False Prophet (19 page)

The detectives’ squad room at Foothill Substation was not the location of choice when the merc climbed past ninety. With dozens of men sweating into a confined area with no air conditioning and little circulation, the room became ripe very quickly. Some took it better than others, and although Mike Hollander was fifty pounds overweight, he took it better than most.

It just wasn’t his nature to get overly excited about things. Not that he was a jerk-off. But he was… relaxed.

Dunking his doughnut into his coffee, he had some spare time before court. He heaved his portly frame out of his wooden chair and lumbered over to Decker’s desk. Resting on the scarred wooden top was a manila evidence envelope, a couple of police sketches and a list of felons who physically matched the drawings. Hollander brushed crumbs from his walrus mustache, picked up the list, and planted his butt back in his chair.

He picked up the phone and started to check out the mugs. He’d scratched two off the list by the time Decker walked in. Hollander hung up the phone and took another bite of doughnut.

“You got lab info on the Brecht case. Also, Leo dropped off the sketches and names based on your gal’s description. I checked out the first two. Both are still in the cooler.”

Decker took off his jacket and made a beeline for the coffeepot. “Thanks, Mike. Who’d she pick out?”

“Not guys associated with rape.”

“Robbery perps?”

“Yeah, but that don’t tell you squat. Most of the geniuses in the books got there by doing two-elevens.”

“True.”

“I marked their mug-shot pages if you want to compare them to the composites. Also, Ma Bell called you back. A call did go out from a Malibu prefix to Frederick Brecht at seven-forty-six
A.M
. that morning. I cross-referenced the number: It belonged to Davida Eversong.”

Decker nodded. “Nice to see you doing the old work ethic, Detective Hollander.”

“Don’t tell anyone, but I get in these moods once in a while.” Hollander extracted a pipe from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, unlit. “What’s eating you, Rabbi?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s Morrison, isn’t it?” Hollander said. “What’d he do?”

“Nothing. He’s assigning a couple of dicks from Burglary to handle the jewel theft.”

“It’s big bucks. They have the contacts. Let them have it.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“So why’re you pissed? You’re thinking Morrison doesn’t have faith in you or what?”

“I’m not pissed.” Decker sat at his desk. “Well, I’m a little pissed. I’m pissed about all the shit we have to deal with because someone else screwed up.”

Hollander shrugged. “They did it, we didn’t. Fuck the nonbelievers.” He chewed on the stem of his pipe. “This lady — Lilah. She seem on the level to you?”

Decker regarded the composites. “Why do you ask?”

“Take a gander at the sketches and tell me what you see, Rabbi.”

“Lots of erasures. And the requisite shaggy hair and squinty eyes.”

“Squinty
dark
eyes,” Hollander said. “Apparently everyone in this world who squints has dark eyes.”

“In answer to your question, the lady is weird.”

“Leo said the lady seemed very, very fond of you.”

Decker jerked his head up. “What did she tell him?”

“I don’t know. Just repeating what he said. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry
too
much about it. You know how rape survivors can be.”

Decker looked him in the eye. “Then why’d you mention it, Mike?”

Hollander held out the palms of his hands. “No offense, Rabbi. Just that Leo placed a lot of emphasis on the
very, very
part of the
very, very
fond. If she’s wacky, might be a good idea to get Marge or me involved — just to show the lady that you’re not her personal public servant. Especially since she’s so good-looking.”

“What does good-looking have to do with it?”

“Hey, we’re all human—”

“I don’t believe you’re telling me this shit, Hollander. I’ve been on the detail almost as long as you have.”

“Deck, I’m not saying anything about your ability to handle Lilah Brecht or any other rape case. But you know as well as I do what a pain in the ass fruitcakes can be. Your wife is expecting and I’m just trying to save you grief. You wanna play hot dog, forget I said anything.”

Hollander poured himself another cup of coffee and returned to his desk.

Decker rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, you’re right. She could be grief. Both she and her mother.”

“Miz Davida Eversong,” Hollander said. “You ever see any of her films? Man, she was hot stuff in her heyday.”

“She’s still a good-looking woman. Well preserved.”

“Natural or surgical?”

“I wouldn’t know. Look, Mike, thanks for offering, but I can handle the case.”

