Prayers for the Dead (32 page)

He laughed bitterly.

“We’re also the most screwed-up of the bunch.”

Paul blinked hard.

“I’ve tried very hard to be an involved father. Maybe I’m overinvolved. Because not a day goes by that I don’t think about Angela and the kids. Everything I do, I do for them. Sometimes I think I’d be better off if I were more like my old man — distant, imposing, the
boss
. ’Cause my kids sure give me crap. But then there are moments. Like when my eight-year-old hit a game-winning three-run homer at Little League. He came running up to me afterward, hugged me in front of his friends, told me he loved me. I guess I did something right.”

Decker nodded, observing a man who had just unloaded a truckload of personal baggage. The outsider in his trio, the son of a brilliant but domineering man. Paul must have been dying to prove himself. Since he couldn’t be brilliant like Dad, nor the golden boy like brother Bram, maybe he could gain his self-respect and position through money.

Hence all the bad investments.

Luke, on the other hand, never even tried. Just drowned his troubles in a a sea of drugs until his kids made him grow up. Yet, Lord only knew how much residual resentment the triplet sons felt toward their father.

Paul checked his watch. “I talk too much. I do that when I’m nervous.”

“You’re nervous around me?”

“My father was murdered and I don’t know why. Right now, I’m nervous around everyone.”

“I need to
talk to you, Bram. Right away!”

“Shoot.”

“Not over the phone.”

Bram paused. His brother’s voice held an eerie calm trying to mask anxiety. The priest massaged his pounding forehead. “No problem. Come down to the church.”

“
Not
a good idea. Be at your apartment in ten minutes.”

A long moment of silence. “Why the urgen—”

“Not over the
phone
!”

The voice held full-fledged panic. Bram said, “I’ll be there.”

The line went dead. Bram stood, regarded the crucifix on his wall. He knelt for a moment, said the paternoster, then crossed himself and grabbed his jacket. Fishing through his pocket for his keys to lock the door to the chancellery, he was intercepted by Jim, the seminary student.

“Father, Mrs. McDougal just called. Her son Sean was just readmitted into the hospital,” Jim said. “Apparently, the leukemia came back—”

“Oh no!” Bram locked the door, then rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “Which hospital?”

“St. Jerome’s,” Jim said. “Here’s the room number, here’s the home phone number. You look busy. Do you want me to call her for you, Father?”

“No, no, I’ll do it.” Bram took the slip of paper. “If she calls again, tell her I should be there in… a half hour to forty-five minutes, all right?”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call Father Danner? You’ve had so much on your mind…”

“Thank you, but no.”

“You look a little pale, Father.”

He did feel weak. Nothing that a little orange juice couldn’t cure. He hadn’t eaten today, was probably suffering from low blood sugar. “I’m fine, Jim. Thank you for your concern.” He patted the young man’s back, then turned and jogged away.

Farrell Gaynor sat across from Decker’s desk, shifting his rear in the hard plastic seat. “I guess what I’m really saying is I see Paul as a problem because of his debt.”

Decker said, “But the old man had already agreed to loan Paul the money. And Dolly Sparks agreed to honor Dad’s loan. I heard that with my own ears.”

“That doesn’t mean she knows the truth.”

“Dad turned Paul down this time?”

“I think Dad turned Paul down a long time ago.” Gaynor shuffled through some paper. “What if the purpose of Paul’s phone call the night of the murder was to
lure
Azor to the spot, then ice him—”

Decker interrupted. “He murdered over tuition payments?”

“Over an upcoming balloon payment coming due on his house.”

Decker looked up from his notes. “What’s this?”

“A balloon payment due in about three months. Three hundred thou.”

“Christ!” Decker started adding up the numbers in Paul’s debit column. “With that, Paul’s in the hole for close to three quarters of a million.”

“And the guy doesn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder, Loo.”

Decker nodding, knowing he was going to have to bring him in for questioning.

“So let’s assume that Paul hired out.” Gaynor coughed into a well-worn handkerchief. “The next question is who?”

Decker smoothed his mustache, sat back in his chair. “I don’t know. From my brief observations, Paul and William Waterson seem to be making chitchat. And just what was Waterson doing in a remote area of the mountains, meeting a lowlife like Manny Sanchez?”

