Faye Kellerman - Decker 05 - False Prophet

by False Prophet

  stead, the address corresponded to a two-story mini-mall; Brecht's practice was sandwiched between a travel agency and a health-food store. Each business was allowed only two parking spaces. Brecht's spaces, marked reserved for doctor, were occupied. Decker pulled into one of the health-food store's slots, hoping the owner wouldn't call and have the car towed away.

  The door to the office was glass backed by an attached white curtain that prevented unwanted onlookers from peeking inside. The glass was stenciled in gold.

  FREDERICK R. BRECHT, M.D. HOLISTIC AND WELL-BEING MEDICINE ACUPUNCTURE AND NUTRITION CONSULTATION BY APPOINTMENT ONLY

  Decker went inside and halted in his tracks.

  The waiting room was unoccupied and without conventional furniture. Couches and chairs were replaced with brown mats that covered the waxed wooden planks of fir. In the center of the room was a pile of specialty magazines: Journal of Holistic Health. Annals of Eastern Medicine. The Vitamin Digest. Hanging from the ceiling were silk-screened lanterns emitting soft, filtered light. The wallpaper was imprinted with some kind of Chinese farm scene— kimonoed men and women with one-dimensional features tilling soil and pulling some kind of root from the ground. New Age synthesizer music, along with the odor of incense, wafted through the air.

  Decker pondered the reception window, then stared at the cushioned floor, unsure if he should remove his shoes. He decided to brave the trek in shod feet, but found himself tiptoeing. He knocked on the frosted glass and a middle-aged woman slid open the panel. She wore no makeup but was decked with jewelry. Dozens of bracelets, a couple of silver necklaces, and earrings that were large and beaded and hung down to her shoulders. Her brown hair had been cut short, her eyes were deep-set. Her voice was a tinkle—like wind chimes—and at odds with the mature face.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm Sergeant Peter Decker of the LAPD." He showed the woman his badge. "I'd like to speak with Dr. Brecht."

  "Dr. Brecht is not in today. Would you like to leave a message?"

  Tinkle, tinkle.

  Decker said, "Where is Dr. Brecht?"

  "I don't know."

  "Has he checked in today?"

  Suddenly the light voice was as sharp as broken glass.

  "I don't know if I should answer your questions."

  "Why? Are you hiding something?"

  "Of course n—"

  "So why wouldn't you want to answer a simple question? Has Dr. Brecht phoned in today?"

  She was flustered. "Uh, I'm sure he will soon."

  "But he hasn't come in yet?"

  "No." She sighed. "He left a message on the machine. 'Althea, cancel all my patients today. An emergency came up.' So I canceled his patients." She played with a beaded earring. "No big deal. Today would have been a light day—three stress consultations, two deep-body massages, one biofeedback."

  "What time did he leave the message?"

  "It was on the machine when I arrived at eight this morning. His first appointment wasn't until ten so I had lots of time to cancel."

  "Does your answering machine record the time that the call was made?"

  "No."

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes."

  "All right. Dr. Brecht has another office at his sister's spa, is that correct?"

  Something malevolent clouded Althea's eyes. "It's not an official office. You can't make an appointment to see him there unless you're a registered guest. Freddy helps his sister out. Which is more than I can say for her."

  "How often does he help out at the spa?"

  "Too often."

  "Give me an estimate."

  "Maybe once or twice a week. Which may not seem like a lot to you, but it really does cut the efficiency of a practice. You know, Freddy is a very unique doctor. It was his treatment that cured my backaches and I really believe in him. So do a lot of people. He works very hard for his patients. I resent his jumping

  whenever his sister calls. He's just too nice and she takes advantage of him."

  "How about his mother?" Decker asked.

  "The great Davida Eversong? She and his sister are two of a kind. You think she'd ever help him out? To her, everything is Lilah, Lilah, Lilah. Of course whenever she needs a massage, she calls him and he comes running. Do you think she even pays him?"

  "No?"

  "Not a dime." Althea sighed. "Well, I've just talked too much."

  "Do you think Dr. Brecht might be with his mother?"

  She sighed again. "I didn't lie, but I didn't tell you the whole truth. I don't know where he is but I do know he's not at the spa. I've also called his house and his mother's apartments. No one answered." She suddenly blushed. "I wasn't checking up on him. It's just there are a few business matters I need to tell him about."

  "Business matters?"

  "It's of no concern to the police."

  Decker paused a moment, letting her know that at the moment everything was of concern to the police. "Why don't you give me the addresses and phone numbers of Ms. Eversong's and Dr. Brecht's residences. I can get it myself, but you'd be saving me a few steps. And time may be of the essence here."

  "Why? What do you mean?"

  "There was an incident last night concerning Dr. Brecht's sister."

  "An incident?"

  "She was attacked."

