Faye Kellerman - Prayers for the Dead

“Then compare the results?”

“Exactly. I told you it was the same class.”

“God, this brings back some Kodaks. The minute we started up in teams, everything got bogged down-”

“All these slow people dragging their asses-”

“Stupid people,” Oliver said. “Got so mired in procedure-”

“Future LAPD brass,” Marge said.

They both laughed.

“Everyone had to have a turn,” Oliver expounded. “Whether they had something to say or not. Especially these touchy-feely broads.”

“Yeah, we had a couple of those,” Marge said. “I kept saying, fuck the feelings and let’s get on with the task. I made this one girl cry. Her friend chewed me out, said…get this…‘You don’t have to be so brutal!’”

Oliver gave Marge a wide grin. “I love it when women are brutal.”

Marge dropped her smile, then looked away.

They rode the next few minutes without conversation.

Oliver muttered, “Talk about touchy-feely.”

Marge didn’t answer.

“Jesus Christ, Dunn, I was just making a joke.”

“I know.”

“So what are you getting so pissed about?”

“I’m not pissed.”

“Dunn, I know when a woman is pissed. And you’re pissed.”

“Oliver, I want a partner I don’t have to worry about, okay.”

“You don’t have to worry about a thing, lady. It’s the farthest thing from my mind.”

“Good.”

“Just trying to stroke your ego-”

“My ego doesn’t need stroking.”

“Funny. Everyone else’s does.”

Marge stared at him. “You want to stroke my ego, tell me I’m a good cop.”

Oliver spoke quietly. “You’re a good cop.”

Marge paused. “Thank you.” Again, she hesitated. “So are you.”

Oliver pushed hair off his forehead. “Thanks.”

He started whistling again. This time Marge recognized the tune-the refrain of “Stayin’ Alive.” His mouth pucking sounds came out as sharp, shrill stabs. Over and over and over and over.

After five minutes, Marge said, “Can you cool it with the bird songs?”

Oliver quit whistling. “What?”

“You sound like an avian mating call. I half-expect some mesmerized, horny robin to fly into the car and start showing you her tail feathers.”

“Dunn, you talk that way, you get me hot-”

“I don’t believe you, Oliver. You’re doing it again.”

“Lady, you started it, talking about horny robins and tail feathers. What’s an old goat to think?”

Marge was about to speak, but laughed instead. She did kind of set him up. Besides, she got her point across. No sense belaboring it.

The industrial park was blocks long, set on acres of rolling, manicured lawn that sported a variety of specimen willows and elms. The commercial buildings ranged in size, but each was fashioned from brick and landscaped with shocking pink impatiens, pastel pink azaleas, and emerald ferns, giving the development uniformity. In the middle of the complex was a rock waterfall that emptied into a pond complete with goldfish and koi.

Fisher/Tyne’s entry faced the waterscape. It was a two-storied structure with double doors. The lobby was masoned with white marble, the furniture sleek-suede couches, glass tables and chrome lamps. Oversized unframed canvases hung on the walls, the artwork being modern and stark. A couple of trim, blond, blue-eyed receptionists wearing headsets sat behind a glass window. Marge glanced at her partner, wondering if Oliver would be distracted by the view. His eyes revealed nothing.

He took out ID and showed it to one of the cuties in the see-through cage. “We’re here to see Dr. Gordon Shockley.”

The cutie stared at the ID, spoke into a mike. “It’s about Dr. Sparks, right?”

Oliver pocketed his badge. “Is Dr. Shockley in, ma’am?”

“I’ll check.” She punched a couple of buttons, spoke into the headset that encircled her face. To Oliver, she said, “He’ll be down in just a few minutes. Would you like some coffee?”

Oliver turned to Marge.

“Pass.”

“Maybe later,” Oliver said.

“Just have a seat, then.”

Marge parked herself on the sofa. It had all the give of a park bench. Oliver sat next to her. The lobby held several windows that looked out to the pond.

Marge said, “Nice view.”

“Plastic.” Oliver lowered his voice. “Or do you mean the ones in the cage.”

“Talk about plastic.”

He grinned. “Polymers have their place, Dunn.”

“Polymers is right,” she whispered. “All of them made out of the same mold-”

“Hey, you get a winner, stick with it.”

Marge turned to him. “Are you talking for my benefit only or are you really this shallow?”

“No, I’m really this shallow, Dunn. Get used to it.”

Marge laughed and so did he. A moment later, a man walked through a door marked PERSONNEL ONLY, a mellow voice introducing himself as Gordon Shockley. He shook Marge’s hand first, then Oliver’s.

Midforties. About six two, and well built. Curly, bronzed hair streaked with gray and thinning at the top. Deep brown eyes, aquiline nose, thin lips, and the smooth, almost wet-looking skin that comes from a very close shave. He wore a custom-made suit, the last button on the sleeve left undone to prove the point. Navy wool crepe. Oliver eyed it enviously. It spoke Italian. It said, “I’m Expensissimo.”

“This way, please,” Shockley led. “Were the directions adequate?”

“They were fine,” Marge answered.

They followed Shockley back through the PERSONNEL ONLY door to the elevator, and went up a flight. His office was a corner suite. Marge noticed another young cutie secretary as they passed through the receptionist’s office into Shockley’s chamber. Obviously, the same designer had done up the entire building. Same marble, same dark suede furniture and glass tables, and the same talentless art. Shockley’s desk looked to be eight feet long, constructed out of a single piece of black granite. Had as much warmth as a sarcophagus. The saving grace of the place was two walls of view. Green hills covered with wildflowers bleeding into a silvery-blue blade of ye olde Pacific. A whispery sky crowned the scene.

“Please, have a seat,” Shockley stated. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Nothing, thanks,” Marge said.

“Detective?” Shockley looked at Oliver.

“Right now, I’m fine, thanks.”

“Easy customers.” Shockley’s expression turned grave. “Terrible thing about Dr. Sparks. I’m stunned.”

Oliver slipped out his notepad. “Did you know him well?”

“I knew him on a professional level. A very brilliant man.”

“Seems to be the general consensus,” Marge said, also taking notes.

“His genius is absolutely undebatable.”

“I heard he was also very exacting. Did you get along with him?”

Shockley eyed Marge. “Of course, he was exacting. With that high of an intellect, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Oliver repeated, “Did you get along with him?”

“Yes.” Shockley smiled. “We’re both exacting people.”

Ergo, both of you are of high intellect. Marge said, “No conflict?”

“What kind of conflict, Detective?”

“You were doing business with him, Doctor,” Oliver said. “There’s always negotiation in business.”

“We weren’t trading rugs, Detective.”

“No, you were trading millions of dollars.”

Shockley folded his hands and placed them on the desk. “I’m not sure why you people have decided to come out here. But let me clue you in on something. Fisher/Tyne is a major corporation in this country. We are public. Information about us is available to you through various K-forms and prospectuses. All very up and up. If you want to find out more about us, help yourself.”