False Prophet

Well, if we did rush things, Cindy, we can’t exactly take it back now, can we?

That’s true.

Another silence.

Well, good luck.

Snide tone. As in good luck, you’re gonna need it, pal.

Cindy, I love you—

Look, Dad. I’m an adult, not a child. You don’t have to reassure me. I’m well aware of the fact that you will love me no matter how many other children you’ll have. And I’m sure you’ll have lots because Rina’s young. If that’s what you want, I wish you well.

Cindy, I’m not reassuring you—

Yes, you are. Don’t lie about it.

Okay, maybe I am. But it’s not as if it’s a horrible thing for a father to say to his daughter.

Stony silence.

Decker sighed. I’m sorry if I upset you—

I’m not upset.

If I upset you by trying to reassure you.

Oh. Pause. It’s okay.

Would you like me to call you tomorrow?

Whatever.

Then I’ll call you tomorrow.

Sure. She had paused a moment. How’s your arm, Daddy?

Don’t worry about me, honey, I’m just fine.

Yeah, you’re always fine. I’ll talk to you later.

He had called her the next day. And the next and the next, receiving the same frosty attitude each time. Nothing more than a perfunctory chat, a sincere inquiry into the state of his health, and a cold response when he told her he was okay. He knew she wanted him to confide in her, but it simply wasn’t his style. He refused to complain to anyone, let alone his daughter.

And so it went. Finally, Rina suggested he wait until Cindy came to him.

Of course that conversation had led to a fight, he accusing her of interfering with his daughter. Later, he regretted his words but didn’t feel like apologizing. Rina didn’t push it; she was good about things like that.

After he cooled off, he admitted to himself that Rina’s advice had been good. He knew that his constant calling was giving Cindy the message that he was insecure about their relationship. Over the months, he’d weaned himself down to a phone call a week.

And each time Cindy remained aloof.

Well, maybe she’d warm up after the baby came.

And maybe he’d win the lottery, too.

Frederick Brecht’s office was in Tarzana on the western end of Ventura Boulevard—the glitzy shopping strip for the San Fernando Valley. Decker had expected a medical building, but instead, the address corresponded to a two-story mini-mall; Brecht’s practice was sandwiched between a travel agency and a health-food store. Each business was allowed only two parking spaces. Brecht’s spaces, marked RESERVED FOR DOCTOR, were occupied. Decker pulled into one of the health-food store’s slots, hoping the owner wouldn’t call and have the car towed away.

The door to the office was glass backed by an attached white curtain that prevented unwanted onlookers from peeking inside. The glass was stenciled in gold

FREDERICK R. BRECHT, M.D.

HOLISTIC AND WELL-BEING MEDICINE

ACUPUNCTURE AND NUTRITION

CONSULTATION BY APPOINTMENT ONLY

Decker went inside and halted in his tracks.

The waiting room was unoccupied and without conventional furniture. Couches and chairs were replaced with brown mats that covered the waxed wooden planks of fir. In the center of the room was a pile of specialty magazines: Journal of Holistic Health. Annals of Eastern Medicine. The Vitamin Digest. Hanging from the ceiling were silk-screened lanterns emitting soft, filtered light. The wallpaper was imprinted with some kind of Chinese farm scene—kimonoed men and women with one-dimensional features tilling soil and pulling some kind of root from the ground. New Age synthesizer music, along with the odor of incense, wafted through the air.

Decker pondered the reception window, then stared at the cushioned floor, unsure if he should remove his shoes. He decided to brave the trek in shod feet, but found himself tiptoeing. He knocked on the frosted glass and a middle-aged woman slid open the panel. She wore no makeup but was decked with jewelry. Dozens of bracelets, a couple of silver necklaces, and earrings that were large and beaded and hung down to her shoulders. Her brown hair had been cut short, her eyes were deep-set. Her voice was a tinkle—like wind chimes—and at odds with the mature face.

“Yes?”

“I’m Sergeant Peter Decker of the LAPD.” He showed the woman his badge. “I’d like to speak with Dr. Brecht.”

“Dr. Brecht is not in today. Would you like to leave a message?”

Tinkle, tinkle.

Decker said, “Where is Dr. Brecht?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has he checked in today?”

Suddenly the light voice was as sharp as broken glass.

“I don’t know if I should answer your questions.”

“Why? Are you hiding something?”

“Of course n—”

“So why wouldn’t you want to answer a simple question? Has Dr. Brecht phoned in today?”

She was flustered. “Uh, I’m sure he will soon.”