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

with Goldin,” Dave said.

      Decker noticed some people standing up and stretching. Others were leaving the tables. The room began to hum with conversation.

      “Ah, the game endeth,” Steve said. “And our work beginneth. We’re on scoring detail. Are you good with numbers, Detective?”

      “Only if they’re associated with mug shots.” Decker stood. “See you boys.”

      Dave said, “Stick around, Detective. I guarantee you Table Number One will come in first.”

      “Don’t people get resentful?” Decker asked. “Goldin winning all the time?”

      “Nah,” Dave said. “The Emporium is jazzed just to have him play here. It’s like letting Nolan Ryan pitch on your softball team. He attracts people who pay the admission fee just to watch him. He’s great for business.”

      “Who owns this place?” Decker asked.

      Dave broke into a pleasant grin. “I do. It beats the hell out of law school.”

      Decker waited patiently while three expensively dressed ladies with clawish red fingernails arranged their schedules so they meshed with Goldin’s. Judging by the way the bridge pro was flipping the pages of his appointment book, he was booked up far in advance.

      Goldin looked to be in his forties, which would have made him quite a bit older than Lilah. Maybe he was younger, age artificially advanced by gray streaking through his shoulder-length hair and beard. He was around six feet with an ectomorphic build—long nose, high cheekbones and forehead. His emerald-green eyes were so unnatural-looking, Decker wondered if he wore contacts. He had on a black T-shirt under a black blazer, faded jeans, and Nikes. Goldin talked in a clipped, professional tone, not a moment wasted on pleasantries. When it was Decker’s turn to introduce himself, Goldin spoke first.

      “You’re not interested in bridge.”

      Decker showed him his badge.

      Goldin’s eyes went wide. “Oh, my God! Wendy!”

      Decker said, “It’s not about Wendy.”

      “This isn’t about my wife?”

      “No.”

      At least not your current one. Decker found Goldin’s reaction odd. You see a cop, you don’t immediately think of your wife. Goldin seemed to sense his confusion.

      “My wife …” He brought his hand to his chest, then dropped it slowly. “She runs a legal clinic for the indigent downtown—sitting ducks despite the fact that they’re only a few blocks from the police station.”

      The statement seemed pointed. Decker was quiet.

      Goldin said, “I can’t tell you how many times the place has been burgled or robbed. Then last week a clerk was shot in the arm …” He swallowed dryly. “I have no idea what you want from me. Is it a quick question or a little more?”

      “It’s a little more.”

      “Can I finish up my business first?”

      “How long will that take?”

      “Can you give me ten minutes?”

      “That’s fine. I noticed a coffee machine in the corner. I’ll wait for you there.”

      “Thank you.” Goldin exhaled slowly, then turned to the next person in line—a junior exec in a suit and tie.

      Decker found the machine and sat down at an empty table. He had just finished his coffee when he saw Goldin coming his way. The bridge pro sat down, rested his head in his hands.

      Decker stood and said, “Can I buy you a cup, Mr. Goldin? You look like you can use it.”

      “I won’t refuse.”

      “How do you take it? Cream? Sugar?”

      “Black.”

      Decker punched the button and brought the cup over to the table. “You look tired, Mr. Goldin. Maybe this’ll wake you up.”

      “Perry.” He sipped his coffee and checked his watch. “I’ve got an appointment in a half hour.”

      “This shouldn’t take too long.”

      “I’m not rushing you. I’m just wondering if you want me to call and cancel. I don’t mind canceling. I don’t mind talking to you, either. Just don’t talk about bridge.”

      “We talk bridge, the meter runs?”

      “No …” Goldin shook his head. “No, that’s not it at all … well, yeah, I like to get paid. Hell, that’s the only thing I like about bridge now. God, I’m sick of it all—the backbiting, all these puny little egos vying for stupid little points.”

      “The disillusioned pro.”

      “Yeah, though I suppose it’s better than the dissolute pro.” Goldin smiled. “You see those women I was talking to? For them, I’m a cheap and respectable way to buy a day’s worth of attention—sort of an intellectual variation on screwing the tennis instructor.”

      “Do you screw them?”

      “Me?” Goldin laughed soundly. “Put it this way, Detective. I’d rather take thumbtacks in the scrotum.”

      Decker smiled. “They don’t look that bad. Well preserved if you ask me.”

      “Tuck and roll no longer refers to car upholstery,” Goldin said. “They’ve all been sucked, stuffed, and stitched many times over. In fact, Pat, the blonde, has a knock-out body. I know because one day I came to her house for her weekly bridge lesson and she greeted me stark naked. I felt like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate when Anne Bancroft walks in … no, no, no, this isn’t what I had in mind.” He chuckled to himself. “No, I don’t do anything that jeopardizes my marriage. Other men want to louse up their lives, I wish them well and hope they’re squirreling away money for alimony. We Californians live in the land of community property.”

      “Sounds like you’ve been burned.”

      “Not at all. I got away scot-free the first time around. I do believe my ex’s family would have paid me handsomely to divorce her. They sure as hell offered me the moon not to marry her. Too bad I was after true love instead of money. I should have read the writing on the wall—wasn’t too swift back then.” Goldin sipped coffee. “Well, I’ve come down with a nasty case of verbal diarrhea. I’m sorry. What can I do for you?”

      “Actually, we’re on the right subject, Mr. Goldin.”

      “Perry. What subject is that?”

      “Lilah Brecht.”

      Goldin’s expression was pained. “Oh, man, she’s come back to haunt me.” He buried his head in his hands. “What did she do this time?”

      “She didn’t do anything,” Decker said. “She was raped a couple of nights ago.”

      Goldin snapped his head up and placed his hands on the table. “Is she all right?”

      “Yes. She’s out of the hospital, her bruises seem to be fading.”

      “She was beaten, too?”

      “Knocked around.”

      “That’s terrible,” Goldin whispered. “Just awful … I’m really sorry to hear that.” He stared at Decker. “Did she ask for me or anything?”

      Decker shook his head.

      “Then … why are you telling me this?”

      Decker didn’t answer.

      Goldin pointed to his chest. “You suspect me? Is that it? You suspect me of raping and beating my ex-wife whom I haven’t seen in what? Six years?”

      Decker