Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 09

by Prayers for the Dead

  “What’s she like?” Marge asked.

  “Reserved, religious like him. But very, very proud of her husband and family. Beams when she talks about them. An old-fashioned woman. Her family is her life.”

  Oliver said, “And you observed all this by her presence at a Christmas party?”

  Liz shook her head no. “Once Azor was gracious enough to invite us to the house for Sunday dinner. Dolly…Mrs. Sparks must have spent most of the time in the kitchen, serving the food, happy to do it…to play hostess. We told her to sit, but she just laughed. Said she only sat for dinner on her birthday. What a feast! A mound of food. All of Azor’s children and grandchildren were there. Sunday was a big day in his life. Like I said, Azor was very religious.”

  “And everyone seemed to get along.”

  “To my eye, yes.”

  “No tensions?” Marge asked.

  “Not when I was there.” Fulton rubbed her eyes. “My husband and I used to joke they were a Norman Rockwell poster from a bygone era. Especially when you compared them to us—” She stopped talking.

  “Compared to you, how?” Marge pressed.

  “My personal life isn’t relevant.”

  As if on cue, a rumbling motor belched loudly then suddenly stopped, leaving in its wake an uneasy silence. The door opened and a man stumbled in—long-limbed and skinny! A marionette of bones wearing a leather vest, torn jeans, and scarred black leather boots. His facial features were hidden behind several days of beard growth, unruly blond curls of hair hovering around his shoulder blades. He was sweating Scotch…could smell it as soon as he came flying past the doorpost. He looked at his wife, looked at the company with bleary eyes.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  Fulton’s face had become red, a portrait of anger. “I’m going back to the hospital, Drew. An emergency.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  Drew looked confused. “Huh? What time is it?”

  “A quarter past one.”

  “Why’re you goin’ to the hospital?”

  “Because Dr. Sparks has been murdered—”

  “What?”

  “The hospital needs help, Drew. I have to go. Excuse me.” Covering her face, Fulton flew out of the room.

  “Mur…” Drew was dazed, slumped in the pine rocker and looked at Oliver. “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “God…that’s…” Drew scratched his cheek, rubbed watery blue eyes floating in seas of pink. “Think she’ll lose her job?”

  Marge stared at him. “I don’t know.”

  “What happened?”

  Oliver walked over to the door and opened it. Anything to air the place out. Maybe the jerk would take the hint and leave. He didn’t. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  “You’re the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “God, this is serious stuff, huh.”

  Marge asked, “What’s your full name, sir?”

  “My name?”

  “Yes, your name.”

  “Drew McFadden. I’m not under suspicion or anything.”

  Marge and Oliver traded looks. Oliver walked over to him, leaned against the bay, looked down on Drew. “Why do you think you’re under suspicion?”

  Drew looked up, puzzled, had no answer. “Is Liz under suspicion?”

  “Should she be?” Marge asked.

  “I don’t think so.” Drew laughed. “But I don’t know much.”

  A good insight, Marge thought. “She and her boss were close?”

  “Real close. I often—” He stopped talking. His wife had returned. She had changed into a white shirt, black pants, and a white lab coat, ID tag with her name and picture resting on its lapel. To the police, she said, “If you need any further information, I’ll be at the hospital.” She glanced at her husband. “Henry’s bottle is in the fridge. In case I don’t get back, Marta is due in at seven.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Liz.”

  “Right.”

  “That’s too bad about Dr. Sparks, Liz. I’m sorry.”

  Fulton’s face softened. “Thank you, Drew. Go get some sleep.” To Oliver and Marge, she said. “Can I walk you out?”

  “Like to use the phone first, if I could,” Oliver said.

  “Help yourself,” Fulton said. “Good night.”

  The door closed softly. Drew stared at the cops. “You can use the phone in the kitchen.”

  Marge said, “You were saying that your wife and Dr. Sparks were very close.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, they were.”

  “In what way?” Oliver said.

