Faye Kellerman: Sanctuary

But thems what it is.

Even if the cases were “routine,” it didn’t mean the victims were any less dead. Marge had treated each assignment with impeccable sensitivity. But having spent some six professional years with the woman, Decker knew she wanted serious cerebral exercise. She wanted to prove herself.

Marge was around Rina’s age-old enough to know the ropes but still full of the fire of youth. Marge was standing on the threshold of opportunity and was bursting to take a giant step forward.

They had been on Homicide detail for less than a year.

Time was on her side.

Living in California earthquake country, Decker couldn’t figure out why Devonshire, like most of LAPD’s station houses, was made out of bricks. Maybe the architect wanted to impress upon the bad guys that the station was wolf-blowing durable and could double as a jail in a pinch. Or maybe the city had a sweetheart contract with a brickyard. Whatever the reason, Devonshire was like the rest of LA’s station houses-a windowless masonry building adorned by an American flag. Except that this substation had the unique pleasure of being located next to power transmitters. Yes, a policeman’s job was a dangerous one, but up to now, leukemia hadn’t been a real concern.

What the hell. So he’d glow in the dark.

He drove the Plymouth to the back lot restricted to “authorized personnel only,” then saw Marge stalking through the parking area. She wore an olive car coat over khaki slacks, her arms folded across her chest. Her face, normally softened by doelike eyes, was stiff with tension. Decker honked, Marge looked up. Immediately, she shifted direction, tramped over to the Plymouth, and plopped down in the passenger’s seat.

“Know what that Davidson asshole did?”

“What?”

“God, I hate that man. He treats me like a peon. While I realize I am a peon in this upper echelon of the boys’ brigade, you’d at least think he could fake it better.”

“Are we talking in the car for a reason?”

Marge extracted a slip of paper from her purse. “I’ve got to go calm down a hysterical woman who thinks Martians kidnapped her brother and his family. Believe it or not, Davidson has classified this as a possible homicide. You want to come with me?”

“What’s the address?”

Marge handed him the paper. Decker looked at the numbers-Mountain View Estates. He did a three-point turn and pulled out of the lot.

“He gives me nothing but bullshit assignments, Pete,” Marge went on. “He doesn’t even try to hide it. He knows they’re bullshit! He wants me to know they’re bullshit, too! You know how he phrased this little jaunt? ‘Get this lady off our backs, Dunn. If something important comes up, I’ll contact Pete and he’ll fill you in.’ Can you believe that jerk? Not even a pretense.”

“Diplomacy isn’t the Loo’s strong suit.”

“The guy has a hard-on for me.”

“Yes, he does.”

Marge did a double-take. “He does?”

“Yep.” Decker turned west onto Devonshire. “Your appointment was shoved down his throat. He’s resentful. But that’s his problem.”

“But I gotta live with it.”

“So live with it.”

“That’s your answer? Live with it?”

“Yep.” Decker headed toward the foothills. “What’s this assignment all about?”

Marge’s jaw began to ache. She forcibly relaxed her mandible. “Just what I said. We gotta make nice to some woman who’s wondering why she hasn’t heard from her brother.”

“How long has it been?”

“I don’t know. At least twenty-four hours. The blues were out there yesterday. At the brother’s house. No one was home but everything looked fine. Apparently that wasn’t good enough. The lady’s been calling nonstop, demanding some detectives.”

“Has she filed a Missing Persons?”

“I don’t think so. It sounds like she wants reassurance more than anything. Someone to look around the house again and convince her that nothing terrible has happened.”

“What kind of family are we talking about?”

“Uh…wait a sec.” Marge pulled out her notebook. “An Officer Mike Gerard interviewed her. Family consists of a mother, father, and two kids-boys. Teenagers specifically. My first thought was an impulsive vacation. But according to Gerard, the woman said no way.”

“That makes sense,” Decker said. “It’s in the middle of the school year. Weird time to take a vacation.”

“Or a great time,” Marge stated. “Beat the crowds. I haven’t talked to the woman directly. She’s been persistent with the calls, a real pain in the ass.”

“What’s her name?”

“Orit Bar Lulu. Bar Lulu is two words.”

“She’s Israeli?”

“You got it. She’s also a real estate agent.”

Decker said, “Why does she think something happened to her brother and his family?”

“I don’t know,” Marge said. “Davidson dismissed me without many details. What do you mean, I should ‘live with it.’ Don’t you think I should say anything?”

“You can do what you want. It’s a free country.”

“You think I should just shut up and do nothing?”

“Let your work talk for you. You’re a great detective, Marge. Eventually, you’ll get a case that’ll show off your balls. When you earn your stripes with Davidson, eventually he’ll leave you be.”

“So the best I can hope for is a grudging acceptance?”

“I don’t know Davidson any better than you do. Maybe he’ll continue to be an asshole. Maybe he’ll come around and turn out to be okay.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, we do our job. Which means you’ve got to go out there and calm down a hysterical woman. Take my word for it, Margie. The assignment is no cakewalk.”

Mountain View Estates was a fifty-home development tucked into the Santa Susana pass, replete with communal tennis courts, pools, spas, and a gymnasium for homeowner exercise in inclement weather. Built in the profligate eighties, the customized tract houses, standing on third-of-an-acre lots, started at half a mil. Some of the houses had been originally priced upward of seven figures. But then the nineties hit, and with it a crash in California real estate prices. Decker had known a fair share of people who’d gotten into trouble by overextending themselves. With a sudden downturn in income coupled with a heavy mortgage, people were often forced to sell their bits of paradise at rock-bottom prices.

The given address put them curbside to a mock Tudor roofed in genuine slate and faced with used brick and cross-hatched beams painted deep brown. The lawn was a rolling emerald wave breaking onto a shore of leafy ferns and leggy impatiens that would rebloom when the weather got warmer. The front door was wood-paneled and inlaid with stained glass. Decker parked the Plymouth, and he and Marge got out of the car. They began walking up the basketweave-brick pathway that led to the entrance.

Guarding the manor was a skinny woman with short black hair snipped close to the scalp. She wore a jewel-studded, oversized black T-shirt, black spandex leggings and backless heeled shoes, toenails polished fire-engine red just like her dragon-long fingernails. She had dark eyes and a dark complexion, her cheeks accented with blush. Half-dollar-sized gold earrings hung from her lobes. Decker wondered how a thin fold of skin could tolerate such weight. Her eyes became alive when she saw help had arrived. She tapped her watch.

“Finally!” She began rummaging through a floppy handbag as big as a carry-on suitcase. “You want me to open the door for you? I don’t want to go in the house again. To see it so empty…lifeless.” Her voice faded. “You just tell me everything’s okay, I leave you alone.”