“Right.” Gaynor shifted his weight again. “Now it
could
be that Waterson was giving Sanchez money that Azor Sparks had left him for this Environment Freedoms Act cause. But if that was the case, why didn’t Waterson meet Sanchez at his dealership in town? Why the clandestine spot?”

Decker said, “Waterson paid the bikers to be triggermen for Paul. And what Webster and Martinez saw was the payoff for Azor’s hit. Good logic. No evidence.”

“Things take time.”

Decker said, “Why would Waterson get involved in something like that? Was he in debt?”

“I don’t know. I’ll check into his accounts. See if any big checks were coming in or going out.”

Decker’s phone rang. He picked it up, listened for a few moments, then shut his eyes. A silent stream of curse words escaped his lips. He looked at Gaynor, shook his head.

“Who?” the old man asked.

“Decameron.”

It was an isolated contemporary thing nestled into the Santa Susana Mountains, with a view of the valley below. Decameron’s lot was hillside, overlaid with blooms of purple ice plants, the house semiobscured by giant banana plants and frothy green palms. The building was a square barrack of white stucco veined with brilliant red bougainvillea, almost void of windows. Instead, a dozen elongated glass-covered furrows had been cut into the walls. From the inside, the grooves had widened into wedges, becoming windows that allowed a great deal of light to enter. A clever design, like arrow slits found in the old fortress castles.

The house held high ceilings and slate floors. Footsteps echoed as Decker walked through. Lots of open space, the furnishings were spare. Everything was orderly except for the crime scene.

Someone had gone crazy with a bat, smashing windows, showering everything with shards of glass. Made it hard to gather evidence without slicing tender flesh. Decameron was spread out on his tomato-red leather couch, his mouth and eyes open. A second gaping mouth had been carved across his throat. Blood had oozed downward, across his body. There were holes in his chest and in his forehead. He was fully dressed in a gray suit, his red paisley tie and white shirt browned with blood. His face was turned upward at the skylights, his feet dangled off the edge of the cushions.

Under his toes lay another head, another body. A blond man, in a conservative blue suit. His throat had also been cut, he had also sustained shots in his head and chest.

Uniformed officers buzzed around like random bees. The call came through around twenty minutes ago, someone told Decker. A nurse phoned Decameron in as a missing person to Dispatch. Hospital had been calling Decameron all morning. No one had picked up.

Decker heard his name being called and turned around. Marge coming toward him, Oliver at her heels. They both looked grave.

Oliver’s eyes swept over the crime scene. “Shit,” he whispered. “Just when I was starting to like the guy.”

Marge said, “We were waiting for him, Pete. He never showed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Decameron,” Oliver said. “He was supposed to meet us for a late lunch. Two o’clock. He never showed. Now I know why.”

Marge said, “He was bringing us Fisher/Tyne’s trial data of Curedon.”

“Oh Christ, that’s
right
!” Decker said. “Either of you call the hospital when Decameron didn’t show?”

“Yes, sir,” Oliver said. “They paged him. He didn’t answer. I tried to get a location out of them, but they were closemouthed. Thought it was just an extra security precaution.”

“When did you call?”

“About forty-five minutes ago.” Oliver shook his head. “Who’s the second stiff?”

“I don’t know,” Decker said. “I just arrived. Phone it in to the coroner’s office, then clear the area of excess uniforms and we’ll get to work.”

Oliver said, “Mind if I glove and go through John Doe’s pockets?”

“Go ahead,” Decker said. “Double glove, guy. Lots of glass. Be careful.”

The broken bits crunched underneath the soles of Oliver’s shoes as he walked over to the dead blond man. Carefully sifting through razor-sharp shards, he reached into the body’s pants pocket.

“Damn!” Oliver pulled out his hand, a trickle of red running down the latex. He stuck it in his own coat pocket.

“Cut yourself bad?” Decker asked.

“Nah, just a poke.”

Marge said, “You’re going to fuck up evidence.”

“Thanks for the sympathy.”

With his clean gloved hand, Oliver reached into the other pants pocket. Carefully, he fished out the dead man’s wallet, slowly making his way back to Decker and Marge. She gloved and took the wallet from Oliver. Her eyes zeroed in on the driver’s license.