“Just trying to be helpful.” Hollander ticked off another name on the list. “One Bobby Ray Gatten. Wonder what old Bobby Ray’s been up to.” He picked up the phone and dialed.

Decker sat down and broke open the seal on the Brecht evidence folder. There was a semen analysis, but it wasn’t going to be useful until they had a suspect. There was also a chromosomal banding on the few foreign pubic hairs. It was interesting that none of the hairs was picked up from the combing or from her bagged clothes. All of them had been plucked from the sheet, along with half a dozen short, dark head hairs. No blood, no bits of foreign clothing. Print had come up dry as well.

Lilah’s own fingernails and toenails were clean — all that meant was that she didn’t or couldn’t fight. Her vagina was free of semen. The envelope contained police photographs taken at the hospital. Again, Decker’s wariness turned to pity when he saw her swollen eyes. There was also a picture of a splotchy bruise that ran down her right thigh.

Poor kid.

He heard Marge’s voice and turned around.

“Hey there, Dunn.”

“Hey there, Rabbi.” She came over to him and looked down at the files he was reading. “Anything?”

“Hairs and semen. That’s it.”

“That’s enough if we find a suspect.”

“You have any luck?”

“I spoke to the kitchen help at the spa,” Marge said. “They say they were home the night of the attack. Wives and friends verify it.”

“And you think?”

“I think they were home. Hairs look like Hispanic hairs?”

“Head hairs were short and dark. Let’s see…” Decker flipped through the notes. “Uh… under EM, they were straight hairs. Doesn’t say anything else.”

“Could be Hispanic.” Marge pulled up a chair at Decker’s desk and sat down. “But with straight hairs popping up, we’re probably counting out blacks.”

Decker took that in. “What do you have, Marge?”

“Eubie Jeffers, the tennis instructor at the spa, is black.” Marge pulled up a chair, took off her shoes, and began to rub her feet. “He’s a very light black, a very acculturated black. But he’s black.”

“Is he suspicious?”

“He was at the spa the night of the attack. He wasn’t too keen on admitting it, either. He normally doesn’t live on the premises so I asked him what he was doing there. Said he was with a patron giving her a private unscheduled lesson.”

“A lesson in bedroom sports?”

“I think so.”

“Don’t tell me. She was married.”

“So I won’t tell you.”

“Nice. Husband pays for his wife to get a little R and R and she goes off and boffs the hired help.”

“Maybe wifey and spouse have an arrangement. I don’t think Jeffers was worried about an irate husband gunning him down. I had the feeling he was more concerned about a lawsuit à la Mike Ness and Ms. Betham.”

“Did you find out anything about that?”

“I went over the Betham case and it does seem frivolous. Apparently Ms. Betham has sued others for the same reason — her hairdresser, a former masseur. I don’t think the suit’s going anywhere. But that doesn’t let Ness off the hook.”

Decker nodded. “So Jeffers was doing some poking the night of the rape.”

“Seems that way.”

“Does he poke the guests routinely?”

“Pretty regularly, according to the other aerobic and weight instructor. Her name is Natanya Frankel — a little squat thing. Claims she was once on the Czech gymnastic team, but defected in 1985.”

“Embellishing her past?” Decker asked.

“Probably, but I don’t think that’s significant. What might be important was her past with Eubie Jeffers. I think they were once an item.”

“Does she seem like the vindictive type?”

“No. She was very matter of fact. Just told me that Jeffers has a hard time keeping his pants zipped.”

“That include Lilah?”

“That I don’t know. Natanya was less forthcoming when it came to talking about her employer. I’ll say this — the people who work for Lilah seem to like her. Natanya said Lilah’s generous with time and with money. Yet I never got the impression that Lilah fraternizes with the hired help. It was clear that Natanya was talking about her
boss
.”

“Did the help have any comment on Davida Eversong?”

“Kitchen help told me she orders a lot of room service and is a big tipper. They liked her just fine.”

“What about Davida and this Jeffers guy? Get the feeling that Jeffers’s loose zipper might extend to her?”

“Pete, Davida must be in her
seventies
.”

“Margie, that don’t mean a thing.” Decker filled her in on his interviews with Lilah and Davida. “Mother and daughter are in fierce competition with each other. If Lilah and Jeffers were getting it on, I wouldn’t put it past Davida to steal him away. Just because the woman likes to exert power.”

