Faye Kellerman - Decker 05 - False Prophet

by False Prophet

  "I gave it to Kelley. She probably still has it unless she threw it away. I doubt she did. She's compulsive. Ask her."

  "I will." Marge planted a large hand on his bony shoulder. "In the meantime, Mr. Ness, you stay close."

  "No problem, Detective, I've got nowhere else to go."

  Marge stood, flipped the cover over her notepad, and toed the tip of the video camera. "What do you do with this?"

  Ness picked up the camera. "I tape myself working. To see how I move. I take my job seriously and don't want to look like an ass in front of the women. You want a peek?"

  Marge looked at her watch. "Sure."

  Ness got up. Marge followed him to the back of the Jazzarena. He opened a cupboard. Inside was a thirteen-inch TV attached to ancillary equipment. Ness opened the camera and slid the tape into a video machine. His image filled the monitor, shots of him moving with the grace of a ballet dancer. Marge asked him if he had had lessons.

  "Long ago." Ness's eyes were fixed to the monitor.

  "Unusual for a boy to have ballet."

  "My parents were unusual people." He turned to her. "Can I eighty-six the tape?"

  "Be my guest."

  Ness flipped the switch and the monitor turned dark.

  Marge said, "Thanks for your time, Mr. Ness." As she headed for the door, he called out her name. She turned around.

  "Sure you don't want to stay for yoga? It soothes the savage spirit."

  Marge smiled. "I like my spirit savage, Mr. Ness. It keeps me on my toes."

  Decker leaned against a pink column near the entrance to the spa and read the business card Marge had given him.

  John Reed M.D. FACOG Obstetrics, Gynecology, Infertility

  Two phone numbers were printed on the lower right corner; a medical license number was on the lower left. He flipped the card over. Nothing written on the back.

  A hot, dry wind whipped through the air, the sun flashing off the chrome bumpers that spangled the parking lot. Decker loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, and rolled up his sleeves.

  "Is this card legitimate?"

  "I called the number right before you got here." Marge checked her watch. "Must have been about four-thirty. It's a doctor's office. Apparently Reed had canceled all his afternoon appointments because he was stuck at the hospital for deliveries."

  "Stuck?" Decker said.

  "His secretary's word, not mine."

  "Find out which hospital?"

  Marge shook her head. "I asked her but she didn't answer and I didn't push it. I don't even know if he's relevant to the case. I wasn't able to get too much out of the receptionist, period, but she did tell me that yes indeed John Reed is Lilah's and Freddy's brother."

  Two bikini-clad women came out of the spa, laughing loudly, arms linked together. Nubile young ladies—one blond and one brunet—tossing long damp hair over their tanned shoulders. Decker followed their sway until they disappeared inside a silver Porsche Carrerra. The car zoomed off and Decker stared at the empty space for a moment.

  "There's at least a couple dozen more like that inside," Marge said.

  "You like that color for a Porsche? Mine could use a new paint job and I'm sick of red."

  "You looking at the girls or the car, Pete?"

  "At first I was looking at the girls. Then I got distracted by the car."

  Marge burst into laughter. "Rina has nothing to worry about." Decker smiled. "I could have told you that. So if this Reed is Lilah's doctor brother, who's Tote's phantom named King?"

  "I asked Reed's girl about him. At that point, she started asking me questions. When I wouldn't answer hers, she refused to answer mine. But I had the feeling that this unknown King is a real person. Whether he's a brother or not, I don't know."

  Decker said, "So far, Lilah has got what... three doctor brothers including a phantom brother named King?" Marge shrugged.

  Decker said, "I've got Hollander looking up sex offenders who live in the area. I've also asked him to punch the crime into the computer and see if it matches anything else that has gone down in the city. Until I've spoken with Lilah, we don't have too much to go on."

  Marge said, "You speak with Davida Eversong yet?" Decker frowned. "Did Morrison ask about her again?" "I called in for messages," Marge said. "He was just curious whether we've contacted her or not. Why's he in an uproar over her?"

  Decker said, "A famous actress's daughter is raped—could be big news if it got out. Lots of actresses are attention junkies. I'm sure Morrison doesn't want publicity after dealing with the fallout from the Rodney King beating."

  "A new concept in Totally Hidden Video." Marge furrowed her brow. "You think you could lose it like that, Pete?" "I think we're all just a step above apes." Marge smiled. "You make contact with Freddy Brecht?" "He wasn't in." Decker filled her in on his conversation with Brecht's secretary. "I don't know why he canceled his patients. Maybe he found out about Lilah and rushed over to see her. I'd like to talk to him. He supposedly saw her last night and maybe he'd remember something."

  "I'll call the hospital and ask if he's been there to visit her." "Thanks." Decker wiped his brow, damp with perspiration. Mercury must have hit the ninety-degree mark today. Poor Rina. Next couple of months were going to be hell for her. "So tell me about Kelley's brother, Mike. Is he the same guy who picks the vegetables?"

  "Yeah. He gave me an eerie feeling. But you told me Lilah didn't know who attacked her and she knows Mike."

