Goldin said, "No, I don't—"
"Different fathers," Decker interrupted. "Hermann Brecht was Frederick's father, but not Lilah's."
"Ya," Greta said. "Essackly."
Goldin said, "So who was Lilah's father?"
Decker's own words ran through his brain.
... linkage between Davida and Lilah...
"Kingston Merfitt." Decker looked at Greta. "It was Kingston, wasn't it."
"Ya, it was Kingston," Greta said. "He had eye out for her. I tell Heidi not to talk to family." She shook her head. "She don't listen. She get into trouble... twice. Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl!"
And then the old woman broke into woeful tears.
D
ecker adjusted his weight in the driver's seat of the parked Plymouth and pulled a cold meat-loaf sandwich out of his paper bag. He felt the stare as strong as a blast of heat and regarded the body in the passenger's seat... Marge's waifish eyes upon him. He gave her half.
"Ah, Pete, you don't have to."
"I'm going to have a big dinner tonight anyway." He checked his watch—one o'clock. Dinner was still seven hours away. Oh, what the hey. He'd fill up on coffee. "Don't worry about it. So what's up, Doc?"
"Which doc?" Marge bit into the sandwich. "How about we start with Kingston Merritt."
"Shoot."
"I'm wondering if Lilah knew King was her daddy and that's why she felt so guilty over his death."
"Did she imply that Kingston might be her father?"
"Well, she called him overbearing, but also said he acted that way out of love. Doesn't that sound like something a kid would say about her father rather than her brother?"
"Yeah, Marge, but we've got to remember that Merritt was functionally her father. And it's not just from what he told you. Goldin and Reed painted us the same picture." Decker sipped coffee from a thermos. "At this moment, I see no point in asking Lilah what she knows. She's heavily invested in being Hermann
Brecht's daughter. I don't want to tell her something that may shove her into the deep end again."
"Pete, I don't think the lady's ever swum in the shallow."
Decker capped his thermos. "Good point."
"So what exactly took place in the Rhineland?" Marge asked. "King knocked up this woman's daughter and the daughter gave Lilah to Davida to raise as her own?"
"Yep. Greta was Davida's personal dressmaker. The job involved a lot of housecalls—fittings. Greta brought along her daughters as assistants. She tried to keep a tight rein on her girls, but hormones won out. Heidi caught King's eye and nature took its course. They were both fifteen at the time. According to Greta, Davida was more than happy to take the baby. And Hermann seemed willing, too. With Davida being over forty, a healthy pregnancy looked remote. Herm wanted someone to bear his name. The only one who was not happy about the arrangement was Kingston. Not that he wanted Heidi, but he was furious about Hermann co-opting his baby."
Marge said, "Remember John Reed telling us about Lilah's birth party. How Merritt and Hermann came to blows?" She licked her fingers. "All makes sense now."
"Yes, it sure does. Greta remembered a lot of hatred and fierce competition between the two of them. They were only seven years apart. When Hermann knocked up Heidi, Kingston was crazed with anger. First, Hermann stole his baby, then his girl. Hermann had been a big pussy hound to begin with. He and Davida used to fight about his roving eye. Old Herm scored a big coup when he knocked up Heidi, managing to piss off his wife and his stepson. What I can't understand is why Kingston—who hated Hermann— played along with the charade of older brother."
"I'll use your words, Pete," Marge said. "After Brecht died, King was functionally Lilah's father. Why stir up dirt when you have what you want? Or maybe King didn't say anything out of consideration for Davida."
Decker thought a moment. "Maybe that was the secret in the memoirs. Davida didn't want it coming out that King was Lilah's father."
"Or that Hermann was Freddy's father. Speaking of which, why were the memoirs sent to Lilah and not Freddy—Hermann's true blood son?"
"Maintaining the sham, I guess," Decker said. "Lilah was acknowledged blood offspring of Hermann and Davida. Freddy was the outcast—the adopted child."
"Just a good old family with old bones in the closets," Marge said.
Decker said, "A good old family that's not big on natural deaths. Both Heidi and Hermann committed suicide. Heidi's may have been accidental. Greta told me the official line was alcohol and drug intoxication—Seconal. I can't imagine a reputable doctor prescribing barbiturates to a sixteen-year-old back then. Maybe they were Hermann's."
Marge considered his words. "Or maybe they were Davida's. Maybe Davida gave them to Heidi... supposedly out of the kindness of her heart. Pete, Hermann was a big drinker. Suppose Davida knew Herm and Heidi used to drink together and she hoped that pills and booze wouldn't mix." She became animated. "Pete, maybe it wasn't King's paternity thing that scared Davida. Maybe Hermann somehow implicated Davida in Heidi's death! That would be something worth murdering over."
"Murdering who?" Decker asked.
"Kingston." Marge said. "Davida thought Hermann wrote about Heidi's death in his memoirs. And Davida also knew that Lilah was getting ready to read them—the twenty-five years were just about up. So Davida decided to steal the memoirs. Suppose she asked King to steal them."
"And he agreed to do it for money."