“What does it have to do with Lilah’s rape?”

“I don’t know. I’m just saying this case has the watermarks of an
inside
job for two reasons. One: We haven’t turned up anyone remotely promising from the outside. And two: The family’s weird.”

“You said it.” Marge told him about her morning encounter with Brecht and Merritt. “The boys almost came to blows. Ness and I managed to separate them. Merritt was livid until I told him what happened to Lilah. That took the starch out of his sails. He immediately left for the hospital.”

“His surprise about Lilah’s attack seemed genuine?”

“I think so.” Marge made a face. “Are you thinking Merritt raped his own sister?”

“Maybe not directly. But how about this? According to Mom, Merritt and Brecht were always asking for handouts. Suppose one of them hired a couple of scumbags to do a jewel theft. Say the scumbags took the jewels, then they saw Lilah and decided to rape her as an afterthought.”

“Then what about the memoirs?”

“Scumbags took the papers for the hell of it.”

Marge shrugged. “Are Brecht and Merritt in financial straits?”

“I don’t know. Let’s run a check on them. And the other brother while we’re at it.”

“John Reed. I don’t know a thing about him. For all we know, he could be a gentleman among swine.”

Decker said, “Let’s keep it simple for the moment, start with a bank check. See if anyone’s in debt — both personal and business accounts. If one of the bros is in the hole for big bucks, a mill’s worth of jewels is going to look mighty sweet.”

“Agreed. I’ll get to it.”

“Now you said something about a first husband?”

Marge scanned her notes. “Perry Goldin. According to Merritt — who, granted, isn’t exactly credible — the divorce wasn’t friendly. I don’t know who this Goldin is and where he was the night of the rape, but we’d better find out.”

Decker nodded. “I’ll do that.”

Marge shook her head. “She
imaged
these guys, Pete?”

Decker shrugged helplessly.

“So the composites are bullshit,” Marge stated.

Hollander piped in. “So are the IDs in the mug book. Not one of the guys she picked out was within a hundred miles of her house.”

Decker nodded, wondering just what — if anything — Lilah was trying to hide. Could be just the natural confusion of the victim. Lots of victims imagined things because they were so frightened and addled.

Hollander said, “You want my unasked-for advice, forget about her
images
. Go back to good old-fashioned legwork and evidence.”

“We’d better do it quickly,” Decker said. “Don’t want to displease Morrison.”

“Did you finally talk to him?” Marge asked.

“Yep. He was all right. But the message was clear.”

“Above all, no bad press,” Hollander said.

“Preferably no press at all,” Decker said.

The knock on
the door was tentative, then firm.

Christ, what now?

“It’s open.”

Squeaking hinges followed by the door closing shut.

“You got a moment, Mike?”

Ness remained immobile, face covered by his forearm, legs stretched out, feet hanging over the side of the bed.

“Mike?”

“I hear you. I hope it’s quick.”

No response. Ness heard pacing. He lifted his arm from his eyes and propped himself up by his elbows. “Sit down, Jeffs. You’re making me nervous.”

Ness watched Eubie Jeffers drag a chair next to his bed and sit. Jeffs was still dressed in his tennis whites, his finger gripped around the handle of his racket. A thin sheen of sweat coated his café au lait face. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Guy was as jumpy as griddled butter.

Ness’s eyes went from Jeffs to his surroundings. The room was furnished with old leftover junk. The bedspread was torn, the dresser’s paint was peeling, and the carpeting was thin. There was only one tiny window in the whole place and that looked out to the pool filter. Still, living wasn’t costing him a dime. And after years of struggling, that was worth a lot.

“You gonna tell me what’s bugging you or is this gonna be twenty questions?”

“You talk to the lady cop yet, Nessy?”

Ness broke into a smile. Jeffers’s hazel eyes were oozing anxiety. He was biting his lower lip.

“She trip you up or something, Eubie?”

“That’s bogus. I’d never hurt Lilah. I’d never hurt
anyone
. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

“You’re a motherfucker, Jeffs. That’s what you are.”

Jeffers cast his eyes downward and moved onto the bed. “Can you say I was with you last night?”