Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 05
Page 4
Totes nodded but made no effort to dismount. The palomino was prancing about, chafing at the bit, sweat pouring down his flanks.
Decker said, “You need to cool him off first?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
“Go ahead,” Decker said. “I’ll wait.”
Totes clicked his tongue and he and the horse trotted slowly around the corral.
“Swift, sport,” Marge said.
“Like you said, you’ve got to know the right questions.”
“I think you’ve got a good fix on the dude, Pete.” Marge slung her purse over her shoulder. “And now if I’m no longer needed…”
“Give me about a half hour.”
“You won’t need that much time, but go ahead.”
After Marge left, Decker leaned against the railing as Totes led the golden beauty through a series of cool-down exercises. The sky was clear and cloudless, the mountains studded with wild flowers. Watching Totes in the saddle, Decker felt jealous of the stable hand’s freedom, of his skill, too. Totes might be blunted mentally, but he’d mastered all the subtleties of riding. Fifteen minutes passed before Totes decided it was time to call it quits. He dismounted, took off his saddle, and led the horse by the reins around the corral. After the animal had been sufficiently cooled down, Totes brought him to the stable. Decker walked abreast of the horse, admiring his stately walk.
“Miss Brecht has some beautiful animals,” Decker said, once inside the stable.
Totes nodded and placed the horse in the middle stall opposite the Appaloosa. He took out a wire currycomb and brush and began to groom the beast. The comb had just made contact with the horse’s skin when Totes stopped, turned around, and looked at Decker.
“You can pull up a bucket and sit if you want.”
“I don’t mind standing.”
Totes didn’t respond. He paused, then returned his attention to the horse.
“Miss Brecht a good rider?” Decker asked.
“Yessir.”
“This one her favorite horse?”
“Yessir.”
“What’s his name?”
“Apollo.”
“Apollo,” Decker repeated. “After the sun god.”
Again, Totes stopped what he was doing and pivoted to look at Decker. He took off his cowboy hat, wiped his forehead with his arm, and put the hat back on. His hair was cropped short—one step above a five-o’clock shadow. Eyes, pale blue. They held a vacant stare.
“Apollo’s a great name,” Decker said. “Lilah must be a very experienced rider to handle a stallion. She doesn’t look like she has enough weight to manage him.”
Totes didn’t answer. He continued grooming the animal.
“How long you work for Miss Brecht, Carl?”
“Five years.”
“She have the horses before you came to work for her?”
“A few.”
“She have Apollo?”
“Yessir.”
“How old is he? Around six?”
“Yessir.”
Unimpressed.
Decker said, “Did she have the Appaloosa when you came here? He looks older, around twelve, thirteen, maybe?”
“Twelve and a half.”
“He’s in good shape.”
“Yessir.”
“Has Miss Brecht ever lived with anyone in the five years you worked here?”
No response.
“Has Miss Brecht ever lived with her brother Freddy, the doctor?”
Totes hesitated before answering. “Nossir.”
“Do you see Miss Brecht’s brother around here a lot?”
A pause. “Yessir.”
“Was he here last night?”
Totes stopped what he was doing, but didn’t turn around. “I don’t remember.”
“See anything strange last night?”
“Nossir. ’Ready told your lady pardner that.”
“I know you did,” Decker answered. “I’m just…you know…trying to figure out a few things. Did you happen to see anyone near Miss Brecht’s house during the night?”
Another pause. “Nossir.”
“Did you happen to see Miss Brecht last night?”
Totes continued brushing but didn’t answer. Decker didn’t know if he was thinking about the question or if he was just that dull. Dragging answers out of him was like wading through sludge.
“She don’t ride at night so I probably didn’t see her. I only see her when she rides.”
“Do you pick the vegetables for her spa?”
A pause. “Nossir.”
“Who does?”
“Who what?”
“Who picks the vegetables for her spa?”
“Someone from the spa.”
“Do you know a guy named Mike from the spa?”
“Don’t know him, nossir.”
Decker waited a beat. “Carl, do you ever see a guy named Mike from the spa picking vegetables for Miss Lilah?”
“I see him,” Totes said. “But I don’t know him.”
“But you know what he looks like.”
“’Course.”
“Was he here yesterday?”
“Nossir.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yessir.”
Decker sighed inwardly. “Carl, does Miss Brecht ever go running at night?”
“Don’t recall.”
“Maybe Miss Brecht went running last night,” Decker suggested. “You might have seen her?”
Totes turned slowly and faced Decker, a confused look on his face.
“Did you see Miss Brecht run last night, Carl?”
Totes shook his head.
“But she does run at night?”
Totes scratched his nose. “Don’t recall.”
Decker bit back frustration. “So nothing unusual happened last night?”
Totes nodded slowly.
“And you didn’t see Miss Brecht’s brother—Frederick Brecht—here last night.”
“Nossir.”
“What about Miss Brecht’s other brother—the one who had the fight with her about two years ago.”
Totes removed his hat. The empty expression in his eyes had been replaced by hot blue flames. “What about him?”
“He come around here a lot?”
