Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 09

by Prayers for the Dead

  Waterson looked at the phone, but didn’t move.

  Gaynor said, “You won’t tell us about your financial woes, I’ll tell you about them. Your wife, Ellen, underwent treatment for renal cancer. Unsuccessful treatment. Eventually, both kidneys came out. She had two transplants that failed. You blamed Azor for that, didn’t you?”

  “Never—”

  “Then your medical insurance topped out,” Gaynor continued. “Four more years of expensive out-of-pocket dialysis. And during this terrible time in your life, Azor’s just raking it in—”

  “You’re despicable.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mean Azor’s despicable?”

  Foam gathered at the corner of Waterson’s mouth. “He was despicable—a sinner and a pervert.”

  Webster said, “I was taught Jesus loves all His children.”

  “Not those who mock His words. Pray fervently in public and debase in private.”

  Kent’s voice was soothing. “I know it’s hard, Mr. Waterson. Hard to watch the wicked prosper while the righteous suffer.”

  The room went quiet.

  “You did what you thought was right,” Kent said. “In your eyes, in God’s eyes. But the law doesn’t see it like that, sir. And the law’s going to punish you severely. You might lose your life unless you do something to help yourself.”

  Tears spilled down Waterson’s cheeks. “I don’t need help. I didn’t do anything.”

  “You did do something, Mr. Waterson,” Martinez said. “We all here know you did do something. You contracted murder—”

  “No…” Waterson shook his head. “No, it wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

  “But that’s how it happened.”

  Martinez said, “How much did you pay them?”

  Waterson was quiet.

  “I got receipts from your account,” Gaynor spoke up. “Which match up nicely with money that had been withdrawn from Dolly Sparks’s account. Ten grand in and out right before Azor died. Ten grand in and out right after Azor died. And for good measure, a final ten withdrawn just last Friday—the day after Dr. Reginald Decameron died.”

  Waterson wiped tears from his cheek. “Abominations before the Lord. Both of them.”

  “How’d you find out about Azor’s inclinations?” Webster asked.

  Waterson lowered his head. “Azor had called me…to talk about estate planning. At least, that’s what he said. A strange call because his affairs seemed to be in order.”

  A long pause.

  “He told me he had some changes in mind. Setting up separate accounts for Curedon once it hit the market. Accounts in his name only. Separate property…as opposed to community property. Naturally, I asked him why.”

  Another hesitation.

  “Then he just…blurted it out. I was…stunned…repulsed.”

  He looked beseechingly at Kent.

  “What really disgusted me was his complete…lack of remorse. He told me he was going to drop out for a while to think over who he was. He was planning to do evil in the form of an abomination…and he spoke as if he needed a simple vacation.”

  Waterson’s eyes became hot flames.

  “He was going to leave her…just like that. Forty years of marriage and suddenly, he was going to desert her. How could he do that?”

  Webster said, “Must have pissed you off. Especially since you stuck with your wife through thick and thin.”

  “You’d better believe it pissed me off,” Waterson spat. “But that was Azor. An egotist who thought he was God. I couldn’t let him do that to Dolly. At the very least, I had to warn her.”

  “So you told her Azor’s plans to drop out,” Martinez said.

  “Of course, I told her. She was entitled to know.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She was in shock. Utter, complete shock!” Waterson’s lower lip trembled. “I couldn’t stand to see her in such pain. He was going to ruin her life, everything she worked so hard for. Don’t you understand anything!”

  “Of course, we understand, Mr. Waterson.” Martinez nodded encouragingly. “Whose idea was it to kill him?”

  Waterson was silent.

  “Mr. Waterson, whose idea was—”

  “I heard you.”

  The cops waited for him to continue.

  Waterson said, “That was never the plan.”

  “Then what was the plan?” Webster asked.

  Waterson buried his head in his hands. “What difference does it make? I told her I’d take care of things.” Again, he looked at Kent. “Dear God, what is to become of my damnable soul?”

