Murder 101. Faye Kellerman

The Hudson wasn’t too far away but the area was miles from the nearest coastline, something that Decker had yet to get used to.

      “How’d you do this for thirty years, Old Man?” Tyler asked him.

      Decker hated when the kid called him Old Man. He wasn’t young but he wasn’t ready for the glue factory, either. He still had a head of thick, gray hair, a full mustache with traces of its former red color, and a mind that was quick and perceptive. So instead of answering the rhetorical question, he said, “That was the third chest pain case in a month. You really need to learn CPR.”

      “I’m not putting my mouth on that old crone. Her breath was rank.”

      “Acetone,” Decker said. “Diabetes that’s not very well controlled.”

      “Whatever,” McAdams said. “Anyway, if it was between you and me performing CPR, you’d do it anyway.”

      “That’s not the point. It’s a skill you should have. Everyone expects a cop to know CPR just like everyone expects a cop to know how to shoot a gun.”

      “We don’t carry guns.”

      “We don’t carry them, but we have them if we need them. You do know how to shoot a gun … or did they let you slide with that one as well?”

      “If we’re playing one-upmanship, you’re going to lose.”

      “You have youth and education on your side. I have real experience. That must be worth a few brownie points.”

      “No one uses the term brownie points anymore and no need to be snide, especially because I’m out here in the trenches with you.”

      “Trenches?”

      “Stop pulling rank. I have seniority.” McAdams looked out the side window. “I’m not putting you down, Decker, but if I were actually insane enough to want to do this as a career, I’d probably be upper brass in NYPD within … say, four to six years?”

      “You think so?”

      “I know so. It’s not about experience or passing tests or paying your dues. It’s all about how to work the system, which is something I excel at. I learn exactly what I need to get the job done. Stuffing my brain with useless knowledge is inefficient. Like learning CPR. We get called out, I know you’re going to handle it. You or Roiters or Mann or Milkweed—”

      “Nickweed.”

      “Whatever. We get called out and CPR needs to be done, I’m not the go-to guy. Why should I waste my time learning something that I’ll never do?”

      “Because it is possible that we won’t be around and then you’ll look like a jackass. If I were your superior, I’d insist on it.”

      “But you’re not. And since I’m not asking for your opinion or advice, I suggest you stop wasting your breath. Need I remind you that a guy your age doesn’t have that much left.”

      Decker stifled a smile. He was riling up the kid on purpose and enjoying it. “You have a short fuse. You should work on that as well.”

      “Remind me why I volunteered to ride with you.”

      “Let me guess,” Decker said. “I think you’re one of those dudes hoping to glean something from my vast repertoire of police work. I think you’re figuring that just maybe I’ll tell you something truly original and fascinating and then you can write a novel about it. Or better yet, a screenplay. I can see you living in Hollywood. You’d fit in nicely.”

      “You’re being condescending. That’s fine. It must be hard to be the junior partner and intellectually inferior to someone as young as I am.”

      “Nah, I’m used to that. You’ve never met my kids.”

      “But you don’t work with your kids, do you?”

      “Nope. I don’t. And I really don’t work with you, McAdams. We just kind of ride around together. Not much in the way of meaningful conversation going on.”

      “You want to talk Proust, I’m in.”

      “Sure, talk to me about Proust. I like madeleines. My wife bakes them sometimes.”

      “He was boring and I hate philosophy. It’s very mathematical and that’s never been my strong suit. I mean I got a 720 on the SAT but that’s about average for Harvard.” When Decker said nothing, the kid squirmed and said, “So what was your favorite case as a detective?”

      “No go, Harvard. You’re just going to have to use your own experience for movie material, although God help us both if we ever caught a real case. Not a plain homicide … a whodunit.”

      “A whodunit? That’s what you call homicides?”

      “Not all homicides, just whodunits. Do you have even the slightest idea how to begin an investigation?”

      “Just from TV … is it that different?”

      “You are joking, right?” When McAdams went quiet, Decker felt a little bad. Why was he even bothering? The kid remained blissfully silent for the rest of the ride back, sulking and moping around until he clocked out at five.

      If he wasn’t such a twit, Decker might have felt sorry for him. The kid didn’t fit in at work: he really didn’t fit in anywhere. He wasn’t a student anymore and he was too young for the average resident living in Greenbury. So where did that leave his social life? Had he shown any genuine curiosity about police work, Decker would have invited him over for dinner. But Decker wasn’t in the charity business. You reap what you sow and that’s a fact.

      Living in a small town had its perks, particularly when selling real estate in L.A. and buying in Greenbury. He and Rina had walked away with a nice nest egg in their pockets. Their new house on Minnow Lane was built at the turn of the twentieth century, bungalow style with three bedrooms, two and a half baths, and a wood-burning fireplace with erratic radiator heating. The selling point was the previous owner’s remodel. He had opened up the ceiling and exposed the beams. It was not only aesthetically pleasing, it allowed Decker and his six-four frame to move about the house without bumping into door headers. The yard was now brown and lifeless but they had bought the house in the fall when autumn leaves were ablaze with color and the weather had been brisk and beautiful. Spring was going to be a true spring, not an L.A. spring with fog and smog.

      The house had only a one-car garage where Decker parked the Porsche, leaving Rina’s old Volvo in the driveway. Every morning, Decker cleared the windshield and moved the car to the street so he could get out. It was the least he could do for schlepping her to pursue his dream.

      The advantage of the new location was driving distance to their four biological children—two were hers, one was his, and one was shared—as well as their foster son, Gabe Whitman, who was busy touring as a classical pianist. Two of the five were married so there were spouses and grandchildren in the mix. Decker’s daughter, Cindy, who had been a GTA detective in L.A., was working patrol in Philadelphia. But it was just a matter of time before she was promoted back up to being a gumshoe.

      The house was warm with wafting cooking aromas, immediately putting Decker in a good mood. Inside the compact but modernized kitchen, Rina was working, her hair tucked into a knitted tam that she wore for religious reasons. She was garbed in a thin blue cotton sweater and a knee-length denim skirt, stirring a soup for tomorrow night’s Shabbat dinner. She was using a big cauldron, which meant guests.

      “How many are we expecting?” Decker kissed her cheek.

      Rina kissed him back on the lips. “Six to eight. But lunch will be just the two of us, so don’t fret.”

      “I like company.”

      “Liar. But you’re a good sport. Go change. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.”

      Decker sat on a chair at the breakfast bar. “I’d rather talk to you and get some pleasant company for a change.”

      “The