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

movies.”

      “Yeah, I tell my friends you mostly just investigate. Interview people and make a lot of phone calls … push pencils—”

      Decker burst into laughter.

      “Isn’t that what you always say?”

      “Word for word.”

      “I don’t think they believe me. Maybe it’s because they all know you were … you know, shot. Baruch Hashem, you’re okay. You are okay, right?”

      “I’m great.”

      “Were you scared?”

      “I was scared when it was happening, sure. But I’m not scared now.”

      “Really?”

      “Really.”

      “Not even a little?”

      “Nope.” It was the truth. His concern was saved solely for the people he loved, not for himself.

      “The kids at school …” Sammy fingered his covers. “They ask me about the incident. I wish they’d shut up about it.”

      “It gets on your nerves.”

      “Yeah, I don’t like to think about it. That’s why I tell them your job isn’t like that normally. But they still ask me questions. You have this kind of, I don’t know, mystic around you.”

      Decker fluttered his fingers and howled like a ghost.

      Sammy laughed. “Emes, I think it’s kind of neat what you do, too. Maybe one day you can take me to work with you.”

      Decker felt his throat tighten. The kid was actually proud of him. “I’d like that, Sam. Pick a day, we’ll clear it with Eema, and you can be my partner.”

      Impulsively, Sammy reached out and hugged Decker around the neck. Then, just as abruptly, he pushed him away. “Okay, I’m sick of talking. You want to play some cards?”

      The detectives’ squad room at Foothill Substation was not the location of choice when the merc climbed past ninety. With dozens of men sweating into a confined area with no air conditioning and little circulation, the room became ripe very quickly. Some took it better than others, and although Mike Hollander was fifty pounds overweight, he took it better than most.

      It just wasn’t his nature to get overly excited about things. Not that he was a jerk-off. But he was … relaxed.

      Dunking his doughnut into his coffee, he had some spare time before court. He heaved his portly frame out of his wooden chair and lumbered over to Decker’s desk. Resting on the scarred wooden top was a manila evidence envelope, a couple of police sketches and a list of felons who physically matched the drawings. Hollander brushed crumbs from his walrus mustache, picked up the list, and planted his butt back in his chair.

      He picked up the phone and started to check out the mugs. He’d scratched two off the list by the time Decker walked in. Hollander hung up the phone and took another bite of doughnut.

      “You got lab info on the Brecht case. Also, Leo dropped off the sketches and names based on your gal’s description. I checked out the first two. Both are still in the cooler.”

      Decker took off his jacket and made a beeline for the coffeepot. “Thanks, Mike. Who’d she pick out?”

      “Not guys associated with rape.”

      “Robbery perps?”

      “Yeah, but that don’t tell you squat. Most of the geniuses in the books got there by doing two-elevens.”

      “True.”

      “I marked their mug-shot pages if you want to compare them to the composites. Also, Ma Bell called you back. A call did go out from a Malibu prefix to Frederick Brecht at seven-forty-six A.M. that morning. I cross-referenced the number: It belonged to Davida Eversong.”

      Decker nodded. “Nice to see you doing the old work ethic, Detective Hollander.”

      “Don’t tell anyone, but I get in these moods once in a while.” Hollander extracted a pipe from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, unlit. “What’s eating you, Rabbi?”

      “Nothing.”

      “It’s Morrison, isn’t it?” Hollander said. “What’d he do?”

      “Nothing. He’s assigning a couple of dicks from Burglary to handle the jewel theft.”

      “It’s big bucks. They have the contacts. Let them have it.”

      “My sentiments exactly.”

      “So why’re you pissed? You’re thinking Morrison doesn’t have faith in you or what?”

      “I’m not pissed.” Decker sat at his desk. “Well, I’m a little pissed. I’m pissed about all the shit we have to deal with because someone else screwed up.”

      Hollander shrugged. “They did it, we didn’t. Fuck the nonbelievers.” He chewed on the stem of his pipe. “This lady—Lilah. She seem on the level to you?”

      Decker regarded the composites. “Why do you ask?”

      “Take a gander at the sketches and tell me what you see, Rabbi.”

      “Lots of erasures. And the requisite shaggy hair and squinty eyes.”

      “Squinty dark eyes,” Hollander said. “Apparently everyone in this world who squints has dark eyes.”

      “In answer to your question, the lady is weird.”

      “Leo said the lady seemed very, very fond of you.”

      Decker jerked his head up. “What did she tell him?”

      “I don’t know. Just repeating what he said. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. You know how rape survivors can be.”

      Decker looked him in the eye. “Then why’d you mention it, Mike?”

      Hollander held out the palms of his hands. “No offense, Rabbi. Just that Leo placed a lot of emphasis on the very, very part of the very, very fond. If she’s wacky, might be a good idea to get Marge or me involved—just to show the lady that you’re not her personal public servant. Especially since she’s so good-looking.”

      “What does good-looking have to do with it?”

      “Hey, we’re all human—”

      “I don’t believe you’re telling me this shit, Hollander. I’ve been on the detail almost as long as you have.”

      “Deck, I’m not saying anything about your ability to handle Lilah Brecht or any other rape case. But you know as well as I do what a pain in the ass fruitcakes can be. Your wife is expecting and I’m just trying to save you grief. You wanna play hot dog, forget I said anything.”

      Hollander poured himself another cup of coffee and returned to his desk.

      Decker rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, you’re right. She could be grief. Both she and her mother.”

      “Miz Davida Eversong,” Hollander said. “You ever see any of her films? Man, she was hot stuff in her heyday.”

      “She’s still a good-looking woman. Well preserved.”

      “Natural or surgical?”

      “I wouldn’t know. Look, Mike, thanks for offering, but I can handle the case.”

      “Just trying to be helpful.” Hollander ticked off another name on the list. “One Bobby Ray Gatten. Wonder what old Bobby Ray’s been up to.” He picked up the phone and dialed.

      Decker sat down and broke open the seal on the Brecht evidence folder. There was a semen analysis, but it wasn’t going to be useful until they had a suspect. There was also a chromosomal banding on the few foreign pubic hairs.