"Right. So he lifted the papers, then began to have second thoughts about forking them over to Mama."
"Why the second thoughts?" Decker asked. "Why didn't he just take the money and run?"
"Maybe something was more important to King than money. Maybe, when he read the memoirs, all his latent paternal feelings came out. He became furious not only at Hermann but at Davida for denying him his true role as Lilah's father. And he knew the truth was in the papers. And he suddenly wanted Lilah to know, too. Heidi was her birth mother after all. So old King did a U-turn and told his mother he was going to give Lilah her memoirs back."
"And Davida became so enraged she had him whacked?"
"Hey, I have no trouble believing she'd do it if she thought it was a toss-up between her skin and his. Or like I said before,
maybe King's death was unplanned. Davida sent Russ Donnally to look for the memoirs. King walked in at the wrong time, and things got out of hand. Plausible?"
"Plausible," Decker said. "But this is all speculation."
"Of course it's speculative," Marge finished her coffee and threw the cup in an overflowing garbage box. "That's our job. When we don't have evidence, we speculate. And we certainly don't have evidence against Davida."
"You think it's Davida?"
"She's the common link among the victims. If we could only get... get some ammunition against her." Marge frowned. "Unfortunately, Kingston Merritt and Russ Donnally are dead. And Kelley, Eubie, and Mike have gone the way of bivalves. Of course, there is Lilah..."
"I ain't about to confront her right now," Decker said. "She probably doesn't know anything and I don't want her death on my conscience."
"Neither do I," Marge said. "So who's left?"
"Who's left?" Decker started the Plymouth's engine. "Marge, we've got Hermann Brecht's son, that's who's left."
The spaces marked reserved for doctor were once again occupied, so Decker stowed the unmarked in a slot reserved for the health-food store. He turned to Marge and said, "Remind me to pick up some wheat germ on the way out. I'm always parking in their spaces, might as well give them a little business."
"Wheat germ?"
"Maybe I meant oat bran—you know what I'm talking about. The stuff that tastes like sawdust. Any questions?"
Marge shook her head. They got out of the car and walked up to Brecht's clinic. Decker opened the glass door, a small tinkle of bells announcing their arrival. Place still looked like an ashram. Formless synthesizer music whined from a wall speaker. Not a soul in sight. Decker walked across the mats and knoc
ked on the receptionist's window. Althea slid the window open, her wrist bedecked in jewelry just like the last time.
"Do we have to take out our badges or can we dispense with the formalities?"
Althea folded her silvcr-bangled arms across her chest; bracelets jingling in the swift movement. "I remember you."
Marge said, "We know Dr. Brecht is in. We just spent the last half hour tracking him down. We need to see him."
Althea nodded. "I'll buzz him."
Marge's hand covered the intercom. "Why don't you open the door and we'll let him know we're here."
Althea eyed her, then stood and opened the connecting door. She blocked the threshold with her body. "He's been under terrible stress, you know. You're bothering him on his lunch hour."
Decker sidestepped around her into the hallway of the suite. "We'll try to be quick."
"His office is in the back."
"Thank you," Marge said.
They walked down the hallway. On impulse, Decker opened the door to a patient examining room. In gross contrast to Merritt's surgical offices, Brecht's rooms seemed more suited for love-ins than medical practice. The area was furnished with beanbag chairs, stuffed pillows, and a floral-sheeted mattress. Wood-framed glass-door cupboards held old-fashioned apothecary crocks, each one labeled with a different herb—witch hazel, foxglove, taro root, belladonna, hyssop, sage, peppermint, juniper berries, thistle, trefoil. In the corner was a brass incense holder.
Marge and he exchanged glances. She shrugged and said, "Hey, all things being equal, I'd rather take peppermint and juniper berries than bitter-tasting pills and shots."
"All things being equal..." Decker winked. "That's the catch."
He found Brecht's office and opened the door. The doctor was at his desk, phone cradled in one hand, a pita sandwich in the other. His face was a mask of confusion. He told the party on the other end of the line he'd call back, hung up, then stood, palms placed flat on his desk.
"Do you make it a habit of barging into people's private space?"
"Not a habit," Decker said. "Sorry about our manners but we need to talk to you, Doctor. It's about your adoption."
Brecht's face compacted with rage. "How dare you intrude upon my private life! Who I am and the circumstances of my birth are none of your damn business!"
"I don't blame you for being mad," Decker said, "I know how you feel—"
"You don't know a goddamn thing! Now kindly leave here—"
"I do know," Decker blurted, "because I'm adopted, too."
The room fell quiet. Decker observed Brecht. Angry? Confused? Maybe wary was the best description.
"Ever wonder about your birth parents. Doc?" Decker stuck his hands in his pockets. "I did... still do. I think that's normal. Everyone wants to know where they come from. Know what I'm talking about?"
The glint in Brecht's eyes—now it was curiosity. The man was hooked.
Brecht shifted his focus from Decker to Marge and then back again to Decker. "It's obvious you have something to tell me. You might as well make yourselves comfortable."
