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

Decker nodded, knowing that old Freddy Brecht was no objective character witness for brother King. Still, it never hurt to listen to opinions.

“You think Kingston might have broken into his sister’s safe to steal money?”

Brecht suddenly reddened. “I have no proof … I really don’t know why I said that. Probably because Kingston’s always hard up for cash. Even though he makes untold hundreds of thousands at that mill he’s running.”

“Mill?”

“Abortion mill.” Brecht scrunched up his face. “I think he’s branched out into other things—infertility is the latest rage. First women pay money to kill their babies, then they pay money to have them.”

“Kingston is an OB-GYN?”

“Yes. Imagine a specialty for something as natural as childbirth.”

“Excuse me, Doctor, but isn’t your other brother an OB-GYN as well?”

“Indeed. But at least John seems to be a little bit more respectful of fetal life.” He wagged his finger. “Not that I’m against abortion like those crazy right-to-lifers. But Kingston’s mill is positively repulsive. His so-called practice is the antithesis of what we physicians profess to represent.”

Decker couldn’t tell if Brecht’s ranting was a heartfelt opinion or yet another way of venting against his bro King.

“Are you close to John, Doctor?”

Brecht shook his head. “He’s closer to Kingston. The two of them are of the same generation and in the same field, so I suppose it’s natural.”

“Does your mother slip John money as well?”

“I don’t know,” Brecht said. “John seems to mind his own business. I have little to do with him, but I harbor no animosity toward him.”

“Can you spell Kingston’s name for me, please?”

“Spell?”

“I want to make sure the maid gave me the right spelling.”

“K-I-N-G-S-T-O-N M-E-R-R-I-T-T.”

Kingston Merritt. Obviously, he and John Reed were half brothers as well.

“Do you have phone numbers for either of them?”

“No. They’re both in the book. John’s practice is in Huntington Beach; Kingston’s is in Palos Verdes.” Brecht stood. “If you don’t mind, it’s been a terribly long day and I’d like to check on my sister. With all these questions, I hope you haven’t lost sight of the fact that there is some maniac out there who hurts people.”

“I’m well aware of that.” Decker stood. “I’ll go up with you … see if Lilah’s up for talking.”

“And if she isn’t?”

“I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“I’ll phone the nurse’s station and find out if Lilah’s up,” Brecht said. “Save you a trip if she’s still sleeping.”

Decker hesitated.

“Or you can make the call, if you’d like,” Brecht suggested.

Decker pointed Brecht to the house phone in the cafeteria. Brecht made a quick call, then hung up.

“She’s still sleeping.”

Decker evaluated his face and felt he was telling the truth. Even if he wasn’t, he couldn’t get much of an interview from Lilah with Freddy standing over his shoulder. Maybe it would be better if he came back tomorrow, refreshed from a good night’s sleep. He thanked Brecht for his time. Only thing left to do was running Lilah’s bagged clothes over to forensics. Then his working day was over.

The house was deserted. Almost seven and no dinner on the table, no sons greeting him with a hug at the door, no wife taking his coat and nonexistent hat, and no dog bringing him the paper.

His fantasy of marriage—shattered in a single blow.

“Yo,” he called out. “Anybody live here?”

He walked into the kitchen. Empty. Then he looked out the back window. Rina was barbecuing, tending the fire with savoir faire. She wore a denim shift under a white butcher’s apron. She was laughing and her long black hair was loose and blowing in the wind. The boys were racing the horses, yarmulkes flapping as they cantered, profiles burnished by the sinking sun. Ginger was chasing after them, panting and yelping, enjoying the exercise.

Domestic bliss, except he wasn’t in the picture.

He went outside.

“You made it!” Rina kissed his cheek. Her skin smelled of hickory smoke. “Go change. Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes.”

He glanced at the grill—marinated skirt steaks. Rina had also made coleslaw and macaroni salad, and had a couple of bottles of Dos Equis on ice. The patio table had been set for four so at least she’d been expecting him home. “I didn’t know they made maternity aprons.”

“I must look like a tent.”

“A beautiful tent. I’ll live inside of you any day of the year.” He hugged her from behind. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. I took a nap after you left.”

“I like that. You should be babying yourself while you can.”

She turned around and hugged him as best she could. “Are you okay?”

“Sure.”

“You seem wound up. You’re walking stiffly.” She reached up and gently squeezed the nape of his neck. “Oh, you’re all tight, Peter.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Want a massage?”

“Later, thanks.” He picked up a beer bottle, then noticed cans of soda sharing the cooler space. Coke. With caffeine. He shifted his weight, trying to appear casual. “You allowed to drink this stuff while you’re pregnant?”

“I stay off soft drinks. Bad for the weight. Besides, Coke has caffeine and I don’t drink caffeine. That’s why I don’t drink your coffee in the morning anymore.” She smiled impishly. “Or hadn’t you noticed, Peter?”

He hadn’t and felt stupid because of it.