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

to you?”

      “Memoirs?” Goldin played with his beard. “Did Hermann Brecht write memoirs?”

      “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

      “If he did, this is the first I’ve heard about it.”

      “Did Lilah ever intimate she’d been willed something by her father?”

      “Not to me.” Goldin shrugged. “Sorry. What does this have to do with Lilah’s attack?”

      “I’m not sure it has anything to do with it. Do you remember where Greta Millstein was living then?”

      “In the Valley—a block-long apartment complex planted with rolling lawns and trees. I doubt if it’s there anymore. Some developer probably got his mitts on it and turned the space into a shopping mall.”

      “Where in the Valley, Mr. Goldin?”

      “Corner of Fulton and Riverside. I never knew the exact address, but Greta’s apartment number was fifty-four.”

      “You’ve got a good memory.”

      “Memory is my bread and butter, Detective.”

      “Did you see Greta often?”

      “Only occasionally. But Lilah used to visit her two, even three times a week. It was sweet to see them together—this wrinkled old woman and this beautiful young princess. They had this relationship that bridged what must have been a fifty-year age span. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped.”

      “Why?”

      “I don’t know exactly. Frankly, that wasn’t uppermost in my mind. Lilah and I were having lots of problems by that time.” Goldin grew pensive. “She was on my case, nonstop. Instead of finding me enthusiastic and stimulating, now I was obnoxious and overbearing. Which I was, but I was always like that. She just didn’t like me anymore. I was crushed when she served me papers. I was angry and bitter and …”

      He threw up his hands, shook his head, and became quiet.

      Decker waited a beat, then said, “You seem all right now.”

      Goldin smiled. “Yeah, I am. All the credit goes to my wife. Man, if Humpty Dumpty had known Wendy, he’d be sitting on the wall today. First time I met her, I wasn’t knocked off my feet like I was with Lilah, but …” He let out a soft chuckle. “God, I love that woman. She scares the hell out of me working downtown at night. But she’s altruistic—genuinely altruistic.” He sighed. “What can I do?”

      Decker thought of Rina, how protective he felt toward her. Not that his feelings ever stopped her from doing dumb and dangerous things. “Before you leave, give me the address of the clinic.”

      Goldin was surprised. “Why?”

      “I’ll give it to the watch commanders at Central. Maybe the cruisers can beef up their passes. But that won’t stop the crime, of course.”

      “Just like that?”

      “I’m a great guy.”

      “Thank you.” He smiled. “Thank you very much.”

      “You’re welcome,” Decker said. “Perry, you can’t think of any reason why Lilah stopped seeing Greta?”

      “No … except …”

      “What?”

      “In the beginning, Lilah and I didn’t have much to do with Davida. But as we began to fall apart, she got closer to her mother. Also, around that time, Lilah stopped doing all her charity work. She reverted back to type, started spending lots of money. She bought the spa shortly after we divorced. I don’t know. I’ve always felt Lilah was using Greta as a mother figure. When she started up with Davida again, it was like she didn’t need Greta anymore.”

      Goldin furrowed his brow in concentration.

      “I felt bad for Greta. I even visited her on my own once or twice. She wasn’t the least bit upset by Lilah’s behavior. Took it all philosophically—as if she expected it.”

      “Did she have any clues as to why Lilah stopped coming?”

      Goldin shook his head. “I don’t remember her saying anything specific. Just something about she knew it wouldn’t last … ‘it’ being their relationship. Like I said, she was philosophical about Lilah’s rejection. I wish I’d reacted that way. Saved me a lot of self-flagellation.”

      “Nah, that never gets you anywhere.” Decker flipped the cover of his notebook and stuffed it in his jacket. “You’ve helped me out. I’ll call if I have any more questions.”

      “That’s it?”

      “For now.”

      “Sure, call me anytime. This was kind of fun in a way—macho therapy. You missed your calling as a shrink.”

      Decker wondered how much money shrinks made. He said, “I’ll give you my number in case you think of anything significant to add.” He pulled out his business card and a picture of Rina fell out of his wallet. Goldin picked it up.

      “Your daughter?”

      “My wife.”

      Goldin moaned. “Ye olde foot back in ye olde mouth.”

      “She’s young, Perry.” Decker took the picture back. “Not as young as she looks, but young.”

      “Can I see that again?”

      Decker paused, then handed him the snapshot.

      Goldin said, “Is she this pretty in the flesh—I mean, in real life?”

      Decker said, “You’re asking me?”

      “I’m not trying to be cute,” Goldin said. “I’m asking you the question in earnest, Detective.”

      The guy had something on his mind. Decker said, “In earnest, she’s better. She’s six months pregnant and she still gets wolf whistles every time she walks down the street.”

      “She’s pregnant?” Goldin asked.

      Decker said, “It can happen.”

      “No, I don’t mean it like that.” He handed the photo back to Decker. “Don’t let Lilah see her or your life’ll be hell.”

      Decker said, “Go on.”

      “Lilah’s competitive spirit isn’t confined to Davida. She loves married men. I should know. I must have fielded dozens of calls from distraught wives. If she finds out you have a beautiful—and pregnant—wife, you’ll never get rid of her.” Goldin bit his lip. “Lilah can’t resist a challenge.”

      Decker placed his hand on Goldin’s shoulder. After all this time, the guy still sounded bruised and Decker knew that feeling. “She likes making mincemeat out of men?”

      “Detective, it’s what she does best.”

      19

      A full moon: the perfect topper to a freaky day. Decker stared out the window, half expecting to see werewolves or vampire bats. But instead, he played witness to a silvery disc drifting through diaphanous clouds, to silhouetted birch branches swaying in the summer wind. Transfixed by the spectacle, he hadn’t even realized the rabbi had come in until he felt a gentle pat on his shoulder.

      Rav Schulman was well into his seventies, and for the first time, Decker noticed a slight stooping of the old man’s shoulders. The hunching had cut a couple of inches from the rav’s height, putting him at around five-ten. Most of his face was covered by a beard that was more white than gray and what skin did show was creased and mottled with liver spots. But his coffee-colored eyes were as radiant as ever. As usual, he was dressed in a starched white shirt, a black suit that hung a little too loosely