  "My God! What happ—"

  "I know Dr. Brecht met her last night for supper," Decker broke in. "Now you tell me he hasn't shown up for work. I'm wondering if something might have happened to him."

  "Oh, my God!"

  "Not that I have any reason to believe that something did happen—"

  "Oh, dear Lord!" Althea tugged at her earring. "Omigod, omigod. Of course I'll give you those numbers." She yanked on a drawer and shakily drew out a piece of paper and a pen. "Why didn't you tell me your business in the first place?"

  She was scolding him. But she was giving him what he wanted so Decker let it pass.

  A

  split second to decide how to handle it. Act surprised, resigned, indignant or cooperative or maybe even friendly. No, scratch friendly. Cops were wary of anyone too congenial. If she was good—inquisitive like Kelley had said—she'd probably heard his name paged over the loudspeaker and would wonder what that was all about. Ness knew he could probably pull off playing dumb, but now was not the time to audition for the Oscar. Keep it simple and keep her off guard. At least Kelley's call had prepared him. No weak knees or sweaty hands.

  "Hi," Ness said. "I'm assuming you're the detective since you're not dressed for yoga."

  Marge paused a moment, surprised he knew who she was, surprised at how smooth he was around her. Most people were jumpy around cops. "Did you just talk to your sister?"

  "Yeah. She's totally freaked out, wasn't making a lot of sense to tell you the truth. Something about Lilah being attacked and you're here looking into it? Whenever Kelley gets freaked, she calls big brother. What happened?"

  "You've got some time to talk?"

  "Now?"

  "Yes, now."

  "I've got 'bout half an hour before my next class." Ness swallowed hard, stepped back inside the Jazzarena, and gently placed his camcorder onto a mat. "I'm all dehydrated. You mind if I grab

  a cup of broth? We can talk in here. Hard to find privacy around this place."

  "Your sister tells me you live on the premises. We can talk in your place."

  "Nah, too far of a walk. I'll be back in a jiff. Hang tight."

  He was out the door before Marge could protest. She paced around the gym. Against the side wall, there were a pile of fresh towels, a large wicker basket filled with dirty towels, and stacked blue exercise mats. In front of the mirrors was a CD player resting on the floor. With no chairs available, Marge leaned against the ballet barre.

  Physically, Mike Ness wasn't at all what Marge had expected. She'd figured on a muscle man and wasn't prepared for someone on the slight side. He was sort of androgynous-looking, actually, except for the well-trimmed two-day stubble that co
vered his face. Shiny black hair that fell over big blue eyes. Truth be told he was almost as pretty as his sister. Though his muscles weren't over-inflated, they had been worked on. He had the wiry kind of definition in his biceps and calves.

  He came back a moment later, carrying two steaming cups, and kicked the door shut with his foot. If the guy was guilty of anything, good old sister Kelley had taken away the key element of surprise.

  "I brought an extra cup for you, Detective."

  "Thanks, but I'll pass."

  Still holding the cups, Ness sat down cross-legged without spilling a drop. "I don't know but I'd imagine there's a certain amount of tension in your job. The broth is a great stress reducer. And it's low-calorie."

  Marge sat next to him, pulled out her notebook. "I'm not on a diet."

  "Take it anyway. It won't kill you." Ness's lips unfolded in a half smile. "Poor choice of words, I guess."

  Marge returned his expression with a half smile of her own. "Drink mine for me, bro. I've already tanked up on guava juice."

  Ness broke into unexpected laughter. "I detect sarcasm. You know that cynicism is a prime toxin builder, Detective."

  "So is assault."

  Ness grew serious. "What happened to Lilah last night?"

  "She was attacked."

  "Was she raped?"

  "A full report hasn't been filed yet. Do you know anything about it?"

  "Me? Not a clue."

  Marge studied his face. There was some concern but he wasn't overdoing it. Good eye contact. Didn't seem real fidgety. Either he wasn't worried about his ass or he was a top-notch psychopath. "How do you get along with Lilah?"

  "I adore her." He smiled slowly. "As a friend. She's the greatest boss I've ever had. Lets me make my own hours, great about giving me time off. The pay here isn't great, I've gotta be honest. But when you factor in the perks—free room and board—the paycheck isn't as small as it looks on paper. This isn't the job I want to do all my life, but it's a great pit stop."

  Mr. Sincere.

  Marge asked, "How long have you worked for her?"

  "I came on about eight months ago." Ness finished one cup of broth, crunched the paper cup in his hand. "My sister brought me over, actually. She's worked here close to two years and loves her job. Kelley's a great kid, but she worries too much about me. I was unemployed about a year ago. Didn't bother me, but it drove her crazy. She talked me into coming here. More like dragged me over. But I'm not sorry. Like I said, the position is okay until I figure out what I want to do."

  "What do you want to do?"

