Decker nodded, observing a man who had just unloaded a truckload of personal baggage. The outsider in his trio, the son of a brilliant but domineering man. Paul must have been dying to prove himself. Since he couldn’t be brilliant like Dad, nor the golden boy like brother Bram, maybe he could gain his self-respect and position through money.
Hence all the bad investments.
Luke, on the other hand, never even tried. Just drowned his troubles in a a sea of drugs until his kids made him grow up. Yet, Lord only knew how much residual resentment the triplet sons felt toward their father.
Paul checked his watch. “I talk too much. I do that when I’m nervous.”
“You’re nervous around me?”
“My father was murdered and I don’t know why. Right now, I’m nervous around everyone.”
20
“I need to talk to you, Bram. Right away!”
“Shoot.”
“Not over the phone.”
Bram paused. His brother’s voice held an eerie calm trying to mask anxiety. The priest massaged his pounding forehead. “No problem. Come down to the church.”
“Not a good idea. Be at your apartment in ten minutes.”
A long moment of silence. “Why the urgen-”
“Not over the phone!”
The voice held full-fledged panic. Bram said, “I’ll be there.”
The line went dead. Bram stood, regarded the crucifix on his wall. He knelt for a moment, said the paternoster, then crossed himself and grabbed his jacket. Fishing through his pocket for his keys to lock the door to the chancellery, he was intercepted by Jim, the seminary student.
“Father, Mrs. McDougal just called. Her son Sean was just readmitted into the hospital,” Jim said. “Apparently, the leukemia came back-”
“Oh no!” Bram locked the door, then rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “Which hospital?”
“St. Jerome’s,” Jim said. “Here’s the room number, here’s the home phone number. You look busy. Do you want me to call her for you, Father?”
“No, no, I’ll do it.” Bram took the slip of paper. “If she calls again, tell her I should be there in…a half hour to forty-five minutes, all right?”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to call Father Danner? You’ve had so much on your mind…”
“Thank you, but no.”
“You look a little pale, Father.”
He did feel weak. Nothing that a little orange juice couldn’t cure. He hadn’t eaten today, was probably suffering from low blood sugar. “I’m fine, Jim. Thank you for your concern.” He patted the young man’s back, then turned and jogged away.
Farrell Gaynor sat across from Decker’s desk, shifting his rear in the hard plastic seat. “I guess what I’m really saying is I see Paul as a problem because of his debt.”
Decker said, “But the old man had already agreed to loan Paul the money. And Dolly Sparks agreed to honor Dad’s loan. I heard that with my own ears.”
“That doesn’t mean she knows the truth.”
“Dad turned Paul down this time?”
“I think Dad turned Paul down a long time ago.” Gaynor shuffled through some paper. “What if the purpose of Paul’s phone call the night of the murder was to lure Azor to the spot, then ice him-”
Decker interrupted. “He murdered over tuition payments?”
“Over an upcoming balloon payment coming due on his house.”
Decker looked up from his notes. “What’s this?”
“A balloon payment due in about three months. Three hundred thou.”
“Christ!” Decker started adding up the numbers in Paul’s debit column. “With that, Paul’s in the hole for close to three quarters of a million.”
“And the guy doesn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder, Loo.”
Decker nodding, knowing he was going to have to bring him in for questioning.
“So let’s assume that Paul hired out.” Gaynor coughed into a well-worn handkerchief. “The next question is who?”
Decker smoothed his mustache, sat back in his chair. “I don’t know. From my brief observations, Paul and William Waterson seem to be making chitchat. And just what was Waterson doing in a remote area of the mountains, meeting a lowlife like Manny Sanchez?”
“Right.” Gaynor shifted his weight again. “Now it could be that Waterson was giving Sanchez money that Azor Sparks had left him for this Environment Freedoms Act cause. But if that was the case, why didn’t Waterson meet Sanchez at his dealership in town? Why the clandestine spot?”
Decker said, “Waterson paid the bikers to be triggermen for Paul. And what Webster and Martinez saw was the payoff for Azor’s hit. Good logic. No evidence.”
“Things take time.”
Decker said, “Why would Waterson get involved in something like that? Was he in debt?”
“I don’t know. I’ll check into his accounts. See if any big checks were coming in or going out.”
Decker’s phone rang. He picked it up, listened for a few moments, then shut his eyes. A silent stream of curse words escaped his lips. He looked at Gaynor, shook his head.
“Who?” the old man asked.
“Decameron.”
It was an isolated contemporary thing nestled into the Santa Susana Mountains, with a view of the valley below. Decameron’s lot was hillside, overlaid with blooms of purple ice plants, the house semiobscured by giant banana plants and frothy green palms. The building was a square barrack of white stucco veined with brilliant red bougainvillea, almost void of windows. Instead, a dozen elongated glass-covered furrows had been cut into the walls. From the inside, the grooves had widened into wedges, becoming windows that allowed a great deal of light to enter. A clever design, like arrow slits found in the old fortress castles.
The house held high ceilings and slate floors. Footsteps echoed as Decker walked through. Lots of open space, the furnishings were spare. Everything was orderly except for the crime scene.
Someone had gone crazy with a bat, smashing windows, showering everything with shards of glass. Made it hard to gather evidence without slicing tender flesh. Decameron was spread out on his tomato-red leather couch, his mouth and eyes open. A second gaping mouth had been carved across his throat. Blood had oozed downward, across his body. There were holes in his chest and in his forehead. He was fully dressed in a gray suit, his red paisley tie and white shirt browned with blood. His face was turned upward at the skylights, his feet dangled off the edge of the cushions.
Under his toes lay another head, another body. A blond man, in a conservative blue suit. His throat had also been cut, he had also sustained shots in his head and chest.
Uniformed officers buzzed around like random bees. The call came through around twenty minutes ago, someone told Decker. A nurse phoned Decameron in as a missing person to Dispatch. Hospital had been calling Decameron all morning. No one had picked up.
Decker heard his name being called and turned around. Marge coming toward him, Oliver at her heels. They both looked grave.
Oliver’s eyes swept over the crime scene. “Shit,” he whispered. “Just when I was starting to like the guy.”
Marge said, “We were waiting for him, Pete. He never showed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Decameron,” Oliver said. “He was supposed to meet us for a late lunch. Two o’clock. He never showed. Now I know why.”
Marge said, “He was bringing us Fisher/Tyne’s trial data of Curedon.”
“Oh Christ, that’s right!” Decker said. “Either of you call the hospital when Decameron didn’t show?”
“Yes, sir,” Oliver said. “They paged him. He didn’t answer. I tried to get a location out of them, but they were closemouthed. Thought it was just an extra security precaution.”
“When did you call?”
“About forty-five minutes ago.” Oliver shook his head. “Who’s the second stiff?”