Читать книгу Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection: False Prophet, Grievous Sin, Sanctuary - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 17

What better way to start the day than with a bowl of wheat flakes and twenty-five files of registered sex offenders. As Decker scanned the rap sheets, Rina poured him a glass of orange juice. She glanced down at the table. A scowling mug shot met her eye.

“At least they’re not morgue pictures.”

Decker looked up. “I can do this later.”

“No, I’m fine.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think. Must be a big case if you’re working at home.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary as far as the crime goes.” Decker pushed his cereal bowl away. “But the brass think there’s potential for publicity. Foothill’s a tad camera-shy since the King beating.”

Rina sat down and picked up a spoonful of soggy flakes. “If you’re going to make the world safe, you must get adequate nutrition. Open up.”

Decker smiled, took the spoon, but didn’t eat. He aligned the papers and placed them in his briefcase. Rina frowned.

“No one’s blaming everyone in the division, Peter.”

“Ah c’mon,” Decker snapped. “The entire police force has been tarred with the same ugly brush. Makes me furious at the guys who did it. And deep down inside, I get furious at myself, too. Because truthfully, I remember times when I felt pretty damn inhumane.”

“But you didn’t act like an animal. That’s the difference.” Rina took his hand. “Your guilt is irrational, Peter. They beat the guy, you didn’t. It was horrible, it was sickening. But you had nothing to do with it!”

“Collective responsibility. Whole department’s sinking under the weight. You know Morrison. He’s not the type to get hands-on with my cases. Do you know he’s called Marge and me four times with this current case. No direct pressure, just wanted to know if we’ve got something. Because, like I said, it’s a case that could get some public attention. Before Rodney King, he wouldn’t have given a hoot. A crime was a crime, no matter who was involved.”

“So he’s a little more hands-on,” Rina said. “That’s not terrible … as long as he’s not an obstacle.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a fine line between being hands-on and being a stumbling block.” Decker threw up his hands. “I’m just nattering. Don’t pay any attention to me.”

“Of course I pay attention to you,” Rina said. “I love you and worry about you.”

Decker smiled and patted her hand. “I’ll be fine.”

“That was an ‘I don’t want to worry Rina’ smile.”

“So what’s wrong with that?” Decker said.

“You worry too much.”

“I ain’t gonna change.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Decker caught Lilah just as she was about to tumble to the floor. With one hand around her tiny waist, he carefully led her back to her hospital bed and she crawled under the sheets. She seemed so frail. With a Kleenex, she wiped the cold sweat off her forehead and peered directly into his eyes.

“You seem to have made a habit of rescuing me.”

Decker didn’t answer. Her voice was sultry and bored at the same time, like a Tennessee Williams character. He regarded her face. The swelling below her eyes had gone down, though the skin was still black. It was the first time he’d seen her eyes open. The whites were bloodshot, the irises bright blue. Her lips were covered with something waxy, but the cuts underneath looked to be healing nicely. Her flaxen hair fell over one eye, cascading down to her bare shoulders. Her skin was pale except for a tinge of red over pronounced cheekbones.

He pulled up a chair and sat to the right of the bed. She shifted to her left until their faces were no more than a foot apart. Just like yesterday, he felt some desperation in her, a need for something to hold. But there was something unhealthy about the way she was asking for comfort. He inched back in his seat, trying to regain a margin of personal space.

“You know who I am then,” Decker said.

“Sergeant Deckman, was it?”

“Decker. Very good. You must have heard a lot more than I thought. It’s good to see you talking, Miss Brecht.”

Her eyes glazed over. “Thank you.” Her voice was a throaty whisper. She flung hair over her shoulders. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“I didn’t exactly do that, but you’re welcome. Everyone treating you all right?”

“This hospital is dreadful.”

“Most hospitals are. Nature of the beast.”

“Well, let it be a beast for some other poor soul. I’m leaving tonight.”

Decker paused. “Dr. Kessler’s discharging you already?”

“I’m checking out either with a discharge or against medical advice. Freddy will take care of me.” Her eyes found his. “I understand you’ve met Freddy.”

“Yesterday while you were asleep.”

“He didn’t like your questions. He thought you had a hidden agenda.”

“Not at all. Just being thorough.”

“Freddy is distrustful. It’s a trait he’s picked up from Mother.”

