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

leading this class was blocky but agile. She was shouting in an accented voice over the music, with a look of grave intensity plastered to her damp face. Marge hadn’t talked to her, but decided it wasn’t in anyone’s best interests to interrupt the class. Kelley Ness’s attitude this morning had been cooperative, but she still wasn’t friendly.

      Marge decided to try her luck with the tennis instructor—Eubie Jeffers—maybe catch him between lessons. The spa should have his schedule mapped out at the front desk. She strolled through the ornate lobby and went over to the reception area, which was devoid of personnel. Resisting the urge to ring the little black bell, she leaned against the counter, her eyes instinctively shifting to the man at her left. He was fair and bald and looked agitated. Rocking on his feet, he rang the bell several times in quick succession.

      “Where’s help when you need it?” Marge said.

      The man startled at the sound of Marge’s voice. He wore a black silk shirt over jeans, and open-toed sandals.

      “The help here is usually exemplary.” He turned to Marge. “I’m Dr. Frederick Brecht—Valley Canyon’s physician. Perhaps I can help you.”

      “Perhaps you can.” Marge stuck out her hand. “Detective Dunn. Maybe we could talk a little.”

      Brecht looked at her hand, then finally shook it. “I’ve already spoken to the police. I have nothing to tell you. I really wish I did, but I don’t.”

      Marge focused in on his face. The man dressed casually but was as tight as a bad case of constipation. “I’d like to talk about the spa and the people who work here. It’s very close to your sister’s house.”

      “No one here would hurt a hair on my sister’s head. Everyone in her employ loves her. There are thousands of maniacs on the streets of Los Angeles. Why don’t you start investigating them?”

      Marge was about to respond when sharp-featured Ms. Purcel returned to her post behind the front desk.

      “Nice of you to join us, Fern,” Brecht said.

      Marge smiled as Fernie-poo blushed.

      “I … I’m terribly sorry—”

      Brecht waved her away, then faced Marge. “Somewhere out there is a maniac who beats and rapes women. Go find him.”

      “You bet we’ll keep investigating,” Marge said. “But in the meantime, maybe I could speak to the men in Miss Brecht’s employ. Just to be … thorough.”

      Brecht sighed forcefully. “I suppose it would be all right. Do try to be discreet, Detective. We cater to a very exclusive clientele.”

      “Well, well, well!” a deep baritone voice boomed. “Who emptied the gutters?”

      Marge and Brecht turned to its source. He was tall and well-built. He appeared to be in his middle to late forties with icy-blue eyes, pale lips, and a Roman nose. He had a florid complexion crisscrossed with tiny spider veins throughout the nose and cheeks. His salt-and-pepper hair had been cut long enough to form a cap of curls, but the tresses were short enough to be neat. He wore a dark-blue linen blazer, a white shirt with a tab collar, a blue-silk jacquard tie, and white-and-blue-striped seersucker pants. Around his flat belly was a dyed-white lizard belt secured with a gold buckle. His feet were housed in white Cole-Haan calfskin loafers; a white-silk handkerchief fanned out from his breast pocket. Marge looked at him, then back at Brecht, whose bald head had reddened from anger.

      “What the hell are you doing here?” Brecht spat out.

      “Visiting Mother, Frederick.”

      “You’re not welcome here,” Brecht fired back. “Leave at once or I will call the authorities.” He glanced at Marge. “Make yourself useful, Detective, and arrest this man. Dr. Merritt is trespassing on private property.”

      “I was invited down here—”

      “Arrest him, Detective!”

      Marge said, “Dr. Brecht—”

      “Arrest him this moment!” Brecht whined.

      Merritt’s thin lips turned into a mirthless smile. He took a step forward; Marge blocked his advance. Merritt’s eyes narrowed.

      “Who the hell are you?”

      “I’m the police, Dr. Merritt,” Marge said. “Why don’t we all sit down and try to have a civilized chat—”

      “You don’t know this man,” Brecht said. “You can’t be civilized with him.”

      Merritt threw him a contemptuous look, then turned to Marge. “Why are the police here?”

      “Investigating your sister—” Marge said.

      “What kind of mischief has Lilah gotten into now?” Merritt asked.

      “She hasn’t gotten into anything,” Brecht said.

      Merritt’s eyes lost some of their self-confidence. He turned to Marge. “So why are you investigating her?”

      “If she had wanted you to know, she would have told you, Kingston. Why don’t you leave poor Lilah alone. She doesn’t need you anymore.”

      Merritt’s nostrils twitched. He sidestepped Marge until he was face-to-face with Brecht. “You little twit, don’t you dare tell me how to treat my baby sister—”

      “You can’t talk to me like that!” Brecht said.

      “Gentlemen—”

      “I can damn well talk to you however I please!” Merritt gave Brecht a firm shove. “Now get out of my way!”

      “Get your hands off me!”

      “I’ll put my hands wherever I please!”

      Marge stepped between the men and separated them with her arms. “BACK OFF! BOTH OF YOU! BACK OFF NOW!”

      They stopped, shocked by the force of her voice.

      “What the hell is going on here!”

      Marge turned to the new male voice. Mike Ness—behind him a very worried-looking Ms. Purcel. She’d called in the guard dog. Great! Another puffed-up male ego to appease!

      “Dr. Brecht, are you all right?” Ness said. But he was staring at Merritt. He wore a muscle shirt and shorts and was wiping his neck with a towel. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir!”

      “The hell you will!” Merritt said. “My mother, Davida Eversong, called me down here and I intend to speak to her!”

      “Ms. Eversong isn’t in,” Ness said quietly. “I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

      “Then I’ll wait for her … young man!” Merritt said.

      “That wouldn’t be a good idea … sir!”

      “Mike,” Marge broke in, “why don’t you take Dr. Brecht and give him some of your stress-reducing consommé. I’ll stay down here and chat with Dr. Merritt until Ms. Eversong returns. When is she due back?”

      “I don’t know,” Brecht said. “In the meantime, this man is not welcome here.”

      “You don’t own the spa, Freddy!” Merritt shouted. “Lilah does!”

      “Lilah despises you!”

      “Then let her tell me personally!”

      “You are both creating quite a scene,” Marge said. She smiled and jerked her head toward a small crowd that had gathered near the marble hearth. The men followed the glance and said nothing.

      Ness’s eyes darted between Brecht and Merritt. Then he turned to Ms. Purcel. “It’s okay, Fern, everything’s under control. You can go back to work.”

      Ms. Purcel scurried back behind the protective shield of the reception desk.