Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ don’t want to see anyone else,” she answered.

      “Maybe I don’t want to either,” he said. “But I want to keep the option open … open in case … case we both know the score.”

      She stared at the wall and didn’t answer. Decker waited a few more minutes. When she remained silent, he got up and left.

      “Somebody didn’t like us poking around,” Marge said to Decker.

      It was nine o’clock Friday morning. She was sitting on his desk, sipping coffee. Decker had his feet propped up on his desk, hands behind neck, and eyes on the ceiling.

      “Or somebody may have wanted to destroy evidence,” she added.

      “Then why place a bomb in the front part of the studio?” he asked. “Place it in the underground room. I think it was a warning. Anyone seriously wanting us out of the way could have done so by now. I’ve got a call in to Culver City PD. We should know more as soon as they dissect the remains of the bomb.”

      “Watch your ass, Pete.”

      “I intend to.”

      Mike Hollander walked up to Decker and placed a manila envelope on his desk. The return address was from a Dr. Arnold Meisner.

      “As requested, Rabbi,” Hollander said. “Fresh off the press.”

      “Please quit calling me rabbi.”

      Hollander looked at him. “Go get a night’s sleep, Pete.”

      “Who the hell is Arnold Meisner?” Marge asked.

      “A doctor who used to work under Dustin Pode’s pediatrician,” Hollander said. “When the old man died, Meisner took over the practice. He was kind enough to dig up those records for us.”

      “How’d you find out Pode’s pediatrician?” Decker asked.

      “I asked Dustin,” Hollander answered.

      Decker laughed.

      “The direct approach,” he said.

      “Don’t know any other kind,” said Hollander. “Dusty Pooh was so busy defending his father—calling the raid entrapment—I think the question was a relief. Something he could answer truthfully.”

      “What do you want with his medical charts?” Marge asked Decker.

      “I’m a sucker for theoretical models,” he said. “I’m looking for bed-wetting. It usually goes along with fire-starting … starting cruelty to animals.”

      “The old psychopathic triad,” Hollander said.

      “The old psychopathic triad,” repeated Decker, flipping through pages. Marge peered over his shoulder.

      “I don’t like to have someone reading over me,” Decker said curtly.

      “Excuse me,” Marge backed away.

      Decker laughed. “Sorry. I’ve been a real son of a bitch lately and I make no excuses for it. My life is going shitty.”

      “Not that I’m trying to meddle, but—”

      “Then don’t.”

      “Geez,” Marge said. “I’ll give you a pair of tweezers to take the hair out of your ass, Pete.”

      He smiled and concentrated on the page in front of him.

      “Any bed-wetting?” Marge asked.

      “Not so far.” Decker read for a while. When he finished, he reread the chart again. “No bed-wetting,” he announced at last.

      “Oh well,” said Marge. “Everything’s always perfect in theory.”

      “No bed-wetting, but you know what I see here?”

      “What?” inquired Hollander.

      “A hell of a lot of cuts and burns in weird places. And a whole lot of broken bones.”

      “Child abuse,” Marge said.

      “Yep,” said Decker. “Only twenty years ago no one talked about it, much less reported it. Poor Dustin was getting whopped for years and the old doc didn’t make one damn notation on it.” He turned a page. “Will you look at this? Burns on the buttocks. Mom claimed he sat on the stove.”

      “We haven’t heard that one since—” Marge looked at her watch “—oh, since maybe two hours ago.”

      “Look over here,” Decker said. “Lacerations of the hard palate when the kid was three. Mom said he fell with a spoon in his mouth. The doc records not one, not two, but three semicircular cuts in the region. Looks like Dustin fell with three spoons in his mouth.”

      “Jesus, what a bitch!” Hollander said.

      “Yep,” said Decker, closing the chart. “Psychos don’t come out of nowhere.”

      Friday blurred into Saturday. Shabbos was just another day of the week.

      Mary Hollander opened the door and gave Decker a startled look.

      “Pete! I haven’t seen you for ages. Thought you’d dropped out of all the shenanigans.”

      Decker smiled.

      “Guess not. How’s it going, Mary?”

      “Fine. They’re all in the back room hooting and hollering. Sounds like a good game.”

      Decker stepped inside.

      “Bring you a beer?” she asked.

      “Sure.”

      He walked through an immaculate living room full of knick-knacks collected over the course of a thirty-year marriage and into the den. It was crowded. Hollander sat on the edge of an ottoman, munching popcorn and shouting at the TV. Marge was parked on the red Naugahyde loveseat, next to a behemoth of a man he didn’t recognize. Fordebrand and MacPherson filled the matching sofa and Marriot reclined on the Barcalounger. They fell silent when he walked in the door.

      “What’s the score?” Decker asked.

      “What are you doing here?” Fordebrand asked puzzled.

      “Oh boy,” Marge groaned.

      MacPherson started singing: “Oh it’s crying time again …” He was from Robbery—a black man with a sizeable paunch who loved Shakespeare and had a lousy voice.

      “Shut up,” Decker said grumpily.

      “Want a hot …?” Hollander paused. Decker could smell the wood burning. “Want something to eat?”

      “Hot dog’s fine,” Decker answered.

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