False Prophet (45 page)

“And Davida became so enraged she had him whacked?”

“Hey, I have no trouble believing she’d do it if she thought it was a toss-up between her skin and his. Or like I said before, maybe King’s death was
unplanned
. Davida sent Russ Donnally to look for the memoirs, King walked in at the wrong time, and things got out of hand. Plausible?”

“Plausible,” Decker said. “But this is all speculation.”

“Of course it’s speculative.” Marge finished her coffee and threw the cup in an overflowing garbage box. “That’s our job. When we don’t have evidence, we speculate. And we certainly don’t have evidence against Davida.”

“You think it’s Davida?”

“She’s the common link among the victims. If we could only get… get some
ammunition
against her.” Marge frowned. “Unfortunately, Kingston Merritt and Russ Donnally are dead. And Kelley, Eubie, and Mike have gone the way of bivalves. Of course, there is Lilah…”

“I ain’t about to confront her right now,” Decker said. “She probably doesn’t know anything and I don’t want her death on my conscience.”

“Neither do I,” Marge said. “So who’s left?”

“Who’s left?” Decker started the Plymouth’s engine. “Marge, we’ve got Hermann Brecht’s
son
, that’s who’s left.”

The spaces marked
RESERVED FOR DOCTOR
were once again occupied, so Decker stowed the unmarked in a slot reserved for the health-food store. He turned to Marge and said, “Remind me to pick up some wheat germ on the way out. I’m always parking in their spaces, might as well give them a little business.”

“Wheat germ?”

“Maybe I meant oat bran — you know what I’m talking about. The stuff that tastes like sawdust. Any questions?”

Marge shook her head. They got out of the car and walked up to Brecht’s clinic. Decker opened the glass door, a small tinkle of bells announcing their arrival. Place still looked like an ashram. Formless synthesizer music whined from a wall speaker. Not a soul in sight. Decker walked across the mats and knocked on the receptionist’s window. Althea slid the window open, her wrist bedecked in jewelry just like the last time.

“Do we have to take out our badges or can we dispense with the formalities?”

Althea folded her silver-bangled arms across her chest, bracelets jingling in the swift movement. “I remember you.”

Marge said, “We
know
Dr. Brecht is in. We just spent the last half hour tracking him down. We need to see him.”

Althea nodded. “I’ll buzz him.”

Marge’s hand covered the intercom. “Why don’t you open the door and
we’ll
let him know we’re here.”

Althea eyed her, then stood and opened the connecting door. She blocked the threshold with her body. “He’s been under terrible stress, you know. You’re bothering him on his lunch hour.”

Decker sidestepped around her into the hallway of the suite. “We’ll try to be quick.”

“His office is in the back.”

“Thank you,” Marge said.

They walked down the hallway. On impulse, Decker opened the door to a patient examining room. In gross contrast to Merritt’s surgical offices, Brecht’s rooms seemed more suited for love-ins than medical practice. The area was furnished with beanbag chairs, stuffed pillows, and a floral-sheeted mattress. Wood-framed glass-door cupboards held old-fashioned apothecary crocks, each one labeled with a different herb — witch hazel, foxglove, taro root, belladonna, hyssop, sage, peppermint, juniper berries, thistle, trefoil. In the corner was a brass incense holder.

Marge and he exchanged glances. She shrugged and said, “Hey, all things being equal, I’d rather take peppermint and juniper berries than bitter-tasting pills and shots.”

“All things being equal…” Decker winked. “That’s the catch.”

He found Brecht’s office and opened the door. The doctor was at his desk, phone cradled in one hand, a pita sandwich in the other. His face was a mask of confusion. He told the party on the other end of the line he’d call back, hung up, then stood, palms placed flat on his desk.

“Do you make it a habit of barging into people’s private space?”

“Not a habit,” Decker said. “Sorry about our manners but we need to talk to you, Doctor. It’s about your adoption.”

Brecht’s face compacted with rage. “How dare you intrude upon my
private
life! Who
I
am and the circumstances of my birth are none of your
damn
business!”

“I don’t blame you for being mad,” Decker said, “I know how you feel—”

“You don’t
know
a goddamn thing! Now kindly leave here—”

“I
do
know,” Decker blurted, “because I’m adopted, too.”

