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

He picked up the phone and started to check out the mugs. He’d scratched two off the list by the time Decker walked in. Hollander hung up the phone and took another bite of doughnut.

“You got lab info on the Brecht case. Also, Leo dropped off the sketches and names based on your gal’s description. I checked out the first two. Both are still in the cooler.”

Decker took off his jacket and made a beeline for the coffeepot. “Thanks, Mike. Who’d she pick out?”

“Not guys associated with rape.”

“Robbery perps?”

“Yeah, but that don’t tell you squat. Most of the geniuses in the books got there by doing two-elevens.”

“True.”

“I marked their mug-shot pages if you want to compare them to the composites. Also, Ma Bell called you back. A call did go out from a Malibu prefix to Frederick Brecht at seven-forty-six A.M. that morning. I cross-referenced the number: It belonged to Davida Eversong.”

Decker nodded. “Nice to see you doing the old work ethic, Detective Hollander.”

“Don’t tell anyone, but I get in these moods once in a while.” Hollander extracted a pipe from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, unlit. “What’s eating you, Rabbi?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s Morrison, isn’t it?” Hollander said. “What’d he do?”

“Nothing. He’s assigning a couple of dicks from Burglary to handle the jewel theft.”

“It’s big bucks. They have the contacts. Let them have it.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“So why’re you pissed? You’re thinking Morrison doesn’t have faith in you or what?”

“I’m not pissed.” Decker sat at his desk. “Well, I’m a little pissed. I’m pissed about all the shit we have to deal with because someone else screwed up.”

Hollander shrugged. “They did it, we didn’t. Fuck the nonbelievers.” He chewed on the stem of his pipe. “This lady—Lilah. She seem on the level to you?”

Decker regarded the composites. “Why do you ask?”

“Take a gander at the sketches and tell me what you see, Rabbi.”

“Lots of erasures. And the requisite shaggy hair and squinty eyes.”

“Squinty dark eyes,” Hollander said. “Apparently everyone in this world who squints has dark eyes.”

“In answer to your question, the lady is weird.”

“Leo said the lady seemed very, very fond of you.”

Decker jerked his head up. “What did she tell him?”

“I don’t know. Just repeating what he said. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. You know how rape survivors can be.”

Decker looked him in the eye. “Then why’d you mention it, Mike?”

Hollander held out the palms of his hands. “No offense, Rabbi. Just that Leo placed a lot of emphasis on the very, very part of the very, very fond. If she’s wacky, might be a good idea to get Marge or me involved—just to show the lady that you’re not her personal public servant. Especially since she’s so good-looking.”

“What does good-looking have to do with it?”

“Hey, we’re all human—”

“I don’t believe you’re telling me this shit, Hollander. I’ve been on the detail almost as long as you have.”

“Deck, I’m not saying anything about your ability to handle Lilah Brecht or any other rape case. But you know as well as I do what a pain in the ass fruitcakes can be. Your wife is expecting and I’m just trying to save you grief. You wanna play hot dog, forget I said anything.”

Hollander poured himself another cup of coffee and returned to his desk.

Decker rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, you’re right. She could be grief. Both she and her mother.”

“Miz Davida Eversong,” Hollander said. “You ever see any of her films? Man, she was hot stuff in her heyday.”

“She’s still a good-looking woman. Well preserved.”

“Natural or surgical?”

“I wouldn’t know. Look, Mike, thanks for offering, but I can handle the case.”

“Just trying to be helpful.” Hollander ticked off another name on the list. “One Bobby Ray Gatten. Wonder what old Bobby Ray’s been up to.” He picked up the phone and dialed.

Decker sat down and broke open the seal on the Brecht evidence folder. There was a semen analysis, but it wasn’t going to be useful until they had a suspect. There was also a chromosomal banding on the few foreign pubic hairs. It was interesting that none of the hairs was picked up from the combing or from her bagged clothes. All of them had been plucked from the sheet, along with half a dozen short, dark head hairs. No blood, no bits of foreign clothing. Print had come up dry as well.

Lilah’s own fingernails and toenails were clean—all that meant was that she didn’t or couldn’t fight. Her vagina was free of semen. The envelope contained police photographs taken at the hospital. Again, Decker’s wariness turned to pity when he saw her swollen eyes. There was also a picture of a splotchy bruise that ran down her right thigh.

Poor kid.

He heard Marge’s voice and turned around.

“Hey there, Dunn.”

“Hey there, Rabbi.” She came over to him and looked down at the files he was reading. “Anything?”

“Hairs and semen. That’s it.”

“That’s enough if we find a suspect.”

“You have any luck?”

“I spoke to the kitchen help at the spa,” Marge said. “They say they were home the night of the attack. Wives and friends verify it.”

“And you think?”