False Prophet. Faye Kellerman

the spa.”

      “Do you know a guy named Mike from the spa?”

      “Don’t know him, nossir.”

      Decker waited a beat. “Carl, do you ever see a guy named Mike from the spa picking vegetables for Miss Lilah?”

      “I see him,” Totes said. “But I don’t know him.”

      “But you know what he looks like.”

      “’Course.”

      “Was he here yesterday?”

      “Nossir.”

      “You’re sure.”

      “Yessir.”

      Decker sighed inwardly. “Carl, does Miss Brecht ever go running at night?”

      “Don’t recall.”

      “Maybe Miss Brecht went running last night,” Decker suggested. “You might have seen her?”

      Totes turned slowly and faced Decker, a confused look on his face.

      “Did you see Miss Brecht run last night, Carl?”

      Totes shook his head.

      “But she does run at night?”

      Totes scratched his nose. “Don’t recall.”

      Decker bit back frustration. “So nothing unusual happened last night?”

      Totes nodded slowly.

      “And you didn’t see Miss Brecht’s brother—Frederick Brecht—here last night.”

      “Nossir.”

      “What about Miss Brecht’s other brother—the one who had the fight with her about two years ago.”

      Totes removed his hat. The empty expression in his eyes had been replaced by hot blue flames. “What about him?”

      “He come around here a lot?”

      “Not no more.”

      “You chased him away last time he was here?”

      “I did do it.”

      “With a shovel.”

      “I did do it.”

      “Why?”

      “’Cause he was yellin’ at Miz Lilah something fierce.”

      “Did Miss Lilah ask for your help?”

      Again, Totes seemed confused.

      “Did she come running to you and say, ‘Carl, help me chase my brother away.’”

      “Nossir.”

      “But you figured she needed help so you chased him with the shovel.”

      “I just didn’t like the way he was yellin’.”

      “Was he swearing at Miss Lilah?”

      “Swearin’?”

      “Yeah, swearin’. Cussin’ at her.”

      “He was yellin’. Maybe he was cussin’, too. But the yellin’ was ’nuf.”

      “What were they yelling about?”

      Totes spit. “None of my dang business.”

      “I know you wouldn’t listen in on purpose, but maybe you overheard something?”

      “None of my dang business.”

      Decker shifted gears. “By the way, what’s Miss Lilah’s brother’s name?”

      “Freddy.”

      “No, Carl, the other one. The one she was yelling at.”

      “He was yellin’.”

      “Okay, the one who was yelling at her. What’s his name?”

      Once again, the eyes became blank. “Name?”

      “If you don’t know it, it’s okay,” Decker said. “I’ll get it from Miss Lilah.”

      The eyes filled suddenly with water. “How’s Miz Lilah?”

      Decker said, “I think she’ll be okay.”

      “If King hurt her, I’m gonna kill him,” Totes announced.

      Decker paused to write down Totes’s declaration in his notebook. “Who’s King, Carl?”

      “King,” Totes said. “That’s Lilah’s brother. The one who was yellin’.”

      Decker let that sink in. Had to go real slow with the guy. “Lilah’s other brother, the one who was yelling. Was his name King?”

      “Yessir. I just remembered it.”

      “Is King his first or his last name?”

      Totes put his cowboy hat back on and shrugged ignorance. He said, “Are we almost done? All this talk is makin’ me addled. And when I’m addled, I can’t work.”

      Decker stuffed the notepad back in his coat pocket. He patted Apollo’s butt and told the stable hand they were through.

      4

      The smell of food in the oven awakened Decker’s stomach. He placed the bags of bakery goods on his dining-room table and took off his jacket. Ginger dashed in from the other room, barking with excitement.

      “Rina?”

      There was no answer.

      “What’s Mama cooking, girl?” Decker said, petting the Irish setter. He went to the kitchen, the dog at his heels. The counters were filled with cookie sheets containing hundreds of miniature knishes—tiny bits of puff pastry filled with potato, spinach, or buckwheat. He picked up a couple and tossed them in his mouth, swallowed them down with a tall glass of orange juice.

      He looked outside the window, at his own acreage, then opened the back door to let the dog out. Rina was nowhere in sight. Maybe she was inside the barn. Again, he called out her name. No answer.

      The timer on the stove went off. He opened the oven door, saw the tops of the knish dough had turned golden brown and turned off the heat. With stuff left in the oven, she was bound to show up soon. Or so he told himself. But he was determined to be calm. He was getting better at not worrying about her, but as with the mending of his wounds, it was proving to be a slow process.

      He opened the kitchen drawer and fished out a yarmulke stuffed between a tape measure and a hammer, then bobby-pinned the skullcap onto his hair. He filled a plate with knishes and poured himself a glass of milk. Standing, he ate while he phoned the hospital. Everyone was out to lunch. After being relegated to hold six times, then being disconnected twice, he was finally put through to Dr. Kessler’s office. Kessler’s secretary announced that he was in a meeting, but Decker pushed her, and a few minutes later, the OB-GYN came to the phone.

      “Sergeant Decker?”

      “Doctor,” Decker said. “Thanks for taking time to talk to me.”

      “Sergeant, you rescued me from a committee meeting,” Kessler said. “You did a big mitzvah.”

      Decker laughed. Imagine a Jewish doctor treating him like an MOT—a member of the tribe. Of course, he was Jewish. But it still took him by surprise that others could think of him as a Jew.

      “Glad to be of service, Doc,” he said. “Did you happen to admit Lilah Brecht this morning?”

      “I sure did,” Kessler said. “Isn’t Lilah Brecht the one with the famous actress mother?”

      “Davida Eversong,” Decker said.

      “Yeah, that’s