“Not no more.”
“You chased him away last time he was here?”
“I did do it.”
“With a shovel.”
“I did do it.”
“Why?”
“’Cause he was yellin’ at Miz Lilah something fierce.”
“Did Miss Lilah ask for your help?”
Again, Totes seemed confused.
“Did she come running to you and say, ‘Carl, help me chase my brother away.’”
“Nossir.”
“But you figured she needed help so you chased him with the shovel.”
“I just didn’t like the way he was yellin’.”
“Was he swearing at Miss Lilah?”
“Swearin’?”
“Yeah, swearin’. Cussin’ at her.”
“He was yellin’. Maybe he was cussin’, too. But the yellin’ was ’nuf.”
“What were they yelling about?”
Totes spit. “None of my dang business.”
“I know you wouldn’t listen in on purpose, but maybe you overheard something?”
“None of my dang business.”
Decker shifted gears. “By the way, what’s Miss Lilah’s brother’s name?”
“Freddy.”
“No, Carl, the other one. The one she was yelling at.”
“He was yellin’.”
“Okay, the one who was yelling at her. What’s his name?”
Once again, the eyes became blank. “Name?”
“If you don’t know it, it’s okay,” Decker said. “I’ll get it from Miss Lilah.”
The eyes filled suddenly with water. “How’s Miz Lilah?”
Decker said, “I think she’ll be okay.”
Decker paused to write down Totes’s declaration in his notebook. “Who’s King, Carl?”
“King,” Totes said. “That’s Lilah’s brother. The one who was yellin’.”
Decker let that sink in. Had to go real slow with the guy. “Lilah’s other brother, the one who was yelling. Was his name King?”
“Yessir. I just remembered it.”
“Is King his first or his last name?”
Totes put his cowboy hat back on and shrugged ignorance. He said, “Are we almost done? All this talk is makin’ me addled. And when I’m addled, I can’t work.”
Decker stuffed the notepad back in his coat pocket. He patted Apollo’s butt and told the stable hand they were through.
4
The smell of food in the oven awakened Decker’s stomach. He placed the bags of bakery goods on his dining-room table and took off his jacket. Ginger dashed in from the other room, barking with excitement.
“Rina?”
There was no answer.
“What’s Mama cooking, girl?” Decker said, petting the Irish setter. He went to the kitchen, the dog at his heels. The counters were filled with cookie sheets containing hundreds of miniature knishes—tiny bits of puff pastry filled with potato, spinach, or buckwheat. He picked up a couple and tossed them in his mouth, swallowed them down with a tall glass of orange juice.
He looked outside the window, at his own acreage, then opened the back door to let the dog out. Rina was nowhere in sight. Maybe she was inside the barn. Again, he called out her name. No answer.
The timer on the stove went off. He opened the oven door, saw the tops of the knish dough had turned golden brown and turned off the heat. With stuff left in the oven, she was bound to show up soon. Or so he told himself. But he was determined to be calm. He was getting better at not worrying about her, but as with the mending of his wounds, it was proving to be a slow process.
He opened the kitchen drawer and fished out a yarmulke stuffed between a tape measure and a hammer, then bobby-pinned the skullcap onto his hair. He filled a plate with knishes and poured himself a glass of milk. Standing, he ate while he phoned the hospital. Everyone was out to lunch. After being relegated to hold six times, then being disconnected twice, he was finally put through to Dr. Kessler’s office. Kessler’s secretary announced that he was in a meeting, but Decker pushed her, and a few minutes later, the OB-GYN came to the phone.
“Sergeant Decker?”
“Doctor,” Decker said. “Thanks for taking time to talk to me.”
“Sergeant, you rescued me from a committee meeting,” Kessler said. “You did a big mitzvah.”
Decker laughed. Imagine a Jewish doctor treating him like an MOT—a member of the tribe. Of course, he was Jewish. But it still took him by surprise that others could think of him as a Jew.
“Glad to be of service, Doc,” he said. “Did you happen to admit Lilah Brecht this morning?”
“I sure did,” Kessler said. “Isn’t Lilah Brecht the one with the famous actress mother?”
“Davida Eversong,” Decker said.
“Yeah, that’s it. Star of late-night television. She always played vamps, didn’t she?”
“I think so. Davida’s a little before my time.”
“Mine, too. If you can hold the line a few minutes, I’ll get Lilah’s chart.”
“Sure. How’s she doing?”
“She’s doing very well, all things considered. We did a CAT scan, radiographed her orbits. Nothing showed up, but that doesn’t mean anything. Takes a while for the blood to clot if there’s subdural hemorrhaging, so we won’t really know until after twenty-four hours. But I’m encouraged. As of an hour ago, she was still woozy, but she was oriented. Knew her name, her address.”
“That’s good news. She seemed pretty bad when they loaded her into the ambulance.”
“Yeah, she was probably in shock. If you get to them before the body temperature sinks, they recover remarkably fast. She not only knew who she was but also why she was in the hospital.”
“She knew she’d been attacked?”
“She knew she’d been raped. Hold on, I’ll get the chart.”
