Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection. Faye Kellerman

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      “And when you’re done,” he said, striking a match, “we’ll go call the police.”

      2

      They stood like pickets in a fence: Decker, Ed Fordebrand, a homicide cop from the Foothill Division of the LAPD, and Walt Beckham, a deputy county sheriff for the Crestview National Forest Service. The woods were swarming with activity: crime technicians combing the brush for evidence, police photographers popping flashes, the deputy medical examiner barking directions for the removal of the bones. Beckham hitched up his beige uniform pants and sucked on his pipe. Fordebrand started scratching his left arm, which had broken out into welts. Decker glanced at the boys. Jake was standing to one side. His color had returned and now he was fascinated by the action. But Sammy had distanced himself from the commotion and sat huddled under a massive eucalyptus.

      “Nice goin’, Deck,” Fordebrand said, rubbing his forearm. “I thought you were on vacation.”

      “Fuck you.”

      “And a merry Christmas to you, too,” Fordebrand growled.

      Decker shrugged.

      “Sorry,” he said.

      Fordebrand was six two and pure beef: the reincarnation of a Brahma bull.

      “You want to take this, Sheriff?” he asked Beckham. “It’s your jurisdiction.”

      Beckham tugged a corner of his gray mustache.

      “Seems to me it’s right on the border between County and Foothill.”

      “Closer to you,” Fordebrand said.

      “Detective, how ’bout you and me slicing through the shit,” said Beckham. “You don’t want to do this now. And I don’t want to do this now. We’d both rather be home, downing a brew and singing carols to the Savior.”

      “How about a joint operation?” Fordebrand tried. “Cut the paperwork by half.”

      “Why don’t you flip a coin?” suggested Decker.

      “I like the man’s logic,” Beckham said. He won the toss and smiled. Fordebrand made a last-ditch effort.

      “I still think it’s on your side of the border, Sheriff,” he said.

      “You’re being a sore loser, Detective,” said Beckham.

      “Go home,” Decker said. “We’ll work it out.”

      Fordebrand gave Decker a dirty look.

      “My replacement’s coming in a half hour,” Beckham said. “I’d appreciate it if you could fill him in. If any questions should come up, who do I call?”

      The big bull took out his card and gave it to him.

      “Edward,” Beckham said, reading it and sticking out his hand, “it’s been a pleasure.”

      Fordebrand grumbled, then pumped the deputy’s hand firmly. “You call and ask for me or call the same extension and ask for Detective Sergeant Decker here—”

      “I’m not working Homicide,” Decker said.

      Fordebrand smiled cryptically, still digging at his forearm. The rashes and welts were manifestations of an allergic reaction that occured whenever he dealt with corpses—inconvenient, considering his chosen profession.

      “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you gentlemen now,” said Beckham.

      “Yeah,” Fordebrand said. “Merry Christmas. Merry fucking Christmas.”

      Beckham jogged away and Fordebrand turned to Decker.

      “Goddam hillbilly shitheads. What the hell do they do all day? Sit up in the ranger station and jerk their chains?”

      “He’s right,” Decker said. “The area does belong to Foothill. He might as well save himself the hassle.”

      “Stop being so noble.”

      “What’s with the shit-eating grin when I said I wasn’t working Homicide?”

      “Well, when you get back you’ll notice that we’re slightly shorthanded.”

      “We’ve got five homicide dicks.”

      “Pilkington’s transferred to Harbor Division, Marriot’s on vacation, Sleighton’s father took sick in Canada, so he flew out to be with him for the holidays. That leaves me and Bartholemew. I just found out today that Bart broke his leg riding a bicycle.”

      “Shit.”

      “Morrison did a little rearranging. Starting December twenty-sixth, you and Dunn are working Homicide. Dunn is actually jockeying back and forth between Homicide and Sex and Juvey—”

      “I don’t want to hear about this, Ed. I’m still on vacation.” Decker looked at the boys. “Such as it is.”

      “Rina’s kids?” Fordebrand asked.

      Decker nodded. “The older one found the bones. What a crappy deal! Nice weather, so I take them for a few days in the wild—unpolluted skies, unspoiled nature—and they have to be exposed to this crud.”

      “That’s too bad.” Fordebrand’s right arm had begun to swell. He clawed at it and winced. “So you want this one, Deck?”

      “All right. Starting the twenty-sixth. Nothing’s going to go down between then and now anyway.”

      “Easy case,” Fordebrand said. “Open and shut. Poke around a little just to say you did something. Look through a few Missing Persons files and forget about it. A week’s worth of desk work—nice and clean.”

      “If it’s so appealing, Ed, you can take the case.”

      “I’ll be happy to, Decker, if you take the packinghouse slashings.”

      “Pass.”

      Fordebrand ran his fingers through his hair.

      “Yeah, you look through a couple of Missing Persons files, then close the books, and they go down in the annals as a couple of John Does.”

      “Jane Does,” Decker said. “They look like females to me.”

      “Jane Does, John Does, who the hell cares? Nobody’ll hear from ’em again.” Fordebrand slapped him on the back. “I’ll handle the preliminary garbage. You go off and finish your vacation. Take care of the boys.”

      “Sorry I had to drag you out on Christmas Eve.”

      “Ah, it’s okay,” Fordebrand said magnanimously. “I’ll be back in time for the honey-glazed ham and the turkey. The ham’s in the oven; the turkey’s coming in from Cleveland.”

      Decker smiled. “Your mother-in-law?”

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