Faye Kellerman - Decker 05 - False Prophet

by False Prophet

  Brecht rubbed moisture from his eyes.

  "It is despicable to talk ill of the dead, but I can't grieve over a brother I never had."

  Decker nodded, wanting to tell Brecht he hadn't done anything to deserve Merritt's hatred. And maybe he would do just that. Try to make him understand that Merritt didn't hate him per se but just his parents—the girlfriend who jilted him for his drunken stepfather. Jealousy. Rabbi Schulman once said it rots the flesh off

  the bone. And that's what the family was now. Nothing but bones. He saw Brecht flash him a sickly smile.

  "Now it's your turn," Brecht said.

  Marge said, "This is what your mother told you?"

  "Yes. Do you have information to the contrary?"

  Decker said. "Yes, we have some information that... conflicts with your mother's account."

  Brecht perched forward. "Tell me what you know."

  Decker said. "Before I tell you, I want some information from you in exchange. I want you to tell me how your mother planned the theft of the memoirs."

  "What!? Mother was behind the theft?"

  Marge said. "Doctor, you knew she was behind the theft all along. In fact, maybe you were in on it yourself."

  Brecht turned ashen. "I know nothing!"

  "She's been using you, Doctor," Decker said. "She's always used you as her errand boy. But you took it from her because you thought she'd rescued you from an impoverished life. She's been telling you that she was your savior all these years. In fact, she's been lying to you. The story she's been feeding you is a bunch of bull."

  Decker noticed Brecht's breathing had quickened. The expectant look in his eyes... as if he'd always known.

  "Then who am I?" Brecht panted.

  Marge said, "Doctor, we need your help—"

  "Who am I?" Brecht's voice rose a notch.

  Decker said, "If Davida did rope you into some kind of a scheme, we can make a deal."

  - "Who am I, damn you?" Brecht jumped up and pounded his desk. "Who!"

  "You are the sole offspring of Hermann Brecht," Decker said, softly. "He was your biological father."

  Brecht stood motionless for a long time. Finally, Decker stood, placed a firm hand on Brecht's shoulder and physically pushed him back into his desk chair. Even then, Brecht didn't move except to breathe and blink.

  Eventually, Brecht whispered, "You're certain?"

  Marge said, "We'll start from the beginning, if you'll tell us what you know about the theft of the memoirs."

  Brecht licked his lips. "I... I want you to know I had nothing to do with Kingston's death."

  "But you do know something about the theft of the memoirs," Marge said.

  Brecht eyes were still glazed. "How can I be Hermann Brecht's sole offspring? What about Lilah?"

  Decker smoothed his mustache. "Lilah's another long story. Let's take it one story at a time."

  Brecht spoke as if hypnotized. "I always knew it... deep down, I knew I couldn't be what Mother had said I was. I just couldn't be...." He covered his mouth with a fist, then exhaled. "All these years of her lying to me... making me feel as if I were the scum of the earth. What a scheming witch!" He looked at Decker. "Who was my real mother?"

  "All in due time, Doc," Decker said. "First you tell me about how your mother—"

  "Davida Euersong is no longer my motherV Brecht screamed. "You want to know about Davida, ask about Davida. Never use the words mother and Davida interchangeably!"

  "Fine, Doctor," Marge said. "How did Davida entangle you in the burglary of the memoirs?"

  "You expect me to admit my involvement in a crime?" Brecht said.

  "It's the only way we can gather evidence against your moth— against Davida. Hell, it's a simple theft. We could probably cut you a decent deal—"

  "Deal?" Brecht's laugh was high-pitched and hysterical. "Why would I need a deal? If what you are saying is true, I wasn't involved in any theft! I was simply reclaiming... what was rightfully mine in the first place."

  "Bravo, Doc, you're right about that!" Marge pulled out her notebook. "The memoirs belonged to you all along. Tell us what Davida put you up to."

  Brecht nodded. "Yes, I'll tell you what she put me up to." He held out his hands. "Now, how should I begin?"

  D

  avida's bungalow was sited about a hundred yards behind the spa's main hotel, elevated, fenced, and hidden from view by overgrown flowering brush. Decker felt as if he were on safari as he and Marge hiked the rising stone pathway to the gated entrance. An intercom was perched on a fence post. Marge depressed the red button and a scratchy voice asked who it was. Decker identified himself and they were buzzed inside the grounds—green hillside shaded by towering oak. Davida's hangout lay on the knoll's pinnacle. He and Marge started up the fieldstone steps.

  Marge said, "I'm working up a sweat."

  "It's the afternoon heat," Decker said. "Saps your energy."

  "This case is sapping my energy."

  "Tell me about it."

  "What did Morrison say when you mentioned the warrant?"

  "He wasn't happy," Decker said. "But he's a good cop. Told me to go for it first, then added—if possible—to keep it from the press."

  "So what happens if we bring Davida in for questioning?"

