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

about his problems.”

      Decker tapped his pencil on his notebook. “Because I’m asking you.”

      Ness crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Look, is this an interrogation? Do I need a lawyer?”

      “Do you?”

      “Oh, man, you are really messing with my head. You know, I came over here out of concern for Lilah. I knew something was wrong as soon as I saw Carl. He was as white as a sheet. Somehow, I gathered that something bad happened to Lilah, but she wasn’t hurt. That’s as far as I got. You ever try to get information out of Carl? The guy isn’t exactly articulate. When I tried the ranch house to talk to the boss, there was a cop at the door. I figured I’d check out the scene myself.”

      Ness’s eyes drifted to the bloody rocks, to the dead horse now collecting fistfuls of black flies.

      “God, what a mess! Is Lilah really okay?”

      Decker regarded Ness’s expression—somber.

      “She’s shaken up,” Decker said. “But she’s fine.”

      “What happened?”

      Decker smoothed his mustache and thought: If Ness knew what really had happened, Decker wouldn’t be revealing anything. If Ness was innocent, he was probably better off knowing the truth.

      “Lilah’s horse went berserk and plowed into the mountain.”

      “How’d she …? She must have jumped or something. Miracle she didn’t break her neck. Some people are kissed by God.”

      “Or lucky enough to go riding with the right person. I caught her.”

      Decker waited for Ness’s reaction. Just surprise, nothing else.

      “You went riding with her? Why?”

      “How about if I ask the questions?”

      “Oooo, I hit upon something official.” Ness had a gleam in his eye. “Or personal. Talk about fucking. Maybe the cop doth protest too much.”

      Decker was impassive. Ness let out a laugh.

      “It’s been a while since I played weeny wag with anyone. Talk about being good, Detective.”

      “Where were you this morning, Mike?”

      Ness’s smile grew flippant. “So now I’m an official suspect?”

      Decker waited.

      “How early are we talking about?” Ness said.

      “You go first.”

      “Okay.” He exhaled. “I woke up. I do that every morning. Then … let’s see. Well, I made the seven o’clock hike. Had a bran muffin and tea after that. I ran the nine and ten aerobic classes. Natanya took over at eleven. I must have eaten around eleven-thirty. I was at the pool by noon.” He shrugged. “There you have it. My Life by Mike Ness. Somehow, I just can’t see it as a screenplay.”

      Decker put his notebook away.

      “No more questions? Did I pass, Detective?”

      Decker pulled a card from his wallet. “If you learn anything about this—or about the rape—give me a call.”

      “So, we’re buddies, Detective Sergeant?”

      Decker laid his beefy hand on Ness’s shoulder. It was surprisingly bony. “I wouldn’t say that, Mikey. Now, even as we speak, I hear zucchinis calling your name. Why don’t you beat it before you screw up evidence?”

      Ness’s eyes surveyed the scene for a final time. “How fast were you two going?”

      Instead of answering, Decker cocked his thumb toward the fields. Ness started to leave, then stopped. “You must ride pretty well, Detective Sergeant.”

      Decker picked up his camera and snapped another picture. “Yes, I must.”

      The Sun Valley Animal Care Center was a two-story brown and tan California bungalow in the middle of scrubland. The bottom floor was leased to Dr. James Vector, Dr. Vera Mycroft, and Dr. Skip Baker—all DMVs, none of them professional corporations. The top section of the house was the animal hospital and the labs. Behind the bungalow were the barns, the kennels, and the stables. The vets made house calls—Decker had dealt with all three of them at one time or another—but sometimes animals needed surgery, extended treatment, and convalescence away from their pals. Vector, Mycroft, and Baker—VMB—was one of the few operations in the city set up to deal with large animals.

      Decker stopped the unmarked on a dirt lot with no designated parking spots. Four-by-fours, flatbeds, and pickups were scattered randomly on the grounds, spaced so no one was hemmed in. He killed the motor, opened the door, and got out. A hot wind saturated with dust assaulted his face, followed by a melee of moos, bleats, neighs, and brays. He found himself whistling “Old MacDonald.”

      It was after four and yet the clinic was still jammed with people. Lots of folks arriving with their animals after work. And not just dogs and cats. The place also held a skunk, a hutch full of rabbits, two newborn lambs, and a Guernsey calf. The reception area had once been the house’s living room, the old wood floors replaced with the vinyl tiles already discolored from animal “accidents.” The plastic chairs were mismatched and blanketed with fur and hair. The room gave off a distinct odor—antiseptics and urine. A couple of people were attempting to hold conversations over the yapping and yowling of their pets. They had to nearly scream.

      The receptionist was a young, scrubbed-face blonde who wore jeans, a work shirt, and Reeboks. Her hands were squeaky clean, her nails clipped short and without polish. She held a German shepherd pup not much bigger than the hands that cupped him. She looked up when Decker walked in, kept staring at the door expecting an animal to follow on his heels. He went over to her and tickled the puppy at the scruff. The baby lifted his head and a tiny wet tongue moistened Decker’s finger. Before Decker could speak, a jowly woman holding a leash attached to a bulldog jumped up.

      “Excuse me, I’m next!”

      Decker held up his hands in defense. “I’m not butting in, ma’am. I’m looking for the lab.”

      The secretary mouthed a silent O. “You’re the police?”

      “Yes, ma’am,” Decker said.

      “’Cause of the crazy horse?”

      Decker nodded.

      “God, I heard Dr. Mycroft talkin’ to Dr. Baker about that. She said it was awful.”

      “It wasn’t pretty,” Decker said.

      “What happened?” asked the lady with the bulldog.

      “Wish we could tell you, ma’am.” Decker dropped his voice a notch. “But it’s official business.”

      The woman nodded gravely.

      “Is Dr. Mycroft in?” Decker asked.

      “Yeah, she’s up in the lab,” the secretary said. “She’s expecting you. Go through the back, up the stairs to the second floor. If the door’s closed, just knock.”

      “Thank you,” Decker said.

      The secretary kissed the sleepy-eyed shepherd and pulled the pup to her breast. “God, you expect people to do crazy things—drive too fast and plow into a mountain.” She shook her head. “But a horse?”

      A throaty voice told Decker to come in. Vera Mycroft was at her microscope, her black and silver braid slung over her right shoulder, her knotted hands adjusting the scope’s eyepiece. Her glasses, sidepieces attached to a neck chain, had been tossed over her back and were resting between her shoulder blades.

      She spoke without looking up. “I already gave at the office.”

      “This is your office, Vera.”

      She