  Decker said, "She was blindfolded, so the perp could still be someone she knows. I just shot out the question. She probably didn't even know what I was asking. I'll ask her again."

  "Maybe she does know who he is and the guy has her terrorized."

  "Is Ness scary?"

  "No, more like wily—sly," Marge answered. "Guy didn't flinch when he turned around and saw me staring him down. I've nothing concrete against him—he was cooperative—but I don't trust him. At first glance, he isn't physically prepossessing. Then you see him move. He tapes himself exercising."

  "What?"

  "Yeah, he had a video camera and I asked him what he used it for. He tapes himself. Played me the tape without hesitation. Man, the way he moves, maybe he's not a lion, but he's sure a jaguar. In total control of his body."

  "Want me to look him over?"

  "Let me work him over first." Marge told Decker about the Betham complaint. "I'll get back to you on that. See if the suit's legit."

  "Go for it, Margie," Decker said. "I'm off to the hospital to talk to Lilah."

  The entrance doors to the spa parted once again. Out came a young lass in cutoff jeans and a tank top. A way-too-small-for-her-chest tank top. And she wasn't wearing a bra. Decker felt he had to notice these details because noticing details honed one's skills of observation—the primary tool of detection.

  Marge tapped him on the shoulder. "You want to switch assignments, Pete?"

  "No." Decker eye's shifted from the bouncing bosoms back to Marge's face. "No, Detective Dunn, that wouldn't be an efficient division of labor. You finish up your hit list. I'm off to the hos-. pital."

  The drive to Sun Valley Memorial was a westward stretch of freeway that had Decker riding into the late-afternoon sun. Squinting, he yanked down the unmarked's visor, which did little to mitigate the glare, then fished around in the glove compartment until he felt a pair of sunglasses. Cheapies—the lenses were grid-marked with scratches. But it was better than driving blind.

  Maybe Lilah had been able to see something from under the blindfold. It had been made of lightweight material folded over several times, but it hadn't been form-fitting. She could have sneaked a glance or two out of an open corner.

  If he got lucky.

  He took the Branch Street exit, turned left, then traveled another mile on surface streets. The winds were blowing dust, little eddies of soot that looked like gold powder in the late-afternoon light.

  The Foothill Substation of the LAPD patrolled the east end of the San Fernando Valley—th
e last bastion of rural Los Angeles filled with miles of grazing land. Slowly and steadily, commercialization was eroding the undeveloped acres, but the ranchers were a stubborn lot, often refusing to sell even if there was profit to be made. Creatures of habit, they, like Decker's father, wouldn't know what to do with the money if they didn't have their work— tasks that challenged the body and roughened the hands.

  As he veered the Plymouth away from the mountains and onto Foothill Boulevard, the terrain changed. Open fields yielded to lumber- and brickyards, scrap-metal dealerships, roofing com-

  panies, wholesale nurseries, and block-long discount stores advertising everyday sale prices. The boulevard twisted and turned through large open lots until the hospital came into view.

  Sun Valley Memorial—a three-story square building plastered in green stucco—shared the block with a flower farm abloom with mums and marigolds. Decker parked the car in the half-full

  EMERGENCY ONLY lot, Stuck his OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS Card

  on the dash, and took the elevator up, getting off on the second floor.

  The visitors' area was small and nearly empty. To the right a woman and teenaged boy sat playing cards. On the other side of the room was a man reading a magazine and an elderly woman listening intently as a doctor, still dressed in surgical scrubs, spoke to her in hushed tones. No one was sitting at the desk marked

  INFORMATION.

  Decker bypassed the lobby and walked down the long corridor until he found the nurse's station. He presented his badge to a young man wearing a white uniform.

  "Sergeant Decker of the LAPD. I spoke with Dr. Kessler earlier in the day and he told me I could come down and interview Lilah Brecht. She's in room two-fifty-five."

  The man leaned over the counter to study the badge. "Lilah Brecht..."

  "Yes, Lilah Brecht. She was admitted this morning, victim of an assault."

  "Lilah Brecht..." The man repeated.

  With a smile, Decker asked, "Can you page Dr. Kessler for me?"

  "I know who Lilah is. I'm her floor nurse. I seem to remember Dr. Kessler saying something about you coming down. I'm sure he wrote it in her chart."

  Decker waited.

  "I'm not sure where the chart is now," the nurse said. He scratched a hairy forearm. "Maybe down in Neuro. But it doesn't matter. She's out of it right now."

  "She's sedated?"

  "No, no," the nurse frowned. "You don't sedate people with possible head injuries. She's asleep. It's been a long day for her. Her brother tried to talk to her about a half hour ago, but she was—"

  "Her brother? You mean Dr. Brecht?"

  "Yep."

  "He was here?"

  "Why is that weird? He's the patient's brother."

  "I've been looking for him," Decker said. "Left messages at his office, at the hospital—"

  "I never got any messages from you."

  Decker let out an exasperated sigh. "Did he just get here or has he been here all day?"