  Decker made a sour face. "Let's worry about it if the time comes. We'll search first, then I'll wing it... work my way into the questioning... throw her off guard."

  "We don't have much against her, do we?"

  "Not yet."

  Davida was waiting for them at her door, her smile as welcoming as ice water in the face.

  "We finally caught up with you," Marge stated.

  Davida's smile widened. "Caught up with me? That sounds ominous."

  Decker presented her with the search warrant for her bungalow. Davida gave it a cursory glance, then stepped aside. "Do come in."

  They entered the cluttered but expensively furnished living room. Decker noticed the artwork—English painters, famous names. Millions of dollars hanging on the walls.

  "Would you like some coffee?" Davida purred.

  Davida in her hostess mode, Decker thought. Actresses. Do they ever play themselves? Do they even know how? "No, thanks." He checked his watch. A little after two, still five hours to go before Sabbath. To Marge he said, "I'll take the living room, you take the bedroom."

  "You've got it, Pete."

  Davida said, "May I ask what you're looking for?"

  Decker regarded the old woman. She was amused. He peeled a seat cushion from the pink divan. "We'll try to be as quick and neat as possible."

  "Am I under arrest for anything?" Davida asked.

  "Not at the moment." Decker felt inside the scam along the back of the couch. Not even a crumb, let alone papers or a weapon. He picked up the cushion, squeezed it inch by inch, then unzipped the upholstery cover and peered inside. "But don't go anywhere. We need to ask you a few questions."

  "What kind of questions?"

  "First, let me finish up with the search, Ms. Eversong. I find it hard to concentrate on two things at one time."

  Davida marched over to the bar and poured herself a shot of Wild Turkey. "If I'm not under arrest, why are you searching my residence?"

  Decker flashed her an enigmatic smile, thinking: I'm tearing up the place 'cause I've always liked treasure hunts. But in reality it was a valid question. He wasn't about to tell her they were searching for evidence.

  The case had reached a frustrating impasse. He had learned from Frederick Brccht that Davida had bribed both him and Kingston to do the old lady's dirty work. Brccht was to occupy Lilah for the evening so Kingston could do a neat little B and E, removing Hermann Brecht's memoirs. The original plan was for Kingston

  to fork over the papers in exchange for money to keep his research going. But old King had a sudden change of heart when he spoke to Lilah. Suddenly King wanted something more than money. He wanted his relationship with his sister/daughter back. Attachments weren't something
Davida had planned on because attachments were a foreign concept to her.

  The rest was Brecht's conjecture. He thought his mother probably sent Russ Donnally over to Merritt's office. Why was the big question? Did Davida want Donnally to filch the memoirs?—the tossed office certainly seemed to suggest that. But just maybe she wanted Donnally to do something more.

  Decker remained stoic as he hunted, concealing his frustration.

  Freddy Brecht's account was Decker's sole source. He had no concrete proof—just Davida's word against Freddy's. Barely enough of a story to persuade a judge to sign a search warrant to look for the damn papers and the weapons that murdered King and/or Russ Donnally. Where the memoirs were was anyone's guess. Decker knew he would probably come up empty-handed. But let's hear it for the old college try.

  His eyes drifted to Davida, housed in a flamingo-pink silk robe secured by a wide sash. White feet in fur slippers—probably dyed mink. Her face had been carefully made up. Clear, baglcss eyes topped by feathery lashes. A slight blush to her cheeks. Lips glossed and painted in a heart shape. Hair recently done, short black tresses framing her jawline. She looked in her mid-fifties, a good-looking mid-fifties. She seemed to notice the positive appraisal and batted her lashes.

  "If you'd just tell me what you're looking for, perhaps I could save you some trouble,"

  Decker returned his attention to the couch, flipped it over and began to check out the bottom. No signs of tampering.

  "It's those fictitious memoirs," Davida said. "Am I not correct?"

  Decker didn't answer.

  "Peter, for God's sake, stop wasting your time on some silly old papers and get out and look for my jewels. You haven't made a damn bit of progress on that front, have you?"

  "Actually, we have. If I were you, I'd talk to Lilah."

  "Lilah? Lilah has them? She actually stole my precious babies?" Fingers clutched into fists. "I'll kill that little ingrate!"

  "If she doesn't kill herself first," Decker added.

  "That silly gesture?" Lilah dropped into an armchair. "Please! Lilah's a very competent woman and a wonderful actress. She really missed her calling in the theater. If she had wanted to plug herself, she would have succeeded. It was nothing but an attempt to get some attention. Oscar-level attempt to be sure, but I can sec through it. Now you march right over to her, Peter, and demand that she give you my jewels!"

  "Would you like us to formally arrest your daughter for the theft?"

  "Arre...just tell her to give them back to me."

  "Would you like to file a—"

  "Oh, cut it!" Davida said, sharply. "Your dialogue is like a bad movie."

