"Prayers for the Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kellerman Faye)

8

Something Marge could never understand: why someone would buy a house abutting the foothills. A bad month of rain and, lo and behold, a thousand-pound avalanche of mud occupied space that once was the living room. Yet, Pete’s house sat at the edge of the mountain. So did the home belonging to Dr. Elizabeth Fulton. For her domicile, she had chosen a sprawling one-story ranch thing made out of wood siding. A big piece of property. At least a couple of acres separated her from her nearest neighbor.

Unlatching the metal gate, Oliver said, “Guess the doctor isn’t a bug on landscaping.”

Marge nodded. The lot was fenced with chain-link, the lawn a scratch pad of scrub grass. No flowers, no shrubs, no bushes, no plants that hadn’t come from airborne seeds. In the background, behind the house, Marge could see several rows of tall citrus. She could smell them too, blossoms giving off a tart, sweet scent. They walked up to the front entrance. The doctor answered the door before they knocked, her complexion mottled gray and dappled with perspiration.

No wonder, Marge thought. The doctor was wearing sweats and a sweater. Internal chill. Her face appeared childlike, probably because of her eyes. The size of beach balls, they seemed to take up half her face. Big, brown irises, red-rimmed at the moment. Between the orbs sat a button nose spangled with freckles. Her mouth was wide with lush lips. Woolly henna hair was pulled back into a ponytail. At a quick glance, she looked to be barely twenty. But with smile lines apparent and ripples in her neck, Marge figured her age closer to forty.

“Dr. Fulton.” Oliver took out his badge and ID. Fulton gave it a cursory glance, then motioned them across the doorway. “Please, come in.”

The living room had been decorated pseudo-country. Cheerful floral prints covered a traditional sofa and two matching chairs. A wall-sized bay window was topped with a pleated valance and the tiebacks were sewn from the same flowered fabric. The actual window curtains were drawn, made from lace that allowed light to pass through. At one in the morning, the outside view was a screen of still shadows. In the middle of the bay stood a polished pine rocker resting on bleached oak flooring that had been pegged and grooved. The fireplace was going full blast. It was hot, and Marge could feel wet circles under her armpits. The hearth was masoned from bouquet canyon stone, the plaster mantel hosted a half-dozen photographs of a chubby toddler boy.

“Sit wherever you’d like,” Fulton whispered.

Oliver chose a chair, Marge took the sofa. The doctor stood next to the fireplace screen and rubbed her hands together. “I shouldn’t be here. I should be there…at the hospital…helping.” She brought her hands to her face and cried into them.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit?” Oliver asked.

“No.” She wiped her eyes with her fingers, folded her arms across her chest. “What happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Marge said.

“Was he kidnapped? Carjacked? I mean no one would have hurt him if they had known who he was, right?”

Oliver took out his notepad. “You sure you don’t want to sit, Doctor?”

“Positive.” She shook her head. “I mean…why?”

Oliver said, “If you could help us with the why, you’d be doing everyone a service. When was the last time you saw him, Doctor?”

“Last night. At our research meeting.”

“The Curedon meeting,” Oliver clarified.

“Yes. How did you-You’ve spoken to Dr. Decameron, then.”

“Yes.” Marge took out her pad. “You have regularly scheduled meetings?”

“Yes and no. Dr. Sparks sends us a memo when we’re to meet. It works out to about once or twice a week.”

“You don’t mind that?” Marge asked.

“Mind what?”

“That he sends you a memo at his…discretion?”

Fulton threw Marge an impatient look. “He’s a very busy man. Of course, we work around his schedule.”

“When was the last time you actually saw him?” Oliver repeated.

“Oh gosh! He cut our research meeting short. It must have ended around seven-thirty, maybe quarter to eight.”

“Why did he cut the meeting short?” Marge asked.

Fulton said, “Well, he really didn’t cut it short, per se. He just summed things up rather quickly after he took the phone call from his son. He gave no reason for hurrying things along.”

“Did he seem upset after the phone call?”

“He was upset when he took the call. He was angry at-” She stopped short.

Oliver said, “Dr. Decameron told us he had an argument with Dr. Sparks.”

“It wasn’t an argument. Dr. Sparks just became a little irritated shall we say.”

“Irritated at Decameron.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Her eyes grew suspicious. “Dr. Decameron didn’t tell you?”

“We’d like your opinion,” Marge said.

