False Prophet (9 page)

“What?”

“Yeah, he had a video camera and I asked him what he used it for. He tapes himself. Played me the tape without hesitation. Man, the way he
moves
, maybe he’s not a lion, but he’s sure a jaguar. In
total
control of his body.”

“Want me to look him over?”

“Let me work him over first.” Marge told Decker about the Betham complaint. “I’ll get back to you on that. See if the suit’s legit.”

“Go for it, Margie,” Decker said. “I’m off to the hospital to talk to Lilah.”

The entrance doors to the spa parted once again. Out came a young lass in cutoff jeans and a tank top. A way-too-small-for-her-chest tank top. And she wasn’t wearing a bra. Decker felt he
had
to notice these details because noticing details honed one’s skills of observation — the primary tool of detection.

Marge tapped him on the shoulder. “You want to switch assignments, Pete?”

“No.” Decker eyes shifted from the bouncing bosoms back to Marge’s face. “No, Detective Dunn, that wouldn’t be an efficient division of labor. You finish up your hit list. I’m off to the hospital.”

The drive to
Sun Valley Memorial was a westward stretch of freeway that had Decker riding into the late-afternoon sun. Squinting, he yanked down the unmarked’s visor, which did little to mitigate the glare, then fished around in the glove compartment until he felt a pair of sunglasses. Cheapies — the lenses were gridmarked with scratches. But it was better than driving blind.

Maybe Lilah had been able to see
something
from under the blindfold. It had been made of lightweight material folded over several times, but it hadn’t been form-fitting. She could have sneaked a glance or two out of an open corner.

If he got lucky.

He took the Branch Street exit, turned left, then traveled another mile on surface streets. The winds were blowing dust, little eddies of soot that looked like gold powder in the late-afternoon light.

The Foothill Substation of the LAPD patrolled the east end of the San Fernando Valley — the last bastion of rural Los Angeles filled with miles of grazing land. Slowly and steadily, commercialization was eroding the undeveloped acres, but the ranchers were a stubborn lot, often refusing to sell even if there was profit to be made. Creatures of habit, they, like Decker’s father, wouldn’t know what to do with the money if they didn’t have their work — tasks that challenged the body and roughened the hands.

As he veered the Plymouth away from the mountains and onto Foothill Boulevard, the terrain changed. Open fields yielded to lumber- and brickyards, scrap-metal dealerships, roofing companies, wholesale nurseries, and block-long discount stores advertising everyday sale prices. The boulevard twisted and turned through large open lots until the hospital came into view.

Sun Valley Memorial — a three-story square building plastered in green stucco — shared the block with a flower farm abloom with mums and marigolds. Decker parked the car in the half-full
EMERGENCY ONLY
lot, stuck his
OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS
card on the dash, and took the elevator up, getting off on the second floor.

The visitors’ area was small and nearly empty. To the right a woman and teenaged boy sat playing cards. On the other side of the room was a man reading a magazine and an elderly woman listening intently as a doctor, still dressed in surgical scrubs, spoke to her in hushed tones. No one was sitting at the desk marked
INFORMATION
.

Decker bypassed the lobby and walked down the long corridor until he found the nurse’s station. He presented his badge to a young man wearing a white uniform.

“Sergeant Decker of the LAPD. I spoke with Dr. Kessler earlier in the day and he told me I could come down and interview Lilah Brecht. She’s in room two-fifty-five.”

The man leaned over the counter to study the badge. “Lilah Brecht…”

“Yes, Lilah Brecht. She was admitted this morning, victim of an assault.”

“Lilah Brecht…” the man repeated.

With a smile, Decker asked, “Can you page Dr. Kessler for me?”

“I know who Lilah is. I’m her floor nurse. I seem to remember Dr. Kessler saying something about you coming down. I’m sure he wrote it in her chart.”

Decker waited.

“I’m not sure where the chart is now,” the nurse said. He scratched a hairy forearm. “Maybe down in Neuro. But it doesn’t matter. She’s out of it right now.”

“She’s sedated?”

“No, no.” The nurse frowned. “You don’t sedate people with possible head injuries. She’s asleep. It’s been a long day for her. Her brother tried to talk to her about a half hour ago, but she was—”

“Her
brother
? You mean Dr. Brecht?”

