Faye Kellerman: Prayers for the Dead

“I sometimes miss working in the field, that’s all. I miss working with Marge as a partner. I’ve teamed her with Oliver. They work well together. But I think there’s friction.”

“Big surprise. Marge is a straight shooter, Scott’s a slick old goat.”

“He’s in his forties. That’s not old.”

“But he is slick and he is a goat.”

“True.”

“Is Marge complaining?”

“No, she’s too much the professional to do that. I should talk to her, find out if she’s happy. Tell the truth, I don’t want to open up a can of worms. I figure if there are real problems, I’ll learn about them sooner or later.”

“In other words, you’re playing ostrich, burying your head in the sand.”

“More like…selective ostrich.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “Sometimes, I have to look the other way. Otherwise, you spread yourself too thin.”

The phone rang.

Both of them looked at the wall, at the malevolent blinking business line. Rina poured the eggs into the pan and scrambled fiercely. “How about doing some fancy head-interring right now, Mr. Cassowary?”

“Lieutenant Cassowary.”

Wordlessly, Rina picked up the receiver, handed it to her husband. He took it, shrugged helplessly.

“Decker.”

“It’s Marge. We need you.”

“Can I finish my dinner?”

“You may not want to. Just found sixty-plus white male slumped inside an ’86 Buick. Gunshot wounds to the forehead, as well as multiple stab wounds to the chest. The man had ID on him. Pete, it’s Azor Sparks!”

It took a few moments for Decker to put flesh and bone on the name. “The heart doctor?” He felt a sudden pounding in his head. “Jesus! What happened?”

“What?” Rina asked.

Decker waved her off. Marge said, “The car was found parked in the back alley behind Tracadero’s. A busboy was taking out the garbage when he saw that the Buick had the driver’s seat door wide open. He went over to investigate…Oh Christ!…Pete, a stray was on top of him, snout buried in his chest-”

“I’ll be right over.” Decker hung up the phone.

Rina handed him his plate of salami and eggs. “You don’t have time to bolt it down?”

Decker’s stomach lurched. Not the time or the inclination. “It’s bad, Rina. You don’t want to know.”

“Will I hear about it on the news?”

“Probably.” Decker grimaced. “Dr. Azor Sparks, the famous heart transplant surgeon. He was found dead in his car…in a back alley behind a restaurant.”

Abruptly, Rina paled, brought her hand to her throat. Decker regarded his wife. As gray as ash. “Sit down, honey.”

“I think I will.” She melted into a chair.

“You want something to drink?”

“No, I’m…”

The kitchen went silent. Decker studied Rina’s expression. “Rina, did you know this man?”

Slowly, she shook her head no. “Not personally. By reputation.”

“I’m sorry you have to witness such ugliness through me.”

A baby’s cry shot through the room. Rina stood on shaky legs. “Hannah’s up. It’s like she has a sixth sense…I’d better see…” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Smiled at her husband, but left without a good-bye.

Decker waited a beat, then slipped on his jacket, puzzled by Rina’s strong reaction.

Odd.

But maybe not.

Homicides weren’t a daily occurrence in her life.

Tracadero’s was one of the few hoo-hah, nouvelle, chic, posh, pick-your-own-effete-adjective restaurants in the West Valley. Translation to Decker: Pay a lot for tiny portions. He had been there once. The inside had been done up to look like scaffolding. For that kind of money and atmosphere, he could have just as easily bag-lunched it at a construction site. The place was located midblock in a commercial strip of street.

A long block. As Decker fast-walked through a decently lit back alley, he noticed a pizzeria, a clothing boutique, a guitar store, a pharmacy, a hair and nail salon, and a tropical fish store. The night was foggy and cool, the glare of starlight spread behind a wall of filmy clouds. Yellow crime tape had been stretched across the alley’s main entrances, two black-and-whites nose to nose at the driveways, preventing pass-through traffic. As he came closer to the actual crime spot, the crowd grew dense. Uniformed and plainclothed officers swarming around a bronze Buick. The strong odor of garbage mixed with the metallic stench of fresh blood and excreted bowels.

Marge and Oliver had already arrived. So had Martinez and Webster, the newest imports to Devonshire Homicide. Bert Martinez came from Van Nuys Substation, having worked Crimes Against Persons detail, Tom Webster was a transplant from Mississippi with ten years of gold-shield experience and a BA in music composition from Tulane. With veteran Farrell Gaynor, they would comprise the team for this case, as major homicides were usually worked in groups of five. Gaynor was on his way, his wife having reported that he had just left. The old man moved like a slug, but had a microscopic eye for details and patience for paperwork.

Decker reached inside his jacket, slipped on a pair of latex gloves. Marge noticed him first, pushed silk blond hair out of her brown doe eyes and gave a wave. She was a big woman, five nine plus, large-boned and all muscle. Unmarried as well. Not too many guys could compete against her in either the brains or brawn department. The others gave him nods as he approached their huddle.

First thing up: Clear unnecessary people. Decker said, “ Martinez, Oliver, Webster, and Dunn. You stay here. How many cruisers were sent here? Anyone know?”

“Seven,” someone answered.

“Four of them are blocking the entrances to the alley.” Decker thought a moment. “All right, the other three loose black-and-whites, start making passes around the area. Use extreme caution if you see anything suspicious. And always call for backup. The rest of you, go back to the barricades and wait for further instructions. On your way out, don’t touch anything, watch where you step. Go.”

Slowly, the crowd scattered, leaving Decker full view of the car. The driver’s door was still wide open, legs protruded out, shoes scraped the asphalt. Good shoes. Quality black leather, maybe Ballys or Cole-Haan. They were splattered with sticky clots of blood. Decker advanced, peered inside the car.

An abattoir. Jackson Pollock in shades of red and brown. He held his breath and exhaled carefully, thankful his stomach was empty. Stab wounds had turned the doctor’s chest into a sieve, bullets had pierced through the great man’s head and neck. Carefully, he touched the cheek.

“Body’s still warm.” Decker looked at his glove. Wet with blood. He’d have to change it before he touched anything else. He checked his watch. Nine-twenty. “Anyone call up the ME?”

“Yo.” Oliver ran his hands through a mound of dark hair. His brown eyes flitted through the scene. “Called the coroner’s office, called Forensics as well. They should be here any moment.”

“What about Captain Strapp?”

Marge said, “I left a message for him, Pete…er, Loo.”

Oliver flashed Marge a white, toothy smile. She ignored it and him. Pity because Scott was well built and good-looking. He even had moments that could be roughly defined as charming. Just too few of them and way too far between.

Out of the corner of his eye, Decker saw a stoop-shouldered man wrapped in a cardigan sweater, inching toward them. Marge followed Decker’s stare, shook her head. “I think you woke him up from his nap.”

Decker waved Gaynor forward. The man attempted a trot but gave up. His belly was too big, his legs too spindly to carry that much weight while running. Oliver said, “I thought he retired. He should be retired.”