Marge thanked him and rooted herself in an office chair across from Brecht's desk. Decker remained standing, studying Brecht's place of work. No hoo-hah mystics for Dr. Freddy, just a conventional physician's office, maybe even nicer than most. Parquet floor, Chinese area rugs, wood paneling, rosewood desk and matching credenza, their tops displaying miniature ceramic vases and glass figurines. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases held medical tomes, the top four rows devoted to basic texts, nothing to indicate any conventional specialization. But the last two shelves were books on New Age and Organic Medicine. Thick texts labeled Herbol-ogy. Nutrition, Acupuncture, Biofeedback. A series of books on the Art of Healing—Quantum Healing, Healing Through Light, Healing Through Wu Chi, Healing Through Meditation. Healing Through Aerobics, Healing Through Water.
On the walls were photographs of sunsets interspersed with professional degrees. Decker read the certificates.
Brecht said, "Do my credentials meet with your approval, Sergeant?"
"Looks good to me, Doctor," Decker said. "But frankly, I wouldn't know a bogus diploma from the real thing."
"Yes, that's usually the case. The degrees are there to satisfy my clientele, not for service of the ego." Brecht fidgeted with his hands. "Do sit, Sergeant, you're making me nervous."
Decker turned a chair around and straddled the seat, resting his arms against the chair's back. "Dr. Brecht, there might be a connection between Hermann Brecht's memoirs and Kingston Merritt's death."
Brecht shook his head vigorously. "I don't see how they could possibly be related. And what does that have to do with my adoption?"
Decker kept his face blank. Brecht was still on adoption. Had him hook, line, and sinker. "I'm getting to your adoption," Decker said. "But first, let's go back to the memoirs. Did you ever see them, Doctor?"
"See them? Don't you mean read them?"
"No, see them," Marge said. "Physically touch them."
Brecht paused. "Are you after verification of their existence?"
Decker said, "Yes."
"Yes, they exist. I've seen them. I was with Lilah when they arrived at her house. I never read them of course, but I saw them and a cover letter."
"Did you read the cover letter?" Decker asked.
"No. It was addressed to Lilah."
Marge said, "Did Lilah tell you not to mention the memoirs to anyone?"
"Yes. Lilah wanted their existence kept private until twenty-five years after Hermann's death had passed. That was one of Hermann's requests spelled out in the cover letter."
"Which you never read," Decker said.
"Which I never read. Lilah told me the specifics of the letter."
"Then how do you know the cover letter was addressed to Lilah?" Decker asked.
"Well, I saw..." Brecht twitched. "I noticed the box the memoirs came in. It had been addressed to Lilah... to the child of Hermann Brecht, actually.... Kinder de Hermann Brecht. Something like that. Only the address was in German. The cover letter was in English. I don't understand how the memoirs are relevant to Kingston's death or my adoption."
Decker said. "Doctor, what do you know about your biological parents' backgrounds?"
Brecht shook his head. "Sergeant, either be forthcoming or kindly leave. I have three clients this afternoon and then I must rush back to the hospital. Lilah's not very psychologically sound. I don't want either of you disrupting her healing arena."
"Nah, I'm not interested in talking to her," Decker said. "Just you."
Brecht looked stupefied. "Very well. Talk."
"Doctor," said Marge, "we've discovered some interesting things about you—by accident. I don't want anything we say to come as a shock—"
"Nothing could shock me." Brecht was suddenly impatient. "1
know my background, Detective. Mother was always very open about it. Get on with it."
"Doctor, I'm not stalling," Decker said. "It's just... well, I don't think your mother has been completely... honest about. your background. That's why I want to hear what you know."
"Oh, very well! I see the only way to rid myself of you two is to talk." Brecht picked up a pyramidal crystal from his desk and began to rub the base. "It's not a background of which I'm particularly proud. I was the product of a union between a simpleton mother and a felonious father. They never married, of course. My biological mother had been simply a vessel for my father's lust. Mother—Davida Eversong, that is—took pity on me and rescued me from that impoverished environment. Mother has told me innumerable times how fortunate I was to have the wealth that allowed me to exploit my inferior genetic capacity to its fullest."
Decker thought: Greta Millstein—an impoverished environment. At that moment, he felt sorry for Brecht and for Greta. She had sacrificed her heart, mistakingly thinking she'd done her grandchildren an immense act of kindness.
Brecht placed the crystal back on his desk with a thump. "Not that Mother has been much of
a mother. Both Lilah and I were raised by nannies and governesses and nurses and chauffeurs and cooks and—good Lord, you think the woman would have been a bit interested in our development."
"The price of fame," Decker said.
"No price for my mother," Brecht said, "but for me... especially for me. Kingston hated me from the day I was born. I don't know what I did to deserve his hatred. I know Mother loved him more than me... and yes, I was a bit jealous, but who wouldn't be? 1 tried to please them all. Kingston just never accepted me. As fond as he was of Lilah, that's how much he despised me. John was a decent man, but he was never around. Mostly, it was Lilah and me and the hired help. And Kingston being horrible to me."
Faye Kellerman - Decker 05 - False Prophet Page 38