Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection

“My husband seems convinced that Chris is guilty.”

“What do you think?”

“I think my husband needs someone to blame and Chris is convenient. I never liked the boy, but …”

“You don’t think Chris had anything to do with it?”

“No. And I think my husband is driving the boy crazy. He calls him all the time, writes him letters, follows him all weekend and on his lunch hours. I can’t seem to convince him that this is all wrong. He’s obsessed, Sergeant. My husband is going insane.”

Decker placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She continued her gardening. Neither spoke for a while. Then Decker stood up.

“I’ll keep in touch,” he said. “Take care, Mrs. Bates.”

She snipped off a long-stemmed Olympiad rosebud. Without looking up, she handed it to him.

Praying didn’t cut it. He slipped the pocket siddur in his jacket and took off to a house of refuge he’d used in the past.

It had once been a topless joint, but for the last five years it was a cop’s bar. He waved to a few of the off-duty uniforms sitting at a corner table laughing, then seated himself on a stool at the far end of the counter. A two-year hiatus since he’d last been here, and he’d come back to the same damn bartender polishing the same damn glasses. He acknowledged Decker with a nod.

“What’ll it be, Pete?” he asked.

“Double scotch straight up.” Decker took out a cigarette. He was smoking too much, he was going to drink too much, and he didn’t give a shit. “How’s it going, Pat?”

“Nothin’ much has changed since you been here last.”

Decker looked around. The walls had been repainted a dark red and the linoleum was new. The honey oak tables and chairs were the same, a little more worn. Same plastic light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. The pool table had been refelted—red this time. Country music wailed from a corner jukebox—Bocefus moaning about an attitude adjustment. The place was still a bar.

Decker took a sip, then a healthy swig of his scotch. He glanced up at the TV set—a soccer game from Mexico. He’d never liked soccer much, but after watching Rina’s boys play, he’d developed an appreciation for it. He leaned against the bar and listened to the TV announcer rattle off a blow-by-blow of the previous quarter. Decker understood it all, his Spanish as fluent as ever. He had first learned the language as a beat cop in Miami in order to decipher all the bullshit the Cubans gave him. Man, could they bullshit!

His glass was empty and he ordered another.

He’d joined the LAPD after his brief fling as a lawyer, and they’d sent him straight to East L.A. A goddam mistake. Latinos didn’t trust a white boy who understood their tongue. He’d always be a spy, and try as he would, he could never ingratiate himself. The hell with ’em.

He drank the booze and set down the empty glass.

Ed Fordebrand materialized. He was wearing a red-and-green plaid sports shirt, brown slacks, polished oxfords, and a tan leather jacket.

“What the hell are you doing here, Deck?”

“What the fuck does it look like?”

“You and Rina had a—”

“No.” Decker ordered a third scotch.

“The bones in the mountains turned out messy, huh, Rabbi?”

“I’m not a fucking rabbi,” Decker snapped. He took a gulp of whiskey and finally began to feel a glow. He slapped Fordebrand on the back. “Let me buy you one, Ed.”

“Won’t turn it down.”

“How’s Annette?”

“Getting old and crotchety. On my ass, day and night.” Fordebrand ordered a bourbon and Seven. “But we’re used to each other. I’m not saying divorce hasn’t crossed my mind. Or hers for that matter. Seems we just never got around to it. Linda’s almost out of the house. She’s the last of them. We’ll see what happens then.”

Pat wiped the counter and placed the bourbon in front of Fordebrand.

“Drink up,” Decker said. “I’ll buy you another.”

“One a day is my ration. I run into problems if I don’t stick to it.” Fordebrand eyed Decker. “You never were much of a boozer, were you, Pete?”

Decker shook his head and ordered another. “Usually I work instead. Now I’m here to avoid work. And nothing waiting for me at home except piles of horseshit.”

“What about Rina?”

“What about her?” Decker’s expression soured. “Why bother talking to them, you know? All they do is get all worried and start praying, and pretty soon you’re telling things they can’t handle, and then all you’ve got is a hysterical woman on your hands.”

Fordebrand paused a moment, then said, “I only met her a couple of times, but Rina never seemed to be the hysterical type.”

“They’re all hysterical, Ed. Just give ’em time. Jan wasn’t that hysterical at first either, but later …” He laughed. “A fucking Camille! Everything was such a big goddam deal.”

He drank up and ordered a Dos Equis chaser. Fordebrand watched him down the suds.

“Let me drive you home,” he said.

“I’m not drunk,” Decker protested. “Not nearly drunk enough. You gonna drink with me or you gonna be my mother?”

“I’m not going to do either one. I’ve got to go.”

Decker nodded. “Regards to Annette.”

Fordebrand left. And then the girls started to filter in. Decker drank a fourth, fifth, and sixth double as he watched them play their mating rituals with the uniform boys. He liked to observe, watch the boobs fall out of the loosely draped tops, see the nipples jutting against the fabric, the long shapely legs poking out from the miniskirts, the tight asses scrunched into jeans, hair loose, free and brassy—all of them heavily made-up and smelling of too much perfume.

Through a boozy haze, he saw a babe approach him. A tall one with a full head of platinum curls. Gold hoops dangled from her ears and her eyes were painted purple. She wore a gray, deliberately torn T-shirt that fell off one shoulder, and sprayed-on jeans that outlined her ass and crotch. Smiling, she took a seat next to him.

“Buy me a drink?”

He signaled Pat over.

“What’s your pleasure?” Decker asked.

“Gin and tonic.”

Pat nodded.