Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Faye Kellerman
Copyright
About the Publisher
Faye Kellerman
Jupiter’s Bones
A Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus Novel
For those who have made it worthwhile
to get up in the morning.
To Jesse for the projects and excitement.
To Rachel for the elegance and style.
To Ilana for the fun and games.
To Aliza for the snuggles and the warmth.
To Anne, my mother,
for the unconditional support.
To Barney, the suffering agent,
for the twenty-four-hour ear.
And to Jonathan—my partner in crime
as well as love.
Contents
Prologue
Because her recent days had been filled with scientific data…
1
“The thing is, they moved the body, Lieutenant.”
2
Ignoring hostility was part of the profession. Decker was used…
3
The processional gave Decker the opportunity to skulk around. Assigning…
4
Guru Bob walked Decker back to the Order’s entryway before…
5
It took some time and a little internal maneuvering, but…
6
The thermos of coffee had run dry. Reluctantly, Decker traded…
7
Over the phone there were no signs of tears, no…
8
Sipping coffee, her feet propped on the desk, Europa said,…
9
Oliver said, “I can buy the thing about time slowing…
10
Timing was everything. As Decker debated the wisdom of bringing…
11
With the phone at his ear, Decker looked up from…
12
They had amassed for the confrontation in the main hall.
13
“What do you know about cults?”
14
Pluto appeared to be praying, giving Decker a few extra…
15
Trying to narrow down a time frame for the missing…
16
Beyond Pasadena and the Rose Parade, beyond Southwest University of…
17
Beyond the edges of the Order’s compound, beyond the last…
18
Except now that Lyra is growing into a young lady,…
19
The night was cool and dark, giving the illusion of…
20
Marge stood at the mouth of the nearly invisible driveway,…
21
Sergeant Deputy Kirt Johannsen was a terse man. “What big…
22
Hearing the knock on the bedroom door, Rina put her…
23
Modern-day holding cells were hermetically sealed, the only way to…
24
Parked two blocks away from the Order were three cruisers,…
25
From inside Martineg’s Honda, Decker spoke fast and furiously. “We’ve…
26
The apartment was a mile from the university, easily within…
27
Standing outside, behind the shield of vehicular metal, Special Agent…
28
“Ner Yisroel?” Sammy asked. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
29
Decker squinted into the sun, then tented his eyes under…
30
After apprising the LAPD brass and FBI of the latest…
31
Reuben Asnibov was brought down to identify Lauren Bolt: to…
32
Crouching in the brush, Marge felt her thighs bunch as…
33
A slender hand reached down, grabbing the mud-caked glove. Peering…
34
It was taking too long.
35
Another fireball exploded in the charcoal sky, rocking the earth,…
36
After four hours of sleep, a nurse woke Decker up…
37
He felt her eyes burning a hole in his back.
38
Two weeks of respite, and Decker was going stir-crazy from…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Faye Kellerman
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Because her recent days had been filled with scientific data and research, Europa had paused only for the most basic of human necessities—food, water, bathroom breaks. Her nights had been equally jammed as she tried desperately to play catch-up—exercising on the stationary cycle, calling friends and attempting a life. Time had taken on a pace as unstoppable as the biblical flood. The rushing tempo had given her sporadic anxiety attacks as well as migratory bouts of heart palpitation—unusual since she was in peak condition and excellent health. She’d probably live a long time, judging by her parents’ genetics. Her mother had been in her early sixties when she had died, but she had been a broken woman.
Unlike her father.
Her father. He’d be in his seventies. And like most narcissists, he’d probably be in wonderful health.
Or so she thought.
But no time for any musings. Her professional calendar had been too demanding.
Except there had been that recurring daydream, a fragment from her past, a sneaky little devil that kept insinuating itself into Europa’s brain when she least expected it.
A remembrance of things past, thank you, Proust.
Sitting by the lake, watching the water gently lap up on the shoreline. For her tenth birthday, her father had decided to take her camping—just the two of them, leaving her squalling younger brothers at home with Mom. Dad had taken her somewhere up in the San Bernardino Mountains. To this day, Europa wasn’t sure of the precise location, and after she had become estranged from her father, she hadn’t bothered to ask.
The moment to remember had been at night. Back then, the stars weren’t subjects of scientific scrutiny nor were they inanimate objects of cosmological theory. They were millions of diamonds set into a velvet sky. The moon had been out—a waning moon, Europa recalled that. Its beams had bounced and rolled along the caressing waves. They had just finished a trout dinner cooked on the campfire…roasted marshmallows fo
r dessert. Snuggling under her sleeping blanket with her father by her side.
