Prayers for the Dead. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ with the kitchen door closed, Decker could hear the hum of machinery combined with the rhythmic blare of trumpets. Someone had the radio on.

      “You think the noise is bad out here,” Martinez said, “nothing like it is inside. Dishwashers running full tilt, the help have cranked up the music to earsplitting level. Besides, there’s lots of noise coming from the front portion of the kitchen. Appliances running, pots and pans clattering, and the chef screaming at everyone.”

      “No one heard anything?” Decker asked.

      “That’s the consistent story,” Martinez said. “Believe me, I interviewed everyone in the back en español so no one can say they didn’t understand my questions. Between the whoops of the salsa music and the whir of the dishwashers, you can’t hear yourself think. Besides, you know Latinos. Especially the green-card holders. Close mouthed when it comes to the police. Half of them think we’re in cahoots with INS. Hard to get their confidence, hard to get them to talk. Especially the men. It’s a macho thing, a way they can play one up on us.”

      Decker smoothed his mustache. “So Sparks was shot and carved and, supposedly, no one heard a thing.”

      “It could be the truth. Maybe the guy used a silencer. Maybe he worked fast.”

      “The more likely explanation is we’re working with more than one person.”

      “Because of the dual MO.”

      “Exactly,” Decker said. “Was there any cash in his wallet?”

      “Few bucks in cash and his credit cards were still there. Either it was an incomplete mugging, maybe someone spooked the muggers. Or robbery wasn’t the motive.”

      “Shit,” Decker muttered. “Be nice if we could have traced credit cards or something!” He cursed again. “What about the valets, Bert? Did they hear anything?”

      “They park the cars in front of the restaurant, not in back.”

      “Sound travels at night,” Decker said.

      “The street’s a main thoroughfare at eight-thirty. Lots of cars with loud radios, backfires, and revved-up motors.”

      Webster sauntered over to them, wearing a set of earphones. He removed them, stowed them in his pocket.

      “What are you listening to?” Martinez asked.

      “Selections from Saint-Saëns. Specifically, Danse Macabre. Eerily apropos.” He kicked a clod of broken asphalt with his shoe. “Not much in the way of trash, Loo-tenant. Y’all want me to search again, I reckon I have the time. Still got a Samson and Delilah CD to listen to.”

      “Got another assignment for you two,” Decker said. “I’m sending you both out to New Chris to interview the staff there.”

      Martinez said, “You want us to talk to everyone or just the people who Sparks worked with on a regular basis?”

      Decker said, “Talk to everyone.”

      “I see you don’t b’lieve in sleep,” Webster said.

      “I’m not sleeping, buddy, you’re not sleeping.” Decker’s brain was buzzing. Too much coffee. “We have a gruesome murder and so far the only remote motive we’ve pulled out was an academic tiff between Sparks and one of his colleagues. That’s not much.”

      Webster said, “It’s a start.”

      “It ain’t enough,” Decker said emphatically. “I’m not saying we’ve got to solve this within the twenty-four-hour cutoff. But we got to do better than this. Sparks was known as a rich man. Could be some hospital worker intended to tail him and rob him. Find out who called in absent today.”

      “Anybody know what he was doing here?” Martinez asked. “In back of Tracadero’s specifically.”

      “No,” Decker said. “Call me in an hour to brief me on your progress.”

      Tom nodded. “You want to drive, Bert?”

      “No problem. You want some coffee?”

      “You got coffee?”

      “A whole jug of Mexican stuff—strong and spicy. I also got some pasteles and fried tortillas with powdered sugar. Wife’s a good cook.” Martinez patted his gut. “Too good.”

      “Y’all don’t have to eat it.”

      “If it’s in front of me, I eat it.”

      Decker watched them disappear in a swirling snowstorm of street-lit mist. Decker folded his arms over his chest, let out a fog-visible sigh. Farrell Gaynor was still poking around the scene. Decker walked over to the Buick.

      “Impound should be here momentarily, Loo.” Gaynor was half in, half out of the car, legs dangling from the interior. Finally, he began to push his body out. It looked like the Buick was giving birth to a breech baby. He straightened his spine, handed some paper to Decker. “Couple of gas credit slips. He kept his car real neat. Not surprising considering what he does.”

      “Yeah, think you would want your heart surgeon to be the compulsive type.”

      “Now, this is more interesting, Loo.” Gaynor offered Decker a white business card.

      “Wait, let me put my gloves on.” He slipped on latex, then took the piece of paper.

      The background was imprinted with the Harley-Davidson logo—wings attached to a big H. Bold Gothic letters were overlaid across the center of the card.

       Everyone needs an Ace In The Hole.

       Because Sparks fly hard and hot.

       Born to be Wild.

      No address, no phone number on the front. Decker flipped the card over. Nothing on the back, either.

      Gaynor said, “What do you make of it?”

      “Where’d you find it?”

      “In the glove compartment,” Gaynor answered. “Stuck between the pages of a Thomas guide. Only other thing in the compartment was the owner’s manual.”

      “Ace In The Hole? Sparks fly …?” Decker laughed. “Azor Sparks. Ace Sparks?”

      “Maybe the good doctor is a secret Hell’s Angel.”

      “Yeah, he’s really a kingpin crank supplier who’s been manufacturing meth out of his hospital lab,” Decker said.

      “Can’t you see it in the headlines?” Gaynor said. “Head doctor is secret head.” Suddenly, he grew pensive. “You know, Loo, the case does have the look of a drug retaliation hit.”

      Decker laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

      “Lots of brutality. You yourself said it looks like a gang hit. I know it sounds lunatic. СКАЧАТЬ