Faye Kellerman - False Prophet

“I’m in the kitchen.”

She walked in, carrying bags of groceries, looked at Decker’s plate piled with food, and placed her parcels on the counter.

“Peter, what are you doing?” She pulled his plate away. “Can’t you tell these aren’t for you? How can you just take without asking?”

Decker rolled his eyes. “Sorry.”

Rina sighed, her shoulder sagging. “I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous. I’ve got more than enough.” She put the plate back in front of him. “Eat as many as you want.”

“Save them. I’ll grab something else.”

“No, take,” Rina insisted. “Take more. Take as much as you want.”

“I’m fine, Rina. I’m getting full.”

She piled another half-dozen knishes on his plate. “Here. Take.”

“I don’t want any more,” Decker said.

Rina looked at him, her eyes suddenly moistening. “You don’t like them?”

“No, no,” Decker backtracked. “They’re delicious.”

“You really like them?”

“Yes.”

“The spinach, too?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Rina, you’re a fabulous cook. I like everything you make. Who are you baking for anyway?”

“I’m going to freeze them,” Rina said. Then she added quickly, “It’s for the bris … or the naming if it’s a girl.”

Decker held his temper. “I thought we agreed that it was too much work for you to do all that cooking. We were going to hire a cater—”

“Just a few appetizers.”

“You should be resting. Isn’t that what the doctor said?”

“What does a man know about pregnancy?”

Decker wasn’t about to be suckered into that argument. “You’re going to tire yourself out.”

“Why do you say that? Do I look tired?”

“No, Rina. You look great.”

She did. From the back, Decker couldn’t tell she was pregnant. The front told another story: Six months gravid, but her face was as finely featured and beautiful as ever. Her milky complexion was flawless, her cerulean eyes clear and bright. Her hair had grown very long. She’d braided it and wore a tam on the crown of her head. According to Jewish law, married women had to cover their hair, but Rina had allowed the jet-black plait to escape down her back. It was thick and shiny. She simply glowed with health.

Kessler came back on the phone. Decker held up his palm.

“Okay,” the doctor said. “I did all the tests you wanted, sent them to your lab. She was bruised vaginally, but there was no semen inside of her.”

Decker looked at his wife. “Could you hold, Doc? I want to change phones.”

“Don’t bother on my account,” Rina sulked. “I’ll go in the other room.”

“Rina—”

“No, I insist.” She opened the back door and let the dog inside. “C’mon, Ginger. You can keep me company.”

Decker knew better than to protest and waited until she was out of hearing range. Then he said, “You do a mouth and anal swab as well?”

“Everything. No one ejaculated inside any of her orifices.”

“The sheets smelled like semen.”

“Then he came on the linen and not inside,” Kessler said. “I did find a trace of dried seminal fluid on her leg. I put it on a slide and sent it to the lab.”

“Doc, did you happen to ask her about previous voluntary intercourse?”

“I’m on top of it, Sarge. I knew you wouldn’t want your results confounded. She said no.”

A premie rapist? Decker knew lots of them were. “Was there any anal or oral bruising?”

“Nothing showed up clinically.”

“Any foreign hairs?”

“Nothing that looked obvious—either on the pubis or the head. She’s blond all the way around, so if there was anything dark, it would have popped out at me. You comb, you’re always going to pull out hairs. Whether they’re hers or not, the lab will tell us. But if you have semen on the sheet, you have evidence.”

“What did you do with the clothes?”

“They’re bagged,” Kessler said. “The ambulance driver told me you were going to pick them up yourself.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Think I’ll be able to talk to her?”

“Like I said, she’s still woozy. But she may be able to answer a few questions. You know, come to think of it, she asked about you.”

“She did?”

“Yes, she asked for you by name, matter of fact. Twice. ‘Is Sergeant Deckman in?’”

“Deckman,” Decker said. “Close enough. So she remembered me from this morning.”

“Seems that way,” Kessler said. “If her brain stays clear, she should heal up pretty quickly. She’s in great shape physically—her pulse was slow, her blood pressure’s nice and low. Her lungs were clear. She had an abbreviate neuro earlier in the morning, is scheduled for another one tomorrow. Her reflexes were normal, good range of vision. She checked out normal on both the fine and gross motor. Good muscle tone, too.”

Decker remembered her grip. Her muscle tone had been more than good.

Kessler went on, “Her face is swollen, some subdermal bleeding below the orbits. Looks like someone belted her in the eyes. They’re black and puffy. But no broken facial bones. That’s good. She’s a stunning woman. You can see her beauty right through the bruises and the cuts.”

“Agreed. If someone can tell her I’ll be down in the late afternoon, I’d appreciate it.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks.” Decker hung up and walked into the living room. In the heat, the room seemed to sweat the scent of pine and leather. Ginger occupied one buckskin chair; Rina was in the other, feet propped up on the ottoman. She looked as if she’d swallowed a watermelon. He went over and kissed her forehead. She looped an arm around his neck and pulled him down next to her, running her fingers through thick shocks of red hair.

“I’m tired. You’re right. I overdid it. But I felt so energetic this morning. I even baked cupcakes for the boys. Do you want a cupcake?”

“No, thank you.”

“Did you have enough to eat?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

She slipped her hand underneath his shirt. Decker felt dizzy from the aroma of her skin. “You telling me something, darlin’?”

“You have time, Peter?”

He sat up and loosened his tie. “Honey, I’ll make time.”

“Aren’t I lucky to have a man who makes his own hours.”

“Good perks, huh?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Decker unbuttoned his shirt. He was glad Marge hadn’t come.

Stepping onto Planet VULCAN was like entering another world.

One that Marge at least had never seen before.

The lobby of the spa was a ballroom-sized rotunda, the ceiling domed and imprinted with gilt-tinged vines and flowers that trailed down the plaster walls. The floor was cut from peach-veined marble and partially covered by a thick, green-and-peach Chinese rug thirty feet in diameter. Atop the rug were several seating groups. A brocade sofa, flanked by gold-trimmed occasional tables, was occupied by three sunlamp-tanned women looking to be in their thirties. They were dressed in short shorts and T-shirts and were giggling like teenagers. They also had perfect figures—too perfect, not an unwanted bump or bulge anywhere. The two velvet wingbacks were taken up by leotard-clad, college-age girls. Towels draped around their necks, they sipped some tropical drink made with lots of crushed ice and examined their long red fingernails.

Three middle-aged women sat in burnt-leather club chairs around an oversized onyx backgammon table, laughing loudly, showing off white teeth. Two love seats near the fireplace held pairings of young and older women—mothers and daughters possibly. The ladies were using the marble coffee table placed between the settees as a footrest.