False Prophet (36 page)

“Did you ask him?”

“No.” Reed shook his head. “No, I didn’t ask him. I… I didn’t want to know. But King was
clearly
upset. He would
never
harm Lilah. He
adored
our little sister. Lilah had always looked to him as more of a father than a brother. Certainly Mother wasn’t much of a parent.”

“Do you think he might have stolen something from Lilah’s to please your mother?”

“I really don’t know what to think.”

Decker asked, “When you spoke to Kingston, did he mention anything about Hermann Brecht’s memoirs?”

Reed seemed genuinely puzzled. “I wasn’t even aware that Hermann Brecht complied memoirs.”

“Apparently he did.”

Reed shrugged.

Decker said, “Doctor, what can you tell me about Hermann Brecht?”

“I remember Hermann as a slight, pale, morose, sullen man who took my mother away from my father. I realize my parents’ marriage was probably in trouble long before Hermann came along, but I was a child and viewed Hermann as an interloper. After Mother and he married, I refused to live with them. I went back to London and lived with my father until my majority. A most wise decision.”

Reed appeared lost in thought.

“My most vivid memory of Hermann was at the birth celebrations for Lilah. My mother and he were living in a prewar mansion in West Berlin — one of the few that hadn’t been bombed in World War II. It was right after President Kennedy had visited and had given his famous speech —
Ich bin ein Berliner
.” Reed looked at Marge. “Before your time, Detective.”

Marge smiled. “Go on, Dr. Reed.”

“I was flown into Germany,” Reed said. “It was the early sixties. Even though I was young, I have good recollections of the West German people because they couldn’t get enough of
America
or
Americans
. And my mother was not only American, but a
famous
American. After Lilah was born, Mother was besieged with attention from the press and played it for all she was worth. It was one party after another, Mother absolutely radiant and jubilant, kissing everyone, laughing all the time, floating through the masses like a swan. I remember that image because she wore a different-color flowing peignoir every day.”

Reed thought for a moment.

“Hermann, on the other hand, had balled himself into a corner drinking the entire time, refusing to talk to anyone, especially Mother’s
other
children. Kingston and I absolutely were
personae non gratae
to him. Of course, Mother was too busy with her admirers to notice Hermann or her sons. I remember this nightmarish sense of being dropped into an alien world — Felliniesque, if you will.”

“If your mother ignored you the whole time, why did she bother flying you in?” Marge asked.

“Because I was Davida Eversong’s son,” Reed said. “I
had
to be there for appearance’s sake.”

“So Hermann wasn’t the partygoing type,” Decker said.

“Not at all… so unlike Mother.” He let out a sad laugh. “When I think of all the postpartum mothers I’ve attended, I can’t honestly… recall any of them being as energetic socially as Mother had been that week. Of course, Mother was pampered from head to toe. She had a private nurse for herself. And the baby had two nurses — a wet nurse feeding Lilah and a primary nurse who did general care. Neither nurse would allow me… or even Kingston… to see our baby sister.”

“Why do you say ‘or even Kingston’?” Decker asked.

“I had deserted Mother for Father, but Kingston was still living with her. It was bad enough for me to be rejected, but I wasn’t really part of the family, was I? Kingston, on the other hand, was
furious
. During one of Mother’s many parties, Kingston became so fed up, he whisked the baby out of the nurse’s arms. That enraged Hermann. The two of them became embroiled in a massive fistfight. It was broken up quickly, but not before both of them had bloody noses. King was only sixteen at the time, but was strong and
scrappy
. And Hermann was drunk, so he wasn’t… it was horrible.”

“How old were you?” Marge asked.

“Just under fourteen. Too young to endure a week in Berlin with a drunken stepfather. I kept a very low profile until I was mercifully flown back to England. When Mother had Freddy… or rather
adopted
Freddy, she wanted to fly me in again. I refused to go and my father, God rest his soul, respected my decision.”

Marge said, “During your stay in Berlin, Doctor, did you and Hermann Brecht ever have words or come to blows?”

“No, I toed the line. Actually, I never did see Hermann Brecht again except in the open coffin at his funeral. Pity for anyone to die so young, but that didn’t mitigate my hatred for the man. He was a depressive drunk who stole my mother from my father and made bloated, pretentious, cynical movies and called them art.”

