Prayers for the Dead (6 page)

Decker said, “I have one of Dr. Sparks’s sons in the car. He’s come down to make the ID.”

“It’s Azor,” Craine said. “I’ll state it formally, if you’d like. Save the man some agony.”

“I think he knows it’s his father. I think he just wants to see it for himself.”

“Good gracious why?”

“He’s a priest,” Gaynor said. “Maybe he wants to perform last rites on him.”

“Can you do last rites on someone who’s deceased?” Decker asked. “Besides Azor Sparks wasn’t Catholic.”

“He was very religious,” Craine said. “Everyone knew about Azor Sparks, his Fundamentalist beliefs, and his commitment to God.” The ME paused. “Perhaps he did have a hot line to the Supreme Being. He certainly saved a lot of lives.”

Decker said, “I’ll bring the priest over as soon as your men put him in the bag and on the stretcher. I don’t want him to see the crime scene.”

“Very considerate of you, Lieutenant,” Craine muttered. “Very considerate. Copious amounts of spatter. The image is haunting even for the most professional of us. Good night.”

Gaynor watched as Craine got into his car and drove away. “He seemed upset. Well, maybe not upset. More like… affected.”

“Aren’t we all.” Decker shook his head. “Where’re Webster and Martinez?”

“On Dumpster patrol.” Gaynor pointed into the darkness. “See those blips of light?”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Good thing about getting old,” Gaynor said. “You become very farsighted. I see the flashlights. Maybe they’re about a block and a half, two blocks down. Want me to get them on the walkie-talkie?”

Decker peered down the empty space, trying to make out light. “No, I’ll talk to them later. Let me get the identification over with.” He turned his eyes back to the scene. They had loaded Sparks onto a stretcher. “Clear the decks for me, Farrell. Give the son some breathing room.”

Decker walked back to the Volare, opened the passenger door. Bram got out, balancing his weight on the car before he stood up.

“You need help?”

“No.”

“Over here.” Decker led the priest to the stretcher, the body encased in a vinyl bag. He nodded to an attendant who unzipped a portion of the plastic sheath.

The priest glanced downward, quickly averted his eyes, then stepped backward. “
Dear God!
”

Decker peeked. Dead eyes stared upward at the foggy moon. He took the priest’s arm, but Bram shook him off.

“I’m all right.” He covered his mouth, then let his hands drop. “I’m all right. I want to see him again.”

Decker stared at him.

“Please,” Bram said quietly. “Please, I need to see him again. Have them unzip the bag.”

Decker nodded to the attendants. Again, they opened the vinyl casket. The priest came forward, forced his eyes downward. Without warning, he dropped to his knees and crossed himself. Closed his eyes and clasped his hands. He brought his fists to his forehead and prayed, his mouth incanting a slurry of what sounded like Latin. Decker crooked his finger, beckoning the lab men away from the stretcher.

Give the man his illusion of privacy.

The last registered
event in Dr. Azor Sparks’s daily calendar was an in-house dinner meeting with three people: Reg, Myron, and Liz. It took only a quick call to Sparks’s secretary — Heather Manley — for Oliver to find out that Reg was Dr. Reginald Decameron, Myron was Dr. Myron Berger, and Liz was Dr. Elizabeth Fulton. This entry was one of many that had appeared in Sparks’s business book — a semiweekly research meeting of some sort, according to the secretary, Heather. And the dinner meetings were always held in Sparks’s conference room, not at Tracadero’s. That was all he could glean before Heather’s hysteria broke through.

Oliver’s eyes moved off the pages of Sparks’s daily planner and scanned the office. Place was twice as big as his apartment. A hell of a lot nicer, too. Wood-paneled walls, plush hunter green carpeting, surround-sound stereo speakers, wet bar, and fridge — all this plus a canyon view of the nearby mountains. True, there was no booze in the bar, only fruit juices, but that could be remedied. He cast his gaze on the ceiling-mounted television set. To Marge, he said, “Maybe we should turn on the TV.”

Marge shut Sparks’s top desk drawer. Nothing of substance in it. She tried the file drawers in his walnut desk, then the ones in his credenza. Locked, of course. “Think you’re outta luck, Scotty. He probably doesn’t subscribe to
Adam and Eve
.”

“How kind of you to sum me up as a horndog.” Oliver began putting stickums on Sparks’s planner. “I just wanted to see if the murder hit the networks yet. Because as soon as it gets out, hospital’s going to be thrown into a panic. Just like his secretary. Where the hell is she? She said she only lives fifteen minutes away. It’s not exactly rush hour.”

