Prayer by Philip Kerr Read Free Book Online Page A

pockets. “I need a cigarette. Let’s go outside.”
    It was hot on the terrace. We moved away from the tables where a few of the bar’s more heat-resistant customers were eating and drinking under the shade of some black-and-white umbrellas; we stood at the edge of the tree-lined road. Quickly and expertly Coogan made a roll-up and tucked it into the corner of his lopsided mouth, where it remained until it was the size of a lost tooth. Meanwhile, he continued to tell his story.
    “A couple of months ago, Random House—his publisher—launched his latest book at a party at the Hotel ZaZa. The book is called
More Faith in a Shadow.
It’s kind of like the other one. A drive-by shooting outside the gates of heaven.”
    “At least that sounds like a crime, Eamon.”
    “The party had started at around seven. But at eight-thirty there was no longer any sign of Philip. Soon afterward, everyone on the terrace heard a commotion that seemed to come from the direction of the plaza. The plaza is a small island of trees and bronze figures just a few yards away. It was a dreadful commotion—like the sound of an animal in distress. I think it was the doormen who crossed the road to investigate. Anyway, they came back to inform us that it was Philip Osborne and that he appeared to be in a state of hysteria. Some of the guests went to see what we could do and an astonishing sight awaited us: Philip was cowering underneath the cupola of a little monument, whimpering like a dog. His hands and face were covered in blood and he was pleading with some invisible figure to leave him alone.
    “When I tried to touch him, Philip let out such a scream that it quite put the fear of God into everyone. Philip then attempted to strangle one of the doormen and it was at this point that an HPD patrol car arrived. One of the officers was about to Taser him when suddenly he gave up the attack and took off across the road into some nearby fountains. And that’s where we found him a few minutes later—lying on the surface of the water, staring up at the sky, and quite unresponsive to all external stimuli, almost as if he were dead. He’s been like that ever since.”
    By now I had remembered the story in the
Chronicle
—only the report had suggested the author had been drunk, and since it wasn’t unusual for drunks to take a swim in the fountains on Montrose Boulevard, I had paid little attention to it. It all sounded unfortunate, but I was still at a loss as to why Bishop Coogan was interrupting my Sunday evening with this.
    “There was blood—Philip Osborne’s blood—all over that little plaza, as if he’d run around banging into one thing and then another like a crazy man. He gashed his arm and—”
    “Well, there you are,” I said. “He must have hit his head on something as well.”
    “But there were no contusions on his skull. Just a few scratches on his face from the branches on the trees.”
    “And the blood on his hands?”
    “He’d tried to climb the monument.”
    “Did the police find any assailant?”
    “No. The police think it was a simple case of stress, overwork, too much Xanax mixed with too much alcohol. A Britney-style breakdown that ended up being rather more damaging than a photo spread in
Us Weekly
.”
    “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry about your friend, but however you want to cook it, Eamon, Bishop, sir, this meat’s HPD.”
    “And if I told you that this is hardly an isolated case? That there have been similar cases—fatal cases—in other states?”
    “I’d probably say what I said earlier. People go MIA when their heads are upriver. That’s just the way it is.”
    Coogan was shaking his own outsize head. “No, no, this is different, Gil. I’m sure of it. I can feel it.”
    “That might be a deeper source of religion, but it won’t do for my boss. We need evidence.”
    “And I’ve got it. In my duffel bag there’s a file full of evidence. Just promise me that you’ll take a look at