Prayers for the Dead. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ as soon as it gets out, hospital’s going to be thrown into a panic. Just like his secretary. Where the hell is she? She said she only lives fifteen minutes away. It’s not exactly rush hour.”

      Marge investigated a wall of built-in bookshelves, her finger moving over the spines of thick medical tomes. “Didn’t she say she was going to call up his coworkers?”

      “Three doctors. How long does it take to call up three doctors?”

      Marge shrugged. “Sure, turn on the set.”

      Oliver stretched and flipped the power on the ceiling-mounted TV. The monitor filled with a dark image—the climax of some series cop show. He watched an actress in a police uniform chase a bad guy, her breasts jiggling and heaving as she followed him to an alley. Her pants were skintight, showed off a well-formed ass as she peeked around a garbage can. Oliver’s eyes crept over to Marge. She was dressed in a baggy pantsuit and had gunboats on her feet.

      “See anything interesting in his book?” Marge asked.

      “Nothing that means anything to me.” Oliver paged through his notes. “Patient names, procedures, surgeries, staff meetings, reminders for birthdays and anniversaries … quite a few of those. Maybe he owned stock in a greeting card company.”

      Marge glanced at the wood paneling. Interspersed with numerous diplomas and certificates were family photographs. “Looks like Sparks had lots of children and grandchildren. What a shame!”

      Zing went the bullet against the trash can on TV. The heavy-breasted actress jumped back. Her makeup was still perfect, not a drop of sweat sullied her brow. Man, if that had been him, he’d be browning his jockeys. Oliver said, “Sparks had lots of meetings with various companies.”

      “Which ones.”

      “Biolab, Meditech, Genident, Bloodcell, Armadonics, Fisher/Tyne—that name came up on a regular basis. About once a month. Isn’t that a drug company?”

      “Yeah.” Marge scratched her head. “My God, he was a busy bee. Wrote two medical textbooks, coauthored another four, and was an editor of a dozen others. Where did he find time to do all this?”

      Oliver’s eyes went back to the TV. The big-boobed cop was now draped in a filmy nightie. She lay in bed, nestled in the arms of a stud with a deep voice and a cleft chin. As she talked, Mr. Cleft looked at the babe with the expression “Jesus, I’m an earnest guy” stamped across his puss. Okay, so he wasn’t humping her bones. Which would have been the real picture if this was real life. Okay. So maybe they had just humped, and he was older and had a long refractory period. Oliver could maybe buy that. What he couldn’t buy was the fact that he was listening to her. In real life, the guy would be completely zoned out, thinking about tax dodges or rotary baseball.

      Marge checked her watch. “Manley does seem to be taking her time.”

      “Lucky the janitor had a key,” Oliver said. “What’d you think about her reaction to the news?”

      “After I got my hearing back?”

      “Yeah, I could hear her scream across the room. Most people, upon hearing news that their boss was popped, are stunned. They don’t say anything.”

      “Heather’s obviously the hysterical type.”

      “All women are the hysterical type,” Oliver pronounced. “But Manley letting go with a wallop like that … weird. My head’s still ringing.”

      Marge smiled, continued going over the books in Sparks’s shelves. “Heather reacted as if she was more to Sparks than just a secretary.”

      “I have no trouble believing that,” Oliver said. “According to his daily calendar, he spent most of his waking hours at the hospital. And Heather is a nice piece of pie.”

      “How do you know what she looks like?”

      “Pictures on her desk.”

      “She keeps pictures of herself on her desk?”

      “Nah, pictures of her and some guy. But you know how it is. Secretaries and their bosses. Especially someone like Sparks. Power is the ultimate lady-killer. How else do you explain ugly, old guys getting laid by nymphets?”

      “Well, if Sparks was boffing her, he’s your typical religious fanatic hypocrite.”

      “Don’t let Decker hear you say that.” Oliver paused. “Why do you say that?”

      “Because he’s got three bookshelves filled with religious material—Christian newspapers and magazines, lots of prayerbooks and numerous Bibles.” Marge shrugged. “Maybe Sparks and Heather read Bible together.”

      Oliver laughed. “Well, I have no trouble believing that sweet Heather was on her knees.”

      The door pushed open. A female voice screaming, “Just what do you think you’re doing!”

      Marge brought her index finger to her right ear and rubbed it against the skinflap. Oliver held out ID.

      The young woman was in her late twenties with big, big hair. Lots of it spilling down her shoulders and back. She was slim, wore a red knit dress that showed off curves. She whacked Oliver’s shield away. “I don’t care who you are. You have no right to invade my boss’s privacy!”

      The news came on the TV. Sure enough, Sparks’s death had made the headlines. The young woman burst into a crescendo of wails. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it!”

      “Ms. Manley,” Oliver said tentatively, “why don’t you sit down.”

      She pulled on her overteased tresses, her saucer eyes spilling tears as she yanked. “Who would hurt the doctor? He was the gentlest person on the face of the earth! Why would anyone hurt him?”

      “Ms. Manley, why don’t you sit down.” Marge mouthed to Oliver, “Turn the damn thing off!”

      Oliver cut off the newscaster midsentence. Heather was still moaning. He said, “Why don’t you sit, Ms. Manley?”

      She continued to pace.

      Oliver said, “Sit down, ma’am … as in sit down in a chair.”

      The secretary stopped treading, stared at Oliver. He pulled out the chair. “Please?”

      She sat, the hem of her dress resting mid-thigh over smooth, white legs. Oliver did a rapid once-over, then said, “We need your help, ma’am. Did you get hold of any of the doctors that were at Sparks’s six o’clock meeting?”

      Heather sniffed loudly. “Dr. Decameron said he’s on his way over here. Dr. Fulton … she can’t come down because she can’t get a baby-sitter. And her husband isn’t home yet. The dirty rat is never home. He’s a real jerk, suffers from a Peter Pan complex.”

      Marge took out her notepad. “Now this Dr. Fulton is one of Dr. Sparks’s co-workers?”

      “Yes.” Heather pulled a Kleenex out of her purse, blew her nose, and dried her eyes. “She works with Dr. Sparks on Curedon. They all do.”

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