Marge investigated a wall of built-in bookshelves, her finger moving over the spines of thick medical tomes. “Didn’t she say she was going to call up his co-workers?”

“Three doctors. How long does it take to call up three doctors?”

Marge shrugged. “Sure, turn on the set.”

Oliver stretched and flipped the power on the ceiling-mounted TV. The monitor filled with a dark image — the climax of some series cop show. He watched an actress in a police uniform chase a bad guy, her breasts jiggling and heaving as she followed him to an alley. Her pants were skintight, showed off a well-formed ass as she peeked around a garbage can. Oliver’s eyes crept over to Marge. She was dressed in a baggy pantsuit and had gunboats on her feet.

“See anything interesting in his book?” Marge asked.

“Nothing that means anything to me.” Oliver paged through his notes. “Patient names, procedures, surgeries, staff meetings, reminders for birthdays and anniversaries… quite a few of those. Maybe he owned stock in a greeting card company.”

Marge glanced at the wood paneling. Interspersed with numerous diplomas and certificates were family photographs. “Looks like Sparks had lots of children and grandchildren. What a shame!”

Zing went the bullet against the trash can on TV. The heavy-breasted actress jumped back. Her makeup was still perfect, not a drop of sweat sullied her brow. Man, if that had been him, he’d be browning his jockeys. Oliver said, “Sparks had lots of meetings with various companies.”

“Which ones.”

“Biolab, Meditech, Genident, Bloodcell, Armadonics, Fisher/Tyne — that name came up on a regular basis. About once a month. Isn’t that a drug company?”

“Yeah.” Marge scratched her head. “My God, he was a busy bee. Wrote two medical textbooks, coauthored another four, and was an editor of a dozen others. Where did he find time to do all this?”

Oliver’s eyes went back to the TV. The big-boobed cop was now draped in a filmy nightie. She lay in bed, nestled in the arms of a stud with a deep voice and a cleft chin. As she talked, Mr. Cleft looked at the babe with the expression “Jesus, I’m an earnest guy” stamped across his puss. Okay, so he wasn’t humping her bones. Which would have been the real picture if this was real life. Okay. So maybe they had just humped, and he was older and had a long refractory period. Oliver could
maybe
buy that. What he couldn’t buy was the fact that he was
listening
to her. In real life, the guy would be completely zoned out, thinking about tax dodges or rotary baseball.

Marge checked her watch. “Manley does seem to be taking her time.”

“Lucky the janitor had a key,” Oliver said. “What’d you think about her reaction to the news?”

“After I got my hearing back?”

“Yeah, I could hear her scream across the room. Most people, upon hearing news that their boss was popped, are stunned. They don’t say anything.”

“Heather’s obviously the hysterical type.”

“All women are the hysterical type,” Oliver pronounced. “But Manley letting go with a wallop like that… weird. My head’s still ringing.”

Marge smiled, continued going over the books in Sparks’s shelves. “Heather reacted as if she was more to Sparks than just a secretary.”

“I have no trouble believing that,” Oliver said. “According to his daily calendar, he spent most of his waking hours at the hospital. And Heather is a nice piece of pie.”

“How do you know what she looks like?”

“Pictures on her desk.”

“She keeps pictures of herself on her desk?”

“Nah, pictures of her and some guy. But you know how it is. Secretaries and their bosses. Especially someone like Sparks. Power is the ultimate lady-killer. How else do you explain ugly, old guys getting laid by nymphets?”

“Well, if Sparks was boffing her, he’s your typical religious fanatic hypocrite.”

“Don’t let Decker hear you say that.” Oliver paused. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s got three bookshelves filled with religious material — Christian newspapers and magazines, lots of prayerbooks and numerous Bibles.” Marge shrugged. “Maybe Sparks and Heather read Bible together.”

Oliver laughed. “Well, I have no trouble believing that sweet Heather was on her knees.”

The door pushed open. A female voice screaming, “Just
what
do you think you’re doing!”

Marge brought her index finger to her right ear and rubbed it against the skinflap. Oliver held out ID.

The young woman was in her late twenties with big, big hair. Lots of it spilling down her shoulders and back. She was slim, wore a red knit dress that showed off curves. She whacked Oliver’s shield away. “I don’t care
who
you are. You have no right to invade my boss’s
privacy
!”