  “You want a lawyer now, Mr. Waterson?”

  Waterson didn’t answer.

  Kent said, “Let’s give you some representation, sir. Then perhaps I can help you.”

  Waterson looked at Kent. “I’m a sixty-three-year-old man. Even if you’d plead it down to life in prison, eligible for parole in twenty…what does that make me…eighty-three? Assuming I can last that long.” His eyes were filled with tears. “I’ve had enough hardship. I think I’d rather die.”

  “What about the monsters who killed without remorse?” The DA sat next to Waterson. “Don’t let the real sinners go unpunished. That’s a crime even Jesus could not forgive.”

  “What kind of a life do I have in prison?”

  “A chance to serve God, sir. A chance to do penance. Do penance here on earth, sir. And Jesus will forgive you. Take you into His bosom and save you from eternal damnation.”

  The room fell silent. Slowly, Waterson nodded. Kent summoned someone from the PD’s office. Within an hour, everything was set into place.

  The public defender was Gilda Rosen—thirtysomething, tall and dark, and dressed in a red power suit. She had Waterson sign on the dotted line. For turning state’s witness, he was spared the death penalty.

  Waterson spoke in a monotone.

  “I have known Azor Moses Sparks for many, many years and had always regarded him as a pillar of our community. A leader in his field of medicine, an active and forceful member of our church, a devoted father of six children, and a loving husband.”

  He looked at the glass of water in front of him. Made no attempt to drink.

  “When my wife…got sick, I looked to Azor for support both emotionally and medically. And he seemed generous with his help. Set up appointments for me with the best doctors, reviewed their opinions, informed us of our options, assured us both that everything was going to be all right.”

  He sighed deeply.

  “And we believed him. After all, he was one of the top physicians in this country. We believed him, all right.”

  Waterson stared into his water glass.

  “Even when my wife’s kidneys failed, he said everything was under control. He said not to worry.”

  He looked up, tears in his eyes.

  “He lied to me…everything was not all right. Nothing was under control!”

  The room was silent.

  Waterson said, “I know there’s only so much man can do. But why didn’t he just tell us that! Instead, he chose to represent himself as God…giving us false hope…lying to us day after day after day. Meanwhile, Ellen was deteriorating. She needed a transplant.”

  He wiped his cheeks.

  “Azor found a donor. But he didn’t do the surgery. Instead, he sent us to someone else who charged exorbitant fees. Sent our insurance rates sky-high. By the time the second surgery came around, our insurance company canceled on us.”

  “They can do that?” Martinez asked.

  “Oh yes, they can do that.” Waterson perked up, had found a sympathetic ear. “Enough to make your blood boil. You pay out premiums and then when they’ve had enough, they cancel on you.”

  “Terrible,” Webster agreed.

  “That doesn’t even begin to describe it, Detective,” Waterson said. “I was a desperate man. I begged Azor to do the surgery himself. Because I couldn’t afford another surgery without bankrupting myself. But he wouldn
’t do it. He just refused to do it!”

  Waterson growled with anger.

  “He made excuses. Said it wasn’t his bailiwick. Said he had misgivings about operating on such a close friend.” The lawyer thumped his fist against the table. “Don’t you see? It was all a frameup because he knew he had failed.”

  “Failed?” Webster asked.

  “He knew from the beginning that she was going to die.”

  “Mr. Waterson,” Kent said, “we all die—”

  “He gave me hope only to let me down. He failed my wife. He failed me! When he was going to fail his own wife, it was just too much…the pain this man was spewing into the world.” Waterson wagged a finger. “Enough was enough.”

  No one spoke for a moment.

  “I was appalled when he told me he was of that persuasion. He told me he had never acted out, that he was leaving to sort out his feelings. But I didn’t believe him for a second.”

  “Not a second, huh?” Webster said.

  “Not a single second!” Waterson snapped back. “After what he did to my wife and me, Azor had zero credibility. Besides, one only had to look at whom he kept in his employ even after the man was shown to be a pervert. At that point, it was obvious why Azor remained loyal to such an abominable sinner.”

