Prayers for the Dead

7

Cradling the phone in the crook of his neck, Scott Oliver flipped through his notes. The machine must have had a hands-off feature, but Oliver couldn’t figure out how to use it. To Decker, he said, “The secretary claims she left the hospital around eight. Decameron says he left with Sparks about a quarter to. They walked out to the doctors’ lot together. Decameron had pissed Sparks off and was trying to smooth things over.”

“Which means Decameron was probably the last person at the hospital to see Sparks alive,” Marge spoke from the extension in Heather Manley’s office.

“How’d Decameron anger Sparks?” Decker asked.

“Apparently, Decameron read some of Dr. Sparks’s data without his permission. A big no-no.”

“I can see that,” Decker said. “I hate snoops.”

Marge said, “He wasn’t snooping really, just excited about some positive data concerning Sparks’s pet research project.”

Oliver said, “Decameron said he apologized and Sparks accepted it. End of story.”

“Up front with it,” Marge said. “Told us about it right away.”

Decker said, “When Sparks left the hospital, did Decameron notice if his boss seemed in a hurry?”

“We asked him that.” Oliver transferred the phone to his other ear. “Decameron didn’t notice anything special. But he added that it wasn’t Sparks’s style to rush. Even when he was under pressure, he appeared calm, completely in control.”

Decker said, “Any idea if he was meeting someone?”

Marge said, “We asked that, too. Sparks didn’t say. But if he was meeting anyone, both Decameron and Manley thought it was probably his son Paul.”

“Because Sparks cut the meeting short after he received Paul’s call,” Oliver added. “Did you meet Paul, Loo?”

“I met all of Sparks’s children. These aren’t TAC lines, so I’ll talk about it later. Where are Decameron and Manley now?”

Oliver said, “The night staff has called an emergency meeting. Decameron is briefing them on how to proceed with Sparks ’s cases. It’s a mess here-a very nervous hospital filled with panicky patients.”

Marge said, “ Sparks did all sorts of cardiac procedures, not only transplants. The great majority of the hospital are his heart patients. Everyone is anxious.”

Decker asked, “Is Decameron a practitioner as well as a researcher?”

Marge said, “He’s trained as a cardiac surgeon, but he doesn’t have many clinical patients anymore. His energies are directed to transplant research. He did say-albeit grudgingly-that Myron Berger, one of their colleagues, is a very good surgeon, capable of filling in for Sparks.”

“Grudgingly with a capital G,” Oliver added. “Decameron works with Berger, but he hates him. Course, Reggie boy doesn’t seem to like anyone. He’s also a flounce.”

“Flamingly gay,” Marge said. “Proud of it.”

“You gotta kind of admire him for that,” Oliver said. “And he’s real smart. Clever as well as academic.”

Decker paused. “I wonder if Decameron’s gayness created tension between him and a Fundamentalist like Sparks?”

“Not according to Decameron,” Marge said. “He said Sparks could work with anyone on a professional level.”

“He also mentioned that Sparks had a gay son who was a priest,” Oliver said. “Maybe that made Sparks more tolerant.”

Decker thought for a moment. Bram didn’t seem overtly gay. But that didn’t mean anything. “What about Dr. Berger? Anyone talk to him yet?”

“Can’t get hold of him,” Marge said. “We’ve left a half-dozen messages-”

“I don’t like that at all.”

Oliver said, “We didn’t either, Loo. Sent a cruiser by there a half hour ago. House is dark, but nothing appears out of order. Just looks like no one’s home.”

“So where is he?” Decker asked. “If Berger’s a surgeon with clinical patients, he must have a pager.”

“Yeah, we tried his beeper,” Oliver said. “His answering service said he wasn’t on-call tonight. A resident named Kenner is covering for him. I guess Berger shuts down when he’s off.”

Unlike Sparks who basically lived at the hospital. Decker said, “ Sparks also worked with a woman named Elizabeth Fulton. What do you know about her?”

Marge said, “Now, we did reach Fulton. She can’t come to the hospital at the moment, because she can’t swing a baby-sitter.” She was silent for a moment. “Isn’t that weird. A doctor of her stature not having twenty-four-hour help?”