She stared at Marge, appeared to be weighing her words. “Dr. Decameron read some of Dr. Sparks’s faxes. The latest Curedon trial results. Of course, Reggie apologized right away. He was just excited about the data. You see, there had been some slowdown of Curedon’s efficacy rate. The newest numbers however were very encouraging.”

“Yeah, Dr. Decameron told us something about that,” Oliver said. “How you’ve been getting a lot more deaths lately.”

She bristled. “Not a lot. Just some…Dr. Decameron seems to feel it might be a lab or computer processing error.”

Oliver said, “Maybe he’s making excuses because he’s anxious to bring Curedon to market.”

Marge said, “Big boost in his career as an academician, right?”

“Yes, but-”

“Maybe he’s even been promised a piece of the profits,” Oliver suggested.

“No, no, no,” Liz protested. “That’s entirely false. The only one who would gain anything monetarily is…was Azor. You’re way off base.”

“You’re sure about that,” Marge said.

“Sure I’m…at least to my knowledge.”

“Let’s go back to the meeting,” Marge said. “It ended around seven-thirty maybe quarter to eight?”

“About that time, yes. Then Dr. Sparks and Dr. Decameron walked out together. Maybe that was ten minutes later.”

“Did Dr. Sparks seem in a hurry?”

“Well, he did push the meeting. But no…he didn’t seem as if he was rushing to get somewhere. Of course, that wasn’t Dr. Sparks’s manner…to hurry things.”

Marge said, “Did Dr. Decameron and Dr. Sparks often have arguments?”

Fulton gave a mysterious smile. “One doesn’t argue with Azor-with Dr. Sparks. Yes, we do have some academic exchange of ideas. But you try not to displease him. If you do, then you figure out what you’ve done and make amends. You either play his game or you’re not on the team.”

“That doesn’t make you feel…hemmed in?” Oliver asked.

“Hemmed in?” Fulton gave him an incredulous look. “Sir, that’s just a given when you work with someone of his stature. That’s how it is with medical academia. Dr. Sparks owns everything that comes from his lab, even if he’s only worked tangentially on the project.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Marge stated.

“That’s research science,” Liz said. “Get on Azor’s good side, you might get some credit. And you need credit if you want to advance. You must publish the right material under the right people. Someone with clout. For that privilege, you have to eat…you know.”

“Sparks make you eat a lot of…you know?” Marge asked.

“Well, he was graceful about it. He could afford to be because he knew who he was. I’ve worked for him for the last four years. It’s nice to have a boss who’s a benevolent tyrant. Because I’ve worked under the other kind, too.”

“Benevolent tyrant,” Marge repeated.

“Tyrant is too strong a word.”

“Dictator?” Oliver tried.

“Put it this way. After a while, you know when to suggest something and when to keep your mouth shut.”

“Does Decameron know the rules as well?”

“Reggie is an individualist. More forceful than I am, certainly. More than once at our meetings, he played devil’s advocate. But he knew when to stop. The man is no fool.”

“Dr. Sparks was deeply religious,” Marge said.

“Yes.”

“How’d he feel about Dr. Decameron being homosexual?”

“I don’t know. It never came up in any of our conversations.”

“Never talked about ‘those’ kinds of people?” Oliver said.

“Not to me.”

“A passing derogatory phrase never slipped from his lips?”

Fulton smiled. “Nothing slips from Dr. Sparks’s lips. If he ‘utters’ something, it’s for a reason.”

“Dr. Decameron said that one of Sparks ’s sons is gay. You know anything about that?”

“Which one?”

“The priest.”

She waved Oliver off. “That’s ridiculous. I mean I don’t know if Bram is or isn’t. But I don’t know why Dr. Decameron would know, either. Unless he’s indulging in wishful thinking. Bram’s a nice-looking man.”

Marge said, “I take it you never detected Sparks having a problem with Dr. Myron Berger being Jewish.”

“Dr. Berger and Dr. Sparks have known each other for thirty-plus years. They attended Harvard Medical School together.”

“So they’re…peers.”

“Yes,” Fulton said.

“Being his peer,” Oliver said, “is Dr. Berger just as…respectful of Dr. Sparks’s rules? Or does he have more independence than either you or Dr. Decameron?”

“We all had independence,” Fulton said testily. “We aren’t chattel.”

Oliver said, “You know what I’m getting at.”

“Frankly, I don’t,” Fulton said.

“Was Sparks Berger’s boss?” Marge asked.

“Of course.”

“And that didn’t create resentment?” Marge asked. “Two of them going to medical school together, and now Sparks is above him?”

