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

Freddy had already whacked Merritt before we saw him tonight. If that was the case, he certainly acted like a cool cookie. He was irate, but he didn’t seem nervous.”

      Decker said, “Acting’s in the genes.”

      “Except Freddy is adopted.”

      Decker smiled. “Could be Merritt’s death had nothing to do with the robbery and rape. Maybe some fanatical prolifer didn’t like Merritt pickling fetuses.”

      Marge grimaced. “Why did Merritt keep them around?”

      “Because he’s bizarre. He fits in perfectly with that pack of hyenas.”

      “Man, you said it.”

      “Maybe Merritt was selling embryonic tissue to some illicit lab for money. Maybe the lab was cloning … unborn babies to send into outer space. To attack Earth. What do you think?”

      Marge tightened her parka around her chest, not smiling. “That could be looked into … the selling of the tissue.”

      “Marge—”

      “It’s a possibility.”

      “Anything’s possible. But is it relevant?”

      “If it establishes a pattern of what Merritt will do for money. Three hundred and fifty gees a year from his practice and all he’s got is five grand in the bank. That’s why he runs an abortion mill, that’s why he sells fetuses illegally and steals his mother’s jewels—”

      “Hold on—”

      “All right, so we’ve got a tiny leap in logic,” Marge confessed. “You can have fucked ideas, so can I.” She paused. “You know, none of our ideas explains the crazy horse. Unless you think Merritt was behind that, too.”

      Decker shrugged. “I’m not saying Merritt was behind anything, although his death certainly complicates the case.”

      Marge said, “If the memoirs were the driving force behind all of this, maybe we should start finding out about Hermann Brecht.”

      “Maybe.”

      Decker thought about the old lady Lilah used to visit in her younger, do-gooder days, the one who knew Hermann Brecht in the old country. He’d pay her a visit tomorrow. If she was still alive.

      And they say women yak up a storm. Marge tapped her foot with impatience. Pete and the Burbank detectives—Justice Ferris and his partner—had been talking cars for the last twenty minutes. Curly-haired Ferris—a good-looking guy in his thirties—drove a ’67 red Vette. Ferris’s partner, Don Malone, was in good shape for a man in his fifties. He drove an old Jag XKE. All three boys went on and on about different junkyards, where to find the best parts in the city. The whole thing was mind-numbing, but Marge knew it was Pete’s way of gaining rapport with the dudes. They finally started talking shop when the sun came up.

      The division of labor was simple. Ferris and Malone were anxious to catch the homicide, and she and Decker were more than anxious to let them have it, just as long as they maintained access to all suspects, files, and lab reports.

      “No problem,” Ferris said.

      “One more thing,” Marge said. “I’d like to be around when you question John Reed, Merritt’s other doctor brother. We haven’t connected yet.”

      “No problemo,” Ferris said.

      “And you’ll leave us the paper trail,” Decker added.

      “Ce n’est pas une problème, mes amis,” Ferris said.

      They all laughed.

      Malone said, “You’re gonna reciprocate, right?”

      “Help yourself to my desk,” Decker said.

      “Mi files es su files,” Ferris said. “Or maybe I should say: Mi murder es su murder.”

      Malone rolled his eyes. A lab tech walked out of the clinic, shaking her head. She was black and very petite, her lab coat practically reaching her ankles. She and Ferris did a high-five handshake.

      “Got a problem, Sheri?” Ferris said.

      “Justice, my lad, you and Donnie have your work cut out.”

      “What’s the bad news?” Decker said.

      “Now, did I say there was any bad news? Just news.”

      “So what kind of news are we talking about?” Marge said.

      “I’m glad you asked,” Sheri said. “We found two completely different blood types. One matches the victim, but there’s a lot of blood in there that doesn’t belong to him.”

      “The murderer,” Ferris said. “He got hurt, bled as he fled.”

      “He practically emptied his veins,” Sheri said. “Found over two pints in the murder room alone.”

      Marge said, “Two pints?”

      “Yes, sir-madam,” Sheri said. “Big pool of the stuff. If I were you lads, I’d start checking out some emergency rooms. That guy—or gal—would have needed plasma, prontissimo.”

      “I’ll start calling,” Malone said.

      “Shit!” Decker slapped his forehead. “That’s it!”

      “What, Pete?”

      “The trail of blood,” Decker said. “Think about it! A huge pool was found in the murder room, then there were smaller puddles and smears right outside the room, some smears in the hallway, a few more in the waiting room, then less and less blood until there was nothing but drips in the parking lot. Margie, if the murderer was bleeding as he was escaping, we’d have found less blood in the room, much more blood in the hallways, and the most in the parking lot as he was climbing into his car to escape!”

      Marge pushed hair out of her eyes. “You’re right.”

      Ferris said, “Unless he taped up his wounds.”

      “Tape up a wound that’s gushed out two pints of blood?” Decker said.

      “Okay,” Malone said. “So what’s your theory?”

      “Simple,” Decker said. “Someone was carried out of the murder room after sitting in his own blood for a while. He was then dragged along the floor—that’s the smears—then finally lifted into a vehicle in the parking lot, dripping a little until he was safely stashed inside. Know what I think that means?”

      “What?” Ferris said.

      “I think it means we have another stiff somewhere.”

      22

      Marge thought: It’s better than an office of bloody fetuses, but Parker Center Crime Lab is still not the bistro of choice for breakfast. Sipping coffee and wolfing down a doughnut, she scanned the rows of tables sagging under piles of clear plastic bags filled with clothing—hundreds of pieces of evidence waiting to be analyzed. It saddened her—no matter how many times she’d seen this room—to think that these garments had once been worn by living, breathing individuals. Some of the victims were alive—recipients of assaults. But for others, what remained on the table was the only part of them that had survived the crime.

      She felt a tap on the shoulder and turned around. Buck Travers was well into his sixties but still had a full head of black hair. He was stoop-shouldered, potbellied, and smiling, as usual. Marge wondered what his secret was. Maybe he was genuinely happy with his work. Travers had tried retirement once but hadn’t liked it. The department, in one of its rare moments of lucidity, gave Travers back his former job. Buck was one of the best hair and fibers men around.

      “Sorry I’m late,” Travers grinned. “I had a date with a bloody afghan—not the canine variety. You look tired, Detective Dunn.”