Faye Kellerman - Prayers for the Dead

“He was good.” Polinski ran his tongue over equine frontal incisors. “Could have used a little polishing when taking the curves. But for an old guy, he had great balance.”

Decker said, “Either of you have any theories about his murder?”

“Yeah,” Sanchez said. “It was some asshole.”

Polinski said, “It’s absurd. Someone murdering Granddaddy. For what reason? Grease Pit’s right. It had to be some hyped asshole.”

Sanchez hit Polinski’s shoulder, pointed to someone in the crowd. “Who’s that guy, Sidewinder? Don’t he look familler?”

Decker looked to where Sanchez was pointing. Muscular build, curly black hair, blue eyes. “That’s Paul Sparks. One of the doctor’s sons.”

Sanchez pulled up his pants. “Who’s he talking to?”

Decker regarded Paul’s companion. A ruddy man who appeared to be in his sixties, around six feet with a sizable spread about his middle. Soft features-thick lips and a thick, veiny nose. White hair cut short and blunt. Dressed in a gray double-breasted suit, white shirt, red tie.

From Decker’s viewpoint, the old guy seemed to be lecturing about something important. Because Paul was listening carefully, nodding at frequent intervals, his eyelids calm and steady.

“Don’t he look familler?” Sanchez repeated.

“Yes, he does,” Polinski agreed. “He’s obviously a friend of Granddaddy’s. But I don’t remember him ever riding with us.”

“No, he didn’t ride with us.”

The two bikers continued to stare.

“Didn’t Granddaddy brought him into the store once?” Sanchez said. “When he looked at the Harley Bagger.”

“Granddaddy bought a Bagger?”

“I knowed he looked at one,” Sanchez said. “A thirtieth anniversary Ultra Bagger. But I don’t think he buyed it.” To Decker, he said, “That is one mean mother bike-1340 ccs at 5000 rpm, 78 pounds of torque, and fuel-injected. Tops out ’bout ninety which ain’t bad considering all the shit it got on it. I remember Granddaddy was looking at a Victory Red.”

“Cool,” Decker said.

Polinski continued staring at the man.

Sanchez said, “Think we should go over and say somethin’ to him?”

“Like what?”

“I dunno,” Sanchez said. “Like hi or somethin’.”

Again, Polinski tongued his front teeth. “I don’t even remember his name.”

“I don’t, either.”

Polinski said, “Nah, I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Me, neither,” Sanchez said. “I was just thinkin’ that we should be…you know…like payin’ our respects.”

“We showed up and signed into the book,” Polinski said. “That’s enough. You know what? I’ve had enough. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

“Yeah, good idea.” Sanchez turned back to Decker. “You remember what I told you, right?”

“If you remember what I told you.”

“What did I miss?” Polinski said.

“I was just informing Mr. Sanchez that lynch mobs are against the law.”

Polinski waved Decker off. “He’s just frustrated. We all are. Too much tax dollars wasted on psychos. Too many laws restricting freedom of choice. The government should be catching criminals…real criminals. Not passing meaningless shit that the cops can’t enforce. I mean the drug czar, for instance. What a waste of tax dollars. I’m not saying drugs are good. I’m just saying the drug czar was a waste of money. No wonder people get mad and blow things up.”

“Because it’s meaningless,” Sanchez said.

“Exactly.”

Decker said, “You’re entitled to think a law is meaningless. Just as long as you obey it.”

Polinski said, “If the law told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it?”

“You’re speaking in absurdities, Mr. Polinski,” Decker said.

“That’s the point,” Polinski said. “The law’s absurd.”

Decker said, “Let’s talk bottom line, gentlemen. I don’t want any trouble with you, I don’t want you getting in my face. Do we have an understanding?”

“Hey, you do your job,” Sanchez said. “You get no trouble from us.”

Polinski hit Sanchez’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Before you two go, can I get your full names and addresses?”

Polinski said, “Stanislav Polinski, aka Sidewinder. He’s Emmanuel Sanchez, aka Grease Pit.”

“Addresses?”

“Right now we got a trailer in Canyon Country,” Sanchez said. “But that don’t mean nothin’. ’Cause we’re always on the move.”

“Where in Canyon Country?”

“Somewhere,” Sanchez answered.

Sidewinder said, “No sense giving you a place ’cause we move around a lot.”

“What about the shop?” Sanchez said.

“What about it?” Decker asked.

“I work at a used-bike dealership Thursday through Saturday. You can call me anytime.” Sanchez moved in and smiled. “Give you a great deal on the bike of your choice. Specially if you got trade-in.”

“I’ll bet,” Decker said. “What’s the address of the dealership?”

Sanchez gave it to him. “Good meetin’ you.” Sanchez grabbed Decker’s hand with a leathery palm, shook it hard. “You’re gonna find this asshole, right?”

“I’m going to do my best.”

“Come on.” Polinski gave Sanchez a slight nudge. To Decker, he said, “Ciao.”

“Ciao.” Decker watched them go, swaggering and jingling, with Sanchez tugging his pants upward to hide his butt crack. Grease Pit talked a good case of avenging Granddaddy, but he was probably more smoke than fire. Still, one never knew. They both merited further investigation.

Decker made some final scratches in his pad, notes reminding him to check out certain things. He finished his scribblings, tucked the pad into his jacket. Then he looked up and scanned the crowd. Paul was conversing with a bunch of white-haired church ladies. And the man with the thick lips and veiny nose had disappeared from sight.

The captain was in. Phone in hand, he pointed to a seat and continued talking into the receiver. Decker sat and waited. Strapp’s office wasn’t much bigger than his lieutenant’s cubicle, wasn’t any better decorated, either. Standard-issue desk and chairs, file cabinets, a separate work station with the computer. He had a phone, a fax machine, and a slotted paper holder overflowing with multicolored police forms. The desk held the pictures of the wife and kids, the walls were hung with photographs of the professional man. A smiling Strapp showing lots of teeth standing next to the mayor, Strapp with the Guv, Strapp in uniform between the president and first lady. Other snapshots, among them a photo of the Captain standing next to a little girl holding a teddy bear. The man who stood at her other side wore a white coat.

Dr. Sparks.

Decker remembered the four-year-old headline. The girl had been given a new heart and life from the tragedy of another child’s untimely death.

Strapp hung up the phone, folded his hands on his desk. He was about to speak, then noticed where Decker had focused his attention.

“Patty Harrison. Cute little thing, isn’t she?”

“Adorable. Do you know how she’s doing?”

“No, I don’t.” Strapp grew tense. “I hope they’re coping with the news of Sparks’s death. This could be devastating. How’s the investigation going?”

“Still gathering information. Dr. Craine should be getting back with an initial autopsy report, Farrell Gaynor’s been doing paper trail for the last eight hours, the others are asking questions, sorting through physical evidence. The investigation’s proceeding nicely, sir. But I’ve got a problem.”

“What?”

“My wife knows one of Dr. Sparks’s sons. The priest, Abram Sparks.”