Fulton rubbed her shoulder. “If Dr. Berger felt resentful, he certainly had the skills, the experience, and the publications to move on. Being as he hadn’t, I’m assuming he’s comfortable with the relationship he has…had with Azor…with Dr. Sparks.”

“What kind of relationship did Dr. Sparks have with his family?” Marge asked.

“They adored him.”

“Did they ask him for money?” Oliver said.

“I don’t know,” Fulton said. “He didn’t divulge things like that.”

“Ever?”

“No.”

“Dr. Decameron seemed sure that his children asked him for money. Where did he get his information from?”

“I don’t know where Reggie digs up his gossip.”

“His son Paul called Dr. Sparks tonight,” Marge said. “Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what it was about?”

“No.”

“Did Dr. Sparks say he was cutting the meeting short to meet his son?”

“No. He didn’t say anything.”

“Did his kids call him often?”

“I didn’t monitor his calls. Ask Heather.”

“From your perception, Doctor,” Oliver said. “Did they call him often?”

“I can’t tell you yes or no because I don’t know how you’re defining often. Yes, they called him. Yes, his wife, Dolly, called him, too.”

“In the middle of meetings?”

“Sometimes. And if they did, the doctor usually interrupted himself to take their calls. He loved his family. And they loved him.”

Marge said, “Did his wife or any of them ever visit Dr. Sparks at work in the hospital?”

Oliver said, “Maybe they’d drop in to say hello or have a cup of coffee with Dad?”

“You don’t drop in on someone like Dr. Sparks.”

“Did you ever meet his wife and children?”

“Occasionally, I would see one of his kids visiting with him at the hospital.”

“What about his wife?”

Liz thought a moment. “She’d come to the holiday parties.”

“What’s she like?” Marge asked.

“Reserved, religious like him. But very, very proud of her husband and family. Beams when she talks about them. An old-fashioned woman. Her family is her life.”

Oliver said, “And you observed all this by her presence at a Christmas party?”

Liz shook her head no. “Once Azor was gracious enough to invite us to the house for Sunday dinner. Dolly…Mrs. Sparks must have spent most of the time in the kitchen, serving the food, happy to do it…to play hostess. We told her to sit, but she just laughed. Said she only sat for dinner on her birthday. What a feast! A mound of food. All of Azor’s children and grandchildren were there. Sunday was a big day in his life. Like I said, Azor was very religious.”

“And everyone seemed to get along.”

“To my eye, yes.”

“No tensions?” Marge asked.

“Not when I was there.” Fulton rubbed her eyes. “My husband and I used to joke they were a Norman Rockwell poster from a bygone era. Especially when you compared them to us-” She stopped talking.

“Compared to you, how?” Marge pressed.

“My personal life isn’t relevant.”

As if on cue, a rumbling motor belched loudly then suddenly stopped, leaving in its wake an uneasy silence. The door opened and a man stumbled in-long-limbed and skinny! A marionette of bones wearing a leather vest, torn jeans, and scarred black leather boots. His facial features were hidden behind several days of beard growth, unruly blond curls of hair hovering around his shoulder blades. He was sweating Scotch…could smell it as soon as he came flying past the doorpost. He looked at his wife, looked at the company with bleary eyes.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Fulton’s face had become red, a portrait of anger. “I’m going back to the hospital, Drew. An emergency.” Her eyes filled with tears.

Drew looked confused. “Huh? What time is it?”

“A quarter past one.”

“Why’re you goin’ to the hospital?”

“Because Dr. Sparks has been murdered-”

“What?”

“The hospital needs help, Drew. I have to go. Excuse me.” Covering her face, Fulton flew out of the room.

“Mur…” Drew was dazed, slumped in the pine rocker and looked at Oliver. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“God…that’s…” Drew scratched his cheek, rubbed watery blue eyes floating in seas of pink. “Think she’ll lose her job?”

Marge stared at him. “I don’t know.”

“What happened?”

Oliver walked over to the door and opened it. Anything to air the place out. Maybe the jerk would take the hint and leave. He didn’t. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“You’re the police?”

“Yes.”

“God, this is serious stuff, huh.”

Marge asked, “What’s your full name, sir?”

“My name?”

“Yes, your name.”

“Drew McFadden. I’m not under suspicion or anything.”

Marge and Oliver traded looks. Oliver walked over to him, leaned against the bay, looked down on Drew. “Why do you think you’re under suspicion?”

Drew looked up, puzzled, had no answer. “Is Liz under suspicion?”

