Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection: False Prophet, Grievous Sin, Sanctuary. Faye KellermanЧитать онлайн книгу.

      24

      Marge hung up the phone. “The best Reed can do for us is forty-five minutes at three. If we leave right now, we should make it.”

      Decker said, “Burbank’s not going to like it—especially Malone. He wanted to be in on the interview.”

      “They’re en route to Malibu; we can’t exactly wait for them. Reed’s a busy guy.” Marge slung her purse over her shoulder. “We’ll take the recorder and play back the interview word for word. Besides, didn’t Morrison tell us to get the lead out?”

      “If I move any faster on this case, I’m gonna turn into a sonic boom.” Decker stuffed his wallet in his pants. “All right, let’s do Reed … find out if he knows anything. I just wanted to avoid a stupid interdepartmental squabble. I have a feeling Donnie Malone might be the petty type.”

      “So that’s his problem. He wants to field hotshot calls, let him apply to Southeast—get lowdown and funky in the pits.”

      Decker regarded her. “Are you still interested in working Homicide?”

      Her face became animated. “Why? Is there an opening?”

      “Nothing official, Margie. But scuttlebutt says Devonshire might have an opening soon.”

      Marge’s face fell. “An opening? As in room for one: as in white male?”

      “Maybe they could be talked into two for one.”

      “So what does that make me? A door prize?”

      “Marjorie, you know the way the department works. If I say no, they’re not going to ask you to apply. So either I convince them to take you as a door prize or we both stay put. Stop getting touchy.”

      There was a long silence.

      “Do you want to work Homicide?” Marge said.

      “It’s a challenging detail, but it’s also a lot more hours.” Decker shrugged. “At this point, it’s theoretical. I just wanted to sound you out, okay?”

      Marge smiled. “I appreciate what you’re doing. I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate, but it’s infuriating.”

      “I know it’s hard being passed over because you don’t have a dick. But I have one and if I can help you, why not?”

      “You’re a good guy, Pete.”

      “My daughter just told me that.”

      “It must be true.” Marge winked. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

      Decker looked out the window and thought: It’s good to get out of the squad room. The day was hot and clear, the freeways relatively empty. The drive was long but scenic, the unmarked trailblazing through winding canyons shaded with copses of eucalyptus, leafy maples, and gnarled California oak that shimmered in the heat. Clusters of black birds dotted the aqua summer sky.

      The Plymouth was making good time until it hit Hermosa Beach at Pacific Coast Highway. Traffic immediately jammed with stalled cars and reckless motorbikes weaving in and out of lanes. The right sides of the streets were marked for bike paths and were filled with latex-coated cyclists. The sidewalks were clogged with flower-shirted tourists weighed down by cameras around their necks, and pedestrians in skin tones ranging from deep tan to lobster red. Whizzing past the walkers were the skateboarders and the Rollerbladers dressed in Day-Glo surfing shorts and muscle shirts. Gull cries and bird songs competed for air space with boom boxes or the rowdy shouts of party animals stuffed onto balconies of apartment buildings.

      On the right, PCH looked down upon several streets stacked with multifamily dwellings. The buildings had been erected without much thought to architectural conformity, although most were made of stucco and wood and had lots of windows. Beyond the houses was an expanse of steely-blue undulating with the rhythmic flows of whitecaps.

      With the car stopped at a congested intersection, Marge’s eyes drifted from the ocean to the street scene. “Ah, to be young, single … and white. This place is Wonder bread.”

      Decker squinted out the window. “I think I see a couple of blacks.”

      “Nah, they’re not real blacks, more like … chocolate-dipped surfers.”

      “I hear rap music.”

      Marge waved him off. “Rap has been coopted by whites, Pete. Look at Vanilla Ice and his Xeroxes.” She laughed. “Everyone wanting what the other guy has—whites putting shit in their hair to get dreadlocks, blacks putting shit in their hair to turn it straight. No pleasing the human race.”

      “It’s what makes us creative,” Decker said. “Turning the restlessness into art. Hey, Margie, how ’bout us writing a policeman’s rap:

      “A cop’s lot in life is no easy shakes.

      Criminals and felons and all sorts of fakes

      Gettin in my face every night and every day,

      Stalkin and waitin just to blow me away—”

      “Keep your badge and gun, Sergeant.”

      Decker’s expression was deadpan. “I’m wounded.”

      Compulsively neat with a wide sweeping view of the ocean, the office looked more suited for a CEO than for a doctor. The walls were wainscoted—peach and hunter-green chintz print above the chair railing, deep-walnut paneling below. Reed’s desk was an old-fashioned mahogany partner’s desk, the legs carved into lions. But from the way it was positioned and the diplomas on the wall, it was clear the desk was used only by one person who demanded lots of space.

      Decker made himself comfortable in one leather wing chair opposite the desk; Marge took the matching seat. Reed had seated himself erect in his desk chair, hands folded and resting on the desk, his lab coat sparkling white and stiffly starched. A man used to order. Decker bet he got anxious if things didn’t go as planned.

      And he was anxious now. The straight-featured, bronzed face was knitted at the brow, the chestnut eyes dancing instead of focusing. Though his fingers were constrained, he was rocking his hands on the desktop. His mocha-colored hair was thin and combed to one side, a small strand resting on his forehead. Reed glanced at his clasped