Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection: False Prophet, Grievous Sin, Sanctuary

“Around an hour ago. My secretary was panicked by your visit. It took me at least five minutes to calm her down and find out what had happened. She was very worried that … that something had happened to me as well.”

“She seems like a loyal gal.”

“Althea has my interests at heart.”

“Why’d you wait so long to call your office for messages?”

“I … it had been an unusual day. I was very busy.”

“With what?”

“What does my business have to do with Lilah?”

Decker waited.

Brecht sighed. “Well, if you really must know, I was preoccupied with my mother.”

“Davida Eversong.”

“The Great Dame of the Silver Screen.” Brecht frowned. “She can really put it on, that woman. But she is my mother. What can I do?”

Decker said, “You were at the spa all this time?”

“No, no, no,” Brecht said. “At her beach house. In Malibu. Mother’s there at the moment. She doesn’t know a thing about Lilah and I’m insisting that you don’t tell her.”

“How much do you know about the case, Doctor?” Decker asked.

Brecht stiffened. “What are you implying, Sergeant?”

“Take it easy,” Decker said. “I was speaking in medical terms. Have you read your sister’s chart?”

Brecht paused, uncoiling slowly. “Not yet. It wasn’t on her door when I arrived and I haven’t had the energy to go searching for it. I’ve put in a call to her attending physician.” He looked Decker in the eye. “Is there anything I should know about?”

Decker didn’t answer.

Brecht’s voice turned to a whisper. “She was sexually assaulted, wasn’t she?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Dear God!” He gasped out. “Dear, dear God, I don’t believe …” He gasped again. “Could you get me some water, please?”

Decker bolted up and retrieved a glass of water. Still trembling, Brecht clutched the cup and gulped down the water.

“Do you need another drink?” Decker asked.

Brecht held up his palm and shook his head. He took a deep breath. “No … no, thank you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes … quite. It’s … the shock.” He inhaled deeply once again. “What happened?”

“We’re still putting pieces together, Doctor. I hope to have a better picture after I talk to your sister.”

“I just can’t believe …” Brecht buried his face in his hands, then looked up. “Ask your questions, Detective.”

Decker said, “When did your mother call you to come down to Malibu?”

“This morning,” Brecht said. “She was in terrible pain and I rushed out to treat her.”

“What time did she call?”

“Around eight-thirty, nine.”

“Is that why you canceled all your appointments?”

“Yes. My appointments that day started at ten. I knew by Mother’s tone that there’d be no way that I could get away with just a simple treatment. Once I was out there, I just didn’t feel … I decided to give her the entire day.”

“Your secretary said your cancellation message was already on the machine when she arrived at eight.”

Again Brecht’s scalp deepened in tone. “Well, maybe Mother called at seven-thirty. I really don’t remember exactly.”

Decker let his words hang. Forget about the phone call for the moment. From Malibu to Tarzana was a toll call. If Mama Eversong did dial sonny boy up, Decker could get the exact time by checking phone records. “What’s wrong with your mother?”

“Age.” Brecht sounded weary. “She’s over seventy with diabetes, arthritis, bursitis, osteoporosis—oh, why bore you with the details? Conventional drugs alone have had little success. In conjunction with my holistic regimen, Mother does a bit better handling the pain and skeletomuscular problems. But basically she’s just wearing out and not doing it gracefully.”

“You usually treat her whenever she calls?”

Brecht sighed. “I evaluate each incident individually. If I hear a demand for attention and not genuine pain in her voice, I put her off. This time she sounded as if she really needed help.”

“And you received her call around seven-thirty?”

“I suppose. Anyway, if you need her to verify my presence at the beach house, I’ll have her write you a note. I’m afraid I can’t give you her home number.”

“That’s all right,” Decker said. “I have it.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You have my mother’s beach house number?”

“All of your mother’s numbers. I’ve called all day and nobody answered.”

“My mother doesn’t believe in answering phones. She claims that’s for secretaries.”

“Does she have a secretary?”

“No.”

“There were no machines answering the numbers, either.”