  “What way?” He wrinkled his nose. “Are you asking me if they were fooling around? I don’t think so. Liz isn’t the type. She’s like…” He sliced air. “Straight arrow. At least, I think she is. But hell, I don’t read women too well. She could be messin’ with my head and I wouldn’t know it.”

  “Are you a straight arrow, sir?” Marge asked.

  “Huh?”

  Oliver’s smile was oily. “She means do you get around?”

  Drew smiled back, but said nothing.

  Oliver placed his hand on Drew’s bony shoulder. “I mean she is gone all the time.” He winked. “I know how it is.”

  Drew started rocking, gave Oliver a conspiracy grin. “Liz gets pissed at me. But hell, it wasn’t my idea to get married.”

  “No, I imagine it wasn’t,” Marge mumbled. Oliver shot her a dirty look. He said, “How’d she talk you into it?”

  Drew smiled enigmatically.

  “You knocked her up. She gave you an ultimatum.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mind. I like Liz. Love the kid. Man, he’s a cute little sucker. You know, I think that’s what gets to her. I’m home a lot with the kid. We’re like real tight. Then she waltzes in on the weekends and the kid doesn’t want to go to her. ’Cause he’s used to me, unnerstan’?”

  “I understand,” Oliver said.

  “Pisses her off. I keep telling her it’s only because I’m home so much. She shouldn’t worry. Once Henry figures out what a jerk his old man is, he won’t want nothing to do with me. So…I’m enjoying him while I’m still something in his eyes.”

  Drew shook his head, smelled his armpits. “I really stink. I’m sorry.”

  Oliver smiled. It was sincere. “You weren’t expecting company.”

  “No, that’s for sure.”

  “Are you a musician?” Marge asked.

  “Yeah. Bass player. I’m part of the house band at Smokey’s. Regular gig. Steady income. Not much income, but it’s steady. I mean, what does Liz expect? You know, you start out in this business, thinking you’re gonna be the next Eddie Vedder or Axl Rose. Hell, I’m thirty-four, man. Not too many people break it big at thirty-four. I’m real grateful. to Liz. I mean real grateful Rest of the band’s living in shit, and I got this nice house, a decent car. It’s not a Porsche but it’s no broken-down Honda, either.”

  Oliver glanced out the window, at the driveway. A red Miata convertible. “Nice set of wheels.”

  “Thanks. Liz bought it for me after Henry was born. Bought herself a baby Benz. I say, right on. She deserves it. She works hard.” His eyes clouded. “Man, I hope she doesn’t lose her job.”

  “Was she in danger of losing her job?” Marge asked.

  “If she was, she didn’t tell me. She don’t tell me much about work.” Drew smelled himself again. “You want me to take a shower or something?”

  Yes, screamed Marge’s brain. Instead, she said, “Nah, we’ll be leaving in a few minutes. Did she ever mention anything about her job being in jeopardy?”

  “Jeopardy? Isn’t that a game show?”

  “About her job being cut,” Oliver said.

  Drew scrunched up his forehead. “Well, she always used to say she was the last person on Sparks’s project. If he was gonna bump anyone, I guess it would be Liz. But I met the old guy couple of times. He seemed to like her. After we ate dinner at his house, I told her that. I told her I thought he liked her.
I told her not to worry.”

  Marge said, “If you don’t mind my asking, when you ate dinner over there…how did Dr. Sparks react to you?”

  “You mean ’cause of the way I look.” Drew rocked in the chair. “Oh, I fixed myself up. I wore a suit and tie, put my hair in a ponytail. I wouldn’t want to do anything that might make Liz lose her job. He was real polite to both of us.”

  Drew stopped a moment.

  “You know, he was an okay guy. We brought Henry of course. Dr. Sparks said something about how good I was with the little guy. I told him I loved kids. Sparks had a bunch of grandchildren. They started getting antsy at the table, you know, running around like kids do. I just got up and started playing with them. Felt a lot more comfortable with the kids than I did with the grown-ups. Especially when they started arguin’.”

  Oliver’s eyes met Marge’s. “Who was arguing?”

  “I don’t know. I left the table.”