  "I sure as hell wouldn't mind owning a place like this," Ness said, wistfully. "But since that doesn't seem likely in the future, I'd like to have enough clients to support myself as a personal trainer. You build up lots of contacts here. I've already filled up Tuesday and Saturday evenings with people. Lilah's really good about that, she gives me the time off. But as of this moment I don't have enough of a client load—enough income—to make ends meet on my own."

  "Did you meet your clients at the spa?"

  "Sure, most of them. A few of the recent ones are referrals. See, that's how the ball gets rolling."

  "Lilah doesn't mind you stealing business?"

  "I don't steal business—"

  "If you train women at home, who needs the spa?"

  Ness slowly took a sip of his second cup of broth. "It doesn't work that way, Detective. The spa and I are synergistic. We feed off of each other. Look around. Most of the women you sec here

  are in terrific shape. They come here for peace and quiet and want a safe environment to relax where they won't gain weight. Sure we have some men here—mostly husbands whose wives asked them along—but the majority of our clientele is female. They can hang out without feeling that some guy is going to hit on them."

  "That how Ms. Betham felt?"

  "I knew you were going to bring that up," Ness said. "You ever meet Miz Betham?"

  "No."

  "She's around fifty and has a face like a pineapple. Now I have nothing against ugly people except when they give me troubles. I don't know what her problem is, but she isn't going to bring me down. I hope the garbage she's saying isn't giving you funny ideas about me. I don't hit on women. And I certainly wouldn't ever do anything to Lilah. You haven't told me too much about that."

  "Lilah will be okay," Marge said. "If she wants to tell you about it in detail, I'm sure she will."

  "She know who attacked her?"

  Marge was silent.

  "Probably not," Ness said. "Otherwise you wouldn't be questioning me. Ask me anything you want. I'll do anything to help you find the bastard who hurt her."

  "You like her a lot."

  "I told you, I adore her."

  "But just as a friend."

  "Yep"

  "Was there ever anything sexual between you and her?"

  "No. Not that I'd mind, but..."

  Marge waited.

  "I guess I'm not her type."

  "Who's her type?"

  "Lilah's?" Ness paused. "Wouldn't know. I once heard she'd been married. I try not to delve too deeply into my boss's affairs. I think that makes a lot of sense."

  "Were you here at the spa yesterday, Mike?"

  "Yesterday was what? Sunday? Yep, I was here. I attended the seven-o'clock lecture. Honestly, I don't even remember what it was on. They blur. Afterward, I worked out for an hour by myself. Then I drank a little herbal tea with some of the ladies." He smiled.

  "You know, trying to drum up a little business. I went to bed around eleven, maybe it was closer to twelve." "Did you see Lilah anytime during the evening?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Was she at the lecture?"

  "Was she? I don't remember. My sister, Kelley, might know. She's the one who's good with details."

  "So no one can verify where you were between the hours of twelve and seven."

  "Nope. No one. 'Cause I was sleeping by my little lonesome." Ness shrugged. "Is Lilah unconscious or something? Otherwise, why you are questioning me? She could tell you I didn't do anything to her."

  "She's conscious."

  Ness nodded. "That's good. So just ask her—"

  "We intend to question her extensively when she's feeling better. In the meantime, we haven't ruled anyone out. You know anyone who might have a bone to pick with Lilah? A disgruntled employee, maybe?"

  Ness shook his head. "Everyone loves her. Never heard anyone say a bad word... except... well, he didn't say anything bad about her. He didn't say anything about her... which was odd."

  Marge looked at him.

  "About two, three months ago, a guy claiming to be Lilah's brother came here," Ness said. "Actually he wanted to see Davida because it was her birthday. He had a gift. No one was around. He left the present at reception and split."

  "That was it?"

  "Yeah, pretty much."

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  "I don't know," Ness said. "I'd never seen the guy before. He hasn't been back since. I know how close Lilah is to Freddy. It just struck me as odd that this 'brother' would be such a mystery man. He was quite a bit older than her or Freddy. Looked to be in his middle forties. Strange."

  "What was his name?"

  "I don't remember it. I do remember it was a blueblood name, though—like Thurston Howell the Third or something."

  "Does the name King ring a bell?"

  He paused, then shook his head. "That wasn't his name."

  There had been something in Ness's eyes—a glint of recognition. Marge said, "You're sure his name wasn't King something or something King?"

  "No, that wasn't the name on the card."

  "You peeked at the birthday card?"

  Ness smiled. "He left his business card along with the present, too. Weird. You ever hear of someone leaving their business card with a present? Especially a family member?"

  Marge didn't answer.

  "I figure he's not a close family member," Ness said. "He
was a doctor, by the way. I saw M.D. after his name on his card."

  "You saw his card but don't remember his name."

  "Sorry, no."

  "What'd you do with the card?"