“You have no idea what he might have said in his memoirs?” Decker asked.

“I don’t know… and I don’t care.”

Marge steered to
the right lane and merged onto the 605 freeway. Traffic was smooth — no overturned diesels, no fender benders. The sun was strong. She could feel the heat through the rolled-up window. Pulling out a pair of bargain sunglasses, she slipped them over her eyes.

“Are you ready for Dunn’s insight of the week?”

“The excitement is killing me,” Decker said.

“Lilah was adopted.”

“Bingo, Margie, you win the microwave.”

“Your thoughts, too?”

“Yep.” Decker took off his jacket and tossed it in the backseat. “I’ve been thinking about Davida’s age. Back then, very few women over forty were even
allowed
by their doctors to continue the pregnancy.”

Marge took in his words. Not that her biological clock was even close to expiring, but it was nice to have more leeway in that department. “Times do change. The wonders of medical science — fifty-year-old mothers.”

“I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.”

Marge laughed and knuckled her glasses up her nose. “You know, I didn’t even consider Davida’s age. I was thinking about her energy level after she supposedly just gave birth to Lilah. Hosting one party after another, gliding around like a swan with no signs of exhaustion.”

“True, but we have to remember that Reed was a kid,” Decker said. “Davida could have collapsed afterward and Reed wouldn’t have seen it. He also wouldn’t have known if his mother had faked her pregnancy. He wasn’t living with her and Hermann. And even if he had been living with her, Davida still could have faked a pregnancy.”

“True,” Marge said. “Looks like the only one who could have told us if Ms. Eversong looked pregnant was Merritt and he isn’t going to tell us anything.”

They rode for several moments, making good time though it was close to rush hour.

Marge said, “If Lilah was adopted, is it important to our case?”

Decker shrugged. “Any theories?”

“Okay, how about this? For some reason, Davida didn’t want it known that Lilah was adopted.”

“Odd,” Decker said. “Freddy’s adopted and no one seems to care.”

“Yeah, but let’s assume Davida wanted everyone to think that Lilah was her natural daughter.”

Decker stiffened. “
Biological
daughter.”

Marge whipped her head around for a second, then returned her eyes to the road. “Yeah, that’s what I meant. You okay, Pete?”

“I’m fine.” Decker forced himself to relax, then smiled stiffly. “Go on.”

Marge blew out air. What was on his mind? “Where was I?”

“Davida wanting everyone to think Lilah was her biological daughter.”

“Right… okay. Merritt suspected Lilah was adopted all along. So he stole the memoirs, read them, and sure enough, Hermann had written about Lilah’s adoption. Then Merritt contacted his mother and informed her he was going to tell Lilah the truth. Davida said, ‘You have no proof.’”

Decker said, “And then King said, ‘Yes, I do, Mom, I have Hermann’s memoirs. So either you fork over big cash to shut me up or I tell Lilah.’”

“Exactly,” Marge said. “And Davida didn’t fork over, so Merritt decided to tell Lilah the truth. But Davida got to him before he had a chance.”

“Sounds good, except—”

“Uh-oh, here comes the bomb.”

“No bomb. Just that Reed told us that
Davida called Merritt
and offered him big cash for a favor
before
the robbery. Assume the favor was: Steal the memoirs for me. If she was worried about blackmail, why would she have asked King to pop the safe in the first place?”

“So maybe Merritt didn’t even consider blackmail at first. His mother offered bucks for a theft and Merritt, being hard up for cash, agreed.” Marge held up her finger. “But then Merritt got curious and read the papers… read about Lilah’s
adoption
. Thoughts began to percolate… like morning coffee.”

Decker smiled.

Marge said, “Merritt decided to cash in. Davida didn’t like the change of plans. She got pissed, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

Decker said, “His own mother whacked him to get some twenty-year-old papers?”

“Well, maybe Davida didn’t mean to whack him. Merritt’s office was a mess. Maybe Davida was tossing his office and Merritt surprised her. Things got out of hand. Boom — accidents happen.”