“I hope you trust me enough to answer a few questions, Miss Brecht.”

Lilah lowered her eyes and nodded.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” Decker asked.

“It’s not the physical, but emotion …”

She burst into tears. Decker handed her a box of Kleenex and waited. Ordinarily, he might have patted her hand or shoulder. But something stopped him from touching this woman.

“I’m very sorry,” he finally said. “I really want to find the bastard who did this to you.”

“Bastards,” she said. “There were two of them.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Only two?”

“Yes. Just two.”

“Were you asleep when they came into your bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear them come in?”

“Hear them?”

“Did they wake you up?”

She looked down. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“Take your time, Miss Brecht—”

“Lilah!” she interrupted. “I’m sorry. Just … please. Call me Lilah. The … distance … the formality. I need to feel close to you. To be able to tell you … do you understand?”

Decker nodded.

“Do you have a first name?”

“Peter.”

“Peter,” she repeated, then looked away. “Do you do these kinds of interviews often, Peter?”

“I’ve dealt with many sexual-assault cases.”

“How do you do it?”

Decker raised his brow. “They’re hard on me, but not as hard as they are for the survivors. I get a good deal of satisfaction when I apprehend a perpetrator. I like putting bad people behind bars. And that’s what I’d like to do here. But to do that, I need your help.”

She met his eyes, then retreated. “I woke up … and then … this … something was on top of me, smothering me.”

“Literally?”

She shook her head. “There wasn’t anything over my face … just this horrible presence crushing down. And then the gun. It was … terrifying.”

“Did you scream?”

“I was in shock! Should I have screamed? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, you acted perfectly—”

“I should have done something!”

“You did do something, Lilah. You survived. That was all you had to do and you did it.”

Again her eyes moistened. “You say the most perfect things, Peter. Thank you!” She grabbed his hand. “Thank you so much!”

That familiar grip. He waited a beat, gave her a light squeeze, then wriggled out. Her eyes held his for a moment, throwing him off balance. He looked down at his notepad. “Did you happen to catch a glimpse of either of your attackers?”

She closed her eyes and seemed to enter a trance. “I see them perfectly. The first one is slight, dark-complexioned, blue eyes, black hair, thick eyebrows, a mole right under his lower lip. High cheekbones, thinnish lips, prominent chin but no cleft, birdlike neck …” She opened her eyes. “You’re not writing. Am I talking too fast, Peter?”

Decker said, “I’m a little confused.”

Lilah looked puzzled. “How so?”

“Miss Brec—Uh, Lilah, you’re giving me a lot of detail—”

“Faces—as well as bodies—are my business, Peter.”

“I’d like to ask a police artist to come down. I want you to describe your attackers to him.”

“Certainly.”

“I’d also like you to look through some mug shots I have in my briefcase. Maybe these animals have done something like this before and you can pick them out.”

“As you wish.”

He handed her the photos of the local sex offenders and used the hospital phone to place a call to the station. As he waited for the lines to connect, he noticed Lilah flipping through the pictures with little interest. He finally made contact with the police artist, then hung up.

“Someone will be here in about twenty minutes,” Decker said. “None of these men look like—”

“No, none.”

“You’re sure—”

“Very.” Lilah sank back into her pillow. “My God, I’m tired.”

“I’m sure you must be,” Decker said. “What were you doing walking around?”

“Just trying to feel … human again.” She brushed a tear away from her eye. “I’ll heal outside. I hurt, but I know I’ll heal. It’s the inside …” She regarded him, took his hand. “May I hold your hand?”

“Of course,” Decker answered.

He knew that women reacted very differently to sexual assault. Some couldn’t bear the sight of a man; others wanted their husbands or boyfriends to make love to them immediately after the ordeal. Some crawled into shells and never came out; others acted as if nothing of significance had happened. If the primary detective on the case was male, rape survivors often developed a kind of transference with him, either good or bad depending on the rapport. Some women had been so grateful for Decker’s sympathetic ear, they had named their babies after him. But there was something odd about Lilah.

“Are you up to answering a few more questions?” Decker asked.

Lilah brought his hand to her cheek and nodded.

“Okay. Then let me ask you this. When did you manage to make out your attackers so clearly?”

