Prayers for the Dead. Faye Kellerman

using my emergency line. I have a feeling I’m going to get a lot of that tonight. Where’s Eva?”

      Paul pointed up.

      Bram sighed, looked at Decker. “Can I go make peace with my sister? We are all kind of fragile right now.”

      Decker nodded. Bram left the room. Luke said, “Eva’s marriage is …” He splayed his hand and rocked his wrist back and forth.

      “It’s not any of his business,” Michael said.

      “But it does explain her behavior,” Luke said.

      Bram came down a moment later, hugging Eva, who was sobbing in his arms. The priest said, “Maggie, can you take Eva into the kitchen and make her a cup of tea?”

      Maggie swooped her sister into her arms. As they headed for the kitchen, Maggie began to cry.

      Luke said, “I think the reality of what happened is finally dawning on us.”

      Bram closed and opened his eyes. “Who’s staying with Mom?”

      “Nobody has to stay,” Michael said. “I can take care of Mom.”

      “You’re going home, Paul?” Luke asked.

      “No, I don’t want to go home tonight. I just can’t face …” Paul stopped talking, sighed. “Maybe I’ll take a drive.”

      “Be careful, bro,” Bram said.

      “Yeah.”

      “I mean that.”

      “I know you do, Golden Boy.”

      A moment passed. Then Paul and Bram embraced.

      “Get some sleep,” Bram told his brother.

      “A nice thought, but not likely.” Paul left, gently closing the front door behind him.

      To Luke, Bram said, “What about you?”

      “Think I’ll stick around.” Luke averted his eyes. “Can you do me a favor, Golden Boy?”

      “What?”

      “Call Dana for me.”

      “Lucas—”

      “Abram, I can’t deal …” Water seeped from Luke’s eyes. He squeezed them shut, tears rolling down his cheeks. He made a quick swipe at them, then headed for the kitchen.

      “Everybody’s falling apart!” Michael threw up his hands and paced. “Of course, everyone’s falling apart. What did I expect!”

      Bram said, “Why don’t you go into the kitchen, Mike? Go drink some tea.”

      Michael opened his mouth to speak, but instead just shook his head and left the room.

      Decker placed his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Ready?”

      Bram nodded. On the way out, he said, “Thank you for helping me through that terrible ordeal earlier in the evening.”

      “Are you all right?”

      Bram shook his head. “I don’t know. I had to see him … to make sure. But heavens, it was … painful …”

      “I hope I can give you all some resolution quickly.” Decker opened the passenger door to the Volare. “I’ll get you a traffic cop for tomorrow’s service.”

      “Thanks.”

      Decker got in and started the car.

      Bram said, “You handled my family well. Low-key works well with us.”

      “They depend on you a lot, don’t they?”

      Bram looked out the window. “I wouldn’t say that.”

      Decker waited for more. Nothing came. The priest had shut down.

      “Do me a favor, will you, Father?”

      “How can I help you?”

      “Watch your brother Paul. I don’t need a vigilante for homespun justice.”

      “He’s just talking.”

      “He’s agitated.”

      “We’re all agitated. Right now, I think we’re all too dazed to do anything.”

      “Sometimes that’s when people lash out.”

      Bram sat back in his seat. “Violent city we live in. No regard for human life. It’s terrible.”

      “Often these things do get solved if you’re persistent and patient,” Decker said. “I try to be optimistic. But I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up too high.”

      Bram laughed, a sad sound. “I fervently believe in God, Lieutenant. But I’ve given up believing in miracles.”

       7

      Cradling the phone in the crook of his neck, Scott Oliver flipped through his notes. The machine must have had a hands-off feature, but Oliver couldn’t figure out how to use it. To Decker, he said, “The secretary claims she left the hospital around eight. Decameron says he left with Sparks about a quarter to. They walked out to the doctors’ lot together. Decameron had pissed Sparks off and was trying to smooth things over.”

      “Which means Decameron was probably the last person at the hospital to see Sparks alive,” Marge spoke from the extension in Heather Manley’s office.

      “How’d Decameron anger Sparks?” Decker asked.

      “Apparently, Decameron read some of Dr. Sparks’s data without his permission. A big no-no.”

      “I can see that,” Decker said. “I hate snoops.”

      Marge said, “He wasn’t snooping really, just excited about some positive data concerning Sparks’s pet research project.”

      Oliver said, “Decameron said he apologized and Sparks accepted it. End of story.”

      “Up front with it,” Marge said. “Told us about it right away.”

      Decker said, “When Sparks left the hospital, did Decameron notice if his boss seemed in a hurry?”

      “We asked him that.” Oliver transferred the phone to his other ear. “Decameron didn’t notice anything special. But he added that it wasn’t Sparks’s style to rush. Even when he was under pressure, he appeared calm, completely in control.”

      Decker said, “Any idea if he was meeting someone?”

      Marge said, “We asked that, too. Sparks didn’t say. But if he was meeting anyone, both Decameron and Manley thought it was probably his son Paul.”

      “Because Sparks cut the meeting short after he received Paul’s call,” Oliver added. “Did you meet Paul, Loo?”

      “I met all of Sparks’s children. These aren’t TAC lines, so I’ll talk about it later. Where are Decameron and Manley now?”

      Oliver said, “The night staff has called an emergency meeting. Decameron is briefing them on how to proceed with Sparks’s cases. It’s a mess here—a very nervous hospital filled with panicky patients.”

      Marge said, “Sparks did all sorts of cardiac procedures, not only transplants. The great majority of the hospital are his heart patients. Everyone is anxious.”

      Decker asked, “Is Decameron a practitioner as well as a researcher?”

      Marge said, “He’s trained as a cardiac surgeon, but he doesn’t have many clinical patients anymore. His energies are directed to transplant research. He did say—albeit grudgingly—that