Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 09

by Prayers for the Dead

  “What?”

  “The money, Bram. What are you going to do with it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about money.”

  “Well, it’s better than talking about death!” Suddenly, Luke sprang up and leaned against the back wall, burying his face in his hands.

  Sluggishly, Bram sighed, checked his watch. Half hour until Mass. He rose from his desk, went over to his brother, and placed his hand on his shoulder.

  “Lucas, I know you’re hurting. I know that wisecracks are your way of dealing with pain.”

  Luke turned around, wiped his eyes. “How much do I owe you, Herr Doktor?”

  The priest looked his twin in the eye, seeing his own tired reflection. “Bro, listen to me. Lieutenant Decker is nobody’s fool. He is a very, very…very, very smart man. You keep talking about money, throwing stuff around about Paul, trying to joke your way out of your pain, you’re going to tweak his antenna.”

  “What do I care? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Of course, you didn’t do anything. But look at it from his perspective. A weird homicide like Dad’s. First thing police will do is scrutinize the family. You add to that an…an outrageous insurance policy that makes us all rich—”

  “Millionaires to be exact.”

  Bram hit his forehead. “Am I getting through at all?”

  “Not much.”

  “Lucas, the police can get very nasty. I don’t need the hassle. And you certainly don’t need it.”

  Bram paused, organized his thoughts.

  “I realize you’re stressed. And I know what stress does to you. But we’re all in this together. So instead of pulling away from each other, let’s deal with it as a unit. Deal with it constructively—”

  “Does that mean heroin is out?”

  Bram kept his voice calm, tried again. “Luke, you’ve come so far. Nothing’s worth the setback. Not even a million dollars.”

  “I don’t know about that, Golden Boy. For a million bucks, I think I could well afford a couple of setbacks.”

  Bram pulled away, knocked his head against the wall. Useless arguing with Luke when he was in one of these moods. Completely irrational. For a moment, he wondered if his twin hadn’t already had a major setback. His eyes were glazed…unfocused. But that could easily be from confusion, grief, and lack of sleep.

  “So, bro…” Luke ambled over to the water machine and made himself another cup of tea. “What are you going to do with your share of the money? Start a food bank? Open a mission? Buy a new church? Just what the fuck does a priest do with a million dollars?”

  Bram gave up, started making preparations for the six A.M. Mass. “I’ve got to shower.”

  Luke drank tea, squashed the cup and two-pointed it into the waste can. “I’m going to buy a house. That should keep Dana happy for a while, don’t you think?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Think Dad would approve of me using the money for a house?”

  Bram was silent.

  Luke shrugged. “I think he would. Much better than shooting it in my veins.”

  Softly, Bram said, “Are you high, Lucas?”

  “No, Abram, I am not. But sincerely, I wish I was.”

  The priest walked over to his brother, embraced him tightly. To his surprise, Luke fell into his arms and wept bitterly. And also to his surprise, Bram felt his own eyes overflow. For several moments, he couldn’t tell who was actually crying. Holding his twin. It was as if he was holding himself.

  Berger wasn’t happy, but he was resigned to the inevitable. He motioned Decker to follow. Together, without speaking, they took the elevator down to the second floor. Berger moved swiftly, cornering the series of corridors like a four-wheel drive on a mountain. He stopped short, unlocked a door, and let Decker inside his office.

  Small and neat. A tiny anteroom, the open door showing about a hundred and twenty square feet of dawn-lit space. Berger flipped on the lights. He had a desk, a matching credenza, a couple of worn patient chairs and bookshelves. Not much else. Not much else would fit. The doctor hung up his white coat on a brass rack and sat down in front of his desk. Decker pulled up a chair, positioning it directly across from Berger. He took out a notepad.

  Berger checked his watch. “I don’t know what I could possibly tell you. But go ahead.”

  “You’ve worked with Dr. Sparks for a long time.”

  “Yes.”

