Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 03

by Milk;Honey

  He turned to his right, saw her head buried deeply in a down-filled pillow, her lips parted, snoring gently. He chuckled to himself. Good old Honest Abe Atwater, the one with cardiac muscle made of mush. It cost him his girl, his leg…

  Lillian snorted, opened her eyes. Abel smiled.

  “How was your beauty rest?” he asked.

  “Good, thanks.” Her face had softened, had become more feminine. She took his hand and said, “Now that we have all this…business—”

  “Plumbing business,” Abel said.

  Lillian laughed. “Plumbing taken care of…want to tell me why you came here?”

  “Glad to,” Abel said. “I need money, Lil.”

  Lillian nodded, her expression fixed. Abel gave her a lot of credit. She knew what they had, what this was all about, and didn’t try to make it anything more. A minute passed, and she said, “I’ve got about two-fifty in my wallet. Will that tide you over?”

  “I need fifteen hundred. Cash.”

  “Fifteen hundred?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What for?”

  “Bail money.”

  “Bail money?” Lillian laughed. “Got yourself in a little bind, did you?”

  “A big bind.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Abel said. “I fucked a whore. She accused me of raping her—”

  “You’re accused of raping a whore?”

  “It isn’t the rape part that’s the problem,” Abel said. “She was sliced up. They think I did that, too.”

  Lillian’s mouth dropped open. She stared at him for a long time. “Did you?”

  “Don’t ask me that,” he said. “It’s insulting.”

  “Sorry,” Lillian said. She took out a cigarette. “I’m very sorry. Of course you didn’t.”

  Abel knew she wanted him to confirm her belief in his innocence. So he pleased her and did just that. Then he said, “Someone I know lent me the money. I’ve got to pay him back. I’ll work it off for you, Lillian—plumbing, electricity, gardening, pool cleaning—”

  “Abel, please.”

  “Save you lots of bucks. That should please Sy.”

  “The only things that please Sy are aged sixteen and under.” She abruptly broke into tears.

  Abel waited a minute, then said, “Been giving you a hard time again?”

  “Oh, Abel, it’s just more of the same!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She grabbed him. “Just hold me.”

  “For as long as you want,” he answered, taking her in his arms.

  A minute later, Lillian said, “When do you need the money?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Let me get dressed.” She broke away from his embrace. “We’ll go to the bank, together.”

  “Thank you, Lillian.”

  She looked at him, stroked his long hair, then tucked it under his headband. “Why didn’t you call me for the money in the first place?”

  “I should have, Lil,” he answered. “I should have.”

  It was Decker and six pregnant women. Every time the nurse called one of the ladies into the examining room, she cast a watchful eye upon Decker, a look that said, Well, which one is your wife?

  An hour later, when all the women had filtered out, the same nurse came back in the waiting room. She put her hands on her generous hips and said, “You’re still here?”

  Decker always wondered how you answered a question like that without sounding stupid. Since he had no witty retort, he didn’t respond. Instead, he said, “I’m waiting to see Dr. Meecham. He told me he could squeeze me in as soon as he was done with all his patients.”

  “He had an emergency C this morning,” the nurse said. Threads of brown hair had come loose from her knot. She looked tired. “Throws everything else off-schedule. What’s your name? I’ll check the book.”

  “I’m not in the book,” Decker said. “I called about an hour ago. Detective Sergeant Decker of the LAPD.”

  “Oh, you’re the policeman. I would have brought you in right away. I thought you were an expectant father. You should have spoken up.”

  “And gone ahead of all those tired, gravid women?” Decker smiled. “I would have gotten lynched.”

  The nurse laughed—a pleasant laugh. “Not far from the truth. Come on. I’ll show you to Dr. Meecham’s office.”