  "I'd say he came about a half hour ago. When he saw she was sleeping, he said he'd be back in a half hour. But like I said, that was a half hour ago. So he should be back around... now."

  "I'm going to take a quick peek in Lilah's room," Decker said.

  "Okay," replied the nurse with hairy forearms. "But don't wake her."

  Decker said he wouldn't. Her room was at the end of the hallway—one of the few privates available in the hospital. She was sleeping sitting up in the bed, glucose trailing down an IV line threaded into her arm. Her hair had been brushed off her forehead, her scrubbed face showing the bluing and swelling of her ordeal. Both eyes were puffy, with scratches and cuts above her brow. Her mouth was open; the dry air had caused her red lips to crack. Her skin tone had markedly improved. She was still pale but the cold, ashen complexion was gone. She wore the standard hospital gown backward, the split open in the front. But her modesty was protected by a bedsheet across her chest. Softly, he called out her name.

  No response.

  He checked his watch and decided to wait a few minutes. He pulled a chair up to the bed, about to stretch his legs when a stern voice jerked his head around, demanding to know who the hell he was.

  The man appeared to be in his early thirties, medium height and weight, prematurely bald with just a few plugs of thin blond hair sticking up from a pink scalp. He made up for his lack of cranial hair with a full sandy-colored beard and thick eyebrows. He had close-set, pale-blue eyes and a long beaky nose. He wore a long white coat over an embroidered work shirt and jeans. On his feet were an ancient pair of Earth sandals—the kind where the toe was higher than the heel. Decker thought those had gone the way of the Nehru jacket.

  "I'm Sergeant Decker of the Los Angeles Police."

  The man paused. When he spoke again, he had lowered his

  voice. "I don't think she's equipped to talk to the police at the moment. Maybe tomorrow."

  "You're Frederick Brecht?"

  "I'm Dr. Frederick Brecht, yes."

  With an emphasis on the doctor, Decker noticed. He stood, overshooting Brecht by around six inches. He put him at about five-ten, one-seventy. Even though his coloring was similar to Lilah's, brother and sister bore little resemblance.

  "I'm handling your sister's assault, Doctor. I've been trying to reach you all day."

  Brecht's scalp turned a deep shade of rose. "Why is that a concern of the police?"

  "You went out with your sister last night," Decker said. "Maybe you noticed something—"

  "Nothing," Brecht said. "If I had, I would have contacted you. Anything else?"

  Decker said, "Doctor, how about we grab a cup of coffee in the cafeteria as long as Lilah's resting? Maybe you can help me out by answering a couple of questions."

  "But I have nothing to tell you," Brecht insisted.

  Lilah moaned.

  "Patients, even in sleep, are still receptive to their surroundings," Brecht lectured. "I think this conversation is upsetting her. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave at once."

  "Doctor, I know this is a bad time for you—"

  "Bad is an egregious understatement, Sergeant. I'm in no mood to be interrogated." Brecht touched the tip of his fingers to his forehead. "I can't think clearly. Maybe tomorrow."

  Decker was struck by Brecht's manner—incongruent with the informal, guru appearance. He'd expected a palsy-walsy interaction and was getting anything but.

  "Sure, tomorrow's fine," Decker said. "It's just... you know. Well, maybe you don't. Time is really important in these kind of cases, Doc."

  Brecht closed his eyes, then slowly opened them. "I suppose a few minutes..."

  Decker walked over and looped his arm around the doctor's shoulder. Gently, he guided Brecht out the door. "You look like you could use a cup of coffee."

  "I never drink caffeine," Brecht said weakly.

  "Now's a good time for an exception."

  "No, no." Brecht sighed. "I'm fine. Really, I'm fine. Well, that's not true at all. I'm very shaken. Who wouldn't be?"

  "True."

  They took the elevator down to ground level. It was after five and the cafeteria had begun to serve dinner, the special was meat loaf with mashed potatoes, peas, and coffee or soft drink for $4.99.

  "Hungry?" Decker asked.

  "I never eat red meat," Brecht said.

  Decker picked up an apple.

  "That's been sprayed," Brecht commented. "If you must eat chemically adulterated items, may I suggest an orange as opposed to an apple. Its peel, being thick, absorbs most of the pesticides, leaving only traces of the poison in the meat of the fruit."

  Decker stared at him. "Maybe I'll just stick to coffee."

  "Caffeine has been implicated in heart disease and infertility."

  "My wife's pregnant," he said, then wondered why.

  "Good God, I hope she has enough sense not to drink coffee. Caffeine's been implicated in birth defects!"

  Decker was quiet. Now that he thought about it, Rina was suddenly drinking
mint tea. He wondered if that had been implicated in anything, but didn't ask. He filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee and led Brecht to a corner table. He pulled out his notebook.

  Brecht said, "How long have you been with the force?"

  Decker held back a smile and sipped axle grease. "I've been with LAPD for seventeen years, fifteen of them wearing a gold shield."

  Brecht looked at Decker, then at the table top. "I... apologize for interrogating you... was it Officer Decker?"