Prayers for the Dead by Faye Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page B

help?”
    “No.”
    “Over here.” Decker led the priest to the stretcher, the body encased in a vinyl bag. He nodded to an attendant who unzipped a portion of the plastic sheath.
    The priest glanced downward, quickly averted his eyes, then stepped backward. “
Dear God!
”
    Decker peeked. Dead eyes stared upward at the foggy moon. He took the priest’s arm, but Bram shook him off.
    “I’m all right.” He covered his mouth, then let his hands drop. “I’m all right. I want to see him again.”
    Decker stared at him.
    “Please,” Bram said quietly. “Please, I need to see him again. Have them unzip the bag.”
    Decker nodded to the attendants. Again, they opened the vinyl casket. The priest came forward, forced his eyes downward. Without warning, he dropped to his knees and crossed himself. Closed his eyes and clasped his hands. He brought his fists to his forehead and prayed, his mouth incanting a slurry of what sounded like Latin. Decker crooked his finger, beckoning the lab men away from the stretcher.
    Give the man his illusion of privacy.
     
5
     
    The last registered event in Dr. Azor Sparks’s daily calendar was an in-house dinner meeting with three people: Reg, Myron, and Liz. It took only a quick call to Sparks’s secretary — Heather Manley — for Oliver to find out that Reg was Dr. Reginald Decameron, Myron was Dr. Myron Berger, and Liz was Dr. Elizabeth Fulton. This entry was one of many that had appeared in Sparks’s business book — a semiweekly research meeting of some sort, according to the secretary, Heather. And the dinner meetings were always held in Sparks’s conference room, not at Tracadero’s. That was all he could glean before Heather’s hysteria broke through.
    Oliver’s eyes moved off the pages of Sparks’s daily planner and scanned the office. Place was twice as big as his apartment. A hell of a lot nicer, too. Wood-paneled walls, plush hunter green carpeting, surround-sound stereo speakers, wet bar, and fridge — all this plus a canyon view of the nearby mountains. True, there was no booze in the bar, only fruit juices, but that could be remedied. He cast his gaze on the ceiling-mounted television set. To Marge, he said, “Maybe we should turn on the TV.”
    Marge shut Sparks’s top desk drawer. Nothing of substance in it. She tried the file drawers in his walnut desk, then the ones in his credenza. Locked, of course. “Think you’re outta luck, Scotty. He probably doesn’t subscribe to
Adam and Eve
.”
    “How kind of you to sum me up as a horndog.” Oliver began putting stickums on Sparks’s planner. “I just wanted to see if the murder hit the networks yet. Because as soon as it gets out, hospital’s going to be thrown into a panic. Just like his secretary. Where the hell is she? She said she only lives fifteen minutes away. It’s not exactly rush hour.”
    Marge investigated a wall of built-in bookshelves, her finger moving over the spines of thick medical tomes. “Didn’t she say she was going to call up his co-workers?”
    “Three doctors. How long does it take to call up three doctors?”
    Marge shrugged. “Sure, turn on the set.”
    Oliver stretched and flipped the power on the ceiling-mounted TV. The monitor filled with a dark image — the climax of some series cop show. He watched an actress in a police uniform chase a bad guy, her breasts jiggling and heaving as she followed him to an alley. Her pants were skintight, showed off a well-formed ass as she peeked around a garbage can. Oliver’s eyes crept over to Marge. She was dressed in a baggy pantsuit and had gunboats on her feet.
    “See anything interesting in his book?” Marge asked.
    “Nothing that means anything to me.” Oliver paged through his notes. “Patient names, procedures, surgeries, staff meetings, reminders for birthdays and anniversaries… quite a few of those. Maybe he owned stock in a greeting card company.”
    Marge glanced at the wood paneling. Interspersed with numerous