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

“I love you,” she said.

“I know,” Ness responded. “I love you, too.”

He broke away from her and lay back down. Aw, sweet slumber if only a brief catnap. In a half hour, he was scheduled to lead late-afternoon low-impact aerobics. No jogging, jumping, or bouncing, please. Just lots of marching. Hup two three four, hup two three four, all the little soldiers standing at attention. Firm bodies tar-dipped in black leotards and tights—yes, mama, yes!

“Are you all right, Mike?”

Ness reached out and found Kelley’s hand. “Are you all right?”

Kelley said, “I am if you are.”

“I’m fine … just great! And don’t worry, Kell!” He felt himself grinning. “I guarantee you the sample won’t match!”

The Bridge Emporium was located above a supermarket. Decker hunted around the building’s exterior, looking for a stairway, and found the entrance in the back near the garbage—a warped door stenciled with black letters: EMPORIUM. Behind the door was a flight of steps lighted by a lone bare bulb.

The bridge club must have been a warehouse at one time—about three thousand square feet of open space floored with worn, faded tiles. Bright fluorescent fixtures lighted an expanse filled with tables and chairs and people studying the splay of cards before them. It was hot. A few fans twirled phlegmatically, pushing around stale plumes of cigarette smoke.

Decker scanned the room for someone not involved in the play. In the far right corner, two kids were engaged in a game that utilized dice. Decker could hear the muted sound of cubes tumbling over felt. He walked over and saw that the game was backgammon. The younger of the two boys had acne—not a bad-looking kid, but he obviously never bothered putting any work into his physical appearance. The older one was actually an adult, early or even mid-twenties, but the way he presented himself—his gawky face, his skinny frame in clothes a size too big, black-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose—was more reminiscent of an awkward adolescent. He pushed his glasses up and studied the game board.

“You need something?” Glasses said.

Decker said, “I’m looking for Perry Goldin.”

“Still playing.” Glasses rolled a pair of double sixes—one of the best tosses possible in the game. Neither player reacted. Glasses moved his men into strategic positions. “He’s at his usual spot.”

“What’s his usual spot?”

The younger one said, “One. North.”

“Table one, north position?”

“Yep.” The younger one shook the dice in his cup and let them go. His roll left his men open for the pickings. He frowned and looked up. “He doesn’t take appointments until after the game. You’ll have to wait in line just like the rest of them.”

Decker took out his gold shield. “I’m a detective.”

That got their attention, but only minimally. The older one said, “What’s Goldin wanted for?”

“Felonious finessing,” Decker answered.

Glasses rolled the dice and said, “Ask a stupid question …”

Decker smiled and looked at his watch. “When’s the shindig due to end?”

The younger one checked the clock. “Few minutes at most.”

“Have a seat,” Glasses offered. “You play?”

“Enough to know that if I was betting, I’d bet on you.”

Glasses smiled and rolled another double. The younger one pushed the board aside. “If I didn’t know you, Dave, I’d swear you were using loaded dice.”

“It’s your board, Steve,” Dave said, evenly.

“This is true.”

Steve looked at Decker. “You want to go a round?”

Decker shook his head. “I hear Goldin’s a real bridge bum.”

Dave straightened his glasses. “Perry a bum? He must make a hundred gees a year. His wife’s pulling in another seventy, eighty gees. I reserve my tears for the needy.”

“He makes a hundred gees a year playing bridge?”

“Private tournaments, teaching, renting himself for matches …” Steve shrugged. “Renting is where Perry makes most of his bread. I think his going rate’s a grand a day—”

“What?”

“Lot of rich people out there dying to be life masters,” Dave remarked. “Makes them feel real special.”

Decker pulled out his notebook. “Is his wife a professional bridge player, too?”

“Nope, she’s a lawyer,” Steve said. “She also plays, but Wendy’s strictly amateur. She’s got her gold points, though. Perry made sure of that.”

“And he didn’t even charge her,” Dave said, deadpan.

“There are other pros who play just as well,” Steve said. “Perry’s beauty is in his bidding. He has this uncanny ability to manipulate it to his advantage. Most of the time, he fixes it so he’s declarer. That way his partner never has a chance to louse up the play. You want gold points and you want them fast, you hire Goldin.”

“Gold with Goldin,” Dave said.

Decker noticed some people standing up and stretching. Others were leaving the tables. The room began to hum with conversation.

“Ah, the game endeth,” Steve said. “And our work beginneth. We’re on scoring detail. Are you good with numbers, Detective?”

“Only if they’re associated with mug shots.” Decker stood. “See you boys.”

Dave said, “Stick around, Detective. I guarantee you Table Number One will come in first.”

“Don’t people get resentful?” Decker asked. “Goldin winning all the time?”

“Nah,” Dave said. “The Emporium is jazzed just to have him play here. It’s like letting Nolan Ryan pitch on your softball team. He attracts people who pay the admission fee just to watch him. He’s great for business.”

“Who owns this place?” Decker asked.

Dave broke into a pleasant grin. “I do. It beats the hell out of law school.”

Decker waited patiently while three expensively dressed ladies with clawish red fingernails arranged their schedules so they meshed with Goldin’s. Judging by the way the bridge pro was flipping the pages of his appointment book, he was booked up far in advance.

Goldin looked to be in his forties, which would have made him quite a bit older than Lilah. Maybe he was younger, age artificially advanced by gray streaking through his shoulder-length hair and beard. He was around six feet with an ectomorphic build—long nose, high cheekbones and forehead. His emerald-green eyes were so unnatural-looking, Decker wondered if he wore contacts. He had on a black T-shirt under a black blazer, faded jeans, and Nikes. Goldin talked in a clipped, professional tone, not a moment wasted on pleasantries. When it was Decker’s turn to introduce himself, Goldin spoke first.