  Decker didn't answer and continued to search. Now it boiled down to who could psych whom. Odds in favor of Davida because she had years of experience dealing in Holly weird. But don't rule out Rabbi Pete... all those years of interviewing felons...

  Decker said, "If you want your jewels, Davida, it might be-easier to talk to Lilah yourself. But it's up to you. I'm just a paid public servant. Personally, I'm not interested in your jewels. But I am interested in Hermann's papers. And I think you are, too."

  The old woman laughed derisively. A real scornful chuckle. Strike a point for the actress.

  "See what I think," Decker went on, "what I know, is that King pinched the papers for you. But at the last minute, he decided to keep them instead of turning them over to you for research money."

  Davida ambled over to the bar and poured herself another bourbon. "Where'd you come up with that little beauty?"

  Again the sarcastic tone of voice. But without the fire. Score one for the detective.

  "Dr. Brecht," Decker said.

  "Freddy?" Davida frowned. "What's he up to now? That boy's the bane of my existence. That's what happens when one adopts children from dubious lineage."

  Decker moved on to a wing-back chair. He could hear Davida tapping her foot. She said, "If Freddy concocted such an outlandish story that puts me at odds with the law, why aren't I under arrest?"

  Decker grinned. "At odds with the law. I like that."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  Decker knelt and looked under the couch—nothing, not even

  any dust balls. Woman paid well to have a clean house.

  "You don't have any evidence against me, do you?" Davida asserted. "That's what you're looking for! Evidence against me! Well, Peter, I'm going to do you a great favor. You're wasting your time. You won't find anything here—no memoirs... no anything. If you think Kingston took the papers, search his place."

  Decker didn't answer. Burbank had already combed his places... nothing.

  "Peter, I swear to you, I never even saw any memoirs."

  Decker regarded the old woman. She was nervous, biting her thumbnail. She ran her fingertips along her jawline. "If you do happen to find these so-called papers, just what do you plan to do with them?"

  "Give them to their rightful owner."

  "It's not in Lilah's best interests to read them."

  "It might be in Dr. Brecht's best interests. That's who they were intended for in the first place. Because Hermann Brecht was Frederick's father, wasn't he?"

  Davida was motionless for a moment. Then she downed her drink. "You speak poppycock, my friend. That's a euphemism for shitl You want to spend your time making groundless assumptions, go ahead. But if I were you, I wouldn't say too much. I've got a very good lawyer on retainer for slander hounds like you. I'd advise you to tread lightly, Peter."

  "Where were you on Wednesday between the hours of three and six, Davida?"

  "Oh, so now I'm being officially questioned? Do I need a lawyer, Detective?"

  "Hey, why not, Davida? He's on retainer anyway."

  "Oh, go to fee//!"

  "Temper." Decker called Marge in from the other room, then took out a pocket-sized card and Mirandized the old lady. He took out a pocket tape recorder and turned it on.

  "Do you mind?"

  "Be my guest." Davida studied her nails. "Is your little hench-woman going to cuff me now?"

  "No, she isn't going to cuff you," Decker said. "You're not under arrest."

  "Then why did you read me my rights?"

  Marge said, "I'll be in the bedroom. Call me if you need me, Pete."

  Decker nodded. Davida said, "What do you want from me?"

  "Why'd you have Kingston whacked?"

  "Are you out of your mind, Peter?" Davida threw back her head. "I didn't have him whacked."

  "So how did he die?"

  "How the hell should I know? / wasn't there!"

  "So, if you weren't there, where were you last Wednesday between the hours of three and six?"

  "I don't have to answer your questions."

  "No, you don't."

  There was a moment of silence.

  "If you must know, I was probably driving up to Malibu."

  Decker sat on the sofa. "Took the old limo to Malibu, did you?"

  "I always travel in high style."

  "Funny how you and the limo can be driving to Malibu at the same time Russ Donnally and the limo were in Kingston Mcrritt's parking lot."

  The old woman leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. "You're very good."

  Decker said, "You sicced Donnally onto Kingston—"

  "I didn't sic Albert on anyone!"

  "Albert?"

  "Russ." Davida smiled. "I used to call him Albert. I thought Albert was a far more appropriate name for a chauffeur." Again, she fluttered her lashes. "Don't you agree?"

  Decker rolled his eyes.

  Davida said, "So Albert decided to drop by Kingston's office. So Albert had a run-in with Kingston. That's not my fault."

  "Russ Donnally was in your employ, Davida. We're talking possible solicitation for murder—"

  "That's absurd! I want to talk to my lawyer."

  Decker said, "You know where the phone is."

  "Oh, fuck off!" Davida began to pace. "Okay, maybe Albert did drop by Kingston's office. Just
to talk to him... talk some bloody sense into him. Goddamn Kingston anyway. He was opening up a Pandora's box. I didn't want to have to deal with shit at such a late date. You're getting on in years. Surely you can understand that."