  The fact of the matter was that Decker had enjoyed an hour of solitude. He’d brought with him some papers Rabbi Schulman had photocopied for him—sections of Talmud concerning capital crimes. The Rosh Yeshiva had taken the time to translate not only the Aramaic of the Talmud, but the commentaries as well. Decker had asked for them, then let them sit for over a month. Of course, a distingushed man like Rav Schulman would never say anything, but Decker knew the old man was waiting for Decker to bring up the subject. When opportunity strikes…

  Decker folded the papers in his pocket, happy he’d gone through half of the material, and followed the sway of the nurse’s hips.

  Dr. Meecham was at his desk, talking on the phone. He motioned Decker down, and motioned the nurse out.

  His desk was a mess—piles of papers, three Styrofoam cups, a half-eaten sandwich, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The whole room was a trash heap—a small cell crammed with junk. And this guy did internals all day? Must do his conferences with the women in the examining rooms.

  The doctor himself struck a good appearance, the kind of older man who’d be soothing to younger women. He seemed to be around sixty, with a head full of white hair and a matching mustache. His face was long and lean, his skin craggy and tan. No telling how tall he was, but his shoulders and neck were wide. He wore a clean white coat over a white shirt and navy tie. He had a gold pen in his pocket, and a Gucci clip bisected the tie.

  He hung up and looked at Decker. “You’d better be the cop.”

  Decker nodded.

  “I don’t know how many times I’ve told Joy not to bring people in here,” Meecham said. “This room could give you the wrong impression.”

  Decker didn’t say anything.

  “Actually, I’m meticulous with my hygiene when I’m working,” Meecham said. He took out a cigarette and lit up. “But I get careless now and then about myself. You smoke? You look like the kind of person who doesn’t give a shit about what the Surgeon General says.”

  Decker took a cigarette just to make Meecham feel comfortable. They both puffed away for a moment, then Meecham said, “What gives?”

  “It’s about Linda and Luke Darcy.”

  “Yeah?” Meecham asked. “What about them?”

  “They went to see you about fertility problems,” Decker said, improvising. “What can you tell me about it?”

  “Confidential.” Meecham shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “Then you don’t know.”

  “Know what?” Meecham asked.

  “They’re dead.”

  The cigarette fell out of Meecham’s mouth. He quickly stubbed it out.

  “Can I see their file now?” Decker asked.

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  Decker answered the question by pulling out his badge, letting Meecham know he was for real. Neither one spoke for a minute.

  Finally, Meecham said, “You coming down like this. I take it they didn’t die in a car accident?”

  “Murdered.”

  “Oh Jesus,” Meecham said. “Oh God.” He opened his desk drawer, took out a vial of pills, and swallowed one dry. “I’ve got to ask this: What about the kid?”

  “Katie’s fine.”

  “Thank God for small blessings.” Meecham had turned green. “You didn’t know how badly those two wanted a baby—especially Linda. Luke wanted one, too, but in infertility cases, it’s usually the woman who brings the man. Jesus, after all those years, for her to get pregnant, just like that. Now, they’re dead. That is fucking awful.”

  Decker waited for him to calm down. Watched him light up and sm
oke another cigarette. Then he took out his notebook and asked, “How long did you treat Linda for infertility?”

  “Years,” Meecham said. “Eight years, ten years. I was treating them both. Expensive, invasive procedures. But she was absolutely insistent. Both of them were very compliant, no problems as patients. Except whatever we did for them didn’t work, dammit.

  “Problems like that can really stress a marriage, Sergeant. Sex becomes mechanical, a woman becomes preoccupied with ovulation, with the acidity and temperature of her vagina, the man feels like he’s nothing but a reservoir of sperm. But the two of them, they really stuck with it. Together. Then, about four years ago, Linda finally gave up.” Meecham threw up his hands. “Just called one day and said, ‘Stan, I can’t take it anymore.’ I talked to her for a long time, mostly listened to her cry. I told her to give it a rest. Try it again in another year or two. Then, boom, a year later, she’s pregnant. Go figure.”

  “Then she wasn’t under your treatment when she conceived?” Decker asked.

  “Nope. She was still my patient, but I wasn’t treating her for infertility.”

  “So she quit around four years ago,” Decker said.