The room fell quiet. Decker observed Brecht. Angry? Confused? Maybe wary was the best description.

“Ever wonder about your birth parents, Doc?” Decker stuck his hands in his pockets. “I did… still do. I think that’s normal. Everyone wants to know where they come from. Know what I’m talking about?”

The glint in Brecht’s eyes — now it was
curiosity
. The man was
hooked
.

Brecht shifted his focus from Decker to Marge and then back again to Decker. “It’s obvious you have something to tell me. You might as well make yourselves comfortable.”

Marge thanked him and rooted herself in an office chair across from Brecht’s desk. Decker remained standing, studying Brecht’s place of work. No hoo-hah mystics for Dr. Freddy, just a conventional physician’s office, maybe even nicer than most. Parquet floor, Chinese area rugs, wood paneling, rosewood desk and matching credenza, their tops displaying miniature ceramic vases and glass figurines. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases held medical tomes, the top four rows devoted to basic texts, nothing to indicate any conventional specialization. But the last two shelves were books on New Age and Organic Medicine. Thick texts labeled Herbology, Nutrition, Acupuncture, Biofeedback. A series of books on the Art of Healing — Quantum Healing, Healing Through Light, Healing Through Wu Chi, Healing Through Meditation, Healing Through Aerobics, Healing Through Water.

On the walls were photographs of sunsets interspersed with professional degrees. Decker read the certificates.

Brecht said, “Do my credentials meet with your approval, Sergeant?”

“Looks good to me, Doctor,” Decker said. “But frankly, I wouldn’t know a bogus diploma from the real thing.”

“Yes, that’s usually the case. The degrees are there to satisfy my clientele, not for service of the ego.” Brecht fidgeted with his hands. “Do sit, Sergeant, you’re making me nervous.”

Decker turned a chair around and straddled the seat, resting his arms against the chair’s back. “Dr. Brecht, there might be a connection between Hermann Brecht’s memoirs and Kingston Merritt’s death.”

Brecht shook his head vigorously. “I don’t see how they could possibly be related. And what does that have to do with my adoption?”

Decker kept his face blank. Brecht was still on adoption. Had him hook, line,
and
sinker. “I’m getting to your adoption,” Decker said. “But first, let’s go back to the memoirs. Did you ever
see
them, Doctor?”

“
See
them? Don’t you mean
read
them?”

“No,
see
them,” Marge said. “Physically
touch
them.”

Brecht paused. “Are you after verification of their existence?”

Decker said, “Yes.”

“Yes, they exist. I’ve seen them. I was with Lilah when they arrived at her house. I never read them of course, but I saw them and a cover letter.”

“Did you read the cover letter?” Decker asked.

“No. It was addressed to Lilah.”

Marge said, “Did Lilah tell you not to mention the memoirs to anyone?”

“Yes. Lilah wanted their existence kept private until twenty-five years after Hermann’s death had passed. That was one of Hermann’s requests spelled out in the cover letter.”

“Which you never read,” Decker said.

“Which I never read. Lilah told me the specifics of the letter.”

“Then how do you know the cover letter was addressed to Lilah?” Decker asked.

“Well, I saw…” Brecht twitched. “I noticed the box the memoirs came in. It had been addressed to Lilah… to the child of Hermann Brecht, actually…
Kinder de Hermann Brecht
. Something like that. Only the address was in German. The cover letter was in English. I don’t understand how the memoirs are relevant to Kingston’s death or my adoption.”

Decker said, “Doctor, what do you know about your biological parents’ backgrounds?”

Brecht shook his head. “Sergeant, either be forthcoming or kindly leave. I have three clients this afternoon and then I must rush back to the hospital. Lilah’s not very psychologically sound. I don’t want either of you disrupting her healing arena.”

“Nah, I’m not interested in talking to her,” Decker said. “Just you.”

Brecht looked stupefied. “Very well. Talk.”

“Doctor,” said Marge, “we’ve discovered some interesting things about you — by accident. I don’t want anything we say to come as a shock—”

“Nothing could shock me.” Brecht was suddenly impatient. “I know my background, Detective. Mother was always very open about it. Get on with it.”

“Doctor, I’m not stalling,” Decker said. “It’s just… well, I don’t think your mother has been completely… honest about your background. That’s why I want to hear what
you
know.”

