“I don’t know for certain,” Shockley said. “But I can’t see why they shouldn’t continue.”
“And you’d still be working with Dr. Decameron?”
“I’m not sure of anything at the moment.” Shockley stood. “Your police business has caught us all off guard.”
“Our police business?” Marge said. “Is that your way of saying Dr. Sparks’s murder?”
“Yes, Detective. Exactly.” Shockley walked over to the door. “I do have business to tend to. If you both don’t mind, it’s getting late. Do call if you have further questions. If I’m not available, you can always leave them with my secretary.”
Marge and Oliver exchanged glances. They were being unceremoniously dismissed. Oliver shrugged. They both got up and thanked Shockley for his time.
“You drive or I drive?” Marge asked.
Oliver flipped her the keys. “We didn’t learn too much, did we?”
Marge opened the door, slid in the driver’s seat, and reached over to unlock the passenger door. Once Oliver was belted in, she started the motor. “We learned that Decameron replaced Berger in the Curedon trials. If Shockley’s to be believed…that he didn’t complain to Sparks about Berger…I’d like to know why Sparks yanked Berger from the trials.”
“Yeah, that’s something.”
Marge pulled the Matador out of the vast parking lot chock-full of Japanese subcompacts. She turned left, onto the lone boulevard leading to the freeway. “I wonder how Berger felt about it…being cut from Curedon.”
“Maybe it was Berger’s decision.”
“Nah, Sparks made all the decisions regarding Curedon. The rest just followed orders.”
“And Berger resented Sparks for making the switch.”
“Possibly.”
“And that’s a motivation for murder?”
“What if money was involved? Whoever worked with Sparks got a piece of the profit?”
A good point, and Marge told him so. She took the on-ramp to the 405 North. “You know, Scott, you put money together with big egos… you get a powder keg.”
“Man, ain’t that so. I’ve never seen people so full of themselves.”
“Guess you play the part of God long enough, you begin to believe your own method acting.” Marge switched over to the left-hand lane. “We also found out that Shockley preferred Decameron over Berger. That says a lot.”
“You’re right. Berger must have been a real obstacle for Gordon Shockley to prefer a gay blade like Decameron.”
“Yeah, Scotty.” Marge fidgeted. “I want to talk to you about that. You think it was wise, bringing up the gay thing?”
Oliver grinned. “Made Shockley feel real uncomfortable. You know, Marge, sometimes you just gotta go for it. I had to get to the prick, and I did. He began to talk a little after that. Plus, he lost that smug smile of his.”
“What if it gets back to Decameron?”
“So what?” Oliver picked up the old thermos and took a swig of lukewarm coffee. “But if you want me to tell Decameron what went down, I’ll do it. I’m not the least bit embarrassed. I’d call him a queer to his face. He’d probably love it.”
“I don’t know about that.” She paused. “Does anything embarrass you, Scotty?”
“A lot embarrasses me, Margie. But I’m not gonna tell you about it.”
Marge smiled. “Too embarrassed?”
Oliver smiled back. “Too embarrassed.”
13
He was waiting when Rina swung the Volvo into the parking lot. She pulled alongside his ten-year-old Toyota, paused before she opened the door. Clad in a somber brown knit dress that fell below the knee, her hair pinned and covered with a chocolate tam, she thought she looked appropriate. Her face was clean, but without a drop of makeup. Let him see all the wrinkles and worry lines.
She got out, straighted up, and brushed imaginary lint from her skirt. She tried not to stare, but did anyway.
He had aged a bit, but wore it well. Overtones of white mixed into in his amber-colored hair, the silvering at his temples. He still kept it the same way-one length and long, the ends nipping his shoulders. His green eyes were as sharp as ever, lying calmly behind hexagonal frameless glasses. His face was a bit bonier, but his shoulders had widened, his build was more mature and mannish. Even with stress stamped across his face, Abram Matthew Sparks cut a handsome figure.
He leaned against the car, looked upward, stuck his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming.”
Her eyes went moist. “I’m sorry, Bram.”
“So am I.”
Such pain in his voice.
He looked at her face, then at the ground. “You look exquisite as always. Married life has been good for you. How long has it been since you’ve tied the knot? Five years?”
“Five years exactly.”
“So it’s been what…around six years since we’ve last seen each other? Where has the time gone? You haven’t aged a whit.”
“Tell me what I can do for you.”
“Nothing, unfortunately.” Bram walked over and opened the passenger door. “Nothing at all.”
Rina blinked back tears. “It’s agonizing to see you in such misery.”
His eyes went to hers, then he looked away. “Better me than you.”
She knew his words were heartfelt, which made the pathos that much stronger. Longing to hug him, to comfort him as he had done for her. But she quelled the thought. It wouldn’t suit either of them. Instead, she took his hand, his fingers tapered and smooth, his palm uncalloused. A scholar’s hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze. Abruptly, he pulled her to his chest, hugged her hard, burrowing his face in her tam. He was trying to control his tears, but she still felt warm droplets on the back of her neck. Embracing her as if she were his life raft as he sputtered to stay afloat.
Hastily, he broke it off and walked away. “Dear God, I’m losing it.”
“Stop being so hard on your-”
“I know, I know.”
Rina was quiet. He was red-faced, embarrassed. The car door was still open. She slipped inside the Toyota ’s front seat, burying her hands into the soft folds of dress fabric. Piled in the back were stacks of university library books written in ancient exotic languages. Among them, at the bottom of one of the heaps, was an oversized tome of Talmud. Tractate Sanhedrin, Volume One. Sanhedrin dealt with the laws of the Jewish court. Without thinking, Rina removed the book and set it on top. Holy works shouldn’t ever rest under secular ones.
Bram wiped his eyes, moved into the driver’s seat. “Sorry. I forgot who I’m dealing with…with whom I’m dealing.”
Rina blushed. “Force of habit.”
“It’s fine. Anything you do is fine. Anything at all. Anything, anything. I don’t know why I even mentioned it.” He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
“You’re perfectly coherent.”
“My, you’re kind.”
“You’re using Steinsaltz?”
“So much for purism.” He rolled his eyes. “What a firebrand I was back then.”
“Enthusiastic.”
“You mean obnoxious. Which I was. Yes, I’m using Steinsaltz. Besides being a remarkably clear thinker, he believes in readable print and punctuation. My eyes are going.”
Rina regarded his face. “Did you get any rest at all, Abram?”
“Actually, yes.” He pulled a crucifix out from under his shirt, kissed it gently. “I grabbed around four hours between six A.M. and noon Mass. I feel okay.”
With that, he started the car, jamming the gear into first. Speeded up as he drove through the winding mountainous road. Bram had always been a fast driver. Occasionally, the Toyota seemed to lose its grip on the asphalt. Rina clutched the door rest and hoped for the best.
She stole a quick glance his way. He was dressed in the requisite black suit and black clerical shirt. His nails had been bitten to the quick. She looked away, eyes peering out the window.
“Considerate of you,” she said. “Wearing your cross inside your shirt when you were with Rav Schulman. Especially considerate to be thinking of him at this time in your life.”