  “Think, Drew,” Marge prodded. “Was it Dr. Sparks and one of his children, Dr. Sparks and his wife—”

  “No, it wasn’t the wife. She and him barely spoke. She was busy serving all this food. Man, I never seen so much food in my life. Turkey and ham and roast beef and mashed potatoes—”

  “So if it wasn’t Dr. Sparks and his wife, it was…”

  Drew held his finger in the air. “The priest. Dr. Sparks and the priest. Actually, I think the whole family was arguin’ with the priest.”

  Oliver paused. “About what?”

  “Stuff about God. Stuff I didn’t understand.”

  Marge said, “You don’t remember any of it?”

  “No.”

  “You remember enough to recall them arguing,” Oliver said. “Doesn’t anything stick in your mind?”

  Drew paused again. “Something about evil thoughts being evil or whatever. I remember that because I remember thinking: Drew, you’re in trouble. ’Cause you have lots of evil thoughts. Liz could tell you better.”

  Marge said, “Did she participate in the argument?”

  “I don’t know. If she did, it was probably on Dr. Sparks’s side. She wouldn’t do anything to piss him off.”

  Oliver said, “Was the priest angry?”

  Drew stopped rocking, folded his arms across his chest. “You know, everyone was dumping on him. His name was Bram.” He smiled. “Guess I do remember some things.”

  “Go on,” Marge said.

  “I remember thinking, ‘If I was getting dumped on, like he was, I’d either blow or go.’ He just sat there, real calm, just taking it. Never raised his voice.”

  “Why were they dumping on him?” Marge asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess they didn’t like what he was sayin’.”

  “What was he saying?”

  “I don’t know. I just felt for the guy, wondered why everyone was dumping on him. But maybe he was used to it. ’Cause when the missus called the kids for dessert, conversation went back to being polite. And the priest acted like nothing happened. Smiling with the kids. Playing magic tricks…you know, making nickels disappear and reshowin’ up behind their ears. I like that one. I do it all the time with Henry. The priest has a twin brother, you know.”

  “Luke,” Marge said. “Was he dumping on him, too?”

  “They all were—” Drew paused. “No, you’re right. How about that. You’re real good.”

  Marge said, “Good about what?”

  “The twin. A few minutes after they started arguin’, the twin got up and started playing with the kids, just like me. Must be another one who hates conflict.”

  “You hate conflict.”

  “Boy, yeah, I hate it. Bad Karma. When Liz starts to yell, man, I’m outta here. If I don’t leave, I blow.”

  “I hear you,” Oliver stated.

  “Maybe the twin was like that. ’Cause he just got up from the table and started making a building with Legos. He’s got two cute ones—boy and a girl. Twins just like he is. He’s actually a triplet, can you believe that? I wouldn’t have minded Liz having twins. But I think three would have been too much for me.”

  Marge asked, “So the priest wasn’t angry at his father?”

  “Not to my eye. Just ate his dessert and played magic tricks with his nieces and nephews.”

  “How about Dr. Sparks? Was he angry with his son?”

  “He didn’t appear pissed. He ate his dessert, too. It was pie. She’d baked like a hunnerd pies. I had two pieces—blueberry and peach. Man, that woman could cook. I told my wife afterward that I’d put on a tie any old day of the week, if they want to have us again.”

  “What did your wife say about that?”

  “She patted my head, said not to count on another invite for a while. Not because I blew it or anything. Just that Dr. Sparks doesn’t invite people to his house a lot.”

  “Especially if there was tension in the family,” Marge added.

  “I wouldn’t say tension. But they did have an argument.”

  “Drew, maybe it was just an intellectual discussion instead of an argument,” Marge said.

  “Ma’am, I don’t know too much about intellectual discussions,” Drew said. “But I do know a whole lot about arguments. Take my word for it. It was an argument.”

  9

  “Berger’s here, Loo. At New Chris.” Webster checked his watch. “Arrived ’bout ten minutes ago. He said that he and his wife went to a dinner theater in Tustin—”

  “Tustin?” Decker interrupted.

  “Yeah, a little off the beaten path.”

