Prayers for the Dead. Faye Kellerman

      “You gotta kind of admire him for that,” Oliver said. “And he’s real smart. Clever as well as academic.”

      Decker paused. “I wonder if Decameron’s gayness created tension between him and a Fundamentalist like Sparks?”

      “Not according to Decameron,” Marge said. “He said Sparks could work with anyone on a professional level.”

      “He also mentioned that Sparks had a gay son who was a priest,” Oliver said. “Maybe that made Sparks more tolerant.”

      Decker thought for a moment. Bram didn’t seem overtly gay. But that didn’t mean anything. “What about Dr. Berger? Anyone talk to him yet?”

      “Can’t get hold of him,” Marge said. “We’ve left a half-dozen messages—”

      “I don’t like that at all.”

      Oliver said, “We didn’t either, Loo. Sent a cruiser by there a half hour ago. House is dark, but nothing appears out of order. Just looks like no one’s home.”

      “So where is he?” Decker asked. “If Berger’s a surgeon with clinical patients, he must have a pager.”

      “Yeah, we tried his beeper,” Oliver said. “His answering service said he wasn’t on-call tonight. A resident named Kenner is covering for him. I guess Berger shuts down when he’s off.”

      Unlike Sparks who basically lived at the hospital. Decker said, “Sparks also worked with a woman named Elizabeth Fulton. What do you know about her?”

      Marge said, “Now, we did reach Fulton. She can’t come to the hospital at the moment, because she can’t swing a baby-sitter.” She was silent for a moment. “Isn’t that weird. A doctor of her stature not having twenty-four-hour help?”

      “But she’s not a practitioner,” Oliver said. “Strictly research.”

      Marge said, “Still, she’s a busy woman. You’d think she’d have a live-in.”

      Oliver said, “Anyway, she’s more than willing to talk to us if we want to come to her place.”

      Decker checked his watch. Almost midnight. “Call her up. Tell her you’ll be down there tonight. Did you check out the rest of the hospital staff?”

      “Not yet,” Oliver said.

      “We’re going to do that now,” Marge said. “Unless you want us to see Fulton first.”

      Decker said, “Webster and Martinez are just about done over here at the crime scene. I’ll send them over to the hospital. You go interview this Dr. Fulton. What happened to the secretary, Heather Manley? She still around or did she go home?”

      “Went home,” Marge said.

      “No reason to keep her.” Oliver felt his lips arc upward into a grin. “Well, I’ve got a reason to keep her, but it doesn’t have anything to do with the case.”

      “Good-looking?”

      “Very nice, Loo.”

      “Affair material?”

      “Definitely,” Marge said. “But Heather claims no. Sparks was way too close to Jesus to do something like that.”

      “What do you think, Scott?”

      Oliver brushed the lapel of his Armani blazer. Got this baby used from a secondhand shop, but it was in perfect condition. Wonderful fabric, the wool was lightweight but warm. “What do I think? Sure I think it’s a possibility despite what Manley says.”

      “He doesn’t sound like the kind to me, Pete.” To Oliver, Marge said, “You know, there are some men who don’t do it, Scotty.”

      “Two classes of men, Marge,” Oliver said. “Those who cheat and those who’re going to cheat. Only thing that separates them is timing.”

      Decker said, “Who’s taking over Sparks’s patients right now?”

      “Residents,” Oliver said. “As soon as Dr. Berger is reached, Decameron is sure that he’ll fill in. There have also been lots of surgeons from other places volunteering to help out. Everyone speaks highly of Sparks.”

      Decker said, “Okay. Go interview Dr. Fulton. By the way, did Decameron mention a drug called Curedon to you?”

      “Did he mention Curedon?” Oliver laughed. “Marge and I have doctorates in immunosuppressants.” He brought Decker up to date on Sparks’s research.

      “See, that’s why Decameron swiped the data from Sparks’s fax machine,” Marge said. “It was good news. Lately, Curedon had undergone some problems in its death rate. This particular batch of data was positive. Decameron said he just didn’t want to wait until Sparks handed him the sheets.”

      “And that was the only thing that pissed off Sparks?” Decker asked. “Sure there wasn’t more to the argument?”

      “Not according to him,” Oliver said. “Of course, one of the other doctors might offer a different version.”

      Decker said, “Why should Decameron care so much if it’s Sparks’s drug? He doesn’t make money off of it, does he?”

      “Decameron says no,” Oliver said. “But …”

      Marge said, “He told us that as of right now, he is the liaison between Fisher/Tyne, the FDA, and Sparks’s lab.” She paused. “I know this may sound corny. But I get the feeling that Decameron takes his job seriously, has a great deal of pride in his work. He had a personal stake in Curedon’s success if not a financial one.”

      “Hmmmm,” Decker said.

      “You know differently?” Oliver asked.

      “Nah, just my normal suspicious nature,” Decker said. “Someone should go talk to people at Fisher/Tyne ASAP. Find out if the company did pay Sparks a hefty sum for the right to manufacture the drug. Because where there’s money, there’s motive for murder.”

      Oliver said, “We don’t even know where Fisher/Tyne is located, Loo.”

      “Ask Decameron,” Decker said.

      Marge said, “What if they’re out of state?”

      “If necessary, we’ll send you there.”

      Oliver smiled. “Let’s hope for Florida.”

      “There’re gators in Florida,” Marge said.

      Oliver said, “There’re gators everywhere, Margie. Most of them are just two-legged.”

      Decker took a final sip of coffee, hung up the mike, then heaved his body out of the Volare. He lurched forward into the cold mist, checked his watch again.

      Midnight.

      Most normal people were retiring for bed.

      Bed was a very nice thought.

      Bert Martinez walked over to him. Decker offered the detective some coffee from his thermos.

      “No thanks,” Martinez answered. “Wife packed me a jug full of Mexican coffee. Strong stuff. Spicy. Want a cup?”

      “Where were you ten minutes ago … before I tanked up on this swill?”

      Martinez smiled.

      Decker stuck his hands in his pockets. Rocked on his feet to give them circulation. Man, it was cold out here, fog attacking the skin with tiny, icy needles. Standing in a back alley perfumed by rotting food, cold asphalt seeping into the soles of his shoes.

      He said, “Take it there’s nothing to report. Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking about coffee.”

      Martinez closed the zipper on his windbreaker, streaks of silvered-black hair plastered to his sweaty brow. He blew on his hands, then