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

“Just shut up, Freddy, and turn on the overhead light. The interior’s dark and I can’t see a thing.”

Brecht ran his handkerchief over his face and flipped the switch. “Something must have gone wrong—”

“Damn right something went wrong. On top of this shit with Lilah, my jewels are gone.” She filed an index finger furiously. “God, that pisses me off!”

“Whoever took your jewels must have hurt Lilah.”

“Whole thing makes me sick!”

“Why are we waiting around, Mother?”

“A detective wants to talk to me about the jewels.”

“The tall redheaded man?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like him.”

“Of course you don’t. He’s competent.”

“Go ahead and insult me, Mother. And the next time you need an errand boy, call Kingston. See if he drives up to Malibu.”

Davida laughed loudly and patted his knee. “Do I detect a note of fraternal competition in your voice? Now just because you’re adopted doesn’t mean I don’t love—”

“Mother, if I hear that speech one more time, I’ll throw up!”

She patted his knee again. “Poor Freddy. I do grate on your nerves. The detective should be down soon. I’ve made it quite clear I value my time. I’ll describe my jewels to him; then we can all go home and forget about this mess.”

“I’m not very comfortable about the police nosing in our affairs,” Brecht said. “I’m surprised you are.”

“Frederick darling, be logical. He’s not nosing in our family affairs, he’s trying to solve a crime. He’s interested in Lilah … and maybe he’s interested in my jewels, too. If he happens to become sidetracked, I’ll sic some reporters on him. Last thing the police need—especially in this area—is press. In the meantime, let him look for Lilah’s attacker. I’m not hiding anything.”

“I’m not either, Mother.”

Davida blew air on her nails. “Then we’ve both got nothing to worry about. Stop fretting, Freddy. If things get complicated, I’ll take care of it—and you. That’s what mothers are for.”

“Forgive me if I don’t nominate you for the Mother of the Year award.”

“Freddy, don’t be so mean. You don’t have the knack for it.” She kissed his cheek. “You know my sharp tongue. It’s just an unrestrained ego talking.”

Brecht flicked his wrist and checked his Rolex.

Davida said, “Pressed for time?”

“A bit.”

“You mean you actually have patients?”

Brecht turned red. “Lilah asked me to stop by the spa and make sure things were running smoothly. And then, yes, Mother, I do have patients. As a matter of fact, I have an untold amount of patience for you.”

Davida regarded him. “A pun, Frederick! How very Noel Coward of you!”

Brecht glared at her. “Mother, I think I’ll take a cab back to the spa. If you’ll excuse me …”

“Frederick, before you go, could you press back my cuticles for me. I want my nails to look nice when I shake the red-haired detective’s hand.”

Marge thought: Ten-thirty and the women had already been exercising for three and a half hours. Sweat streaming down their skin as they marched and kicked and squatted and made hundreds of arm circles to head-banging metal music. Enough physical activity to send a heart into overdrive. Yet, for the spa, the day was still young, four more classes scheduled in the afternoon. How did these women have the strength? The regimen seemed especially ridiculous because the gals weren’t porkers. They were skinny women. And they paid lots of money for this torture. Hell, they could have joined the army and saved themselves beaucoup bucks.

The girl leading this class was blocky but agile. She was shouting in an accented voice over the music, with a look of grave intensity plastered to her damp face. Marge hadn’t talked to her, but decided it wasn’t in anyone’s best interests to interrupt the class. Kelley Ness’s attitude this morning had been cooperative, but she still wasn’t friendly.

Marge decided to try her luck with the tennis instructor—Eubie Jeffers—maybe catch him between lessons. The spa should have his schedule mapped out at the front desk. She strolled through the ornate lobby and went over to the reception area, which was devoid of personnel. Resisting the urge to ring the little black bell, she leaned against the counter, her eyes instinctively shifting to the man at her left. He was fair and bald and looked agitated. Rocking on his feet, he rang the bell several times in quick succession.

“Where’s help when you need it?” Marge said.

The man startled at the sound of Marge’s voice. He wore a black silk shirt over jeans, and open-toed sandals.

“The help here is usually exemplary.” He turned to Marge. “I’m Dr. Frederick Brecht—Valley Canyon’s physician. Perhaps I can help you.”

“Perhaps you can.” Marge stuck out her hand. “Detective Dunn. Maybe we could talk a little.”

Brecht looked at her hand, then finally shook it. “I’ve already spoken to the police. I have nothing to tell you. I really wish I did, but I don’t.”

Marge focused in on his face. The man dressed casually but was as tight as a bad case of constipation. “I’d like to talk about the spa and the people who work here. It’s very close to your sister’s house.”

“No one here would hurt a hair on my sister’s head. Everyone in her employ loves her. There are thousands of maniacs on the streets of Los Angeles. Why don’t you start investigating them?”

Marge was about to respond when sharp-featured Ms. Purcel returned to her post behind the front desk.

“Nice of you to join us, Fern,” Brecht said.

Marge smiled as Fernie-poo blushed.

“I … I’m terribly sorry—”

Brecht waved her away, then faced Marge. “Somewhere out there is a maniac who beats and rapes women. Go find him.”

“You bet we’ll keep investigating,” Marge said. “But in the meantime, maybe I could speak to the men in Miss Brecht’s employ. Just to be … thorough.”

Brecht sighed forcefully. “I suppose it would be all right. Do try to be discreet, Detective. We cater to a very exclusive clientele.”

“Well, well, well!” a deep baritone voice boomed. “Who emptied the gutters?”

Marge and Brecht turned to its source. He was tall and well-built. He appeared to be in his middle to late forties with icy-blue eyes, pale lips, and a Roman nose. He had a florid complexion crisscrossed with tiny spider veins throughout the nose and cheeks. His salt-and-pepper hair had been cut long enough to form a cap of curls, but the tresses were short enough to be neat. He wore a dark-blue linen blazer, a white shirt with a tab collar, a blue-silk jacquard tie, and white-and-blue-striped seersucker pants. Around his flat belly was a dyed-white lizard belt secured with a gold buckle. His feet were housed in white Cole-Haan calfskin loafers; a white-silk handkerchief fanned out from his breast pocket. Marge looked at him, then back at Brecht, whose bald head had reddened from anger.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Brecht spat out.

“Visiting Mother, Frederick.”