  “I’ll say.” Decker spoke into the Volare’s mike, turned down the fan to the heater so he could hear Webster over the radio receiver. “It’s about a two-hour drive from New Chris.”

  “Anyway, Berger said he and the wife saw My Fair Lady, had no idea what was roaring until he heard it on the radio. If he’s to be b’lieved.”

  “You have reason to doubt him, Tom?”

  “Nope. He came straight to New Chris from the theater. Wife dropped him off directly, didn’t even change. And he did come in wearing a suit and tie. Croc Ballys on the feet. The kind y’all wear only when you’re goin’ out.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In a private meeting.”

  “So you haven’t really interviewed him.”

  “Not yet. He’s holed up with a bunch of ’em, consulting with one n’other—Dr. Berger, Dr. Fulton, Dr. Decameron. Now there’s a piece of work.”

  “In what way?”

  “Ya haven’t met him yet?”

  “I haven’t. I heard he’s opinioned and open about his gayness.”

  “Yes, sir, he is very decisive and very gay. I think the word is flamboyant. But I’ll tell y’all something. He’s real good with the staff. Nurses come up to him, he isn’t afraid to hug ’em or kiss ’em or let ’em cry. And ya know he isn’t doin’ it to make time. What do you want Bert and me to do with Dr. Berger? I think it would be bad form right now to pull him out of an important meeting.”

  “Agreed,” Decker said. “How is the staff interviewing going?”

  “Bert and I talked to most of the night staff. Nothing that I think will impact heavily on the case, but a few interesting personal tidbits.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, things like how the doctor used a thermometer to make sure his coffee was the right temperature. He was so particular ’bout things, he once got mad because they changed the brand of surgical sponges. Claimed he could tell the difference.”

  “Maybe he could.”

  “I could tell you more, but I’d have to go over my notes carefully. And right now, they’re not in real good shape…my handwriting at this hour isn’t swift. I gotta go back and type everything neat-like.”

  “It can wait until morning.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Decker said, “We’ll talk in the morning. Both of you, go to the station house and finish the paperwork. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “What about Dr. Berger? You don
’t want me to wait to interview him more completely?”

  “I’ll do him. I’ve got a brief stop to make. Probably by the time I’m done, he’ll be out of his meeting.”

  “You sure you don’t want us to wait for him?”

  “No, it’s all right. I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks, Loo. I was hoping you’d be insistent.”

  “See you later.”

  Decker hung up the mike, sat back in the driver’s seat, and turned up the fan to the heat. It was almost two in the morning. Most homicides were solved within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. At this moment, he had nothing. No motives and no suspects with the scarlet K for Killer branded on their forehead. He hoped this wasn’t random. If so, he was going to have a hard time.

  He looked at the evidence bags on the passenger seat. A single business card.

  Ace Sparks…born to be wild.

  A glimpse at another side of Sparks. Out of context with the religious, stern, exacting physician, the common portrait drawn by people who knew him.

  Ace Sparks.

  Born to be wild.

  What the hell. One more stop wouldn’t kill him.

  He turned on the motor to the Volare.

  After five years of being a practicing Jew, Decker felt strange entering a church. As he walked up the steps to St. Thomas’s, he wondered if he’d feel any emotional tug when he passed the chapel. Probably not. Much to Ida Decker’s consternation, he hadn’t ever been much of a churchgoer as a youngster.

  He walked up the stairs, gave the double wooden doors a tug, and found them locked. He knocked, though he suspected it was a useless gesture. The doors were so thick and the building was so big, in order to be heard someone would have to be near by happenstance.

  No response, of course.

  He thought about trying the side doors when he saw the white button by the side of the entry. Now there’s a novel thought, Deck. A doorbell. He depressed the button and a harsh buzz screamed out. Waited a minute, pushed the bell again. Several minutes later, he finally heard footsteps. The door unlocked, a pair of eyes peeking through a crack.

  “Yes?”

  Decker took out ID. “Lieutenant Peter Decker. I’m here to see Father Abram Sparks. Is he in?”