  He stopped speaking.

  Gilda said, “You may continue, Mr. Waterson.”

  Waterson seemed suddenly deflated. “I just couldn’t let her down.”

  Again, the room fell silent.

  Kent said, “Who down?”

  “Dolly.” Waterson looked up, eyes wet, nose red, lips trembling. “I have sinned. I’ve had adultery in my heart.”

  Kent said, “You love her, don’t you?”

  “I had always loved her from afar. Yet, for the sake of God, I kept my passions in check. Even after my wife died, I hid my true feelings. Almost an insurmountably difficult task. Because I saw her wither and suffer from emotional neglect day after day after day after day.”

  His eyes moved downward.

  “After Azor confessed his evilness to me, I knew I had to tell Dolly. Because she was a frail thing and had to be handled with utmost sensitivity. Something that Azor knew nothing about.”

  “So you told her,” Martinez said.

  Waterson nodded.

  “Then what?”

  “She cried to me…she cried to him. She begged him to reconsider. But just as God did to Pharaoh, Satan had hardened his heart. He turned obstinate, refused to hear her pleas. I mean, would it have been so hard for him to live out his life with her…at least for decency’s sake? That’s all we were trying to do. He could do whatever he wanted as long as he…kept quiet about it and stayed with her. I swear murder was never part of the plan.”

  Webster said, “What was the plan, Mr. Waterson?”

  “They were supposed to convince him not to leave her…and to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Who are they?” Webster pressed.

  “Stanislav, aka Sidewinder, Polinski and his group,” Waterson said. “He’ll tell you different. He’ll tell you I said vile things, told him to do vile things. But this isn’t so.”

  “Who are Polinski’s accomplices?” Martinez asked.

  “I never asked. I just told him to take care of it for me.”

  “Take care of what?”

  “Of Azor,” Waterson said. “Convince him to stay with her, to pray harder, to try to rid himself of these demons. And to make sure he kept it to himself. That was all I said!”

  Gilda said, “Mr. Waterson, you know the deal has been cut. No matter what you say, things can’t get worse for you.”

  Webster said, “Why don’t you level with us?”

  “But I am—”

  “You can hide behind your lies with us,” Kent broke in. “But you can’t lie to God. He knows what was in your heart.”

  Martinez said, “Where did you know Polinski from?”

  Waterson gulped down water. Again, he covered his face, then dropped his hand on the table. “Azor had me deliver some checks to him.” He paused. “To him and a man named Emmanuel Sanchez, aka Grease Pit. Checks for this Peoples for the Environment Freedoms Act that Azor was hepped up on. I never understood it. But I was his lawyer. He asked me to cut a check for him, I cut a check for him.”

  “You delivered the check personally to Polinski?” Webster asked.

  “Yes, either Polinski or Sanchez.” Waterson’s face had turned red. “Azor gave me a percentage for…cutting the checks and personal delivery.” The old lawyer bit his lip. “Pocket money. Like I was some errand boy.”

  “It must have been more than pocket money,” Webster said. “For you to agree to do it.”

  “It was…generous, I suppose.”

  Webster stared at Waterson, his expression neutral. So much resentment that this man had built up in his mind and Azor never knew. No doubt he thought he was doing Waterson big favors.

  He said, “Did you ever talk to Emmanuel Sanchez about taking care of Azor?”

  Waterson shook his head. “No, I never spoke to him about the job. But I did deliver money to him afterward on Polinski’s orders.”

  Sweat broke from his brow.

  “I didn’t want Azor killed. Just scared. Scared enough to abandon his evil plans and heinous ways. Scared enough to keep his mouth shut. Scared enough to go back to God and ask His forgiveness for his wicked thoughts. They went crazy. Not me. That was not part of the deal!”

  “But you still paid them off,” Martinez said.

  “Of course, I paid them off! At that point, seeing what they were capable of doing, I was too damn scared not to!”

