False Prophet (43 page)

“And he wasn’t suspicious when you visited him in the middle of the night?”

“It wasn’t the middle of the night. It was around eleven. And no, he wasn’t suspicious. I told him I’d brought him
new
sheets and towels. He was pleased, more than pleased. He was ecstatic. Any attention I had ever bestowed upon Carl was greeted with unabashed, unquestioned gratitude. So I changed his sheets and towels and told him not to mention my visit to anyone. It would give certain people with filthy minds the
wrong
idea. He said he understood.”

“You didn’t have sex with him?”

Again, Lilah’s nostrils flared. “The thought is
repugnant
!”

What Lilah was saying was consistent with what Marge and Decker had found at Totes’s stable. Marge remembered Decker remarking that the linens in the stable were clean. “Then what did you do?”

“What did I do?” Lilah blinked back tears. “I… decided to get the police involved in a big way. I systematically destroyed my room. It wasn’t hard because I was enraged. When it was close to morning, I knew I had to do something with myself to make the crime seem realistic. So I… hit myself at strategic places… squeezed myself actually. I’m very fair, I bruise easily. What didn’t look swollen enough —
mean
enough — was enhanced by judicious application of the spa’s astringents — special caustics we use on clients with skin problems.” She wrinkled her nose. “Then before Mercedes was due to show, I took an ice-cold shower to lower my body temperature. Then the maid came… there you have it.”

“And the horse?”

“Now, that was
truly
stupid! I loved Apollo. I was devastated when he died.”

“You gave him too much PCP?”

“No, I was very careful. Apollo must have had a strange reaction. In the past when I’ve given a horse PCP, it simply dropped off to sleep. I give my horses tranquilizers all the time when I’m cleaning their teeth or some other such minor procedure. I was shocked… scared. If Peter hadn’t rescued me, I’d have been dead.”

“Lilah, why’d you go to all that trouble to
fake
a crime?” Marge asked. “You had a real crime — the
theft
. Why didn’t you just report it?”

“Why?”
Lilah’s laugh was soft. “Detective, how much priority would you… or Peter… or
anyone
in the entire police force have given a theft of some old papers? Ah, but a rape… and a rape where jewels were stolen… now there’s a
crime
worth looking into! I was hoping once you
started
investigating you wouldn’t stop until you found the memoirs.”

She shrugged.

“So you figured out my little subterfuge. So what? You’re doing exactly as I envisioned. The case has taken on a life of its own. As far as Apollo went… that was to ensure that the case wouldn’t stagnate, that it would be moved on. That Peter would
believe
me when I told him someone was out to get me… and he
did
believe me.”

“We still haven’t found the memoirs, Lilah.”

“But now you’ll
look
for them, won’t you?”

Marge didn’t answer. She knew that Lilah was absolutely right — the case had taken on a life of its own. And she had the police figured out as well. With all the violent crime plaguing the streets, nobody on the force would fret too much about some old lost memoirs. The woman wasn’t a prophetess. But she was very clever.

“Who killed your brother?” Marge asked.

“Talk to
Mother
. Kingston implied she was involved in the theft. I’m sure she was involved in his murder.”

“Who else might have been involved?”

“Mother has managed to create quite a following — Michael, Kelley, even Freddy. After all, he did take me out the night the theft occurred. Any one of them is a potential errand boy for her.”

“Do you have any idea how someone broke into your inner safe?”

“No idea.” Lilah suddenly looked sheepish. “You
are
going to drop the charges against Carl, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I told you he didn’t rape me.”

Marge didn’t answer.

“Are you going to bring charges against me?”

“That’s not up to me,” Marge said. “You know, in your eagerness to keep the case alive, you probably did more harm than good. We were out looking for a rapist when we should have been looking for a thief.”

“At least you were out looking for
something
.” Lilah regarded her hands, then smiled smugly. “No harm done if charges are brought against me. As a matter of fact, the publicity will be enormously beneficial to the spa’s business. The more notorious, the better.” She leaned over and whispered, “The rich just love a delicious dish of dirt!”

Marge folded the cover of her notebook and stowed the pen in her pocket. “This probably isn’t the last of my visits.”

“Ask whatever you want. At this point, I have nothing more to hide.”

“Then let me ask you this,” Marge said. “Where are your mother’s jewels?”

The blue eyes suddenly set in stony hatred. “Not to worry, Detective, I have them. And I’ll return them when I fucking feel like it.”