“But she’s not a practitioner,” Oliver said. “Strictly research.”

Marge said, “Still, she’s a busy woman. You’d think she’d have a live-in.”

Oliver said, “Anyway, she’s more than willing to talk to us if we want to come to her place.”

Decker checked his watch. Almost midnight. “Call her up. Tell her you’ll be down there tonight. Did you check out the rest of the hospital staff?”

“Not yet,” Oliver said.

“We’re going to do that now,” Marge said. “Unless you want us to see Fulton first.”

Decker said, “Webster and Martinez are just about done over here at the crime scene. I’ll send them over to the hospital. You go interview this Dr. Fulton. What happened to the secretary, Heather Manley? She still around or did she go home?”

“Went home,” Marge said.

“No reason to keep her.” Oliver felt his lips arc upward into a grin. “Well, I’ve got a reason to keep her, but it doesn’t have anything to do with the case.”

“Good-looking?”

“Very nice, Loo.”

“Affair material?”

“Definitely,” Marge said. “But Heather claims no. Sparks was way too close to Jesus to do something like that.”

“What do you think, Scott?”

Oliver brushed the lapel of his Armani blazer. Got this baby used from a secondhand shop, but it was in perfect condition. Wonderful fabric, the wool was lightweight but warm. “What do I think? Sure I think it’s a possibility despite what Manley says.”

“He doesn’t sound like the kind to me, Pete.” To Oliver, Marge said, “You know, there are some men who don’t do it, Scotty.”

“Two classes of men, Marge,” Oliver said. “Those who cheat and those who’re going to cheat. Only thing that separates them is timing.”

Decker said, “Who’s taking over Sparks’s patients right now?”

“Residents,” Oliver said. “As soon as Dr. Berger is reached, Decameron is sure that he’ll fill in. There have also been lots of surgeons from other places volunteering to help out. Everyone speaks highly of Sparks.”

Decker said, “Okay. Go interview Dr. Fulton. By the way, did Decameron mention a drug called Curedon to you?”

“Did he mention Curedon?” Oliver laughed. “Marge and I have doctorates in immunosuppressants.” He brought Decker up to date on Sparks’s research.

“See, that’s why Decameron swiped the data from Sparks’s fax machine,” Marge said. “It was good news. Lately, Curedon had undergone some problems in its death rate. This particular batch of data was positive. Decameron said he just didn’t want to wait until Sparks handed him the sheets.”

“And that was the only thing that pissed off Sparks?” Decker asked. “Sure there wasn’t more to the argument?”

“Not according to him,” Oliver said. “Of course, one of the other doctors might offer a different version.”

Decker said, “Why should Decameron care so much if it’s Sparks ’s drug? He doesn’t make money off of it, does he?”

“Decameron says no,” Oliver said. “But…”

Marge said, “He told us that as of right now, he is the liaison between Fisher/Tyne, the FDA, and Sparks’s lab.” She paused. “I know this may sound corny. But I get the feeling that Decameron takes his job seriously, has a great deal of pride in his work. He had a personal stake in Curedon’s success if not a financial one.”

“Hmmmm,” Decker said.

“You know differently?” Oliver asked.

“Nah, just my normal suspicious nature,” Decker said. “Someone should go talk to people at Fisher/Tyne ASAP. Find out if the company did pay Sparks a hefty sum for the right to manufacture the drug. Because where there’s money, there’s motive for murder.”

Oliver said, “We don’t even know where Fisher/Tyne is located, Loo.”

“Ask Decameron,” Decker said.

Marge said, “What if they’re out of state?”

“If necessary, we’ll send you there.”

Oliver smiled. “Let’s hope for Florida.”

“There’re gators in Florida,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “There’re gators everywhere, Margie. Most of them are just two-legged.”

Decker took a final sip of coffee, hung up the mike, then heaved his body out of the Volare. He lurched forward into the cold mist, checked his watch again.

Midnight.

Most normal people were retiring for bed.

