Faye Kellerman - Prayers for the Dead

She came toward him. “Bram, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but what they’re saying is absurd. You’re no more capable of murder than I am.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I know you’re not…that way.”

“That way? You mean gay?”

“Why are you torturing me?”

He spun around, rage in his eyes. “Because you don’t know a damn thing about me. And you never did. Because if you had had even the tiniest clue, you would have never told me to go to Rome.”

Rina’s mouth dropped open; she was stunned and stung. “So suddenly I’ve become responsible for your regrets?”

“I would have moved mountains for you.” His eyes moistened. “All I wanted was some kind of…sign-”

“So why didn’t you ask for one?”

“Oh believe me, I asked in a thousand ways! You just never bothered to listen!”

His voice was seething with bitter fury. It was hard not to respond in kind. But Rina bit back her tongue. Because a harsh word delivered couldn’t ever be taken back.

There were so many different ways she could have answered his accusations. But what was the point? He was in trouble, he was hurting, and he was lashing out at her. Had she been a little less scared, a little less agitated, Rina knew she would have taken his anger for what it was-a backhanded compliment. He felt safe with her, secure enough to express himself. But she was too blinded by emotion.

Wiping wetness from her eyes, she said, “I did what I thought was right in the past. And I’m doing what I think is right in the present. If I am wrong now…like apparently I was wrong back then…then, I’ll kindly butt out!”

Softly, Bram said, “I think that’s a very good idea.”

They both stood in silence.

Rina said, “I need the keys to my car.”

“Oh.” Bram rummaged through his pockets, pulled out her keys. He was about to toss them to her. Instead, he walked over to the Volvo and opened the driver’s door. She sighed, dragged herself over, and scooted behind the wheel. She held out her hand and he dropped the keys into her open palm.

He whispered, “Next time you pray, ask Yitzy to forgive me for endangering your life.”

She glanced at his face, blinking back moisture from her eyes. “Did you have feelings for him, Abram?”

Bram stared at her, not believing his ears. “What?”

“I know you didn’t do anything.” She forced herself to look at him. “But did you have feelings for him?”

Bram’s face turned stony, his voice permeated with anger. “You can think whatever you want about me. I don’t care. But don’t you dare call yourself a religious woman. Yitzchak was my best friend. And a truly religious woman knows what real friendship is all about. For you to ask me such a question is reprehensible. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

He slammed the door and stomped off, leaving her alone with her thoughts, her fears, and her tears.

Oliver knocked on the open door, then walked inside Berger’s office. Marge followed.

The place was half-empty or half-full, depending on one’s perspective. The diplomas and certificates had been taken off the walls, but the books were still shelved. On the floor rested a dozen half-packed boxes. Berger was on a step stool, depleting the top shelf of its contents.

In Oliver’s mind, it appeared as if Berger was planning to bolt. Which gave all the more credence to his Fisher/Tyne conspiracy theory. But Berger offered a different explanation.

“Three of my associates have been murdered, Detective. I don’t plan to stick around to make it an even number.”

Marge said, “So you’re running out on the hospital-”

“Not at all.” Berger stood on his tiptoes and extracted the larger medical tomes from the highest shelf. “I’m not running out on anyone.” His voice was remarkably steady. “I’ve applied for a much deserved sabbatical. And I’m taking it whether or not it’s approved.”

“Leaving the hospital in the lurch,” Marge said. “New Chris has already lost Sparks and Decameron. Without you, it’s going to fold.”

“Better that than the hospital providing me a hero’s burial.” He stepped down, holding an armful of books. “You two don’t have a smidgen of empathy regarding my plight, do you?”

“I have a smidgen,” Oliver said.

The doctor shook his head, kneeled down, and placed the texts in a box. “Figures. The police are noted for their lack of human compassion.”

Oliver said, “Why were you and Shockley fudging the Curedon data?”

Berger jerked his head up. “Come again?”

“You and Shockley had hacked into Fisher/Tyne’s data banks and were doing funny business with Kenneth Leonard’s Curedon numbers. I want to know why.”

“You’re crazy. You’ve got no warrant. Get out of here.”

Marge said, “We’ve traced a cuckoo’s egg to your computer, Dr. Berger. Ordinarily, computer hacking’s a federal crime. Meaning you’d plea your case to the FBI. But since we’ve got the rather major matter of a couple of murders-”

“I had nothing to do with them!” Berger snapped. “Look, people! Open your eyes! I’m terrified! What the hell do you two want from me.”

“How about some answers to some questions.”

“But I don’t know anything!”

“I think you do,” Oliver said. “I think you knew that Kenneth Leonard was on to you and Shockley.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea to what you’re referring. You’re talking gobbledygook.”

“Look, sir,” Marge said patiently, “why don’t you just start at the beginning. Because, at the very least, you’re going to get hit with charges of scientific fraud.”

Berger’s eyes darted from side to side. “Get out of here! Both of you! And take your disgusting accusations with you.”

Oliver held up a dozen sheets of computer paper. “Know what these are?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t care.”

Marge said, “They’re the latest Curedon data trials, Dr. Berger. Does that pique your interest?”

Berger stopped packing, ran his tongue across his teeth.

Oliver said, “The latest report given to the FDA by Decameron himself. After he ran the data. Decameron ran it. Not Fisher/Tyne. Know what? These numbers looked very promising. Which is particularly puzzling. Because the numbers Fisher/Tyne had been giving the FDA hadn’t been all that hot. And Gordon Shockley had told us that his numbers hadn’t been too good, either.”

Marge said, “Which means there was a discrepancy between Decameron’s statistics and what Fisher/Tyne was reporting to the FDA.”

Berger got up, wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “You two burst into my office, making all sorts of ridiculous claims, holding up generic data charts-”

“They’re not generic. Come take a look for yourself.” Oliver proffered Berger the results.

Berger hesitated, then snatched the papers and skimmed them. He held them aloft. “Where’d you get hold of these?”

Though he hated to admit it-even to himself-the sentiment was there: God bless Farrell. Oliver said, “None of your business.”

“This is confidential information,” Berger said. “There is no way you could have gotten this unless you did something illegal. I could have your badges for this.”

Oliver grinned. “I don’t think so.”

Again, Berger looked at the papers. “For all I know, you could have made up some numbers-”

“We got the numbers directly from the FDA,” Oliver interrupted. “That can be verified.”

“So…Reggie doctored the data. I’m not surprised. He’s a worm. And to tell you the truth, I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

“And why would he doctor data?”