“I saw them as soon as they touched me.” Her lower lip began to tremble. “I was so … can you hold me, Peter? Just for a brief moment.”

She came to him, then abruptly pulled back and brought her hand to her mouth.

“No, forget I said that. I can see by your ring that you’re married. It’s just that I’m feeling so vulnerable right now. I need someone to lean on. May I take your hand again?”

She took it without waiting for a response, began to play with his wedding band. Though he had comforted many survivors, none were as overtly sexual—as deadly sexual—as this one. He kept his face impassive and said, “Do you have a boyfriend you want me to call?”

Lilah’s eyes suddenly grew cold. “No.”

“How about your bro—”

“Give me a break!” She jerked her hand away.

“Would you feel more comfortable if you were interviewed by a woman?”

“Would you feel more comfortable if I was interviewed by a woman?”

“Lilah, I want to nab the monsters who did this to you. Take them off the street so they can’t do it to some other woman. But to do that, I need your help. I really need your help.”

Again, her eyes moistened. “It’s just so hard.”

“I’m sorry. I really am sorry.”

She grabbed his wrist before he could pull away and brought his hand to her cheek. “I connect with you.”

Ignoring the impulse to tug his hand away, he said, “I’m glad you connect with me. Maybe you can connect me to your attackers.”

Lilah broke into laughter and tears at the same time. Slowly, she kissed his fingers one at a time.

Despite himself, he felt a pull down below and decided to break physical contact. “Can you talk about what happened?”

She settled back. “Yes, I can. I feel strong now.”

“You say you didn’t hear them come in?”

“No.”

“You were asleep.”

“Yes.”

“Do you happen to know what time you awoke?”

“No.”

“You woke when you felt them on top of you.”

“Actually, I sensed them. Before I felt them, before I opened my eyes. But I couldn’t wake myself up fast enough. I couldn’t react … then … it was too late. They were on top of me … slapping me … hitting me … with … their fists … beating …”

Decker realized she was gasping and told her to wait a moment. When Lilah regained a steady tempo of respiration, she said, “Why didn’t they just break open the safe and leave? Why did they have to destroy my belongings? Why did they have to hit me? Why did they hurt me? Why did they rape me?”

“Because these guys are monsters and they enjoy hurting women.”

“But why! Oh, hell, I know there aren’t any simple answers. You’re not like that, Peter, I can tell. I feel so safe. So … protected when I’m with you.”

“That’s what the police are for.”

She locked eyes with him, not pleased with his response. He knew it, but continued anyway.

“I’m going to have to ask you some sensitive questions. Do you think you’re up to answering them?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you start to feel panicky, stop until you’re calmer. I don’t care how long it takes. I want to make this as comfortable as possible for you. All right?”

She nodded.

“Did both men rape you?”

“Just … I … only one.”

“You’re sure?”

“Just one. I’m positive.”

“Did he penetrate you vaginally?”

Her face whitened but she answered yes.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Did he penetrate you anally?”

She shook her head.

“Did he attempt to penetrate you anally?”

“No.”

“You’re doing great, Lilah. Just a few more questions. Did he ejaculate inside of you?”

“I …” She buried her face in her hands. “I don’t remember really. While it was happening, I blanked it out.”

“That’s okay. That’s normal, Lilah. Did either of your attackers force you to copulate orally with them?”

“No.”

“All right. Did both attackers hit you?”

“I think so … I was hit first … held down …”

“Take your time.”

“First … hit. Then they … one of them … went to the safe while the other … raped.”

“Okay. One of them opened the safe while the other raped you.”

“Yes.”

“Then what happened? Do you remember?”

“He … someone started breaking things … I think the first one was still raping me … while the other broke things. It seemed to last forever.”

“Did either one of them talk to you?”

“No.”

“Not even at the beginning?”

“I … I’m sorry. Everything is such a blur. One of them might have said, ‘I have a gun.’ But I really don’t remember.”

“Do you know which one raped you?”

“I could describe his face, yes.”

“Did you see a gun, Lilah?”

“He … at … I think I felt the gun at my head. I felt on my temple … you know. He must have been holding it. I was … it hurt. I thought I was … going to die.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Do you want to take a break?” Decker asked.

“I’m … all right.”

“It’s no problem to stop.”

“No … not yet.”