“Should she be?” Marge asked.

“I don’t think so.” Drew laughed. “But I don’t know much.”

A good insight, Marge thought. “She and her boss were close?”

“Real close. I often-” He stopped talking. His wife had returned. She had changed into a white shirt, black pants, and a white lab coat, ID tag with her name and picture resting on its lapel. To the police, she said, “If you need any further information, I’ll be at the hospital.” She glanced at her husband. “Henry’s bottle is in the fridge. In case I don’t get back, Marta is due in at seven.”

“I’ll take care of it, Liz.”

“Right.”

“That’s too bad about Dr. Sparks, Liz. I’m sorry.”

Fulton’s face softened. “Thank you, Drew. Go get some sleep.” To Oliver and Marge, she said. “Can I walk you out?”

“Like to use the phone first, if I could,” Oliver said.

“Help yourself,” Fulton said. “Good night.”

The door closed softly. Drew stared at the cops. “You can use the phone in the kitchen.”

Marge said, “You were saying that your wife and Dr. Sparks were very close.”

“Yeah. Yeah, they were.”

“In what way?” Oliver said.

“What way?” He wrinkled his nose. “Are you asking me if they were fooling around? I don’t think so. Liz isn’t the type. She’s like…” He sliced air. “Straight arrow. At least, I think she is. But hell, I don’t read women too well. She could be messin’ with my head and I wouldn’t know it.”

“Are you a straight arrow, sir?” Marge asked.

“Huh?”

Oliver’s smile was oily. “She means do you get around?”

Drew smiled back, but said nothing.

Oliver placed his hand on Drew’s bony shoulder. “I mean she is gone all the time.” He winked. “I know how it is.”

Drew started rocking, gave Oliver a conspiracy grin. “Liz gets pissed at me. But hell, it wasn’t my idea to get married.”

“No, I imagine it wasn’t,” Marge mumbled. Oliver shot her a dirty look. He said, “How’d she talk you into it?”

Drew smiled enigmatically.

“You knocked her up. She gave you an ultimatum.”

“Hey, I didn’t mind. I like Liz. Love the kid. Man, he’s a cute little sucker. You know, I think that’s what gets to her. I’m home a lot with the kid. We’re like real tight. Then she waltzes in on the weekends and the kid doesn’t want to go to her. ’Cause he’s used to me, unnerstan’?”

“I understand,” Oliver said.

“Pisses her off. I keep telling her it’s only because I’m home so much. She shouldn’t worry. Once Henry figures out what a jerk his old man is, he won’t want nothing to do with me. So…I’m enjoying him while I’m still something in his eyes.”

Drew shook his head, smelled his armpits. “I really stink. I’m sorry.”

Oliver smiled. It was sincere. “You weren’t expecting company.”

“No, that’s for sure.”

“Are you a musician?” Marge asked.

“Yeah. Bass player. I’m part of the house band at Smokey’s. Regular gig. Steady income. Not much income, but it’s steady. I mean, what does Liz expect? You know, you start out in this business, thinking you’re gonna be the next Eddie Vedder or Axl Rose. Hell, I’m thirty-four, man. Not too many people break it big at thirty-four. I’m real grateful. to Liz. I mean real grateful Rest of the band’s living in shit, and I got this nice house, a decent car. It’s not a Porsche but it’s no broken-down Honda, either.”

Oliver glanced out the window, at the driveway. A red Miata convertible. “Nice set of wheels.”

“Thanks. Liz bought it for me after Henry was born. Bought herself a baby Benz. I say, right on. She deserves it. She works hard.” His eyes clouded. “Man, I hope she doesn’t lose her job.”

“Was she in danger of losing her job?” Marge asked.

“If she was, she didn’t tell me. She don’t tell me much about work.” Drew smelled himself again. “You want me to take a shower or something?”

Yes, screamed Marge’s brain. Instead, she said, “Nah, we’ll be leaving in a few minutes. Did she ever mention anything about her job being in jeopardy?”

“Jeopardy? Isn’t that a game show?”

“About her job being cut,” Oliver said.

Drew scrunched up his forehead. “Well, she always used to say she was the last person on Sparks ’s project. If he was gonna bump anyone, I guess it would be Liz. But I met the old guy couple of times. He seemed to like her. After we ate dinner at his house, I told her that. I told her I thought he liked her. I told her not to worry.”

Marge said, “If you don’t mind my asking, when you ate dinner over there…how did Dr. Sparks react to you?”