Decker aimed the air-conditioning vents at his face. “Maybe Merritt’s death had nothing to do with Davida or the memoirs. Your theory about a crazed antiabortionist suddenly makes sense. Merritt was doing experiments on aborted embryos and fetuses. That could piss off a lot of people.”

They fell quiet.

Marge said, “Did Burbank ever call back with the specifics on what exactly killed Merritt?”

“Yeah, I left a note on your desk while you were at Parker Center.”

“I must have missed it.”

“Three gunshot wounds — one to the throat, two in the chest, thirty-eight caliber S and W. Any one of them could have been lethal.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “You know, as much as I like the adoption thing in theory, I see a lot of Davida in Lilah.”

“They don’t look alike to me.”

“No, they don’t. But the expression, the mannerism—”

“Environment, Pete.”

“The
voice
. That’s genetic.”

“Lilah’s a good mimic. Truthfully, I don’t see much family resemblance between any of the sibs except they’re all fair. Even dark-eyed Reed has light skin. To me, Lilah looks as much like her half brothers as she does like Freddy.”

“Maybe.” Decker pulled down the car’s sun visor. “I don’t know. I just see this linkage between Davida and Lilah. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Try warped personalities,” Marge said.

Decker thought about his own half brothers and sisters whom he’d met for the first time eight months ago. He didn’t look similar to any of them, but he had taken after his biological father and his siblings were related to him through his biological mother.

His blood siblings — five religious Jews living in New York. A bizarre twist of events had thrown them all together. After it was all over, he’d maintained a relationship with the oldest, Shimon, and the youngest, Jonathan — a half-dozen letters and even a few phone calls. Shim was ultra-Orthodox and wore a long black beard and a long black coat. Jonathan was a clean-shaven Conservative rabbi, whose tastes in clothes ran toward casual. On the surface, the three of them had nothing in common — physically or otherwise. Yet there was this kinship.

His thoughts shifted to his brother Randy. They weren’t blood-related, yet they had plenty in common, too. Both were cops, both were outdoorsmen, and both were devoted, loving sons and good fathers. But their personalities were completely different. Decker was the serious one, Randy, freewheeling and adventurous. Then Decker mentally examined his stepsons — genetic brothers raised in the
same
environment. They weren’t at all alike.

None of it made any sense. Time to move on.

Marge said, “Maybe we should approach Davida with our little theory, Pete. Gauge her reaction.”

“I don’t know if the time is right for that, Marge. Davida’s a damn good actress. If we bring it up casually, she could probably deny it convincingly.” Decker raised his brow. “And I’ll be honest. I don’t want to get her riled just yet. Have her calling in the press and piss Morrison off.”

“Any way for us to verify the adoption theory?”

“Short of a blood test?”

“Genetic banding…”

“Pull some hairs from Davida and from Lilah?” Decker shrugged. “It could be done, but I don’t know how we’d justify it to the department. Not to mention the ACLU. It really is invasion of privacy.”

“Evidence for a homicide?”

“Not at this point.”

“You’re right.”

Decker said, “I’ll call that old lady Perry Goldin told me about, the one who supposedly knew Hermann Brecht from Germany. Maybe she could tell me a thing or two about Davida’s pregnancy.”

“Maybe.” Marge glanced at Decker. “You sure you’re okay?”

There was a long pause.

Decker blurted: “Marge, I’m adopted.”

“What?” She suddenly realized the car in front of her had slowed and slammed on the brakes. “Jesus, I’m sorry! Are you all right?”

Decker rubbed his neck. “A little whiplash never hurt anyone.”

Marge inched the unmarked forward, trying to shape her thoughts. “Peter, why didn’t you tell me a long time ago?”

“I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“It’s not, but…” Her mind was agog with questions. “How could you
keep
something like that from me?”

“Are you pissed at me?”

“I don’t know…” She paused. “Maybe.”

“Sorry.”

“S’okay.” Marge tapped her fingers on the wheel, waiting for Decker to give some details. As usual, he was playing mute. “It doesn’t matter a fig to me… you being adopted.”

“I know.”

“I just think if we’re gonna work together, there shouldn’t be these major secrets.”

“Agreed.”

“I would have told you.”

“I know.”

“Does Rina know?”

“Yes.”

Marge was silent.

“I had to tell her, Margie. In order for us to get married—”