Faye Kellerman: Prayers for the Dead

Strapp said, “Fill me in.”

“I just arrived around fifteen minutes ago.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “I’ve sent Martinez in to interview the restaurant personnel, Webster’s canvassing the block. We’ve got at least three additional patrol cars making passes through the area. Gaynor’s waiting for the ME and Forensics. I’ve assigned Oliver and Dunn over to New Chris where Sparks operated and attended.”

Strapp nodded. “So you know who Azor Sparks is…was.”

“Yes, sir. That’s why I’m here.”

“Any murder is a blow for our community. Shit like this is an effing big, black eye. Whatever you need for this one. Just get it done and get it done quickly.”

“Absolutely.”

“If that means double shifts, then you work double shifts.”

“No problem.” Decker stuck his hands in his pockets, thought of Rina, made a mental note to send her flowers. Better make them roses…long stems.

Strapp said, “You looked at the body?”

“Yes, sir. It’s really bad.”

“Jesus, Decker, who’d want to murder someone like Sparks? He was New Christian Hospital. Without him, the place is going to fold. Because without him, they aren’t going to get the big donors.”

Decker didn’t answer. Though Strapp was thinking like the politician, his assessment was right on. Sparks had put New Chris on the map. A tiny hospital, it had become renowned, mostly because Sparks had turned it into his personal place of business. And the hospital had been a tremendous source of revenue for the West Valley, drawing in lots of philanthropists. There had been quite a bit of dollar overflow into the area, the hospital paying for extracurricular school programs, park programs, health programs, as well as extra community-based fire and police programs. Just six months ago, New Chris donated a dozen of its old computers to the detectives’ squad room.

Strapp said, “Anything you need to solve this sucker quickly, Decker. Whatever manpower it takes just as long as it’s done textbook clean. Has anyone on your team ever had a race or sex problem?”

“Not that I know of,” Decker said. “Scott Oliver does have a mouth. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s said things.”

“Pull him off.”

“No, I don’t want to do that.”

Strapp’s eyes shot up to Decker’s face. “Why not?”

“Because he’s a good detective. I’ve got him teamed with Dunn. She should keep him clean. Besides, there’s nothing controversial here. Sparks was white.”

“What if his killer was black?”

“Why don’t we take it one step at a time-”

“I’m just saying, I don’t want some A-hole liberal legal eagle making my men out to be monsters. You tell everyone to tread carefully, like we’re handling toxic waste.”

“Agreed.”

“You want to take the media, Decker?”

“Not much to tell them yet. Next of kin hasn’t been notified yet, so we can’t give out any names-”

“Too late. Networks already know who the stiff is.”

Decker was appalled. “How’d that happen?”

“Obviously some jerk slipped over the scanner.”

“Christ!” Decker felt his teeth grind together. “The family doesn’t even know.”

“So get over there and tell them. I’ll hold the media off as long as I can. But you know these guys. They eat a strict no-ethics diet.”

Decker checked his watch. Nine fifty-two. “I’m out of here.”

He sprinted back to his Volare, turned on the engine, and peeled rubber. Sparks had lived about ten minutes away from where someone had made his grave. If speed and luck were with him, he’d make it to the house before the ten o’clock news.

Decker identified himself behind a closed door. As soon as it swung open, he breathed a sigh of relief. Because the expression on the young woman’s face suggested apprehension mixed with ignorance.

She didn’t know.

She was pretty-regular features, peaches-and-cream complexion, grass-green eyes, clean, straight, shoulder-length pecan-colored hair. Appeared to be around twenty, looked like a coed with her body buried in baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. Very wholesome face, wore no makeup or jewelry except for a simple cross around her neck. A disembodied voice came from behind her. “Who’s there, Maggie?”

“It’s the police,” she answered.

“Police?”

Decker said, “Is your mother home, ma’am?”

“She’s rest-”

A young man suddenly appeared. Straggly dark curls falling over his forehead. Bright, nervous blue eyes peering beneath the curtain of tresses. Older than the girl, probably in his midtwenties. He was wrapped in an argyle sweater over a button-down Oxford shirt. His pants were beige chinos, his feet tucked into loafers without socks. “How can I help you?”

Decker’s face remained flat. “I’m Lieutenant Decker from LAPD. Actually, I came to speak with Dolores Sparks.”

The man said, “What do you want with my mother?”

“Is she in, sir? It’s an emergency.”

“Oh my God!” Maggie shrieked. “Is it Dad?”

The young man paled. “My father? Is he okay?”

“May I come in?”

The door opened all the way, and Decker stepped inside a three-story entry, quickly scanned the place. Living room to left, dining room to right, family room straight ahead. It held a set of French doors that opened outward. There were also lots of floor-to-ceiling windows topped with thick valances and tiebacks. Couldn’t make out much of the backyard. At this time of night, it was all fog and shadows.

Decker looked upward. A wrought-iron staircase snaked its way to the top. The house appeared enormous. But the interior, though neat and clean, had seen better days. Peeling wallpaper, scarred wood flooring, chips in the ceiling molding. And old furniture. Thirty years ago, it had been top-notch. But now the upholstery had faded, the pillows were lumpy and lopsided. A spacious house, even in this neighborhood of big homes, though it now sat in genteel neglect.

Decker focused his attention back on the young man with the curly hair and blue eyes.

“Are you Dr. Sparks’s son?”

“One of them. Michael. What’s this about?”

“I really need to speak to your mother.”

Michael stood his ground. “First, tell me what’s going on.” His voice turned shaky. “It’s Dad, isn’t it?”

“Sir, we found a homicide victim about an hour ago. I regret to say that we have reason to believe that it’s your fath-”

“Oh my God!” Maggie put her hands over her mouth. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God-”

“Maggie, call Bram.”

“Oh my God! Oh my God-”

Michael grabbed his sister’s shoulders. “Maggie, go to the phone and call Bram now!”

The order shook her out of her mantra. She dashed to the phone. Decker said, “I’m very, very sorry, sir. But I really do need to speak to your mother.”

Michael didn’t move. His skin had become as transparent as onion skin. In gross contrast to his ebony curls.

A soft voice came from above. “Michael, what is it?”

Again, Decker looked upward. A woman stood on the upstairs landing, her silver hair clipped short around a round, full face. She wore a multicolored caftan, her skin heavily flushed. Michael’s knees caved in, but he recovered before he fell.

Decker put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll handle it.” He started up the steps, but the young man dogged his heels. Before Decker could speak, Michael said, “Mom, I think you should go back to bed.”

“Why?” The woman was tall and stolidly built. Beads of sweat covered her forehead and sprinkled the top of her upper lip. Green eyes like her daughter. Clear, focusing sharply on Decker. “Who are you?”

“Mrs. Sparks, I’m Lieutenant Peter Decker of the Los Angeles Police-”