False Prophet. Faye Kellerman

repulsive. His so-called practice is the antithesis of what we physicians profess to represent.”

      Decker couldn’t tell if Brecht’s ranting was a heartfelt opinion or yet another way of venting against his bro King.

      “Are you close to John, Doctor?”

      Brecht shook his head. “He’s closer to Kingston. The two of them are of the same generation and in the same field, so I suppose it’s natural.”

      “Does your mother slip John money as well?”

      “I don’t know,” Brecht said. “John seems to mind his own business. I have little to do with him, but I harbor no animosity toward him.”

      “Can you spell Kingston’s name for me, please?”

      “Spell?”

      “I want to make sure the maid gave me the right spelling.”

      “K-I-N-G-S-T-O-N M-E-R-R-I-T-T.”

      Kingston Merritt. Obviously, he and John Reed were half brothers as well.

      “Do you have phone numbers for either of them?”

      “No. They’re both in the book. John’s practice is in Huntington Beach; Kingston’s is in Palos Verdes.” Brecht stood. “If you don’t mind, it’s been a terribly long day and I’d like to check on my sister. With all these questions, I hope you haven’t lost sight of the fact that there is some maniac out there who hurts people.”

      “I’m well aware of that.” Decker stood. “I’ll go up with you … see if Lilah’s up for talking.”

      “And if she isn’t?”

      “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

      “I’ll phone the nurse’s station and find out if Lilah’s up,” Brecht said. “Save you a trip if she’s still sleeping.”

      Decker hesitated.

      “Or you can make the call, if you’d like,” Brecht suggested.

      Decker pointed Brecht to the house phone in the cafeteria. Brecht made a quick call, then hung up.

      “She’s still sleeping.”

      Decker evaluated his face and felt he was telling the truth. Even if he wasn’t, he couldn’t get much of an interview from Lilah with Freddy standing over his shoulder. Maybe it would be better if he came back tomorrow, refreshed from a good night’s sleep. He thanked Brecht for his time. Only thing left to do was running Lilah’s bagged clothes over to forensics. Then his working day was over.

      The house was deserted. Almost seven and no dinner on the table, no sons greeting him with a hug at the door, no wife taking his coat and nonexistent hat, and no dog bringing him the paper.

      His fantasy of marriage—shattered in a single blow.

      “Yo,” he called out. “Anybody live here?”

      He walked into the kitchen. Empty. Then he looked out the back window. Rina was barbecuing, tending the fire with savoir faire. She wore a denim shift under a white butcher’s apron. She was laughing and her long black hair was loose and blowing in the wind. The boys were racing the horses, yarmulkes flapping as they cantered, profiles burnished by the sinking sun. Ginger was chasing after them, panting and yelping, enjoying the exercise.

      Domestic bliss, except he wasn’t in the picture.

      He went outside.

      “You made it!” Rina kissed his cheek. Her skin smelled of hickory smoke. “Go change. Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes.”

      He glanced at the grill—marinated skirt steaks. Rina had also made coleslaw and macaroni salad, and had a couple of bottles of Dos Equis on ice. The patio table had been set for four so at least she’d been expecting him home. “I didn’t know they made maternity aprons.”

      “I must look like a tent.”

      “A beautiful tent. I’ll live inside of you any day of the year.” He hugged her from behind. “How are you feeling?”

      “Fine. I took a nap after you left.”

      “I like that. You should be babying yourself while you can.”

      She turned around and hugged him as best she could. “Are you okay?”

      “Sure.”

      “You seem wound up. You’re walking stiffly.” She reached up and gently squeezed the nape of his neck. “Oh, you’re all tight, Peter.”

      “Occupational hazard.”

      “Want a massage?”

      “Later, thanks.” He picked up a beer bottle, then noticed cans of soda sharing the cooler space. Coke. With caffeine. He shifted his weight, trying to appear casual. “You allowed to drink this stuff while you’re pregnant?”

      “I stay off soft drinks. Bad for the weight. Besides, Coke has caffeine and I don’t drink caffeine. That’s why I don’t drink your coffee in the morning anymore.” She smiled impishly. “Or hadn’t you noticed, Peter?”

      He hadn’t and felt stupid because of it.

      Sammy, the older of the two boys, spied his stepfather from afar and waved. “Hey, Peter, look at me.”

      He began racing his horse at top speed toward the edge of the mountain. Jacob, seeing his brother hogging parental attention, kicked the flanks of his horse and tried to catch up with him.

      Cupping his hands, Decker yelled out, “Good going, boys. Keep it up.” He turned to Rina. “They’re having fun.”

      “You sound envious. Why don’t you join them?”

      Decker hesitated. His arm and shoulder were throbbing. He’d forgotten to take his afternoon dose of analgesics, but wasn’t about to do it in front of Rina. “Nah, it’s okay. I’ll keep you company.”

      “Don’t be silly, Peter. Go ahead.”

      “I said it’s okay.”

      “Is your shoulder bother—”

      “My shoulder’s fine, Rina. Just peachy!”

      Rina looked down.

      Swell, he thought. She was hurt. He felt bad for sniping at her, but he was sick of her asking, sick of telling her it was okay when it wasn’t. Why didn’t she stop asking?

      Why didn’t he stop calling his daughter?

      “Cindy phone?”

      “No, she didn’t.”

      “Super.”

      Rina took his hand but didn’t say anything. Cindy was hurting him and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. She couldn’t even comfort him. As with his gunshot wound, the topic of his daughter was off limits. “Rabbi Schulman called about an hour ago. He’s expecting you in his study at nine tonight.”

      “I’ll be there.”

      “He also told me that he’d asked another man to join you two. A ba’al tshuvah who’s in a lower shiur—”

      “Someone is actually below me?”

      Rina didn’t answer, hating it when he denigrated himself. His progress in Torah studies was yet another taboo subject. Judaism was a hard religion for a newcomer. Even though Peter had made such marvelous advances, he was still uncomfortable with his newfound faith—nervous about what he didn’t know instead of praising himself for what he did. He was so smart. If only he could just relax and enjoy his God-given brains. “Rav Schulman asked me to ask you if that’s okay. He thought you’d be the perfect role model for the new kid on the block.”

      “Fine.”

      His face was