Prayers for the Dead. Faye Kellerman

Manley, why don’t you sit down.” Marge mouthed to Oliver, “Turn the damn thing off!”

      Oliver cut off the newscaster midsentence. Heather was still moaning. He said, “Why don’t you sit, Ms. Manley?”

      She continued to pace.

      Oliver said, “Sit down, ma’am … as in sit down in a chair.”

      The secretary stopped treading, stared at Oliver. He pulled out the chair. “Please?”

      She sat, the hem of her dress resting mid-thigh over smooth, white legs. Oliver did a rapid once-over, then said, “We need your help, ma’am. Did you get hold of any of the doctors that were at Sparks’s six o’clock meeting?”

      Heather sniffed loudly. “Dr. Decameron said he’s on his way over here. Dr. Fulton … she can’t come down because she can’t get a baby-sitter. And her husband isn’t home yet. The dirty rat is never home. He’s a real jerk, suffers from a Peter Pan complex.”

      Marge took out her notepad. “Now this Dr. Fulton is one of Dr. Sparks’s co-workers?”

      “Yes.” Heather pulled a Kleenex out of her purse, blew her nose, and dried her eyes. “She works with Dr. Sparks on Curedon. They all do.”

      “Who’s all?” Oliver was having trouble following Heather’s train of thought.

      “Dr. Decameron, Dr. Fulton, and Dr. Berger. They work with Dr. Sparks, testing his drug, Curedon.”

      Oliver perked up. “Dr. Sparks discovered a new drug?”

      “He didn’t discover a drug,” Heather corrected. “He developed one. After years of research in his laboratory. Curedon is an antirejection drug. Fisher/Tyne bought it.”

      “What do you mean bought it?” Marge asked.

      Heather sighed. “I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask Dr. Decameron and hope for the best.”

      “Hope for the best?” Oliver asked.

      “Reggie is a jerk. Try getting any answers out of him. I don’t know why Dr. Sparks puts up with him.” Heather wiped her eyes again. “Actually, I do know why. The doctor was the best boss I’ve ever had. The most honest, sincere, nicest, gentlemanly … not that he didn’t have his moments. But once you understood his genius …” She exploded into a new wave of sobs.

      “How long had you worked for him, Ms. Manley?” Oliver asked.

      “Five years,” she cried.

      “You were close to him?” asked Marge.

      “I loved him!” she wailed.

      Marge and Oliver exchanged glances. Heather caught it. “Not in the way you think. I loved him as in ‘hopelessly in love’ with him. He never laid a finger on me.”

      Maybe not a finger, Oliver thought.

      Heather said, “He was a gentleman in every way. Completely devoted to his wife and family. He wouldn’t ever think of touching another woman, much less have an affair. He was deeply religious.”

      Again, Marge and Oliver looked at each other. Oliver said, “You sound like you’re pretty sure about that.”

      “I’m positive!”

      “You know, Heather, if you’re trying to lead us down the wrong path—”

      “I’m not—”

      “I’m not saying you are,” Oliver said. “All I’m saying is that if something was kinky with Sparks, it’s going to come out.”

      “Nothing … and I mean nothing … was ever kinky with Dr. Sparks! The only thing he ever got into trouble for was being too good.”

      “How’s that?” Marge asked.

      “Like I said, he was deeply religious. He had tremendous faith in God and didn’t understand those who didn’t—”

      “Oh please, Heather, spare them the Jesus on the cross routine.” A forty-plus man stuck out his hand to Marge. “Reginald Decameron. This is just horrible! It’s already made the news! I heard it coming over. Someone want to tell me what’s going on?”

      Marge regarded the doctor. Slender, well-coiffed, well-dressed. Thin features, piercing dark eyes. Self-assured to the point of haughtiness. He wore white shirt, gray slacks, and a blue cashmere blazer. Pocket handkerchief in the blazer, silk hand-painted jacquard tie around his neck. She took the proffered hand. “Thank you for coming down.”

      “How could I not come down.” He turned to Heather. “Where are Dr. Berger and Dr. Fulton?”

      “They can’t make it—”

      “What?” Decameron was outraged. “Azor is … murdered, and they can’t see fit to talk to the police?”

      “Dr. Fulton couldn’t get a baby-sitter, Dr. Decameron. Her husband wasn’t home when I called.”

      “And what was Myron’s excuse?” Decameron raised his brow. “Bad hair day?”

      Heather glared at him. “How can you be so awful at a time like this?”

      “What better time,” Decameron snapped back. He hugged himself, looked Oliver up and down. “This is truly horrid. What in the world happened?”

      Oliver squirmed under Decameron’s intense but rapid scrutiny. Overt, sexual overtones. The man was gay. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out, Dr. Decameron.”

      Marge stepped in. “As we understand it, Dr. Decameron, you, Dr. Berger and Dr. Fulton last saw Dr. Sparks at a dinner meeting.”

      “Yes, one of our weekly staff get-togethers. Started around six, ended around eight.”

      “Anything unusual happen at the meeting?”

      It was Decameron’s turn to squirm. “Well, I might as well fess up. Myron’s going to jump at the opportunity to tell you this. It might as well come from me.”

      The room fell silent.

      “Azor was miffed at me,” Decameron admitted.

      “What happened?” Oliver asked.

      “Well, our research meetings are ostensibly an open forum to exchange ideas. Sometimes I get a little aggressive in my opinions offending our great Grand Imperial Wizard.”

      “That’s not what I heard,” Heather piped in.

      “I’m getting to that, child. Hold your hair, for goodness sakes.” Decameron turned to Marge. “Azor became miffed at me. I peeked at some of the great doctor’s data on his fax machine before he had a chance to see it. Not a terrible thing. But not courteous, either.” He paused. “Azor was angry. After the meeting … after Myron and Liz had left … I smoothed things over with him. Of course, they weren’t around to witness it. But I am telling you the truth.”

      “What time was this, Dr. Decameron?”

      “A little before eight. I remember it distinctly because we ended earlier than usual. Azor had received a call from one of his sons and cut the meeting short.”

      “Okay.” Marge wrote furiously. “Does this son have a name?”

      “Paul.”

      “Was Dr. Sparks planning to meet Paul somewhere?”

      “I haven’t the faintest idea. His sons call often. They’re always hitting him up for money.”

      “That’s ridiculous,” Heather interjected.

      Decameron paused. “Okay. Paul and Luke are always hitting him up for money. True or false?”

      Heather snapped her lips together, folded