  “More or less,” Meecham said.

  Same time as her affair with Byron Howard, Decker thought. He said, “You were surprised when she got pregnant?”

  “Flabbergasted.”

  “What about Luke?” Decker asked. “What exactly was his problem?”

  “Low sperm count, about half of his viable sperm were misshapen. Tails bent, so motility was compromised. Little suckers have to be able to swim to the egg. He had no anatomical reason for the low count—no varicoceles, his testicular temperature wasn’t particularly high. Hot balls kill sperm. Just one of those guys who didn’t have a lot of good jism.”

  “And Linda?”

  “Endometriosis—her uterus was full of scar tissue. The etiology, or what caused it, was unknown. Could have happened in childhood—an infection masquerading as a bad stomach ache or a false appendicitis. One of those things that doesn’t show up until the woman wants to have a baby. She starts trying for a year or so, then she suspects something is wrong. We do the tests, boom, life comes apart at the seams.”

  “But Linda got pregnant despite her endo—whatever you call it,” Decker said.

  “Sure did. Woman had one operable tube at the time, that one was twenty-five percent occluded, seventy percent scar tissue on her uterus, and a compromised husband fertility-wise. God is a better doctor than I.”

  “Let me ask you this,” Decker said. “Do you think Linda might have gotten pregnant with another, more fertile man?”

  “Either one of them had a better chance with other partners. But I’ll tell you this much, Sergeant. Linda was already being inseminated with sperm other than her husband’s.”

  Decker raised his eyebrows.

  “No,” Meecham said. “It’s nothing like that. Luke knew about it and agreed to it. It’s called a cocktail mixture, and it’s pretty common these days. Husband’s sperm is mixed with a bunch of healthy sperm from physically matched donors. Usually, the only way to know for sure is to do a blood test. The insemination is an expensive and painful procedure, the woman experiences a great deal of cramping, bleeding, the man is dehumanized, emasculated. His sperm isn’t good enough. But Linda—and Luke—were willing to give it a try. That didn’t work. And the sperm we used was as viable as any around.”

  Meecham finished a second cigarette. “That’s what we were doing when Linda called it off. We tried the cocktail about a half-dozen times when she said she’d finally had enough.”

  “Did she say why she was quitting?”

  “The whole gamut,” Meecham said. “The physical pain, the anguish, the toll on the marriage, the expense, the hopelessness of it all…God, I was so happy for them when Katie was born. Luke’s not the type to do anything like Lamaze—to him, birth was a woman’s affair—so she did it all by herself. And Katie wasn’t an easy delivery. Linda was thirty-eight, the labor was long. But she came through it like a trouper.”

  “How did Linda come to you as a patient?” Decker asked.

  “Referral from a local GP in Saugus. Last of a vanishing breed. He refers me all of his OB cases, because the malpractice insurance is too high for him.”

  Meecham stopped a moment, seemed to collect his thoughts.

  “Linda seemed a little bit more worldly than the other farmer gals I’ve seen. More at ease with city life. I don’t know what her life experiences were, but I can tell you one thing. She wanted a baby. And now…she’s…Jesus, I’m sorry, I can’t talk about this anymore. It’s really upsetting my psychic balance. I’ve had a stillborn this week and an anencephalic, and I can’t take any more bad news. I’ll be happy to talk with you later, Sergeant. But right now, I’d prefer to be alone.”

  Stanford Meecham was genuinely hurting. He looked as if he was going to do more pills or booze as soon as Decker walked out the door. Decker thought of Meecham’s patients, those six pregnant women, a couple of them looking as though they were ready to drop any second.

  “You on call tonight?” Decker asked.

  “Yeah,” Meecham answered. “Why?”

  Decker did an impulsive thing. He stood up, went over to Meecham’s side of the desk, and yanked open his drawer.

  “What the hell are you doing!” Meecham screamed.

  Decker pulled out a vial of pills—Valium—and a package of breath mints. Sure sign he had something more. He pocketed the pills and mints, and as long as he’d gone this far, he opened his bottom file and took out the expected metal flask.