“Okay. You think you were beaten before you were raped.”

“Yes.”

“You’re doing a great job, Lilah. Holding up really well. Which one beat you?”

“Both … I think.”

“Okay, they’re hitting you. Then they stopped.”

“Yes …” Her eyes focused on her lap. “Finally.”

“Are you all right?”

She whispered, “It’s … go on. I’m all right.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded.

“Okay. But don’t hesitate to stop if you need to. What happened after they stopped beating you?”

“One man raped me … the other …” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “He must have gone to the safe.”

“One man raped you while the other went to the safe.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what happened after the man came out of the safe?”

“I think … maybe they broke more things …” She looked at him with urgency. “He found what he wanted in the safe. I don’t know why he destroyed the room.”

“Could he have been looking for something else?”

“Impossible.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“He found what he wanted in the safe.”

“Yes.”

“What did he want, Lilah?”

“I wish all your questions were that easy to answer. It’s obvious that they were after my father’s memoirs.”

There was a moment of silence. Decker said, “They attacked you and trashed your bedroom for your father’s memoirs?”

Lilah bristled. “You don’t know who my father was?”

“He was a director—”

“Not just any director! He was the director. Hermann Brecht! As in the Brecht School of Performing Arts at Heidelberg. As in the Brecht Chair at Bonn University! He was not just a genius. He was the genius. His unsurpassed brilliance in film direction has and will be studied for years. The premier director of this century—fifteen masterpieces and all before he reached his untimely demise at twenty-eight!”

“Your father died at twenty-eight?”

“Yes.” Lilah’s eyes became shiny pools. “I was just a little girl so I don’t remember him too clearly. That’s why the memoirs are so important to me. They’re my history!”

“Lilah, I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but why would they be important to anyone else?”

Her face turned stony. “My father was a visionary of unsurpassed magnitude. About a year ago, dear Freddy let it slip out that Father had written his recollections and had willed them to me. Up until that time only he and I knew about them. Once Freddy let the cat out of the bag, I was suddenly deluged with calls and letters from universities asking me if I’d care to donate them. Donate! Can you imagine such gall!

“When it became clear I wouldn’t donate them, they tried to buy them away. Three thousand, thirty thousand, three hundred thousand. I wouldn’t have let them go for three million. Not for thirty million. But apparently someone else wanted them and was willing to do whatever was necessary to obtain them.”

“What’s in your father’s papers that makes them so coveted?”

She regarded him with disgust, then softened her look. “My father never granted interviews. The memoirs are the only living record of him lecturing about his films—his art—in his own words. And now, I may never know …” She exploded into tears.

Decker felt a headache coming on. She wasn’t making a lot of sense. Could it be a subtle sign of brain injury due to the beating? He’d ask Dr. Kessler. After she stopped crying, he said, “Why do you say you may never know? You haven’t read your father’s memoirs?”

“Oh, dear, why is life so complicated?”

He waited for her to continue.

“The papers were willed to me on the condition that they not be opened until the twenty-fifth anniversary of his death. That date falls two months from now. Of course I had to obey his wishes. Others have been after me to break my promise as soon as they found out the papers existed. But I would rather die than ignore my father’s last request in his suicide note.”

Suicide. Decker let that sink in. “The papers were with him when he committed suicide?”

“No, all of Father’s papers were left with an old, trusted friend. I was mailed the memoirs when I reached eighteen. They were delivered into my hands, completely sealed, the wrapping untampered with. Father’s wishes were recorded by the friend on a separate cover letter.”

“So your father’s friend knew the memoirs existed.”

“Oskar died six years ago. Before Freddy opened his mouth. Poor Oskar had nothing to do with the theft of the papers if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Decker tapped his pencil on his pad. “Was the cover letter written in English or do you read German?”

Lilah’s smile held strained patience. “Both the letter and the memoirs were written in English. They were dedicated to me, Peter. Father obviously wanted me to understand them. Father was fluent in five languages.”

“Why you and not your brother, Miss Brecht?”

“Poor Freddy …” Lilah sighed. “Always second-class citizen. He felt so neglected.” Her face soured. “So did Mother. When she found out about the memoirs, she was absolutely shocked, livid! The witch actually insisted that I open them and disregard my father’s wishes. She probably wanted to find out what was written about her. As if Father would waste his time recording their silly squabbles!”

