False Prophet. Faye Kellerman

had called her the next day. And the next and the next, receiving the same frosty attitude each time. Nothing more than a perfunctory chat, a sincere inquiry into the state of his health, and a cold response when he told her he was okay. He knew she wanted him to confide in her, but it simply wasn’t his style. He refused to complain to anyone, let alone his daughter.

      And so it went. Finally, Rina suggested he wait until Cindy came to him.

      Of course that conversation had led to a fight, he accusing her of interfering with his daughter. Later, he regretted his words but didn’t feel like apologizing. Rina didn’t push it; she was good about things like that.

      After he cooled off, he admitted to himself that Rina’s advice had been good. He knew that his constant calling was giving Cindy the message that he was insecure about their relationship. Over the months, he’d weaned himself down to a phone call a week.

      And each time Cindy remained aloof.

      Well, maybe she’d warm up after the baby came.

      And maybe he’d win the lottery, too.

      Frederick Brecht’s office was in Tarzana on the western end of Ventura Boulevard—the glitzy shopping strip for the San Fernando Valley. Decker had expected a medical building, but instead, 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,