  Meecham regarded him, his face registering both anger and embarrassment. Finally, he said, “Yeah, you’re right. Take it all. I can dope myself up tomorrow night, when no one’s depending on me. My ladies and I thank you, Sergeant.”

  Decker told him, “Don’t mention it.”

  21

  The fifteen hundred dollars were burning a hole in Abel’s pocket. He thought of all the things he could do with it—new clothes, new set of wheels for his bike, food and lodging in Sin City itself—a quick trip to Lost Wages. He could book a room at the Palace, or maybe the MGM Grand—Monday nights were generally slow—and pick up a couple of whores. Some things were just meant to be done in groups of threes. Fifteen C’s and he could purchase himself one truly unforgettable evening.

  As he approached Decker’s ranch, he reluctantly let go of his fantasies. He parked in the driveway, hoping that Doc would be home, so the girl wouldn’t think that he was trying to make time with her. Of course, if he had to talk to the girl again, it wouldn’t be the worst sentence in the world. The thought of her gave him goose bumps in 100-degree weather. Limping up to the door, he gave the rapper a hard knock and waited. His luck: The girl answered with a sweet “Who is it?” Abel drank in her voice.

  “It’s Abel Atwater, ma’am,” he answered back. “You don’t have to answer the door, but I’m leaving an envelope of money for Peter underneath your mat. I suggest you pick it up as soon as I leave, because there’s fifteen hundred—”

  The door opened. Those eyes looking at his, that hair—shiny black, all loose and long. It made him weak-kneed. All he could choke out was a prepubescent hi.

  “Hello,” Rina answered. Poor guy. He was so nervous, he was blushing. Or maybe it was just the heat. He’d dressed up today; he was wearing a shirt. Still, as harmless as he appeared, Rina couldn’t dismiss the fact that he was an alleged rapist. She decided to be civil and nothing more.

  Abel said, “Uh, could you give this to Pete for me?”

  He was offering her the envelope. Rina said, “You can give him the money yourself, Abel. He’s out back with the horses.”

  “Well, you can take it for him,” Abel said. “After all, you’re like his wife.”

  “Your business is with Peter,” Rina said. “Not with me.”

  “Yeeesss, ma’am,” Abel said.

  Rina relaxed, gave him a hint
of a smile. “You can call me Rina, Abel. ‘Ma’am’ makes me feel sixty years old. Anyway, just go around back and flag him down. You can’t miss him. He’s wearing a hat.”

  Abel laughed, and she closed the door without another word. He slapped the envelope several times against his palm, then walked through the side pathway to the back acreage, suddenly noticing the banging of his heart.

  He paused before he let Decker see him, watched Cowboy Pete, dressed in shorts, a T-shirt, and a Dos Equis cap, ride an Appaloosa around the corral. Doc always covered up with a T-shirt. Abel used to kid him about his fair complexion, used to call him lobster boy, he’d turn so red in the heat.

  Abel stepped out into the open field, saw Decker’s eyes fix in his direction. Decker immediately reversed directions and rode over to him, hopping off the horse before the animal came to a complete stop. He looped the reins over a post and threw his arm over Abel’s bony shoulder.

  “Come in the house,” he said. “Let’s grab a beer.”

  Abel stuffed the envelope in Decker’s shorts pocket. “There,” he said. “We’re even.”

  Decker pulled the envelope, felt its contents, then pushed it back in Abel’s hands. “I told you the money was a gift.”

  “And I told you I was gonna pay you back.”

  “But I don’t want it back.”

  “Well, I don’t rightly care about what you want.” Abel tossed the package at Decker’s feet. “You ain’t got nothing on me now. And don’t worry, Sergeant. The money’s mine. I earned it. Fuck, did I earn it!”

  Abel pivoted and started hobbling away as fast as he could.

  “I fucking can’t—” Decker picked up the envelope and ran after Abel. He grabbed his shoulder. “Hey, just stop for a moment, huh?”