

  "What kind of statement!" Decker snarled. "That it's too bourgeois to restore a thing of beauty?"

  "No, actually it's more like I can't afford the thirty thousand bucks to fix her up properly."

  "Do it yourself."

  "Me?" Goldin laughed. "I don't know a carburetor from a radiator."
>
  "Testarossas don't have carburetors." Decker's eyes remained on the car. "They're fuel-injected."

  Goldin patted Decker's back. "It only hurts if you look. Let's go. Greta's expecting us."

  Slowly, Decker turned away from the Ferrari and followed Goldin up a slight incline to an entrance to the grounds. The apartment complex was three blocks long—a series of one-story bungalows resting on yards of green hillocks shaded by wizened trees. Dozens of meandering pathways crisscrossed over the knoll, many of them diverging only to dead-end into copses of brush. But Goldin seemed to know where he was going.