  “You went through medical school with him?”

  “Harvard. Although I’m sure you know that already.”

  “Yes, I do. Have you always worked with Dr. Sparks?”

  “You mean are we joined at the hip? The answer is no.”

  “So you’ve had positions other than your current one with Sparks?”

  “I don’t see the point of this line of questioning.”

  “All right, I’ll be direct. You’ve got a great reputation as being a surgeon in your own right. But with Sparks, you were always the number two man. Did that ever lead to resentment?”

  Berger looked Decker in the eye. “Yes.”

  Decker was quiet.

  “Surprised?” Berger asked.

  “Surprised that you admitted it.”

  “Yes, at times, I was resentful…very resentful. We’d walk in a room together, Azor would get the accolades, I’d be standing there, nodding my head like some carnival kewpie doll. Of course, I was resentful. But I didn’t murder the man.” Berger’s voice went harsh. “If that was your reason for questioning me, you’re going about this investigation all wrong. I think you’d better reevaluate.”

  Decker was silent, wondering why the man was so hostile. Berger was finally in the medical spotlight. Maybe he had a bad case of stage fright and was covering it with bravado.

  Again, Berger checked his watch. “I’ve got rounds—”

  “What positions did you hold before you hooked up with Dr. Sparks?”

  “I don’t see where that’s any of your business.”

  “Dr. Berger, I can look up your professional background in a snap—”

  “So do it.”

  “You’re not going to make this easy on me?”

  “I didn’t kill the man, period. That’s all you have to know.”

  Decker smoothed his mustache, trying to figure out how to work around the man’s anger. Attempt a different approach. Suddenly, something dawned on him. He said, “Do you have a past, sir?”

  Berger seemed poised for another attack. Abruptly, he wilted. Silence thickened between them.

  “Why don’t you just go away?” Berger whispered.

  Mildly, Decker said, “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Berger looked at the ceiling, said nothing.

  “I’m going to find it all out. Might be better if it came from you.”

  Berger kneaded his hands, slowly began his recitation. “My father was a good man. Worked hard…was very proud of me.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “A good man,” Berger repeated, “but a gambler. At the age of fifty-one, he dropped dead from a heart attack and left my mother helpless and penniless. I was a senior resident at the time…away from home. Of course, when I heard the news I rushed back to my mother’s side, took over the many responsibilities that she couldn’t handle. Squared her away.”

  “Big burden,” Decker said.

  “It was because my father had left big debts. But we took care of them. I stayed long enough to get her on the right footing, then I left home once again to continue on with my studies…with my life. I came back just in time to take my specialty boards. Needless to say, I was a wreck. Flustered and disoriented. Still reeling from grief, overrun with worry. I hadn’t had a moment to study. I was caught cheating.”

  No one spoke.

  Decker said, “Obviously, you’ve overcome the mishaps.”

  “After pleading and begging, yes, I was allowed to retake my exams. And I passed. But no hospital would permit me to attend because of my black eye. They didn’t come right ou
t and say that my cheating was the reason for denying attendance privileges. But after applying to fifty-plus institutions, you see the writing on the wall. If you’re a surgeon, Lieutenant, you need hospitals.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I worked as a general practitioner for a while. Lebanon, Indiana. Did quite well.”

  “But you were frustrated.”

  “That is an understatement, sir. I was miserable. In my eyes, not only was I a failure, but a dishonest one at that.”

  “So along comes your old friend Azor Sparks, a man with a renowned international reputation, who took a chance.”

  “And we all lived happily ever after.”

  Again, no one spoke.

  Decker said, “You must have been very grateful.”

  “I just about wept at his feet, I was so thankful.” Berger blew air into his hands, rubbed them together. “My first assignment was assisting him. Like any other resident surgeon. I’d been out of practice for a while…”

  He tapped his hands on the desk.