Just the two of them.
When her father had been the most important person in her life.
To help her fall asleep, he had told her stories, something he rarely did. Tales of evil empires in faraway places called black holes. There were also the heroic, fleet-footed knights of Quasar. And when demons of black holes tried to capture the knights of Quasar with their secret destructive weapon called gravity, the knights would turn themselves into invisible, weightless rays, and escape faster than the speed of light.
A fantastic story because her science teacher had told them that nothing traveled faster than the speed of light. And when she had mentioned that fact to her father, he had laughed, then kissed her cheek. The only time in her life when Europa remembered being the recipient of her father’s affection. Not that Dad had been overtly cruel, just inconsiderate. But mostly absent.
She thought of that night when she received the news—that her father was not only dead, but had died under suspicious circumstances.
1
“The thing is, they moved the body, Lieutenant.”
“What?” Decker strained to hear Oliver’s voice over the unmarked’s radio static. “Who’s they?”
“Whoever’s acting as the head honcho of the Order, I guess. Marge did manage to seal off the bedroom. That’s where Jupiter was found—”
“Could you talk up, Scott?”
“—point being that the crime scene is screwed up, and the body has been messed with because of the shrine.”
“Shrine?”
“Yeah. When we got here, the members were in the process of dressing him and constructing this shrine—”
“Where’s the body now?”
“In a small anteroom off some kind of church—”
Temple, Decker heard a male voice enunciate from the background. “Someone with you, Detective?”
“Hold on, lemme…”
Decker tapped the steering wheel until Scott came back on the line. It took a while.
Oliver held his voice low. “I told them to stop messing with the corpse until you got here. Not being a trusting soul, I’ve been guarding the body with some self-appointed guru who calls himself Brother Pluto. I sent an officer in there to keep him company so we could talk more privately.”
The electronic noise cracked through Decker’s ear. He said, “You need to talk louder.”
Oliver spoke up. “This Pluto person doesn’t want the police here. He keeps insisting that the death was natural, waving this bogus death certificate to prove it, disregarding the empty fifth of Stoli underneath the bed. Which he claims wasn’t Jupiter’s because Jupiter didn’t drink.”
“Death certificate?” Decker said. “Has the coroner been there?”
“Nope. It was signed by a gent named Brother Nova.”
“Who’s he?”
“Got me, sir.”
“Did you explain to them what we’re doing is standard procedure in sudden deaths?”
“I’ve tried to explain it, but Pluto’s not listening.” A laugh. “I’ve been biting my tongue, refraining from asking him where Goofy was.”
Decker smiled. Oliver was showing unusual discretion. “Did you tell him that we have to transport the body to the morgue for autopsy?”
“Been saving the good news for you. Because right now, Pluto and his toons are not happy campers, though I suspect they’ve never been a cheerful lot. Who called the death in?”
“Jupiter’s daughter. Her name is Europa Ganz. She’s on the faculty at Southwest University of Technology. Jupiter used to be a hotshot professor there years ago. His real name is Emil Euler Ganz. Apparently, the daughter’s not associated with the Order.”
“So how’d she find out about the death?”
A good question. “I don’t know, Scott. The details are sketchy.” He hesitated. “Find out about Ganz’s death certificate. This Nova must be a member of the Order, right?”
“I’d assume so. Probably some kind of in-house doctor. But that doesn’t qualify him to sign off on Jupiter.”
True enough. Decker’s finely tuned psycho-BS-detector was on max. He said, “The static is really bad. I’m having trouble hearing you. Just keep status quo until I get there.”
“We’re trying. But the parishioners are getting feisty. Is ‘parishioners’ the right word?”
It was fine with Decker although cult followers seemed more apropos. “Just try to keep everyone quiet.”
“How far are you from the holy spot?”
“Four, five miles. Traffic’s a little thick. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“See you.” Oliver clicked off.
The initial call had come through while Decker was still home, eating breakfast with his younger daughter, who was as skinny as the stick figures she drew. Hannah thought it was great fun to pick the raisins from her oatmeal, leaving behind the grainy mush. Decker was trying to spoon-feed her, attempting to get some nutrition down her gullet until Rina aptly pointed out that the child was five, and capable of feeding herself.
He lived about twenty minutes by freeway from the station house, about thirty-five minutes from the crime scene. That was on good days, and today wasn’t one of them. Decker ran his left hand through strands of ginger hair now streaked with white, and settled into the seat of the unmarked Buick. He guzzled strong coffee from a thermos. Across the passenger’s seat was the front page of the Los Angeles Times.
