Faye Kellerman - Prayers for the Dead

“Nah, you do enough of that for the both of us.”

“You say things, Luke. I know what you mean. But no one else does-”

“Mind you, I really don’t think Paul killed Dad for money. But hey, a lot stranger things have happened.”

Bram looked at the crucifix on his wall. “Why do I bother?”

Again, the room went silent.

Luke looked at his hands. “So what are you going to do with the money?”

“What?”

“The money, Bram. What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t want to talk about money.”

“Well, it’s better than talking about death!” Suddenly, Luke sprang up and leaned against the back wall, burying his face in his hands.

Sluggishly, Bram sighed, checked his watch. Half hour until Mass. He rose from his desk, went over to his brother, and placed his hand on his shoulder.

“Lucas, I know you’re hurting. I know that wisecracks are your way of dealing with pain.”

Luke turned around, wiped his eyes. “How much do I owe you, Herr Doktor?”

The priest looked his twin in the eye, seeing his own tired reflection. “Bro, listen to me. Lieutenant Decker is nobody’s fool. He is a very, very…very, very smart man. You keep talking about money, throwing stuff around about Paul, trying to joke your way out of your pain, you’re going to tweak his antenna.”

“What do I care? I didn’t do anything.”

“Of course, you didn’t do anything. But look at it from his perspective. A weird homicide like Dad’s. First thing police will do is scrutinize the family. You add to that an…an outrageous insurance policy that makes us all rich-”

“Millionaires to be exact.”

Bram hit his forehead. “Am I getting through at all?”

“Not much.”

“Lucas, the police can get very nasty. I don’t need the hassle. And you certainly don’t need it.”

Bram paused, organized his thoughts.

“I realize you’re stressed. And I know what stress does to you. But we’re all in this together. So instead of pulling away from each other, let’s deal with it as a unit. Deal with it constructively-”

“Does that mean heroin is out?”

Bram kept his voice calm, tried again. “Luke, you’ve come so far. Nothing’s worth the setback. Not even a million dollars.”

“I don’t know about that, Golden Boy. For a million bucks, I think I could well afford a couple of setbacks.”

Bram pulled away, knocked his head against the wall. Useless arguing with Luke when he was in one of these moods. Completely irrational. For a moment, he wondered if his twin hadn’t already had a major setback. His eyes were glazed…unfocused. But that could easily be from confusion, grief, and lack of sleep.

“So, bro…” Luke ambled over to the water machine and made himself another cup of tea. “What are you going to do with your share of the money? Start a food bank? Open a mission? Buy a new church? Just what the fuck does a priest do with a million dollars?”

Bram gave up, started making preparations for the six A.M. Mass. “I’ve got to shower.”

Luke drank tea, squashed the cup and two-pointed it into the waste can. “I’m going to buy a house. That should keep Dana happy for a while, don’t you think?”

“Whatever.”

“Think Dad would approve of me using the money for a house?”

Bram was silent.

Luke shrugged. “I think he would. Much better than shooting it in my veins.”

Softly, Bram said, “Are you high, Lucas?”

“No, Abram, I am not. But sincerely, I wish I was.”

The priest walked over to his brother, embraced him tightly. To his surprise, Luke fell into his arms and wept bitterly. And also to his surprise, Bram felt his own eyes overflow. For several moments, he couldn’t tell who was actually crying. Holding his twin. It was as if he was holding himself.

Berger wasn’t happy, but he was resigned to the inevitable. He motioned Decker to follow. Together, without speaking, they took the elevator down to the second floor. Berger moved swiftly, cornering the series of corridors like a four-wheel drive on a mountain. He stopped short, unlocked a door, and let Decker inside his office.

Small and neat. A tiny anteroom, the open door showing about a hundred and twenty square feet of dawn-lit space. Berger flipped on the lights. He had a desk, a matching credenza, a couple of worn patient chairs and bookshelves. Not much else. Not much else would fit. The doctor hung up his white coat on a brass rack and sat down in front of his desk. Decker pulled up a chair, positioning it directly across from Berger. He took out a notepad.

Berger checked his watch. “I don’t know what I could possibly tell you. But go ahead.”

“You’ve worked with Dr. Sparks for a long time.”

“Yes.”

“You went through medical school with him?”

“Harvard. Although I’m sure you know that already.”

“Yes, I do. Have you always worked with Dr. Sparks?”

“You mean are we joined at the hip? The answer is no.”

“So you’ve had positions other than your current one with Sparks?”

“I don’t see the point of this line of questioning.”

“All right, I’ll be direct. You’ve got a great reputation as being a surgeon in your own right. But with Sparks, you were always the number two man. Did that ever lead to resentment?”

Berger looked Decker in the eye. “Yes.”

Decker was quiet.

“Surprised?” Berger asked.

“Surprised that you admitted it.”

“Yes, at times, I was resentful…very resentful. We’d walk in a room together, Azor would get the accolades, I’d be standing there, nodding my head like some carnival kewpie doll. Of course, I was resentful. But I didn’t murder the man.” Berger’s voice went harsh. “If that was your reason for questioning me, you’re going about this investigation all wrong. I think you’d better reevaluate.”

Decker was silent, wondering why the man was so hostile. Berger was finally in the medical spotlight. Maybe he had a bad case of stage fright and was covering it with bravado.

Again, Berger checked his watch. “I’ve got rounds-”

“What positions did you hold before you hooked up with Dr. Sparks?”

“I don’t see where that’s any of your business.”

“Dr. Berger, I can look up your professional background in a snap-”

“So do it.”

“You’re not going to make this easy on me?”

“I didn’t kill the man, period. That’s all you have to know.”

Decker smoothed his mustache, trying to figure out how to work around the man’s anger. Attempt a different approach. Suddenly, something dawned on him. He said, “Do you have a past, sir?”

Berger seemed poised for another attack. Abruptly, he wilted. Silence thickened between them.

“Why don’t you just go away?” Berger whispered.

Mildly, Decker said, “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Berger looked at the ceiling, said nothing.

“I’m going to find it all out. Might be better if it came from you.”

Berger kneaded his hands, slowly began his recitation. “My father was a good man. Worked hard…was very proud of me.”

“I’m sure.”

“A good man,” Berger repeated, “but a gambler. At the age of fifty-one, he dropped dead from a heart attack and left my mother helpless and penniless. I was a senior resident at the time…away from home. Of course, when I heard the news I rushed back to my mother’s side, took over the many responsibilities that she couldn’t handle. Squared her away.”

“Big burden,” Decker said.

“It was because my father had left big debts. But we took care of them. I stayed long enough to get her on the right footing, then I left home once again to continue on with my studies…with my life. I came back just in time to take my specialty boards. Needless to say, I was a wreck. Flustered and disoriented. Still reeling from grief, overrun with worry. I hadn’t had a moment to study. I was caught cheating.”