“Yep.”

“He was
here
?”

“Why is that weird? He’s the patient’s brother.”

“I’ve been looking for him,” Decker said. “Left messages at his office, at the hospital—”

“I never got any messages from you.”

Decker let out an exasperated sigh. “Did he just get here or has he been here all day?”

“I’d say he came about a half hour ago. When he saw she was sleeping, he said he’d be back in a half hour. But like I said, that was a half hour ago. So he should be back around… now.”

“I’m going to take a quick peek in Lilah’s room,” Decker said.

“Okay,” replied the nurse with hairy forearms. “But don’t wake her.”

Decker said he wouldn’t. Her room was at the end of the hallway — one of the few privates available in the hospital. She was sleeping sitting up in the bed, glucose trailing down an IV line threaded into her arm. Her hair had been brushed off her forehead, her scrubbed face showing the bluing and swelling of her ordeal. Both eyes were puffy, with scratches and cuts above her brow. Her mouth was open; the dry air had caused her red lips to crack. Her skin tone had markedly improved. She was still pale but the cold, ashen complexion was gone. She wore the standard hospital gown backward, the split open in the front. But her modesty was protected by a bedsheet across her chest. Softly, he called out her name.

No response.

He checked his watch and decided to wait a few minutes. He pulled a chair up to the bed, about to stretch his legs when a stern voice jerked his head around, demanding to know
who the hell
he was.

The man appeared to be in his early thirties, medium height and weight, prematurely bald with just a few plugs of thin blond hair sticking up from a pink scalp. He made up for his lack of cranial hair with a full sandy-colored beard and thick eyebrows. He had close-set, pale-blue eyes and a long beaky nose. He wore a long white coat over an embroidered work shirt and jeans. On his feet were an ancient pair of Earth sandals — the kind where the toe was higher than the heel. Decker thought those had gone the way of the Nehru jacket.

“I’m Sergeant Decker of the Los Angeles Police.”

The man paused. When he spoke again, he had lowered his voice. “I don’t think she’s equipped to talk to the police at the moment. Maybe tomorrow.”

“You’re Frederick Brecht?”

“I’m Dr. Frederick Brecht, yes.”

With an emphasis on the
doctor
, Decker noticed. He stood, overshooting Brecht by around six inches. He put him at about five-ten, one-seventy. Even though his coloring was similar to Lilah’s, brother and sister bore little resemblance.

“I’m handling your sister’s assault, Doctor. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

Brecht’s scalp turned a deep shade of rose. “Why is that a concern of the police?”

“You went out with your sister last night,” Decker said. “Maybe you noticed something—”

“Nothing,” Brecht said. “If I had, I would have contacted you. Anything else?”

Decker said, “Doctor, how about we grab a cup of coffee in the cafeteria as long as Lilah’s resting? Maybe you can help me out by answering a couple of questions.”

“But I have nothing to tell you,” Brecht insisted.

Lilah moaned.

“Patients, even in sleep, are still receptive to their surroundings,” Brecht lectured. “I think this conversation is upsetting her. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave at once.”

“Doctor, I know this is a bad time for you—”

“Bad is an egregious understatement, Sergeant. I’m in no mood to be interrogated.” Brecht touched the tips of his fingers to his forehead. “I can’t think clearly. Maybe tomorrow.”

Decker was struck by Brecht’s manner — incongruent with the informal, guru appearance. He’d expected a palsy-walsy interaction and was getting anything but.

“Sure, tomorrow’s fine,” Decker said. “It’s just… you know. Well, maybe you don’t. Time is really important in these kind of cases, Doc.”

Brecht closed his eyes, then slowly opened them. “I suppose a few minutes…”

Decker walked over and looped his arm around the doctor’s shoulder. Gently, he guided Brecht out the door. “You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”

“I never drink caffeine,” Brecht said weakly.

“Now’s a good time for an exception.”

“No, no.” Brecht sighed. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine. Well, that’s not true at all. I’m very shaken. Who wouldn’t be?”

“True.”

They took the elevator down to ground level. It was after five and the cafeteria had begun to serve dinner, the special was meat loaf with mashed potatoes, peas, and coffee or soft drink for $4.99.

