Faye Kellerman - Prayers for the Dead

“See you later.”

Decker hung up the mike, sat back in the driver’s seat, and turned up the fan to the heat. It was almost two in the morning. Most homicides were solved within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. At this moment, he had nothing. No motives and no suspects with the scarlet K for Killer branded on their forehead. He hoped this wasn’t random. If so, he was going to have a hard time.

He looked at the evidence bags on the passenger seat. A single business card.

Ace Sparks…born to be wild.

A glimpse at another side of Sparks. Out of context with the religious, stern, exacting physician, the common portrait drawn by people who knew him.

Ace Sparks.

Born to be wild.

What the hell. One more stop wouldn’t kill him.

He turned on the motor to the Volare.

After five years of being a practicing Jew, Decker felt strange entering a church. As he walked up the steps to St. Thomas’s, he wondered if he’d feel any emotional tug when he passed the chapel. Probably not. Much to Ida Decker’s consternation, he hadn’t ever been much of a churchgoer as a youngster.

He walked up the stairs, gave the double wooden doors a tug, and found them locked. He knocked, though he suspected it was a useless gesture. The doors were so thick and the building was so big, in order to be heard someone would have to be near by happenstance.

No response, of course.

He thought about trying the side doors when he saw the white button by the side of the entry. Now there’s a novel thought, Deck. A doorbell. He depressed the button and a harsh buzz screamed out. Waited a minute, pushed the bell again. Several minutes later, he finally heard footsteps. The door unlocked, a pair of eyes peeking through a crack.

“Yes?”

Decker took out ID. “Lieutenant Peter Decker. I’m here to see Father Abram Sparks. Is he in?”

The eyes moved frantically. “Can you come around to the rectory?”

“Where?”

“The side area. You’ll see a door there. Okay?”

“Okay.”

The door closed. Decker climbed down the stairs and walked around to the side. He followed a well-lit, stepping-stone pathway that hugged a wall; behind it looked to be a courtyard. About five hundred yards down was a two-story stucco building. The door was open when he got there.

The eyes belonged to a kid…twenty if that. His chin and forehead were still dotted with acne. He wore jeans and T-shirt and blocked the doorway. “Father Sparks is…his door is closed.”

“Why don’t you knock on it?”

A voice in the background asked who it was.

“Police,” Decker shouted out.

Sparks came out, draped his arm around his young charge. “Thank you, Jim, you can go back upstairs now.”

“I didn’t want to disturb-”

“It’s fine, Jim.”

“Are you sure, Father?”

“Positive.” Bram smiled. Weary. Edgy. “Bye.”

Jim stared at Decker, then turned and walked up a staircase.

“Come in,” Sparks said.

The place was halfway between an office suite and a residence. A living room at one side, a receptionist’s office on the other. Once it might have been a dining room.

“This way.”

Sparks led Decker past a small kitchen into a den area. A few beat-up sofas populated the room. He unlocked a pair of french doors and took Decker outside into a courtyard illuminated by low-voltage spots. It was thickly planted with flowers and foliage. A three-tiered fountain sat in the center of the landscape, spilling out glittery drops in the white light. Cool out here. Peaceful, too. They walked down a colonnade into a separate one-story bungalow marked CHANCELLERY.

Sparks opened the door.

“Welcome to my mess.” He quickly crossed himself. “Watch your step. I’ve got material on the floor, too.”

Mess was an understatement. Sparks ’s entire office was crammed with junk. Enough papers and books to replenish a tropical rain forest. Piles upon piles of notes on his desk-his desks. There were three of them. Walls of bookshelves, all of them overflowing with reading matter. As Decker looked around, there was some loose logic to the categories. Books inscribed in Greek were all placed together in one case, matter written in Russian or some other obscure Cyrillic language occupied another case. The Latin and English tomes comprised the biggest portion of his collection, taking up the entire back wall.

But Decker’s eyes were transfixed by other things. The texts written in Hebrew and Aramaic. Specifically, a Hebrew Bible, a Chumash, along with a complete set of Talmud that took up two shelves.

The holy books of his newfound faith.

There were other Hebrew books as well, but Decker couldn’t understand the titles. For just a moment, he wished Rina were here. Then he scratched that thought. Because he could only imagine how uncomfortable she would feel in this library. Because Orthodox Jews feel antsy about anyone outside the faith dissecting their sepharim-their holy books. Yet here was a slew of holy books that Rina kissed because God’s name was written inside of them-sitting in bookshelves, handled by a priest in an office that also held an enormous wall crucifix of Jesus.

Fighting fatigue and a pinch of uneasiness, he forced himself into his professional mode. A man had been brutally murdered. He had a job to do.

Next to the wall crucifix were several framed photographs. The first was a candid-Bram in a cassock, sitting at a table, his head resting on his open palm, reading a tome in Latin. The other two were posed shots. Bram with old men dressed in ornate religious vestments. In the last photo, Decker recognized all the parties. Bram with the Pope.

Sparks said, “ Rome and I get along.”

“I can see.”

The priest took a pile of papers off a chair and placed it on the floor. “Please. Have a seat.”

Decker sat. “I came around through the front. Pity that churches have to lock their doors.”

Sparks took a seat behind one of his three desks, unplugging the phone and answering machine. “When someone controls the vandalism, I’ll keep the door unlocked.”

“Fair enough.” Decker took out a notepad. “The rectory. You have residential quarters there?”

“Yes.”

“So you live at the church.”

“Basically, yes. I’ve been the resident priest here for seven years. But I’ve always maintained a one-bedroom apartment off grounds. Growing up in a large family, once in a blue moon, I have a fierce need for privacy.”

“Who’s Jim?”

“The young man who answered the door?”

“Yes.”

“He’s one of my many pass-through seminarians. Currently, I’ve got two. They’re doing field training here. They send them down from St. John’s in Camarillo. That’s where the Los Angeles diocese runs its seminary.”

“You’re the church’s sole priest?”

“Sole resident priest. If I’m out of town, Loyola/ Marymount will send over some guys to do Mass for my congregants.”

“Do you teach?”

“Currently, I’m conducting six different classes here-basic Bible, faith in the face of adversity, the true meaning of Christmas, current events and religion…things like that.” Sparks looked at Decker. “I have brochures. But I suspect that’s not why you’re here.”

Decker smiled. “Maybe another time.”

“Of course.”

“Do you teach at the University as well?”

“Occasionally. But academic teaching is time consuming. I’ve got a parish to run.”

Decker’s eyes swept over the room which was more of a library. “You seem like the…academic type.”

Bram smiled. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“A simple statement. The chancellery’s full of books.”

“I do some independent work for Rome, mostly translating ancient papers and documents. I was a Classics language major in college. I’ve got a natural feel for words. But it’s the church that owns my heart. It’s my family.”