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

didn’t walk by themselves. How’d they get on Lilah Brecht’s sheets?”

      “I … I … don’t know.”

      “Carl, did you see Lilah Brecht the night she was raped?”

      Silence. Decker repeated the question.

      “You’re confusin’ me,” Totes answered.

      “Carl, did you see Lilah Brecht the night she was raped?”

      “I … I’m mixed up. You’re askin’ too many questions.”

      “Just listen to them one at a time. Did you see Lilah Brecht the night she was raped?”

      “I don’t …”

      “Carl, did you see Lilah Brecht the night she was raped?”

      Totes was panting. “I … mebbe I did.”

      “Maybe you did,” Decker repeated. “Carl, did you rape Lilah Brecht?”

      “Mebbe I did.”

      23

      The manila envelope was waiting at Marge’s desk when she and Decker walked into the squad room. They exchanged quick glances. Decker lifted his eyes and said, “Please, God, let us not have made asses out of ourselves.”

      Marge smiled nervously as she ripped open the seal and pulled out the piece of paper. Then she brought her hand to her chest. “Phew!”

      “It’s Totes?”

      Marge nodded and handed him the paper. “Travers says he passed his tests with flying colors. One down.”

      Mike Hollander walked into the squad room and over to the coffee urn, his fingers clutched around a paper sack. “How’d the questioning go?”

      “No neat and clean confession,” Decker said, flipping through pages of lab analysis.

      “But we did get a confirmation from Buck Travers. I’ll take that over a confession any day of the week.”

      “We’ve either got one very confused stable hand,” Decker said, “or one excellent bullshit artist.”

      “They’re all bullshit artists, Rabbi.” Hollander carried his mug back to his desk and sat down. “Shame on you for turnin’ soft in your old age.”

      Marge sat down. “I vote with Pete. I think Totes is very confused … you know, one of those true weirdo types who gets mental blackouts when committing a crime.”

      “Dissociative reaction …” Decker said.

      Marge laughed. “Oh, my, we’ve been hitting the books.”

      “Nah,” Decker smiled. “Remember my weirdo friend, Abel Atwater? His shrink used to call his blackouts dissociative reactions.”

      “Yeah, shrinks use that kind of language so they can bilk MediCal out of big bucks.” Hollander liberated a doughnut from his bag and took a bite. Crumbs sprinkled his lap. “Government ain’t gonna pay for a diagnosis of blackout. Otherwise head docs would be cleaning up on drunks.” He took another bite and spoke as he chewed. “Your daughter called, Rabbi. I left the number on your desk.”

      “Thanks, Mike.” Decker crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against Marge’s desk. He wasn’t happy with the outcome of Totes as bad guy, and he couldn’t explain why. In past cases, he’d gone to the DA with a lot less material than he had here and felt righteous about it. But it wasn’t his job to pass judgment, just collect and present evidence. “Interrogation only took forty minutes; no one can charge us with tiring the suspect or police brutality. I think we have enough for the grand jury.”

      “I’ll call the DA,” Marge said.

      “In the meantime, now that we have the test results, someone’s got to handle the booking.”

      “I can do it.” Hollander licked his fingers. “You want me to get him a lawyer?”

      Decker said, “Court’ll automatically appoint him one once he’s been formally charged. I want to call Cindy first. Then I’ll phone Burbank and find out where they’re at with the Merritt murder. We’ve got Totes for Lilah’s rape, but that doesn’t explain the thefts or Merritt’s murder.”

      “I’ll get a warrant to search the stable,” Hollander said. “Could be Totes stashed some of the goods there.” He lifted his sizable buttocks out of his chair. “Glad to help just so long as the jobs don’t tax my heart.”

      “Why don’t you go on a diet?” Marge said.

      “I’m on a diet, Margie.”

      “A diet?” Marge wrinkled her brow. “Mike, you just polished off a doughnut in three bites.”

      “I know.” He licked his fingers again. “But this time I bought the kind without the jelly in the middle.”

      Decker made the call from the locker room because it afforded him more privacy than the squad room—everybody listening in and pretending not to. Cindy picked up on the third ring.

      “Hi, princess. How did finals go?”

      She burst into tears. Decker felt his stomach knot and gave her a few moments to compose herself. “Don’t worry, Cindy, I’m sure you did better than you think.”

      “I did okay.”

      Decker said, “I’m sure you did very well.”

      “I didn’t say I did very well.” She sniffed. “I could have done better, but I didn’t flunk or anything.”

      “That’s good.”

      “Why? Did you think I’d flunk?”

      “Of course not.”

      “I think I got an A and three Bs.”

      “That’s terrific!”

      “Aren’t you cheerful.”

      Decker exhaled slowly. “When are you coming in to L.A., Cindy?”

      “Daddy?”

      “What?”

      “Are you mad at me for not telling you about the summer?”

      “No, sweetheart. I’m not mad at all.”

      “Is it okay?”

      “Cindy, it’s more than okay. I’m looking forward to it. We’ll have a great time together if I can ever get your butt in the saddle.”

      She said nothing, but Decker could picture her smiling with moist eyes. Her voice was little when she returned to the line. “It’s okay with Rina? I don’t want to impose—”

      “Cynthia, you’re my daughter. You are never an imposition except when you get cranky and even then you’re not an imposition, just a pain in the butt. You’ve been very cranky lately. What’s bothering you? Is it Rina being pregnant? Is it me having another baby? Are you jealous?”

      There was a long pause.

      “Not consciously.”

      Decker smiled. What a college-kid answer. “Baby, I love you. I love you, love you, love you. You are my kid, you will always be my kid even when you’re in your seventies, I’m in my nineties. It’s a sentence of life without parole, Cynthia. You’re stuck with me.”

      He heard a chuckle over the line. That made him smile again. “So just tell me when and where and I’ll pick you up. Your mother already dropped off your car, so you should be all set.”

      “I won’t get in your way—”

      “Cindy, you’ve never gotten in my way.”

      “I