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

dropped it on the table. Decker picked it up and leafed through the pages. Goldin had been at a bridge tournament on the night in question. Decker pointed to the date. “How long did the tournament last?”

      “Till eleven-thirty, twelve. Then there was the postmortem with my student. I probably got home around one. Call my wife. She was home when I stumbled through the door.”

      Decker carefully studied the pages, looking for names: Brecht, Merritt, Reed, Eversong, Ness, Totes. Nothing. He returned the book. “Thank you.”

      “Anything else?” Goldin slipped the book in his jacket.

      Decker said, “What went wrong with the marriage?”

      “Jesus, just help yourself to my personal life.”

      “Mr. Goldin—”

      “Perry.”

      “Perry, I was hoping you could help me out. I’m having a hard time getting a fix on your ex-wife.”

      “Detective, you are asking the wrong person for aid and succor. We did not part best friends. You can’t reason with Lilah because she’s flipped. The whole family is flipped.”

      Decker pulled out his notebook. “Tell me about it.”

      Goldin tapped his fingers on the table. “I’ve got to make a phone call … my appointment.”

      Decker fished a quarter out of his pocket. Goldin looked at the coin and laughed.

      “That wasn’t a hint, Detective.”

      “Take it, Perry. It’s on the department.”

      Goldin palmed the quarter, tossed it into the air, and caught it. “Be right back.”

      18

      The bungalow offered little room to pace.

      Clutter, Davida thought. She pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a jewel-encrusted lighter. Goddamn room was nothing but clutter. She snapped the lighter shut, dropped it in the pocket of her silk kimono, then tapped her foot. Redone in Georgian style, most of the antique pieces picked up in Bath, the heavily wooded room now seemed ponderous—out of character with the semiarid climate that surrounded the spa. Southwestern would be more in keeping with the terrain. But that look was old and tiresome.

      She drew nicotine into her lungs and flicked ashes into an empty Baccarat vase.

      Where the hell was he?

      She stared at the bar, then the clock—ten after seven. Though she needed nourishment, she knew she had to keep her head clear. Again, she surveyed the room. The John Constable landscape. The Sir Joshua Reynolds portrait—veddy English. Nice but passionless. Jimi had suggested buying into Diego Menéndez or Pedro Aguilar while Latin prices were still reasonable.

      Davida thought for a moment. A hacienda look, perhaps? Hand-painted tiles, wrought-iron fixtures, textured plastered walls and polished pine frames for the windows. And of course, the mandatory furniture hunt across the border. All those handsome hombres with their dark mustaches, drinking tequila …

      An idle moment of fantasy. Her eyes returned to the clock and she was back in reality.

      Where was he?

      She picked up the phone, then put it down when she finally heard footsteps. She drew back a maroon velvet curtain for a peek, dropped the drapery, and did a quick run to the mirror. When the door opened, she was scanning a magazine and didn’t bother to look up.

      “What took you so goddamn long?”

      “And good evening to you, too, Davida.” Ness tossed a sweat-soaked towel on a pink damask divan and took out two crystal tumblers from the bar. “What can I get you?”

      Davida looked at the towel, then threw the magazine across the room. “I left a message for you over an hour ago!”

      “I just picked it up, Davida! I don’t run to my box every two min—”

      “I hate to be kept waiting!”

      “So I’m here—”

      “Where the hell were you?”

      “Where the hell was I?” Ness slammed down his glass. “I was working, Davida, that’s where the hell I was. I was dodging cops, I was dodging my sister, I was trying to figure out what the fuck happened to Lilah this morning—”

      “Lilah? Did something new happen to Lilah?”

      Ness regarded Davida’s face. She seemed genuinely baffled.

      “Her favorite horse is now tomato sauce on the mountains.” He plunked an ice cube in his glass and covered it with a healthy shot of Glenlivet. “It smashed headfirst into the rocks. Lilah would have been paste, too, if a big macho cop hadn’t caught her—”

      “What?”

      “You don’t know anything about this, Davida?”

      “Of course not!”

      “Oh, so today we’re playing indignant!”

      “Mike, I don’t know a damn thing about this!” She tightened her kimono around her body. “Is she all right?”

      Ness took a sip, then a swig. “Freddy says she’ll be okay. She was badly shaken up, but not hurt.”

      “That’s good to hear.” Davida sat on the divan and folded the towel. “One less goddamn thing to worry about.”

      “Your level of motherly devotion is touching.”

      Davida threw the towel at him. “If she’s all right, why should I fret?”

      “The girl is raped, then nearly killed.” He poured himself another shot. “I would think you’d be a little concerned.”

      “Goddamn you, don’t you dare get self-righteous on me, you little prick!”

      Ness felt his face burn. Goddamn bitch! “Apologize—”

      “Mike—”

      “Apologize!” he screamed.

      “Easy, boy!” She strolled over to the bar and placed her hands on his shoulders. “I was just being my normal insulting self. Pour me a bourbon … please.”

      Ness forced himself to breathe slowly. “You want me to brew some coffee for it?”

      “Straight bourbon is fine.” She leaned against the wall. “What did the cops want?”

      “You’re going to love this.” Ness handed her the drink and took a seat on the divan. “The police are asking for tissue samples—hair or fingernails—to match against the semen found on Lilah’s sheets. I gave them a few tresses.” He smiled. “I’m not exactly worried.”

      She didn’t answer. She wasn’t paying any attention. As usual she was wrapped up in her own sordid shit. He took a slow sip of booze, enjoying the feel of it burning down his throat, while he studied Davida’s face.

      “You’re panicked. You’re trying to hide it, but you’re freaked. What’d you screw up this time?”

      “You’re very perceptive. Cheers.” Davida tilted her glass, then took a long drink of bourbon.

      Ness let out a bitter laugh. “Man, I should have known something was wrong when you asked for straight bourbon.”

      “It’s bad, Mike.”

      “How bad?”

      “I’m not sure, but I would think it’s very bad.”

      Ness ran his finger over the rim of his glass. “What happened? Did Kingston screw up?”

      “No, he’s just being obstinate.”

      “More