Bed was a very nice thought.

Bert Martinez walked over to him. Decker offered the detective some coffee from his thermos.

“No thanks,” Martinez answered. “Wife packed me a jug full of Mexican coffee. Strong stuff. Spicy. Want a cup?”

“Where were you ten minutes ago…before I tanked up on this swill?”

Martinez smiled.

Decker stuck his hands in his pockets. Rocked on his feet to give them circulation. Man, it was cold out here, fog attacking the skin with tiny, icy needles. Standing in a back alley perfumed by rotting food, cold asphalt seeping into the soles of his shoes.

He said, “Take it there’s nothing to report. Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking about coffee.”

Martinez closed the zipper on his windbreaker, streaks of silvered-black hair plastered to his sweaty brow. He blew on his hands, then stuck them in his pockets. He was more squat than tall, but his muscles could pack a wallop.

“The problem is that the restaurant’s dishwashing area faces the back alley.”

Even with the kitchen door closed, Decker could hear the hum of machinery combined with the rhythmic blare of trumpets. Someone had the radio on.

“You think the noise is bad out here,” Martinez said, “nothing like it is inside. Dishwashers running full tilt, the help have cranked up the music to earsplitting level. Besides, there’s lots of noise coming from the front portion of the kitchen. Appliances running, pots and pans clattering, and the chef screaming at everyone.”

“No one heard anything?” Decker asked.

“That’s the consistent story,” Martinez said. “Believe me, I interviewed everyone in the back en español so no one can say they didn’t understand my questions. Between the whoops of the salsa music and the whir of the dishwashers, you can’t hear yourself think. Besides, you know Latinos. Especially the green-card holders. Close mouthed when it comes to the police. Half of them think we’re in cahoots with INS. Hard to get their confidence, hard to get them to talk. Especially the men. It’s a macho thing, a way they can play one up on us.”

Decker smoothed his mustache. “So Sparks was shot and carved and, supposedly, no one heard a thing.”

“It could be the truth. Maybe the guy used a silencer. Maybe he worked fast.”

“The more likely explanation is we’re working with more than one person.”

“Because of the dual MO.”

“Exactly,” Decker said. “Was there any cash in his wallet?”

“Few bucks in cash and his credit cards were still there. Either it was an incomplete mugging, maybe someone spooked the muggers. Or robbery wasn’t the motive.”

“Shit,” Decker muttered. “Be nice if we could have traced credit cards or something!” He cursed again. “What about the valets, Bert? Did they hear anything?”

“They park the cars in front of the restaurant, not in back.”

“Sound travels at night,” Decker said.

“The street’s a main thoroughfare at eight-thirty. Lots of cars with loud radios, backfires, and revved-up motors.”

Webster sauntered over to them, wearing a set of earphones. He removed them, stowed them in his pocket.

“What are you listening to?” Martinez asked.

“Selections from Saint-Saëns. Specifically, Danse Macabre. Eerily apropos.” He kicked a clod of broken asphalt with his shoe. “Not much in the way of trash, Loo-tenant. Y’all want me to search again, I reckon I have the time. Still got a Samson and Delilah CD to listen to.”

“Got another assignment for you two,” Decker said. “I’m sending you both out to New Chris to interview the staff there.”

Martinez said, “You want us to talk to everyone or just the people who Sparks worked with on a regular basis?”

Decker said, “Talk to everyone.”

“I see you don’t b’lieve in sleep,” Webster said.

“I’m not sleeping, buddy, you’re not sleeping.” Decker’s brain was buzzing. Too much coffee. “We have a gruesome murder and so far the only remote motive we’ve pulled out was an academic tiff between Sparks and one of his colleagues. That’s not much.”

Webster said, “It’s a start.”

“It ain’t enough,” Decker said emphatically. “I’m not saying we’ve got to solve this within the twenty-four-hour cutoff. But we got to do better than this. Sparks was known as a rich man. Could be some hospital worker intended to tail him and rob him. Find out who called in absent today.”

“Anybody know what he was doing here?” Martinez asked. “In back of Tracadero’s specifically.”

