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

Storming through the door, Frederick Brecht was dressed in a raw-silk caftan, stone-washed black jeans, and raw-silk jacket. He wore Nike high-tops, the cuffs of his pants tucked under the oversized tongues of his shoes. His blue eyes were watery and red, his scalp and the skin around his beard pink and mottled. He’d slapped on some grassy-smelling cologne. Too much because he was in a hurry, Decker thought. Brecht’s face was knotted with anger as he faced his sister. “Are you crazy?”

Lilah looked at Decker. “This was precisely the reason why I can’t recup—”

“Are you out of your mind, Lilah? Waking him up at three in the morning?” Brecht was enraged. “For God’s sake, why didn’t you call me!?”

“Freddy is so jealous,” Lilah said.

“Dear God, it has nothing to do with jealousy! It has to do with common sense—”

“For your information, I tried calling you, Freddy. You weren’t home.”

“I can be reached!” Brecht was screaming now. He pointed to Decker. “He reached me!”

Marge wiped a speck of dirt off her slacks. “Look, I don’t have kids, I’m not used to three o’clock feedings. Can we get this show on the road?”

“Why did you call her down?” Lilah suddenly demanded of Decker.

“You have something to report, Miss Brecht, ask for Detective Dunn. She’s your new primary detective.”

“What! You just can’t drop me!”

“No one dropped you,” Marge said evenly.

“He can’t leave me in the lurch!”

“Detective Dunn is one of the most specialized people we have on the force—”

“I can’t believe you’re deserting me!”

“No one is deserting anyone,” Marge said. “If you need my services, I’ll be right there—”

“I don’t want you, I want him!” Lilah pointed to Decker. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Detective. I’m just used to Peter.”

“Peter?” Brecht said. “You’re on first-name basis with the police?”

“Frederick, stop acting so infantile.”

“You’re acting infantile interrupting this poor man’s sleep.” Brecht turned to Decker. “I’m sorry about this—”

“Stop apologizing for me as if I were your child!”

“Sometimes you act like a child!”

“If you’d stop treating me like a child—”

“Miss Brecht,” Decker said, “is there something specific you wanted to talk to me about?”

Marge smiled at Pete’s style. Just lay it on the line.

Lilah bit her knuckle. “It’s about my brother.”

“Me?” Brecht gasped.

“No, King.”

“Kingston?” Brecht turned bright red. “What do you want with Kingston?”

“Freddy, you are so tiresome!”

“What does that jerk want?” Brecht whined. “I know he’s up to something with Mother—”

“What about King, Miss Brecht?” Marge interrupted.

“I’m worried about him.” Lilah bit her knuckle again. “I was supposed to meet him last night for dinner—”

“You were meeting that pompous slimeball for dinner?” Brecht held up his hands and shook them as he talked. “How could you even think about going anywhere after what happened to you? You need at least a few days of bed rest!”

“It was spontaneous, Freddy. Mother said he wanted to talk to me … after he heard about my … assault.”

“And you agreed to talk to him?”

“I was shocked, of course, I didn’t know …” Tears formed in her eyes. “Yes, I agreed. And he was very nice over the phone. Comforting … soothing. Just like when I was little. He seemed to care about me again—”

“Kingston doesn’t care about anyone but himself!”

“Just because you two don’t get along—”

“How’d he hear about your assault anyway?” Brecht asked.

“I told him,” Marge said. “After Mike Ness took you upstairs to calm you down from your fight with Dr. Merritt.”

“So how’d he find out about your horse?” Brecht asked.

Lilah said, “He didn’t even know about that, Freddy. He just wanted to visit me. Isn’t that so wonderful?”

Brecht muttered, “That ass has something on his mind—”

“Freddy, you are impossible. He loves me—”

“He wants something from you—”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Marge said, “Can we stay on a topic, people? Lilah, what about King and dinner?”

Lilah turned to her, then began to pace. “I agreed to meet him last night for dinner … first time in years—”

“I don’t believe this!” Brecht interrupted. “How could you do that!”