“You mean ’cause of the way I look.” Drew rocked in the chair. “Oh, I fixed myself up. I wore a suit and tie, put my hair in a ponytail. I wouldn’t want to do anything that might make Liz lose her job. He was real polite to both of us.”

Drew stopped a moment.

“You know, he was an okay guy. We brought Henry of course. Dr. Sparks said something about how good I was with the little guy. I told him I loved kids. Sparks had a bunch of grandchildren. They started getting antsy at the table, you know, running around like kids do. I just got up and started playing with them. Felt a lot more comfortable with the kids than I did with the grown-ups. Especially when they started arguin’.”

Oliver’s eyes met Marge’s. “Who was arguing?”

“I don’t know. I left the table.”

“Think, Drew,” Marge prodded. “Was it Dr. Sparks and one of his children, Dr. Sparks and his wife-”

“No, it wasn’t the wife. She and him barely spoke. She was busy serving all this food. Man, I never seen so much food in my life. Turkey and ham and roast beef and mashed potatoes-”

“So if it wasn’t Dr. Sparks and his wife, it was…”

Drew held his finger in the air. “The priest. Dr. Sparks and the priest. Actually, I think the whole family was arguin’ with the priest.”

Oliver paused. “About what?”

“Stuff about God. Stuff I didn’t understand.”

Marge said, “You don’t remember any of it?”

“No.”

“You remember enough to recall them arguing,” Oliver said. “Doesn’t anything stick in your mind?”

Drew paused again. “Something about evil thoughts being evil or whatever. I remember that because I remember thinking: Drew, you’re in trouble. ’Cause you have lots of evil thoughts. Liz could tell you better.”

Marge said, “Did she participate in the argument?”

“I don’t know. If she did, it was probably on Dr. Sparks’s side. She wouldn’t do anything to piss him off.”

Oliver said, “Was the priest angry?”

Drew stopped rocking, folded his arms across his chest. “You know, everyone was dumping on him. His name was Bram.” He smiled. “Guess I do remember some things.”

“Go on,” Marge said.

“I remember thinking, ‘If I was getting dumped on, like he was, I’d either blow or go.’ He just sat there, real calm, just taking it. Never raised his voice.”

“Why were they dumping on him?” Marge asked.

“I don’t know. I guess they didn’t like what he was sayin’.”

“What was he saying?”

“I don’t know. I just felt for the guy, wondered why everyone was dumping on him. But maybe he was used to it. ’Cause when the missus called the kids for dessert, conversation went back to being polite. And the priest acted like nothing happened. Smiling with the kids. Playing magic tricks…you know, making nickels disappear and reshowin’ up behind their ears. I like that one. I do it all the time with Henry. The priest has a twin brother, you know.”

“Luke,” Marge said. “Was he dumping on him, too?”

“They all were-” Drew paused. “No, you’re right. How about that. You’re real good.”

Marge said, “Good about what?”

“The twin. A few minutes after they started arguin’, the twin got up and started playing with the kids, just like me. Must be another one who hates conflict.”

“You hate conflict.”

“Boy, yeah, I hate it. Bad Karma. When Liz starts to yell, man, I’m outta here. If I don’t leave, I blow.”

“I hear you,” Oliver stated.

“Maybe the twin was like that. ’Cause he just got up from the table and started making a building with Legos. He’s got two cute ones-boy and a girl. Twins just like he is. He’s actually a triplet, can you believe that? I wouldn’t have minded Liz having twins. But I think three would have been too much for me.”

Marge asked, “So the priest wasn’t angry at his father?”

“Not to my eye. Just ate his dessert and played magic tricks with his nieces and nephews.”

“How about Dr. Sparks? Was he angry with his son?”

“He didn’t appear pissed. He ate his dessert, too. It was pie. She’d baked like a hunnerd pies. I had two pieces-blueberry and peach. Man, that woman could cook. I told my wife afterward that I’d put on a tie any old day of the week, if they want to have us again.”

“What did your wife say about that?”

“She patted my head, said not to count on another invite for a while. Not because I blew it or anything. Just that Dr. Sparks doesn’t invite people to his house a lot.”

“Especially if there was tension in the family,” Marge added.

“I wouldn’t say tension. But they did have an argument.”

“Drew, maybe it was just an intellectual discussion instead of an argument,” Marge said.

“Ma’am, I don’t know too much about intellectual discussions,” Drew said. “But I do know a whole lot about arguments. Take my word for it. It was an argument.”