Decker thought, File this one under things that make you groan: a Testarossa shaped into abstract sculpture. The passenger’s side was a gray crater of primer and blood-red paint, the door held shut by electrical tape. Its nose had been blunted, both its bumpers denuded of chrome and trim.

Goldin stood on the curb and watched Decker gaze at his junk heap. He tucked his T-shirt into his jeans and stuck his hands into his back pants pockets. “You look like you’re ready to deliver a eulogy.”

“How can you stand driving it in that condition?”

“I’m making a statement, Sergeant.”

“What kind of statement!” Decker snarled. “That it’s too bourgeois to restore a thing of beauty?”

“No, actually it’s more like I can’t afford the thirty thousand bucks to fix her up properly.”

“Do it yourself.”

“Me?” Goldin laughed. “I don’t know a carburetor from a radiator.”

“Testarossas don’t have carburetors.” Decker’s eyes remained on the car. “They’re fuel-injected.”

Goldin patted Decker’s back. “It only hurts if you look. Let’s go. Greta’s expecting us.”

Slowly, Decker turned away from the Ferrari and followed Goldin up a slight incline to an entrance to the grounds. The apartment complex was three blocks long — a series of one-story bungalows resting on yards of green hillocks shaded by wizened trees. Dozens of meandering pathways crisscrossed over the knoll, many of them diverging only to dead-end into copses of brush. But Goldin seemed to know where he was going.

Since the weather was warm and sunny, many seniors were outside visiting with their neighbors. Plump women nursing iced teas, sitting spread-kneed on lawn chairs, nylon stockings rolled down to their ankles, feet shod in orthopedic whites. Old men whose waistlines were now wider than their shoulders held green hoses, sprinkling water on the grass or flower beds. Laughing and talking. The place gave the appearance of a retirement village except the acres of complex were in the middle of prime Valley real estate.

“A real anachronism,” Goldin said. “I don’t know who owns all this land, but they’re sitting on a gold mine. Maybe someone feels preservation of people is more important than another office building.”

Decker smiled. “That’s wonderfully optimistic.”

“Yeah, that’s me. I’m an ideological bulldog. I’ll never give up. Greta lives around the corner.”

He led Decker to a stucco cottage freshly painted bright yellow with white trim. The mailbox outside said
G. MILLSTEIN
. Without hesitation, he turned the knob and walked in. Decker remained on the threshold.

The woman who greeted Goldin had a wide, toothless smile. Her face was as wrinkled as a discarded sheet of paper, her mouth caved in, giving her a very pronounced chin. Her hair was thin and white, her eyes dark brown and holding an impish twinkle. She wiped her hands on her apron and locked Goldin to her overstuffed bosom. Her voice was musical and tinged with a German accent:

“You don’t change at all, my friend!”

“You need glasses, Greta. Look at all the
gray
in my hair.”

“You call dat gray, Perry, you need glasses.” She took his arm and looked at Decker. “You come in, too. I don’t bite.” She smacked her lips together. “No teets.”

“Teeth,” Perry translated.

“Dat’s what I said. Sit, Perry. You sit too. Your name, please?”

“Peter,” Decker said.

“Ah, Peter. I have a son-in-law who’s Peter. Is a real son-of-gun. I don’t like him, but my daughter? She is happy. Dey married tirty-two years. I keep my mout shut and we all are happy.”

She disappeared inside the kitchen. Decker took a seat on a faded green velvet couch and Goldin leaned back in a BarcaLounger, feet level with his head. The living room was hot and stuffy and dark and Decker loosened his tie. Greta came in a few minutes later with plates of strudel dusted with powdered sugar and three empty teacups.

“You bring in tea for me, Perry?”

Goldin got up and retrieved a silver tea set from the kitchen. Upon returning, he set down the tray, pulled the curtains back, and opened a window. Hot, perfumed air immediately swept away the stale smell of old age.

“You’re not running a funeral home, Greta,” Perry said. “Why do you keep it so stuffy in here?”

“I get scared, Perry.” She poured the tea. “People walk around at night. People I don’t know. I hear noises.” She stopped and rubbed her arms. “I get scared.” She handed a teacup to Decker.

“What kind of people?” Decker asked.

Greta shrugged. “I don’t look too close. Dey hire mens to protect us, but dey are never around the same place as the noises. But…” She handed Goldin a cup of tea. “It is not bad here. I stay here until I die.”

