False Prophet. Faye Kellerman

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 eyes 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 hospital.”

      7

      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 gridmarked 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—the 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 companies, 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