“No,” Decker said. “Call me in an hour to brief me on your progress.”

Tom nodded. “You want to drive, Bert?”

“No problem. You want some coffee?”

“You got coffee?”

“A whole jug of Mexican stuff-strong and spicy. I also got some pasteles and fried tortillas with powdered sugar. Wife’s a good cook.” Martinez patted his gut. “Too good.”

“Y’all don’t have to eat it.”

“If it’s in front of me, I eat it.”

Decker watched them disappear in a swirling snowstorm of street-lit mist. Decker folded his arms over his chest, let out a fog-visible sigh. Farrell Gaynor was still poking around the scene. Decker walked over to the Buick.

“Impound should be here momentarily, Loo.” Gaynor was half in, half out of the car, legs dangling from the interior. Finally, he began to push his body out. It looked like the Buick was giving birth to a breech baby. He straightened his spine, handed some paper to Decker. “Couple of gas credit slips. He kept his car real neat. Not surprising considering what he does.”

“Yeah, think you would want your heart surgeon to be the compulsive type.”

“Now, this is more interesting, Loo.” Gaynor offered Decker a white business card.

“Wait, let me put my gloves on.” He slipped on latex, then took the piece of paper.

The background was imprinted with the Harley-Davidson logo-wings attached to a big H. Bold Gothic letters were overlaid across the center of the card.

Everyone needs an Ace In The Hole.

Because Sparks fly hard and hot.

Born to be Wild.

No address, no phone number on the front. Decker flipped the card over. Nothing on the back, either.

Gaynor said, “What do you make of it?”

“Where’d you find it?”

“In the glove compartment,” Gaynor answered. “Stuck between the pages of a Thomas guide. Only other thing in the compartment was the owner’s manual.”

“Ace In The Hole? Sparks fly…?” Decker laughed. “Azor Sparks. Ace Sparks?”

“Maybe the good doctor is a secret Hell’s Angel.”

“Yeah, he’s really a kingpin crank supplier who’s been manufacturing meth out of his hospital lab,” Decker said.

“Can’t you see it in the headlines?” Gaynor said. “Head doctor is secret head.” Suddenly, he grew pensive. “You know, Loo, the case does have the look of a drug retaliation hit.”

Decker laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

“Lots of brutality. You yourself said it looks like a gang hit. I know it sounds lunatic. But maybe it’s worth checking out.”

“It’s absurd.”

“So is finding that card in Sparks’s car.”

“Unless it isn’t his. Could belong to one of his kids.”

“Ace sounds like Azor to me.”

Decker rolled his tongue in his mouth. As of this moment, he didn’t have squat. What would it hurt to look at this through every possible lens. He pocketed the business card. “I’ll look into it.”

“It’s stupid, but what the hey.” Gaynor rubbed his shoulders, massaged his neck. “Cold out here.”

“Call it a night, Farrell.” Decker took off the gloves and blew on his hands. “I’ll wait for impound. You go back to the station house and finish up the paperwork. Tomorrow, start the paper trail on Sparks. His bank accounts, his credit cards, brokerage accounts if he has any. And I’m sure he does because his kid is a stockbroker.”

“That doesn’t mean he invested with him.”

“Find out. If he didn’t, that says something. Tomorrow, you also begin a paper trail on his children, starting with son Paul. He owed his dad some bucks. And so did Sparks’s daughter, Eva Shapiro. Those are the only two who fessed up to being in arrears with Dad. But I want you to check all of them out.”

“You going home after impound, Loo?”

“No, I’m going by Myron Berger’s house. Something’s way off with that.”

“Be careful.”

“Always am.”

“See you, Loo.”

“See you.” Decker rubbed his hands, then his arms, watching Gaynor totter back to his car. The man had two more years before he’d be forced to hang up his shield. Forty-five years of police service: thirty-five of them as a detective third grade, fifteen of those as a Homicide detective in brutal gang territory. And yet the guy was always neat, clean, punctual. As dependable as Big Ben and still had a bounce in his step at twelve-thirty in the morning.

Way to go, Farrell.