The news came on the TV. Sure enough, Sparks’s death had made the headlines. The young woman burst into a crescendo of wails. “I can’t believe it. I
can’t
believe it!”

“Ms. Manley,” Oliver said tentatively, “why don’t you sit down.”

She pulled on her overteased tresses, her saucer eyes spilling tears as she yanked. “Who would hurt the doctor? He was the gentlest person on the face of the earth! Why would anyone
hurt
him?”

“Ms. Manley, why don’t you sit down.” Marge mouthed to Oliver, “Turn the damn thing off!”

Oliver cut off the newscaster midsentence. Heather was still moaning. He said, “Why don’t you sit, Ms. Manley?”

She continued to pace.

Oliver said, “Sit down, ma’am… as in
sit
down in a chair.”

The secretary stopped treading, stared at Oliver. He pulled out the chair. “Please?”

She sat, the hem of her dress resting mid-thigh over smooth, white legs. Oliver did a rapid once-over, then said, “We need your help, ma’am. Did you get hold of any of the doctors that were at Sparks’s six o’clock meeting?”

Heather sniffed loudly. “Dr. Decameron said he’s on his way over here. Dr. Fulton… she can’t come down because she can’t get a baby-sitter. And her husband isn’t home yet. The dirty rat is
never
home. He’s a real jerk, suffers from a Peter Pan complex.”

Marge took out her notepad. “Now this Dr. Fulton is one of Dr. Sparks’s co-workers?”

“Yes.” Heather pulled a Kleenex out of her purse, blew her nose, and dried her eyes. “She works with Dr. Sparks on Curedon. They all do.”

“Who’s all?” Oliver was having trouble following Heather’s train of thought.

“Dr. Decameron, Dr. Fulton, and Dr. Berger. They work with Dr. Sparks, testing his drug, Curedon.”

Oliver perked up. “Dr. Sparks discovered a new drug?”

“He didn’t
discover
a drug,” Heather corrected. “He
developed
one. After years of research in his laboratory. Curedon is an antirejection drug. Fisher/Tyne bought it.”

“What do you mean bought it?” Marge asked.

Heather sighed. “I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask Dr. Decameron and hope for the best.”

“Hope for the best?” Oliver asked.

“Reggie is a jerk. Try getting any answers out of him. I don’t know why Dr. Sparks puts up with him.” Heather wiped her eyes again. “Actually, I do know why. The doctor was the best boss I’ve ever had. The most honest, sincere, nicest, gentlemanly… not that he didn’t have his moments. But once you understood his genius…” She exploded into a new wave of sobs.

“How long had you worked for him, Ms. Manley?” Oliver asked.

“Five years,” she cried.

“You were close to him?” asked Marge.

“I
loved
him!” she wailed.

Marge and Oliver exchanged glances. Heather caught it. “Not in the way you think. I loved him as in ‘
hopelessly
in love’ with him. He never laid a finger on me.”

Maybe not a finger, Oliver thought.

Heather said, “He was a gentleman in every way. Completely devoted to his wife and family. He wouldn’t ever think of touching another woman, much less have an affair. He was deeply religious.”

Again, Marge and Oliver looked at each other. Oliver said, “You sound like you’re pretty sure about that.”

“I’m positive!”

“You know, Heather, if you’re trying to lead us down the wrong path—”

“I’m not—”

“I’m not saying you are,” Oliver said. “All I’m saying is that if something was kinky with Sparks, it’s going to come out.”

“Nothing… and I mean
nothing
… was ever kinky with Dr. Sparks! The only thing he ever got into trouble for was being
too
good.”

“How’s that?” Marge asked.

“Like I said, he was deeply religious. He had tremendous faith in God and didn’t understand those who didn’t—”

“Oh
please
, Heather, spare them the Jesus on the cross routine.” A forty-plus man stuck out his hand to Marge. “Reginald Decameron. This is just horrible! It’s already made the news! I heard it coming over. Someone want to tell me what’s going on?”

Marge regarded the doctor. Slender, well-coiffed, well-dressed. Thin features, piercing dark eyes. Self-assured to the point of haughtiness. He wore white shirt, gray slacks, and a blue cashmere blazer. Pocket handkerchief in the blazer, silk hand-painted jacquard tie around his neck. She took the proffered hand. “Thank you for coming down.”

“How could I
not
come down.” He turned to Heather. “Where are Dr. Berger and Dr. Fulton?”