“Your children still visit often?” Goldin asked.

“Oh ya, dey visit me all de time. Mary comes one a week, Stephen comes one a week, Elaine come one or two a week.” Greta turned to Decker. “She’s married to Peter.”

“The son-of-a-gun.”

“But I don’t say a word.”

Goldin smiled. “If you had been my mother-in-law instead of Davida, I might still be married to Lilah today.” He made a face. “A very disturbing thought.”

“How is Lilah?”

Goldin cocked a thumb in Decker’s direction. “He’d know more than I would.”

Greta faced Decker. He said, “She’s in the hospital—”

Greta gasped and put her hand to her chest.

“She’s fine,” Decker quickly added.

“I thought you said she was out of the hospital,” Goldin said.

“This is separate from the first incident.”

“You say rape,” Greta said. “Perry tell me what happened first. What happened now?”

Decker said, “She was admitted last night after attempting suicide.”

Again, Greta gasped.

“She’s okay, Mrs. Millstein,” Decker said, quickly. “My partner just went in to see her. If there was a problem she would have beeped me by now.”

There was a long pause.

“Why?”
Goldin asked.

“I don’t know,” Decker said.

“A cry for help?” Goldin asked.

“Maybe,” Decker said.

The room was silent. Greta said, “You tink it’s a cry for help?”

“I think Lilah’s depressed,” Decker said. “And when you’re depressed, you can do irrational things.”

“Someting more happened to her, ya?” Greta said.

Decker didn’t answer.

Greta said, “My heart is strong. You tell us.”

“Well…” Decker cleared his throat, repositioning himself on the couch. It didn’t help. He was uncomfortable and the seat cushions had nothing to do with it. “Kingston Merritt was murdered a couple of days—”

Goldin dropped his teacup in his lap. He jumped up, swiping at his pants, the cup and saucer tumbling to the ground. Decker handed him a napkin and picked up the china.

“God, I’m sorry, Greta. I spilled tea all over your carpet.”

“Don’t worry—”

“At least I didn’t break anything.”

“Is okay, Perry.” The old woman gently dabbed his wet pants leg with her apron. “I understand how you feel. I feel sick, too. Dat’s horrible!”

Decker nodded. “You burn yourself, Perry?”

“Nah, I’m okay,” Goldin said. “Just gotta catch my breath, that’s all.”

Decker turned to Greta. “Are you all right?”

“I not going to die, but I don’t feel so good. It’s bad news for me.” Her eyes suddenly moistened. “It makes me feel very sad.”

Goldin took the old woman’s hand and patted it.

She gave off a teary smile and said, “So sad.”

“Did you know King, Greta?” Goldin asked.

She wiped her eyes with a napkin. “Just as boy. I work for Davida when she live in Germany. I work for her tree, maybe four years. Den Hermann died and Davida go back to America. When I know him, King was unhappy boy.”

Decker said, “What kind of work did you do for Hermann and Davida?”

“Not Hermann, just Davida. I make dresses for Davida… what you call in English?”

“Seamstress,” Perry said.

“Ya, I was seamstress. I make good dresses.” She pointed to her brow. “I have good eye. No one can tell difference — my dresses or de ones from Paris. Davida… she has lots of money, could buy the real dresses. But she says mine were just as good.” Greta gave a toothless smile. “Dey were.”

Decker smiled. “I’ll bet. How many dresses did you make for Davida?”

“Lots. I sew fast and my daughters help me. I make lots of dresses for her ’cause she has lots of parties. Davida knows everybody. She was very nice for famous woman — famous American! Most Americans tink all Germans are Nazis.”

Greta’s eyes suddenly toughened, her posture turned stiff.

“I’m not Nazi. During war, I take my Jewish friend’s daughter and I tell Nazis she’s my niece. I keep her and raise her like mine. I tell her when she was older who she was. I save for her pictures of her parents. I love her like she is my own
blood
. I don’t say a word when she marry a son-a-gun. I’m not
Nazi
!”

“Of course you’re not, Greta.” Goldin stood. “Let me pour you some tea.”

“Dat’s a good idea, Perry. You always have good ideas.” She sat on the couch next to Decker. “Davida was more different den most Americans. She speak a little German and make big parties and invite
everyone
— big people, little people, me, my children. I come dere only one, maybe two times… lots of food, lots of
drink
— strong lager. Very, very
rich
for us. Most Germans den still very poor from the war.”