“Oh, very well! I see the only way to rid myself of you two is to talk.” Brecht picked up a pyramidal crystal from his desk and began to rub the base. “It’s not a background of which I’m particularly proud. I was the product of a union between a simpleton mother and a felonious father. They never married, of course. My biological mother had been simply a vessel for my father’s lust. Mother — Davida Eversong, that is — took pity on me and rescued me from that impoverished environment. Mother has told me innumerable times how fortunate I was to have the wealth that allowed me to exploit my inferior genetic capacity to its fullest.”

Decker thought: Greta Millstein — an impoverished environment. At that moment, he felt sorry for Brecht and for Greta. She had sacrificed her heart, mistakingly thinking she’d done her grandchildren an immense act of kindness.

Brecht placed the crystal back on his desk with a thump. “Not that Mother has been much of a mother. Both Lilah and I were raised by nannies and governesses and nurses and chauffeurs and cooks and — good Lord, you think the woman would have been a bit interested in our development.”

“The price of fame,” Decker said.

“No price for my mother,” Brecht said, “but for me…
especially
for me. Kingston hated me from the day I was born. I don’t know what I did to deserve his hatred. I know Mother loved him more than me… and yes, I was a bit jealous, but who wouldn’t be? I tried to please them all. Kingston just never accepted me. As fond as he was of Lilah, that’s how much he despised me. John was a decent man, but he was never around. Mostly, it was Lilah and me and the hired help. And Kingston being horrible to me.”

Brecht rubbed moisture from his eyes.

“It is despicable to talk ill of the dead, but I can’t grieve over a brother I never had.”

Decker nodded, wanting to tell Brecht he hadn’t
done
anything to deserve Merritt’s hatred. And maybe he would do just that. Try to make him understand that Merritt didn’t hate him per se but just his parents — the girlfriend who jilted him for his drunken stepfather. Jealousy. Rabbi Schulman once said it rots the flesh off the bone. And that’s what the family was now. Nothing but bones. He saw Brecht flash him a sickly smile.

“Now it’s your turn,” Brecht said.

Marge said, “This is what your mother told you?”

“Yes. Do you have information to the contrary?”

Decker said, “Yes, we have some information that…
conflicts
with your mother’s account.”

Brecht perched forward. “Tell me what you know.”

Decker said, “Before I tell you, I want some information from you in exchange. I want you to tell me how your mother planned the theft of the memoirs.”

“
What!? Mother
was behind the theft?”

Marge said, “Doctor, you knew she was behind the theft all along. In fact, maybe you were in on it yourself.”

Brecht turned ashen. “I know
nothing
!”

“She’s been
using
you, Doctor,” Decker said. “She’s always
used
you as her
errand
boy. But you took it from her because you thought she’d rescued you from an impoverished life. She’s been telling you that she was your savior all these years. In fact, she’s been
lying
to you. The story she’s been feeding you is a bunch of bull.”

Decker noticed Brecht’s breathing had quickened. The expectant look in his eyes… as if he’d always known.

“Then who am I?” Brecht panted.

Marge said, “Doctor, we need your help—”

“Who
am
I?” Brecht’s voice rose a notch.

Decker said, “If Davida did rope you into some kind of a scheme, we can make a deal.”

“Who am I, damn you?”
Brecht jumped up and pounded his desk.
“Who!”

“You are the
sole
offspring of Hermann Brecht,” Decker said, softly. “
He
was your biological father.”

Brecht stood motionless for a long time. Finally, Decker stood, placed a firm hand on Brecht’s shoulder and physically pushed him back into his desk chair. Even then, Brecht didn’t move except to breathe and blink.

Eventually, Brecht whispered, “You’re certain?”

Marge said, “We’ll start from the beginning, if you’ll tell us what you know about the theft of the memoirs.”

Brecht licked his lips. “I… I want you to know I had
nothing
to do with Kingston’s death.”

“But you do know something about the theft of the memoirs,” Marge said.

Brecht’s eyes were still glazed. “How can I be Hermann Brecht’s
sole
offspring? What about Lilah?”

Decker smoothed his mustache. “Lilah’s another long story. Let’s take it one story at a time.”