Lilah seemed suddenly impatient.

“You never let me finish describing my attackers. Don’t you want useful information?”

“I thought we’d wait for the police artist.”

“Is your artist any good?”

“The best.” Decker looked up from his pad. “Lilah, how long a look did you get of each man?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you see each of them for thirty seconds? A minute?”

“I saw them as long as I wanted.”

“What do you mean? You were blindfolded.”

“As soon as they touched me, I was able to image their faces in my mind. That’s why I’m able to recall such detail. Brain imaging gives much more resolution than does the optic nerve.”

Decker hesitated a moment. “Lilah, did you see these men with your eyes?”

“I just told you, Peter, I imaged them!”

Decker paused, wondering more seriously about brain injury. “Lilah, the courts permit only eye witness testimony to be entered as evidence.”

“Peter, I’m not about to go into court and say I imaged these men. I realize no one would believe me. But who cares about what the court allows? Once I give you my imaged picture, you can find these animals and get some other kind of evidence on them.”

“Let me get this straight. You never actually saw your attackers?”

“I saw them for a moment with my eyes. But they were wearing ski masks. And then of course, they blindfolded me. As if that could stop me from imaging them. But then again, how could they have known I had that kind of gift?”

There was a moment of silence. Maybe the woman had been suffering from some kind of emotional problem long before the rape.

Lilah looked down. “You don’t believe me. You will learn. I have this gift, Peter, a prophetic vision of the future. And like Cassandra, I too am met with skepticism or, worse, derision. It no longer bothers me. Because unlike Cassandra’s visions, eventually people do witness my visions.”

She leaned over and took his hand.

“It is not a gift actually, it is a curse. I pray to God every day that I will wake up normal. That one day, I will see the world just as everyone else does. Perhaps I don’t pray hard enough.”

Decker was silent, unsure of how to answer her.

Lilah palpated his palm. “I can feel your resistance, but I can also feel your subliminal vibratory waves. Our connection makes an unusually strong field. Eventually, you will trust me, Detective. I really do have these powers.”

A throat cleared, and Decker turned to the sound’s source. Pad and mug books in hand, Leo, the police artist, was leaning his gut against the door frame, his cherubic face as red as cooked lobster.

Decker yanked his hand away and stood. “Will you excuse me for a moment, Lilah?”

“Certainly.”

“Thank you.” Decker smiled at her and led the artist out of the room, escorting him down the hospital corridor. He waited until they were out of Lilah’s earshot.

“I think I dragged you out for nothing, Leo. She was giving me such detailed information about her assailants, I got excited and called you right away. Then she informed me that she never actually saw them with her eyes. Instead she said she did something called imaging with her brain. She swears she could tell me what the perps looked like after they touched her even though she was blindfolded.”

Leo shifted his pad and mug books into his other hand. “You couldn’t be making this up.”

“I’m not creative enough.”

“Was she also imaging you with her touch, Pete?”

Decker felt himself go hot. “She’s glommed onto me.”

Leo sucked in his gut and ran his tongue over his dentures. “I wouldn’t mind her glomming onto me.”

“She’s an incomplete deck, Leo. If I’d known, Marge would be here.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fuck you.”

Both men laughed.

Decker said, “There is a very slight chance that she actually did see these guys with her eyes and just can’t admit it … or is afraid to admit it. Maybe she knows them but imaging is her way of telling me she won’t testify against them. So if you don’t mind, indulge her and me and get some drawings.”

“No problem, Sergeant, I’m an old-timer. Have seen it or heard it all.” Leo peered down the hallway. “I think your deck is about to have a little company. Why don’t I grab some coffee in the cafeteria? Call me when you need me.”

“Fine, Leo.”

Decker watched the figure approach. Tall, thin, lithe. She wore a floor-length, form-fitting, black sequined gown with slits up the sides. The dress sparkled with each movement of her legs. Her face had been powdered white, but her features—except for blood-red lips—were obscured by a black veil that fell to her shoulders. Her feet were housed in spike-heeled pumps rimmed with rhinestones. Yet her gait—her balance—was that of a young fashion model instead of an old woman. She wasn’t merely walking, she was shimmying. She was sashaying.

Davida Eversong was making her entrance.