Prayers for the Dead. Faye Kellerman

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      Michael rubbed his eyes.

      “I feel like such a jerk. I’m a med student. Second year. I’ve been to Africa on missionary work. I’ve taken care of very sick people. I shouldn’t be falling apart like this. I should be doing better. Dad wouldn’t approve.”

      “You’re doing great under the circumstances, Michael.”

      “I don’t think so …”

      Decker patted his back.

       Dad wouldn’t approve.

      Said a lot about the kid. Twenty-five, a med student, and still concerned about what Dad might think. Must be hard to be a son of a legend. Hard to forge that own identity. Said something for Michael that he chose to go into his father’s field knowing that people would always be making comparisons.

      Michael said, “It’s just that it’s such a shock. What happened? How’d it happen?”

      “He was found dead in his car.”

      “Where?” Michael bit his nails as he walked back and forth. “In the hospital parking lot? I’ve told Dad those places aren’t safe. I’ve told him a hundred times that he should carry Mace or pepper spray. Something. Anything.”

      “It happened in a back alley of Tracadero’s restaurant.”

      Michael stopped walking. “What? Where?”

      “In back of Tracadero’s,” Decker repeated. “Any idea what he was doing there?”

      “None whatsoever.”

      “Does your father eat at Tracadero’s?”

      “Maybe for a special occasion. Like one of our birthdays. Dad does like good food.” Michael bit his lower lip. “Mostly, he ate at the hospital. He practically lived at the hospital.”

      “Not home a lot.”

      “Almost never except for Sundays.”

      “Your mom is a nervous type?”

      “No, not at all.” Michael became tense. “Why do you ask that?”

      “Just because you keep sedatives in the house. I get the feeling she’s used to taking them.”

      “Oh … only occasionally … to help her sleep. Usually she’s full of energy. The woman is tireless. Dad was never home when we were growing up. She raised us all really by herself. That’s why she needs sedatives … she’s so, full of energy, if she doesn’t take them, she doesn’t sleep.”

      Nothing to do with anxiety, guy? Instead, Decker nodded sympathetically. How people deny. He checked his watch. “I’ve got to leave to meet your brother. Are you going to be all right by yourselves?”

      “Yes … I’m … yeah, I’m okay. Just tell Bram … as quick as he can.” Michael looked seasick. “I mean … tell him everything’s under control … but if he could …”

      “I’ll give him the message.” Decker regarded the young med student. He was dog-paddling, barely breaking surface, in an ocean of shock and grief. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

      “Yes,” Michael insisted. “Yes, I can handle it. Thank you, Lieutenant. Thank you for … I don’t know why I’m thanking you … I don’t know what I’m doing. Please tell Bram to hurry.”

      “He takes care of the family, doesn’t he?”

      Michael wiped tears from his eyes. “Bram takes care of the world.”

       4

      Impressive in size and Gothic in style, the Church of the Holy Order of St. Thomas would have felt at home on the banks of the Thames. It was especially noticeable because West Valley architecture was typically confined to blocklong barrack shopping malls, and anywhere USA strip malls. True, there were a few magnificent million-dollar-plus housing developments. But the vast majority of the homes located within Devonshire Substation area were one-story ranch houses—three bedroom, two bath—serviceable and modest. The church’s spire loomed above its residential neighbors, overlooking its domain like a prison turret.

      As Decker pulled the Volare curbside to the front steps, a thin man dressed in jeans, a black corduroy blazer over a black shirt, and running shoes bounded down the stairs. As he got closer, Decker saw the clerical collar. The man peered into the window.

      “Lieutenant?”

      Decker nodded, opened the passenger door.

      The priest slid inside, shutting the door with excess force. Threw Decker a glance, then put on his seat belt. Decker studied the clergyman for a moment. Streaks of gray at the temple, wavy creases in his forehead. He was fine-featured, almost pretty. Dressed in satin and lace, he could have walked out of a Gainsborough. Except for the eyes—alert, too intelligent for peerage foppery.

      Decker said, “I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Father.”

      The priest nodded. “How’s my mother doing?”

      “Pretty well, considering.” Decker pulled away from the church. “Michael’s anxious for you to be there.”

      “I should be there. But I need to be here. I need a clone.”

      Decker nodded. The priest had said clone, not twin. Ergo, the twin was obviously not a clone. Not the right time to press him on that.

      Bram pushed locks off his forehead. His hair wasn’t quite as long as it had been in the pictures. But it still brushed his shoulders. Didn’t look like the padres Decker had seen growing up in southern Florida. Modern times. Modern priests.

      “I managed to reach all my siblings except for my brother Paul. My brother-in-law is trying to reach him. Is there a way I can call out?”

      Decker picked up the mike, asked for the number. The priest gave him the digits. A moment later, an angry male voice came through the static of dispatch.

      Calmly, Bram said, “Hi, it’s me again. Did you reach Paul yet?”

      “About two seconds ago. Are you at the house?”

      “No, I’m—”

      “You’ve got to get over there. Eva’s distraught. I don’t trust her to be alone.”

      “Michael’s there—”

      “Michael!” The voice turned sarcastic. “Oh, that’s a great comfort—”

      “David—”

      “I’m nervous … letting Eva drive by herself. You know how hysterical she can get. But СКАЧАТЬ