  “The next time out, he handed me the scalpel. A routine bypass that evolved into a complex situation. I was sweating buckets. I kept waiting for Azor to step in. But he didn’t. Yes, he watched, but never said a word. The upshot? I handled it masterfully.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Berger smiled. “Thank you. And that was it. We’ve been working together ever since. As colleagues, side by side. Having said that…I always knew his position. And I always knew mine. Yes, occasionally, I suffered a bruised ego. But better a bruised ego than none at all.”

  Decker wrote as he spoke. “Let me ask you this, Dr. Berger. If you applied to other programs and institutions now, how do you think you’d be received?”

  “After working with Azor for twenty-five years, I could write my own ticket.”

  “So your past wouldn’t follow you?”

  “Perhaps…if the position was a very big one like the head of NIH or the dean of Harvard Medical School…it might come out that I took my boards twice. But I strongly doubt the reason would be exposed. Unless someone was determined to unbury this oddity in order to ruin me.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “No one,” Berger snapped. “Even Reggie Decameron doesn’t hold that kind of animosity toward me. It would only come up if someone purposely launched an extensive probe.” He looked pointedly at Decker. “Someone like the police.”

  Decker kept his expression neutral, wondering why the doctor spilled so easily if his past had truly been that well interred. Maybe Berger confessed to cheating in order to hide something more nefarious. Decker said, “Well, not much point in my looking into your past now.”

  “Which is the reason why I told you. Better to head you off at the pass, so to speak.”

  “So few people know about your ordeal.”

  “The generation that knew my plight way back when has practically died out.”

  “A theoretical question,” Decker said. “What would happen to you if your past was suddenly made public?”

  Berger’s eyes turned stony. “I can’t answer that because it wouldn’t happen. The only one of my current colleagues who was aware of it was Azor. And he never said anything to anyone.”

  “As far as you know.”

  “I do know.” Berger glanced at the clock on his wall and stood. “I really must tend to my business. We have very sick people here who have just lost their doctor…a person they view as saving their lives. They’re distressed. They need care. They need comfort. Please?”

  “Of course.” Decker got up. “Some other time, maybe we can talk about Curedon.”

  “I’d be happy to except…” He tapped his watch. “I’m swamped at the moment.”

  “Thank you for your time, Dr. Berger.”

  “I can’t say that I enjoyed it. But I have been completely honest with you. I shouldn’t have to say this, but I’ll say it anyway. I expect complete confidentiality with my thirty-year-old secret. It’s nobody’s business but mine.”

  Decker nodded. His secret wasn’t anyone’s business.

  Unless it became a reason for murder.

  12

  Oliver tightened his grip on the wheel of an unmarked Matador. “If I see one more shopping mall, I’m gonna throw up.”

  Marge sipped coffee from a thermos, stared out the window at an endless stretch of freeway. The asphalt bisected hillocks covered with untrimmed crabgrass, California orange poppies, mustard wildflowers, and royal purple statice. “Not much to do here. Shop, eat, sleep. Maybe have an affair.”

  “Last option sounds like a winner, especially if I was female. Doesn’t cost anything and it burns off calories.”

  Marge glanced at him, then returned her eyes to the front windshield. Oliver drummed his fingers on the wheel. “What’s the contact’s name again?”

  “Gordon Shockley.”

  “Dr. Shockley, right?”

  “Right.”

  Silence except for the staccatoed communications between the radio dispatchers and the patrol officers. Oliver started to whistle—tuneless, formless. Marge was about to say something, but changed her mind. The tweetie noises were annoying, but so was the quiet.

  Forty-five minutes into the ride, and Marge was going nuts. Probably, Scott wasn’t doing much better. The first twenty minutes had been passable because they had talked shop, gossiped a little. Now they had run out of small talk. Desperation time, because neither wanted to open the door marked personal.

  Oliver said, “Mind-numbing out here.” He paused. “Not that I do so much at home…”

  “But you have the option,” Marge filled in.

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  A long pause.

  “Any more coffee?” Oliver asked.