Eight-oh-five and nothing was moving.
Inching his way up to the next off-ramp, he decided to exit and take Devonshire. The boulevard was one of the main east-west arteries through the San Fernando Valley, six lanes lined with strip malls, wholesalers and industrial warehouses. Going farther west, the street’s industry gave way to residences—stucco ranch houses sitting on flat land that once held agricultural orchards—oranges, lemons, apricots. He and Rina had recently purchased a house in the area, intending to move in after a few minor renovations.
Which had turned (predictably) into a major overhaul.
He could have done the job himself if he hadn’t been gainfully employed. So they bit the bullet, hiring subs while Rina acted as the contractor. One day, Decker had come to the property to find his wife precariously balanced on a ladder, pointing out to the roofer a defect near the chimney. Her skirt blew in the wind as she spoke animatedly, though Decker couldn’t hear a word of the conversation. Apparently the roofer had run the hose over the top of the house for twenty minutes, proudly pronouncing the place water-tight. But Rina had been skeptical. She had run the hose for three hours, discovering a leak after two hours and twenty minutes.
(The first rain would have ruined the hardwood floors, Peter.)
Decker smiled, thinking about her image—that of his Orthodox Jewish wife perched on the highest rung of a tall ladder, one hand pointing out flaws while the other held down that hat she wore to cover her hair.
The scene helped to buoy his spirits. The day was gray and dirty, typical overcast May weather in Los Angeles. At least the cars were moving. He proceeded west into open terrain, the foothills on the right greened by the recent rains. They had become rolling waves of wild grass and flowers, spewing their pollens, making it a miserable allergy season. What Decker wouldn’t have given to have the Allegra concession this year.
He thought about Europa Ganz’s call to headquarters—reported as a suspicious death. In this case meaning suicide as opposed to death by natural causes. How could she know anything if she wasn’t there?
Someone tipped her. Who? And why?
Decker found suicides annoying because everything was left pending until the coroner made a definitive ruling. In the meantime, Homicide was saddled with the unpleasant job of keeping everything and everyone on hold, plus preserving the integrity of the “crime” scene—just in case. If Ganz had been someone less noteworthy, Decker wouldn’t have been called down. But since the corpse had once been a l
uminary prizewinner in astrophysics—a visionary for his generation eons ago—as well as the current leader of a two-hundred-plus-person enclave, Strapp thought it a good idea for someone with a title to make an appearance. The captain would have come in person, except he’d had a morning meeting downtown.
From what Scott Oliver had said over the radio, the members of the Order of the Rings of God were griping about the police. Of course, they’d gripe about anything establishment. Decker had been inside the compound once. It was not the stark and sterile place he had imagined. The interior had high ceilings with lots of skylights—blueness and sunshine visible from all angles. A complete view of the heavens, as if Ganz hadn’t quite given up cosmology.
Lots of skylights, several gable vents, but very few windows.
Decker had been called out to investigate a kidnapping charge, which turned out to be another case of a wayward kid exchanging the complexities of freedom for straight-forward rules and regulations. He hadn’t talked to Ganz. Instead, he had been given some underling with a celestial name. (Had it been Pluto?) The sect member had insisted that no one was ever held against his or her will.
He seemed to speak the truth. He had allowed Decker inside the entry hall to interview the kid. Clearly, the boy had wanted to be there. Although Decker’s heart went out to the parents, he was hog-tied. Their son was over eighteen and legally—if not emotionally—an adult.
Looking into his rearview mirror, Decker saw the meat wagon about thirty feet behind him. He led the way to the compound. Together, they pulled up curbside, parked and got out.
The Order of the Rings of God had placed itself on five acres of flat land blending into mountainside. The structure was a series of square, gray stucco bunkers linked together chock-a-block. From this view, Decker could see the tops of the skylights peeking out from the roofs. And his memory had served him correctly. There were very few windows—small, square panes more suitable for an attic. The domain was enclosed by a six-foot chain-link fence. A pack of Doberman pinschers had materialized, greeting them with vicious snarls.
The driver of the van wore blue scrubs. His name tag called him Postham. With him was the deputy coroner, Dr. Judy Little, a misnomer because she stood about five-ten and weighed around 175. She reminded Decker of Marge, both of them being large-boned, attractive and in their mid-thirties. But Marge’s eyes were softer, brown and doelike. They were one of her best features.
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