False Prophet. Faye Kellerman

      “Positive.”

      She slipped her hand underneath his shirt. Decker felt dizzy from the aroma of her skin. “You telling me something, darlin’?”

      “You have time, Peter?”

      He sat up and loosened his tie. “Honey, I’ll make time.”

      “Aren’t I lucky to have a man who makes his own hours.”

      “Good perks, huh?”

      “Yes, indeed.”

      Decker unbuttoned his shirt. He was glad Marge hadn’t come.

      Stepping onto Planet VULCAN was like entering another world.

      One that Marge at least had never seen before.

      The lobby of the spa was a ballroom-sized rotunda, the ceiling domed and imprinted with gilt-tinged vines and flowers that trailed down the plaster walls. The floor was cut from peach-veined marble and partially covered by a thick, green-and-peach Chinese rug thirty feet in diameter. Atop the rug were several seating groups. A brocade sofa, flanked by gold-trimmed occasional tables, was occupied by three sunlamp-tanned women looking to be in their thirties. They were dressed in short shorts and T-shirts and were giggling like teenagers. They also had perfect figures—too perfect, not an unwanted bump or bulge anywhere. The two velvet wingbacks were taken up by leotard-clad, college-age girls. Towels draped around their necks, they sipped some tropical drink made with lots of crushed ice and examined their long red fingernails.

      Three middle-aged women sat in burnt-leather club chairs around an oversized onyx backgammon table, laughing loudly, showing off white teeth. Two love seats near the fireplace held pairings of young and older women—mothers and daughters possibly. The ladies were using the marble coffee table placed between the settees as a footrest.

      The hearth was set into the rear wall, the carved mantel curved to hug the circumference of the room. Against the left wall was a highly polished mahogany staircase that ended at a second-story landing. The reception desk—done in more peach-veined marble—was to the right.

      A tuxedoed waiter, carrying a tray of something flesh-colored in highball glasses, walked up to Marge, eyes heavy with disapproval. But he kept a stiff upper lip.

      “Your guava-passion-fruit refresher, ma’am?”

      His accent was affected-English.

      “Any of them laced with Stolichnaya?”

      “Pardon?”

      “Or just plain bar vodka will do.”

      “No alcohol is allowed—”

      “Forget it, Jeeves.”

      She patted his back and strolled over to the reception desk. A bespectacled young woman—also in leotards—looked up from the cashier’s desk. Her initial smile dimmed when she saw Marge.

      “May I help you, madame?”

      Not madam, mind you, ma-dame. Another little taut body with big boobs. This one had short short hair and features sharp enough to cut meat. Her name tag identified her as Ms. F. Purcel.

      “It’s mademoiselle if you want to be technical,” said Marge, “and yes you can help me. I’m Detective Dunn from the LAPD. I’d like to speak with Kelley Ness.”

      Moving her lips, Purcel studied the ID card. “May I ask what this is about?”

      “Why don’t you let me talk to Kelley Ness. Then if she wants you to know, she can tell you herself.”

      Purcel sighed. “One moment. Have a seat—No … maybe you could just wait in the corner.”

      Marge smiled but didn’t move. The clerk gave up and went to the switchboard, back turned as she talked into the phone. It took about a minute before she hung up.

      “I’m unable to locate Ms. Ness. May I take a message?”

      Marge leaned over the desk. “Why don’t you call again, ma’am.”

      “I’m sorry—”

      “Call again.”

      Ms. Purcel opened and closed her mouth, then about-faced and picked up the phone. Another minute passed before she returned.

      “I’ve located Ms. Ness.”

      “The phantom returneth.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Where is she?”

      Purcel became very official. “Take the staircase on the left to the second floor. Ms. Ness is in office B on the right side.” Then she added, “She’s very busy.”

      Marge said, “Well, aren’t we all, ma-dame.”

      The office was wedge-shaped. Austere-looking, especially when compared to the ornate lobby. Its walls were hung with cheap poster art. Small windows looked out to an Olympic-sized pool. The desk, piled high with loose papers, was functional and nothing more. The woman in the secretary’s chair looked to be around twenty-five. Her face was pretty but angry, brown eyes smoldering. She tossed poker-straight hair over her shoulders and shuffled some papers.

      Marge waited until Little Miss Irate had the decency to acknowledge her. The squaring off took about a half minute. Irate raised her eyes and waited for Marge to speak.

      “You’re Kelley Ness?”

      “You’ve found me.”

      Marge started to pull up a chair.

      “You needn’t bother to sit, Detective. The civil suit was frivolous enough. Ms. Betham is just furthering her troubles by going to the police. Miss Brecht is not expected in today, but if you give me your card, I’ll give it to her and she can forward your name to our lawyers. I’m sure they will educate you.”

      Marge sat, thought a moment before she spoke. “Do you know where Miss Brecht is?”

      “She checks in with us frequently. I assure you she’ll get the card.”

      “Did she check in with you today?”

      Kelley hesitated, her eyes suddenly thoughtful. “I’ll forward your card. Now if you’ll excuse—”

      “Was Miss Brecht expected to come in today?”

      “What difference does it make? She won’t talk to you without advice of an attorney—”

      “I’m not interested in talking to Miss Brecht, Kelley. I only want to know if Miss Brecht was expected to come in today. Or did she take the day off?”

      Kelley bit her lip. “You’re asking strange questions.”

      “On the contrary, they’re not strange questions. They’re just not the ones you expected. So keep things simple and answer them.”

      Kelley paused. “Miss Brecht took the day off.”

      “Is that unusual?”

      “Not at all. She frequently takes Wednesdays off. She experiments with new recipes for the kitchen. What’s this all about, anyway?”

      “She hasn’t called in, has she?”

      “No, she hasn’t.”

      “Then you probably don’t know.”

      “Know what?”

      “Miss Brecht was attacked last night—”

      “My God!” Kelley’s hand went to her throat. “Who … Is she all right?”

      “She’s going to be okay. She was beaten. She’s in the hospital now, but she’s conscious. I need a guest and employee list—everyone who was on the grounds last night. Especially the men.”

      Kelley covered her mouth and shook