“Kenneth Leonard.” Marge’s fingers sorted through the wallet. “He’s a doctor—”

“What kind of doctor?” Decker asked.

“Doesn’t say. His home address is in Laguna Nigel.”

“So he’s probably not from New Chris,” Oliver said. “Too long a commute.”

Marge said, “Money’s here… about a hundred bucks. So are his credit cards. Strike robbery as a motive.”

“Unless someone was interested in stealing something else,” Oliver said.

Decker looked at him. “The Fisher/Tyne data?”

“Loo, you should have seen the squirrelly look on Shockley’s face when we asked if we could see it. I think someone really didn’t want Decameron showing us the numbers.”

“Decameron kept the data at his house?” Marge said.

“Why not?” Oliver said.

Decker answered, “He said Sparks kept the latest numbers in his files.”

“So he went through Sparks’s files before he left yesterday, found the data, slipped it into his briefcase, and took it home with him.”

“Where’s his briefcase?” Decker asked.

“Good question,” Marge said.

She continued sorting through the flotsam and jetsam of Leonard’s wallet. Receipts, credit card slips, several worn business cards. Marge pulled them out, flipped through them. Her soft brown eyes grew in circumference. “Oh man, look at this! The stiff
worked
for Fisher/Tyne.”

Decker took the card out of her hand. Across the middle in boldface type were the words
FISHER/TYNE
, above it an apothecary logo of a mortar and pestle. In the right-hand corner was the name
DR. KENNETH LEONARD
. Underneath the name was the title
VICE PRESIDENT OF RESEARCH DESIGN
.

“Wait till Shockley gets wind of this,” Marge said.

“Maybe he already knows about it,” Oliver said. “Maybe he ordered the hit.”

Decker said, “That’s a strong statement. Back it up with a reason, Scotty.”

“The trial results were disappointing. Decameron was going to make the numbers public; ergo all that money Fisher/Tyne had invested in Curedon was going by way of the crapper. Shockley didn’t want that. He sent Leonard down to convince him not to do it.”

Marge said, “Decameron wouldn’t go public, Scott. He was trying to
solve
the data problem.”

Decker said, “And if Leonard was sent down to off Decameron, why are they both dead, Scotty?”

Oliver smiled. “Haven’t worked out all the bugs in the theory. Was the guy married?”

“Doesn’t say so on his license,” Marge said. “Why?”

“Just wondering who to notify,” Oliver said.

Marge made a face. “Guess we should go to his place and see if he lives with anyone.”

Oliver said, “Better yet, why don’t we pay Fisher/Tyne another visit. Break the news about Leonard, and gauge Shockley’s reaction?”

Decker said, “You can do that.”

Oliver grinned. “How about subpoenaing the asshole if he doesn’t show us the Curedon data?”

“No, Detective, you may
not
do that,” Decker said. “Sure, you can make a little noise. But don’t lean on Shockley. Because we don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

“Do you want me to call Webster and Martinez down to do evidence here?” Marge pointed to the murder scene.

“I can go through it myself.”

Marge stared at Decker.

“What?” Decker said, annoyed.

Oliver sensed tension, said, “I think I’ll go place that call to the coroner’s office.”

When he was out of earshot, Marge said, “Pete, you’ve got a squad room to run—”

“I’m well aware of my duties, Marge.”

Marge looked up at the ceiling. “I just don’t want them talking, you know?”

“Talking about what?”

“That you’re giving Homicide top priority.”

“Homicide does have top priority.”

“Not to the exclusion of the other details.”

Decker glared at her. “Are you lecturing me?”

Marge met his hostile stare. “Yes, I am.”

Decker was quiet. Then he said, “Are people talking?”

“A comment or two.”

“Saying?”

“You have pets.” Marge faced him. “A big GTA ring was busted yesterday. A couple of the guys were wondering why you were at Sparks’s memorial service instead of patting them on the back.”

“So remind me to set up a chart for gold stars—”

“Pete—”

“All right, all right.” He ran his hand through his hair. She was right. It was a great bust. And yes, he could have been a little more generous with the praise. He had been preoccupied…

Marge dropped the wallet into a plastic bag. “Out of curiosity, why not let Webster and Martinez do the evidence collection?”