“Hungry?” Decker asked.

“I never eat red meat,” Brecht said.

Decker picked up an apple.

“That’s been sprayed,” Brecht commented. “If you must eat chemically adulterated items, may I suggest an orange as opposed to an apple. Its peel, being thick, absorbs most of the pesticides, leaving only traces of the poison in the meat of the fruit.”

Decker stared at him. “Maybe I’ll just stick to coffee.”

“Caffeine has been implicated in heart disease and infertility.”

“My wife’s pregnant,” he said, then wondered why.

“Good God, I hope she has enough sense not to drink coffee. Caffeine’s been implicated in birth defects!”

Decker was quiet. Now that he thought about it, Rina was suddenly drinking mint tea. He wondered if that had been implicated in anything, but didn’t ask. He filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee and led Brecht to a corner table. He pulled out his notebook.

Brecht said, “How long have you been with the force?”

Decker held back a smile and sipped axle grease. “I’ve been with LAPD for seventeen years, fifteen of them wearing a gold shield.”

Brecht looked at Decker, then at the tabletop. “I… apologize for interrogating you… was it Officer Decker?”

“Sergeant Decker. Detective Sergeant if you want to get technical.”

“I’m usually very professional in my behavior, Sergeant. But now… well, surely you can understand…”

“Of course.”

“What…” Brecht hesitated. “When did it happen?”

“I’m not sure of the exact time,” Decker said. “I was hoping you could help me with that. You were out with her last night.”

“Yes, I was. But she was fine when we parted. When did you find out about…?”

“The call came through dispatch a little before seven in the morning,” Decker said. “Maid phoned it in. How’d you find out?”

“I called my office.”

“When?”

“Around an hour ago. My secretary was
panicked
by your visit. It took me at least five minutes to calm her down and find out what had happened. She was very worried that… that something had happened to me as well.”

“She seems like a loyal gal.”

“Althea has my interests at heart.”

“Why’d you wait so long to call your office for messages?”

“I… it had been an unusual day. I was very busy.”

“With what?”

“What does my business have to do with Lilah?”

Decker waited.

Brecht sighed. “Well, if you really must know, I was preoccupied with my mother.”

“Davida Eversong.”

“The Great Dame of the Silver Screen.” Brecht frowned. “She can really put it on, that woman. But she
is
my mother. What can I do?”

Decker said, “You were at the spa all this time?”

“No, no, no,” Brecht said. “At her beach house. In Malibu. Mother’s there at the moment. She doesn’t know a thing about Lilah and I’m insisting that
you
don’t tell her.”

“How much do you know about the case, Doctor?” Decker asked.

Brecht stiffened. “
What
are you implying, Sergeant?”

“Take it easy,” Decker said. “I was speaking in medical terms. Have you read your sister’s chart?”

Brecht paused, uncoiling slowly. “Not yet. It wasn’t on her door when I arrived and I haven’t had the energy to go searching for it. I’ve put in a call to her attending physician.” He looked Decker in the eye. “Is there anything I should know about?”

Decker didn’t answer.

Brecht’s voice turned to a whisper. “She was sexually assaulted, wasn’t she?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Dear
God
!” He gasped out. “Dear, dear God, I don’t believe…” He gasped again. “Could you get me some water, please?”

Decker bolted up and retrieved a glass of water. Still trembling, Brecht clutched the cup and gulped down the water.

“Do you need another drink?” Decker asked.

Brecht held up his palm and shook his head. He took a deep breath. “No… no, thank you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes… quite. It’s… the shock.” He inhaled deeply once again. “What happened?”

“We’re still putting pieces together, Doctor. I hope to have a better picture after I talk to your sister.”

“I just can’t
believe
…” Brecht buried his face in his hands, then looked up. “Ask your questions, Detective.”

Decker said, “When did your mother call you to come down to Malibu?”

“This morning,” Brecht said. “She was in terrible pain and I rushed out to treat her.”

“What time did she call?”

“Around eight-thirty, nine.”

“Is that why you canceled all your appointments?”

“Yes. My appointments that day started at ten. I knew by Mother’s tone that there’d be no way that I could get away with just a simple treatment. Once I was out there, I just didn’t feel… I decided to give her the entire day.”