  “Sure.” Marge handed him the thermos. “You want me to take a shift, Scott?”

  “Nah, I’m fine.” He swigged some java. “I’m not looking forward to this.”

  “Why?”

  “I hate talking to these kinds of guys. Especially because we have to ask technical questions. Which means we’ll get technical answers. Makes me feel like I should have stayed longer in college.”

  “You and me both.”

  “How many years did you go?”

  “BA in sociology.” Marge laughed. “Like that’s really going to help.”

  “You finished, then.”

  Marge looked at him, smiled. “Are you impressed?”

  “Yeah, kinda.”

  “It’s only State.”

  “But you’re still a college grad. Me? I majored in pool and beer.”

  “Bet you got straight As in that.”

  “You’d better believe it, sister, I’m a card-carrying member of the Sigma Beta Tau. We threw the best parties west of the Mississippi, east of the Ohio, and anywhere else in between.”

  “That’s everywhere.”

  “That’s right! No one gave parties like Sigma Beta Tau.”

  The car grew silent as Oliver fell into a blue funk. Finally, he said, “Yeah, we had parties. Unfortunately, chucking your cookies in rhythm to ‘Stayin’ Alive’ didn’t turn out to be a marketable skill.”

  Marge smiled. “Did you actually attend any classes?”

  “A few.” Oliver ran tapered fingers through thick, black hair. “I think I even took a sociology course. Something like Group Thinking.”

  “That sounds like sociology.”

  “Yeah, I thought it was.”

  “I think I had the same course,” Marge said. “Only we called it Group Analysis. At the onset, the class was given a number of questions and asked to find solutions. First, we were told to solve the problems by ourselves. Then we divided up into teams, and were told to seek resolutions to the same problems.”

  “Then compare the results?”

  “Exactly. I told you it was the same class.”

  “God, this brings back some Kodaks. The minute we started up in teams, everything got bogged down—”

&
nbsp; “All these slow people dragging their asses—”

  “Stupid people,” Oliver said. “Got so mired in procedure—”

  “Future LAPD brass,” Marge said.

  They both laughed.

  “Everyone had to have a turn,” Oliver expounded. “Whether they had something to say or not. Especially these touchy-feely broads.”

  “Yeah, we had a couple of those,” Marge said. “I kept saying, fuck the feelings and let’s get on with the task. I made this one girl cry. Her friend chewed me out, said…get this…‘You don’t have to be so brutal!’”

  Oliver gave Marge a wide grin. “I love it when women are brutal.”

  Marge dropped her smile, then looked away.

  They rode the next few minutes without conversation.

  Oliver muttered, “Talk about touchy-feely.”

  Marge didn’t answer.

  “Jesus Christ, Dunn, I was just making a joke.”

  “I know.”

  “So what are you getting so pissed about?”

  “I’m not pissed.”

  “Dunn, I know when a woman is pissed. And you’re pissed.”

  “Oliver, I want a partner I don’t have to worry about, okay.”

  “You don’t have to worry about a thing, lady. It’s the farthest thing from my mind.”

  “Good.”

  “Just trying to stroke your ego—”

  “My ego doesn’t need stroking.”

  “Funny. Everyone else’s does.”

  Marge stared at him. “You want to stroke my ego, tell me I’m a good cop.”

  Oliver spoke quietly. “You’re a good cop.”

  Marge paused. “Thank you.” Again, she hesitated. “So are you.”

  Oliver pushed hair off his forehead. “Thanks.”

  He started whistling again. This time Marge recognized the tune—the refrain of “Stayin’ Alive.” His mouth pucking sounds came out as sharp, shrill stabs. Over and over and over and over.

  After five minutes, Marge said, “Can you cool it with the bird songs?”

  Oliver quit whistling. “What?”

  “You sound like an avian mating call. I half-expect some mesmerized, horny robin to fly into the car and start showing you her tail feathers.”