Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection: False Prophet, Grievous Sin, Sanctuary. Faye Kellerman

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 was here?”

      “Why is that weird? He’s the patient’s brother.”

      “I’ve been looking for him,” Decker said. “Left messages at his office, at the hospital—”

      “I never got any messages from you.”

      Decker let out an exasperated sigh. “Did he just get here or has he been here all day?”

      “I’d say he came about a half hour ago. When he saw she was sleeping, he said he’d be back in a half hour. But like I said, that was a half hour ago. So he should be back around … now.”

      “I’m going to take a quick peek in Lilah’s room,” Decker said.

      “Okay,” replied the nurse with hairy forearms. “But don’t wake her.”

      Decker said he wouldn’t. Her room was at the end of the hallway—one of the few privates available in the hospital. She was sleeping sitting up in the bed, glucose trailing down an IV line threaded into her arm. Her hair had been brushed off her forehead, her scrubbed face showing the bluing and swelling of her ordeal. Both eyes were puffy, with scratches and cuts above her brow. Her mouth was open; the dry air had caused her red lips to crack. Her skin tone had markedly improved. She was still pale but the cold, ashen complexion was gone. She wore the standard hospital gown backward, the split open in the front. But her modesty was protected by a bedsheet across her chest. Softly, he called out her name.

      No response.

      He checked his watch and decided to wait a few minutes. He pulled a chair up to the bed, about to stretch his legs when a stern voice jerked his head around, demanding to know who the hell he was.

      The man appeared to be in his early thirties, medium height and weight, prematurely bald with just a few plugs of thin blond hair sticking up from a pink scalp. He made up for his lack of cranial hair with a full sandy-colored beard and thick eyebrows. He had close-set, pale-blue eyes and a long beaky nose. He wore a long white coat over an embroidered work shirt and jeans. On his feet were an ancient pair of Earth sandals—the kind where the toe was higher than the heel. Decker thought those had gone the way of the Nehru jacket.

      “I’m Sergeant Decker of the Los Angeles Police.”

      The man paused. When he spoke again, he had lowered his voice. “I don’t think she’s equipped to talk to the police at the moment. Maybe tomorrow.”

      “You’re Frederick Brecht?”

      “I’m Dr. Frederick Brecht, yes.”

      With an emphasis on the doctor, Decker noticed. He stood, overshooting Brecht by around six inches. He put him at about five-ten, one-seventy. Even though his coloring was similar to Lilah’s, brother and sister bore little resemblance.

      “I’m handling your sister’s assault, Doctor. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

      Brecht’s scalp turned a deep shade of rose. “Why is that a concern of the police?”

      “You went out with your sister last night,” Decker said. “Maybe you noticed something—”

      “Nothing,”