  “Polinski do it for the money?” Martinez asked.

  “What do you think.”

  “I thought he was a friend of Azor’s.”

  Waterson laughed bitterly. “You’re talking about monsters who cut their own mother’s throat for money. Of course, with Azor being of that kind, they didn’t need much convincing. They don’t tolerate faggots in their ranks.”

  Webster said, “So you called Sparks up, told him to meet you at Tracadero’s?”

  Waterson nodded.

  “On what pretext did you get him over there?” Martinez asked. “Redoing his papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’d you get him to park in the back alley?”

  “He always parked in the back. Too cheap to use the valet.”

  Webster stated, “So you got him there, arranged to have the bikers jump and murder him in the back alley—”

  “I swear they weren’t supposed to kill him!”

  “But they did,” Webster said softly.

  Waterson went quiet.

  “Why Decameron?” Martinez asked. “What did he have to do with Azor leaving his wife?”

  Waterson loosened his collar. “Dolly hated him.”

  “She told you to pop him?” Martinez asked.

  Waterson shook his head no. “I took it upon myself to have that pervert properly punished. Because it was all his fault. He was vile, the evil serpent of Eden spreading lies, influencing men like Azor to sin. I figure it didn’t make much difference to the world if there was one less faggot.”

  “How ’bout one less distinguished scientist?” Webster said.

  Martinez said, “How ’bout one less human being with a heart and a soul?”

  “He had no heart, his soul was damned. He was a filthy animal!” Waterson grew rigid. “He deserved to die.”

  “That wasn’t for you to decide, sir,” Kent said.

  Waterson said, “Obviously it was. Because that’s what happened. I decided it. And poof! He was dead.”

  32

  Answering the page at two in the morning, Decker had no choice but to tell Rina. He called her from the hospital’s waiting room, used a pay phone off the corridor, manipulating the money slot and the keypad with his left hand. His right arm was confined to a sling, the bullet still visibly lodged in his arm. The resident had offered to remove it under
a local. Decker had told him he’d have it done later after he found out about the priest’s progress. But as the hours dragged with no news from the operating room, he wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. Mind-numbing and nerve-wracking watching a family grow old before his eyes.

  A twist of irony: Myron Berger was doing the surgery.

  Decker leaned against the wall of the nearly deserted lobby, keeping a respectable distance from the family. They were congregated around two brown couches and a pair of orange armchairs. The glass sofa table held glossy in-house hospital magazines, Azor gracing a couple of covers. In the corner of the room a coffee machine bubbled thick walnut liquid. An occasional lackluster page wafted through the PA system.

  The waiting. Purgatory on earth.

  Eight of them total—five siblings and three spouses, all of them weathered and worn as if wrung out to dry. Luke was sprawled on one of the couches, his blanched face showing the effects of his blood-letting. They had taken the most from him—three pints; the other two brothers had each donated two pints. The two remaining sisters weren’t correctly type-matched. By last count, Bram had gone through two transfusions.

  Dana sat by her husband on the arm of the couch. Her eyes were veined with red. She offered a paper cup to Luke, encouraging him to drink more Coke.

  He pushed the cup away with his arm. “If I drink any more, I’ll throw up.”

  “You’re still pale—”

  “Of course, I’m still pale. I’m goddamn sick to my stomach. Leave me alone.”

  Lids fluttering, Paul’s eyes swept over the scene. He paced, checked his watch for the thousandth time. His wife, Angela, was blond and plump, a floral muu-muu covering her body, doughy arms popping out of the short sleeves. She wore no makeup, her face was haggard.

  The minutes crawled along with the fear of the unknown.

  Michael regarded Decker. “You should…” His voice cracked. “Your arm…you should take care of it.”

  Paul turned his glazed eyes toward Decker, as if looking at him for the first time. No doubt that was the case.

  “What happened to your arm?”

  “Mom…” Michael cleared his throat. “Mom did it.”