Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection

“So if you stopped seeing me, you’d stop being religious?”

“Yes.”

“But if we were to marry, would you be religious to please me?”

“Probably in the beginning. Then, quite honestly, I could see myself giving it up. But I’d never interfere with your beliefs.”

“It would be a very hypocritical example for the boys. How could I espouse religion to them if I go ahead and marry an irreligious man?”

“I suppose there’s a grain of truth to that.”

She sat motionless.

“I think I’m meeting you halfway, Rina. I’m willing to let you live your life. If you just wouldn’t be so rigid—”

“I have no choice!” she exclaimed. “I’m not going to be a hypocrite. I want my husband to be religious. What is so wrong with that?”

“Nothing. But that’s not me.” Decker sighed. “Look, we’re both really confused at the moment. Maybe we need a little time to ourselves, a temporary breather from each other—”

“I don’t want to see anyone else,” she answered.

“Maybe I don’t want to either,” he said. “But I want to keep the option open … open in case … case we both know the score.”

She stared at the wall and didn’t answer. Decker waited a few more minutes. When she remained silent, he got up and left.

“Somebody didn’t like us poking around,” Marge said to Decker.

It was nine o’clock Friday morning. She was sitting on his desk, sipping coffee. Decker had his feet propped up on his desk, hands behind neck, and eyes on the ceiling.

“Or somebody may have wanted to destroy evidence,” she added.

“Then why place a bomb in the front part of the studio?” he asked. “Place it in the underground room. I think it was a warning. Anyone seriously wanting us out of the way could have done so by now. I’ve got a call in to Culver City PD. We should know more as soon as they dissect the remains of the bomb.”

“Watch your ass, Pete.”

“I intend to.”

Mike Hollander walked up to Decker and placed a manila envelope on his desk. The return address was from a Dr. Arnold Meisner.

“As requested, Rabbi,” Hollander said. “Fresh off the press.”

“Please quit calling me rabbi.”

Hollander looked at him. “Go get a night’s sleep, Pete.”

“Who the hell is Arnold Meisner?” Marge asked.

“A doctor who used to work under Dustin Pode’s pediatrician,” Hollander said. “When the old man died, Meisner took over the practice. He was kind enough to dig up those records for us.”

“How’d you find out Pode’s pediatrician?” Decker asked.

“I asked Dustin,” Hollander answered.

Decker laughed.

“The direct approach,” he said.

“Don’t know any other kind,” said Hollander. “Dusty Pooh was so busy defending his father—calling the raid entrapment—I think the question was a relief. Something he could answer truthfully.”

“What do you want with his medical charts?” Marge asked Decker.

“I’m a sucker for theoretical models,” he said. “I’m looking for bed-wetting. It usually goes along with fire-starting … starting cruelty to animals.”

“The old psychopathic triad,” Hollander said.

“The old psychopathic triad,” repeated Decker, flipping through pages. Marge peered over his shoulder.

“I don’t like to have someone reading over me,” Decker said curtly.

“Excuse me,” Marge backed away.

Decker laughed. “Sorry. I’ve been a real son of a bitch lately and I make no excuses for it. My life is going shitty.”

“Not that I’m trying to meddle, but—”

“Then don’t.”

“Geez,” Marge said. “I’ll give you a pair of tweezers to take the hair out of your ass, Pete.”

He smiled and concentrated on the page in front of him.

“Any bed-wetting?” Marge asked.

“Not so far.” Decker read for a while. When he finished, he reread the chart again. “No bed-wetting,” he announced at last.

“Oh well,” said Marge. “Everything’s always perfect in theory.”

“No bed-wetting, but you know what I see here?”

“What?” inquired Hollander.

“A hell of a lot of cuts and burns in weird places. And a whole lot of broken bones.”

“Child abuse,” Marge said.

“Yep,” said Decker. “Only twenty years ago no one talked about it, much less reported it. Poor Dustin was getting whopped for years and the old doc didn’t make one damn notation on it.” He turned a page. “Will you look at this? Burns on the buttocks. Mom claimed he sat on the stove.”

“We haven’t heard that one since—” Marge looked at her watch “—oh, since maybe two hours ago.”