Prayers for the Dead. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ night was foggy and cool, the glare of starlight spread behind a wall of filmy clouds. Yellow crime tape had been stretched across the alley’s main entrances, two black-and-whites nose to nose at the driveways, preventing pass-through traffic. As he came closer to the actual crime spot, the crowd grew dense. Uniformed and plainclothed officers swarming around a bronze Buick. The strong odor of garbage mixed with the metallic stench of fresh blood and excreted bowels.

      Marge and Oliver had already arrived. So had Martinez and Webster, the newest imports to Devonshire Homicide. Bert Martinez came from Van Nuys Substation, having worked Crimes Against Persons detail, Tom Webster was a transplant from Mississippi with ten years of gold-shield experience and a BA in music composition from Tulane. With veteran Farrell Gaynor, they would comprise the team for this case, as major homicides were usually worked in groups of five. Gaynor was on his way, his wife having reported that he had just left. The old man moved like a slug, but had a microscopic eye for details and patience for paperwork.

      Decker reached inside his jacket, slipped on a pair of latex gloves. Marge noticed him first, pushed silk blond hair out of her brown doe eyes and gave a wave. She was a big woman, five nine plus, large-boned and all muscle. Unmarried as well. Not too many guys could compete against her in either the brains or brawn department. The others gave him nods as he approached their huddle.

      First thing up: Clear unnecessary people. Decker said, “Martinez, Oliver, Webster, and Dunn. You stay here. How many cruisers were sent here? Anyone know?”

      “Seven,” someone answered.

      “Four of them are blocking the entrances to the alley.” Decker thought a moment. “All right, the other three loose black-and-whites, start making passes around the area. Use extreme caution if you see anything suspicious. And always call for backup. The rest of you, go back to the barricades and wait for further instructions. On your way out, don’t touch anything, watch where you step. Go.”

      Slowly, the crowd scattered, leaving Decker full view of the car. The driver’s door was still wide open, legs protruded out, shoes scraped the asphalt. Good shoes. Quality black leather, maybe Ballys or Cole-Haan. They were splattered with sticky clots of blood. Decker advanced, peered inside the car.

      An abattoir. Jackson Pollock in shades of red and brown. He held his breath and exhaled carefully, thankful his stomach was empty. Stab wounds had turned the doctor’s chest into a sieve, bullets had pierced through the great man’s head and neck. Carefully, he touched the cheek.

      “Body’s still warm.” Decker looked at his glove. Wet with blood. He’d have to change it before he touched anything else. He checked his watch. Nine-twenty. “Anyone call up the ME?”

      “Yo.” Oliver ran his hands through a mound of dark hair. His brown eyes flitted through the scene. “Called the coroner’s office, called Forensics as well. They should be here any moment.”

      “What about Captain Strapp?”

      Marge said, “I left a message for him, Pete … er, Loo.”

      Oliver flashed Marge a white, toothy smile. She ignored it and him. Pity because Scott was well built and good-looking. He even had moments that could be roughly defined as charming. Just too few of them and way too far between.

      Out of the corner of his eye, Decker saw a stoop-shouldered man wrapped in a cardigan sweater, inching toward them. Marge followed Decker’s stare, shook her head. “I think you woke him up from his nap.”

      Decker waved Gaynor forward. The man attempted a trot but gave up. His belly was too big, his legs too spindly to carry that much weight while running. Oliver said, “I thought he retired. He should be retired.”

      “C’mon,” Martinez whispered impatiently. He twirled the ends of his Brillo mustache. “Guy’s an antique. Don’t know why the department keeps him on. He doesn’t even help it out with affirmative action.”

      Oliver said, “You know, this team would fail even the most liberal affirmative action qualifications. Too many white males. Not enough minorities. No blacks, Indians, Asians, women—”

      Marge said, “Uh, excuse me—”

      “Hispanics—”

      “A-hem,” Martinez broke in.

      “No deaf-blind paraplegics, no midget cretins, no mentally deranged or morally handicapped—”

      “Look in the mirror, Scott,” Marge said.

      Oliver said, “I don’t know where you fit in, Webster. Man, they don’t make ’em any WASPier.”

      “Enough, Scott,” Marge said. But he did have a point. Tom was Mr. Perma-Prest with his perfect chip of blond hair falling in front of sleepy, bluebell eyes. Most detectives exuded an excitement when starting a case. Webster seemed injected with ennui, as if forced to put up with another hot and humid August day in Biloxi, Mississippi.

      Oliver went on. “Actually, you’re more than WASP, Tommy Boy. You are down-home DWM.”

      “Beg your pardon?” Webster drawled.

      “Dead White Male,” Marge said.

      “Don’t hate me ’cause ahm beautiful,” Webster said dryly.

      Oliver smiled, started whistling “Here Comes Santa Claus” as Gaynor arrived, sweaty and winded.

      “Hey, gentlemen.” Farrell looked at Marge. “And ladies.”

      Oliver said, “We were all wondering why the department hasn’t put you to pasture since you don’t help them with affirmative action.”

      Gaynor said, “I’m elderly. Gray power.” He held his fist in the air. “God, it smells awful.”

      “It is awful,” Marge said.

      “Take a look for yourself, Farrell,” Oliver stated. “If your heart can take it.”

      “Old ticker’s stronger than you’d think.” Gaynor walked over to the car, looked inside, and winced. He slipped on gloves. “Gruesome. It’s definitely the primary crime scene.”

      “I can see why they keep you on,” Oliver said. “Astute powers of observation.”

      Decker said, “Sparks worked exclusively with New Christian Hospital, didn’t he?”

      Gaynor said, “I know he was there a lot. Friend of mine used Sparks a couple of years ago for bypass surgery. It was done at New Chris.” He smiled benignly at Oliver. “One day you’ll know from these things.”

      Oliver gave him a sick smile.

      Decker said, “He must have had his office there, right?”

      Blank stares. Gaynor said, “When I had my angiogram done, it was a hospital procedure. But my doctor had a regular office.” He thought a moment. “But he was a cardiologist not a surgeon.”

      Decker said, “Dunn, find out where Sparks saw his patients when he wasn’t operating. In any event, I want you and Oliver to go over to New Chris, see if Sparks was coming from the hospital. While you’re on your way, make calls and find out who Sparks’s secretary СКАЧАТЬ