As Decker waited, he heard his front door slam, followed by Rina’s voice calling his name.
“I’m in the kitchen.”
She walked in, carrying bags of groceries, looked at Decker’s plate piled with food, and placed her parcels on the counter.
“Peter, what are you doing?” She pulled his plate away. “Can’t you tell these aren’t for you? How can you just take without asking?”
Decker rolled his eyes. “Sorry.”
Rina sighed, her shoulder sagging. “I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous. I’ve got more than enough.” She put the plate back in front of him. “Eat as many as you want.”
“Save them. I’ll grab something else.”
“No, take,” Rina insisted. “Take more. Take as much as you want.”
“I’m fine, Rina. I’m getting full.”
She piled another half-dozen knishes on his plate. “Here. Take.”
“I don’t want any more,” Decker said.
Rina looked at him, her eyes suddenly moistening. “You don’t like them?”
“No, no,” Decker backtracked. “They’re delicious.”
“You really like them?”
“Yes.”
“The spinach, too?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Rina, you’re a fabulous cook. I like everything you make. Who are you baking for anyway?”
“I’m going to freeze them,” Rina said. Then she added quickly, “It’s for the bris…or the naming if it’s a girl.”
Decker held his temper. “I thought we agreed that it was too much work for you to do all that cooking. We were going to hire a cater—”
“Just a few appetizers.”
“You should be resting. Isn’t that what the doctor said?”
“What does a man know about pregnancy?”
Decker wasn’t about to be suckered into that argument. “You’re going to tire yourself out.”
“Why do you say that? Do I look tired?”
“No, Rina. You look great.”
She did. From the back, Decker couldn’t tell she was pregnant. The front told another story: Six months gravid, but her face was as finely featured and beautiful as ever. Her milky complexion was flawless, her cerulean eyes clear and bright. Her hair had grown very long. She’d braided it and wore a tam on the crown of her head. According to Jewish law, married women had to cover their hair, but Rina had allowed the jet-black plait to escape down her back. It was thick and shiny. She simply glowed with health.
Kessler came back on the phone. Decker held up his palm.
“Okay,” the doctor said. “I did all the tests you wanted, sent them to your lab. She was bruised vaginally, but there was no semen inside of her.”
Decker looked at his wife. “Could you hold, Doc? I want to change phones.”
“Don’t bother on my account,” Rina sulked. “I’ll go in the other room.”
“Rina—”
“No, I insist.” She opened the back door and let the dog inside. “C’mon, Ginger. You can keep me company.”
Decker knew better than to protest and waited until she was out of hearing range. Then he said, “You do a mouth and anal swab as well?”
“Everything. No one ejaculated inside any of her orifices.”
“The sheets smelled like semen.”
“Then he came on the linen and not inside,” Kessler said. “I did find a trace of dried seminal fluid on her leg. I put it on a slide and sent it to the lab.”
“Doc, did you happen to ask her about previous voluntary intercourse?”
“I’m on top of it, Sarge. I knew you wouldn’t want your results confounded. She said no.”
A premie rapist? Decker knew lots of them were. “Was there any anal o
r oral bruising?”
“Nothing showed up clinically.”
“Any foreign hairs?”
“Nothing that looked obvious—either on the pubis or the head. She’s blond all the way around, so if there was anything dark, it would have popped out at me. You comb, you’re always going to pull out hairs. Whether they’re hers or not, the lab will tell us. But if you have semen on the sheet, you have evidence.”
“What did you do with the clothes?”
“They’re bagged,” Kessler said. “The ambulance driver told me you were going to pick them up yourself.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Think I’ll be able to talk to her?”
“Like I said, she’s still woozy. But she may be able to answer a few questions. You know, come to think of it, she asked about you.”
“She did?”
“Yes, she asked for you by name, matter of fact. Twice. ‘Is Sergeant Deckman in?’”
“Deckman,” Decker said. “Close enough. So she remembered me from this morning.”
“Seems that way,” Kessler said. “If her brain stays clear, she should heal up pretty quickly. She’s in great shape physically—her pulse was slow, her blood pressure’s nice and low. Her lungs were clear. She had an abbreviate neuro earlier in the morning, is scheduled for another one tomorrow. Her reflexes were normal, good range of vision. She checked out normal on both the fine and gross motor. Good muscle tone, too.”
Decker remembered her grip. Her muscle tone had been more than good.
Kessler went on, “Her face is swollen, some subdermal bleeding below the orbits. Looks like someone belted her in the eyes. They’re black and puffy. But no broken facial bones. That’s good. She’s a stunning woman. You can see her beauty right through the bruises and the cuts.”
“Agreed. If someone can tell her I’ll be down in the late afternoon, I’d appreciate it.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks.” Decker hung up and walked into the living room. In the heat, the room seemed to sweat the scent of pine and leather. Ginger occupied one buckskin chair; Rina was in the other, feet propped up on the ottoman. She looked as if she’d swallowed a watermelon. He went over and kissed her forehead. She looped an arm around his neck and pulled him down next to her, running her fingers through thick shocks of red hair.