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Prayers for the Dead
Prayers for the Dead
Faye Kellerman
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in the United States by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, 1996
This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Faye Kellerman 1996
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photography © Shutterstock.com
Faye Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008293550
Version: 2018-12-08
Dedication
To Jonathan for a quarter century
of love, laughter, and just plain fun
To Jesse, Rachel, Ilana, and Aliza,
the keys to my heart—
thanks for putting it all in perspective
To Mom, my lifelong friend—love ya, kid
And to Rita—for all the inappropriate giggles
Special thanks to
Dr. Isaac Weiner
Dr. Hillel Laks
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Keep Reading
About the Author
Faye Kellerman booklist
About the Publisher
“This is a team effort, Grace. You know that.”
Even through morphine-laden stupor, Grace knew that. From her hospital bed, she looked up at her doctor’s face—a study in strength. Good, solid features. A well-boned forehead, Roman nose and a pronounced chin, midnight blue eyes that burned fire, tar-black hair streaked with silver. His expression, though grave, was completely self-assured. Someone who knew what he wanted and expected to get it. Truth be told, the man looked downright arrogant.
Which was exactly the kind of doctor Grace had wanted. What she hadn’t wanted was some young stud like Ben Casey or an old fart like Marcus Welby with the crinkly eyes and the patient, understanding smile. She had wanted someone bursting with ego. Someone whose superiority was touted, worn with pride like Tiffany jewelry. A self-possession that spoke: Of course the operation is going to be successful. Because I always succeed.
Because getting a new heart was serious business.
Grace Armstrong had to have the best and the brightest. Had the luxury to afford the best and the brightest. And in Dr. Azor Moses Sparks, she had gotten numero uno.
Dope was winning the battle of wits with Grace’s brain. Sparks’s face had lost clarity, sat behind a curtain of haze, his features becoming blurry except for the eyes. They peered through the muck like high-beam headlights. She wanted to go to sleep. But Sparks’s presence told her she wasn’t permitted to do that … not just yet.
He spoke in authoritative, stentorian tones. The sounds bounced around Grace’s brain, words reverberating as if uttered through a malfunctioning PA system. Doctor’s voice …
“… what we have here, Grace. A team comprised of me: the primary surgeon; you: the patient; and my staff—the other fine surgeons and nurses who’ll assist me in this procedure.”
Grace liked how Dr. Sparks had emphasized his fine staff. As if he owned New Christian Hospital.
Maybe he did.
She closed her eyes, anxiety now replaced by the overwhelming need to go comatose. But Sparks wouldn’t let up.
“Grace, open your eyes. We still have uncompleted business to finish.”
Grace opened her eyes.
“We mustn’t forget someone very important,” Sparks reminded her. “The most important member of our team.”
The surgeon paused.
“Do you know who that is, Grace? Do you know whose Hands really control this entire effort?”
Grace was silent. Though groggy and heavy, she felt her ailing heart fluttering too fast. He was testing her and she was flunking. She regarded Sparks through panicky eyes. The doctor smiled, gently patted her hand. The gesture reassured her immensely.
Sparks pointed upward. Grace’s eyes followed the narcotic-induced flickering path of the surgeon’s index finger.
Respectfully, Sparks said, “We mustn’t forget Him.”
“God?” Grace was breathless.
“Yes, Grace.” Sparks nodded. “We mustn’t forget our holy, heavenly Father.”
Grace spoke, her words barely recognizable. “Believe me, Dr. Sparks, I’ve been praying nonstop.”
Sparks smiled. It lit up his face, gave warmth to his stern demeanor. “I’m very glad to hear that. So let us pray together, Grace. Let us both ask God for His help and for His guidance.”
The surgeon went down on his knees. At that moment, Grace thought him very odd, but didn’t comment. Sparks’s manner suggested that the ritual wasn’t subject to debate. She closed her eyes, managed to put her hands together.
“Dear heavenly Father,” Sparks began, “be our guiding light through this time of darkness. Be a strong beacon to direct us through this upcoming storm. Show us Your mercy and Your love in its abundancy. Let Your wisdom be our wisdom. Your perfection be our perfection. Let Grace Armstrong be upmost in her fortitude. Give her strength and faith. In Your abundant love, allow me and my staff to be swift and sure-footed as we embark on another journey to heal the sick and mend the feeble.”
Grace winced inside at the word feeble.
“And now a moment of silence,” Sparks said. “You may add your own words of prayer here, Grace.”
Her own words were: Please, let me go to sleep, wake up and have this shitty ordeal behind me.
Sparks’s eyes were still closed. Grace’s head felt leaden, her brain so woozy it threatened to shut down. She managed to make out Sparks’s face, his lids opening. Suddenly, his eyes seemed injected with newly found vigor.
Grace liked that.
Sparks regarded his patient, swept his skilled hands over her lids, and gently closed them. “Go to sleep, Grace. Tomorrow you’ll be a new woman.”
Grace felt herself going under. No longer was her health in her hands.
It was up to Sparks.
It was up to God.
At that moment, they were one and the same.
The living room was dimly lit, the house motionless, reminding Decker of his divorced, bachelor days—days he’d be reliving soon if he didn’t start making it home earlier. To wit: The dining room table had been cleared—dinner long gone—and the door to Hannah’s nursery was closed, Rina nowhere in sight. Yes, she was a patient woman, but she did have limits. Decker often wondered how far she could be pushed before she’d explode on impact. Because as of yet, no one had developed a road test for wives.
He placed his briefcase on the empty table, his fingers raking through thick shocks of carrot-colored hair. Ginger came trotting in from the kitchen. Decker bent down and petted the setter’s head.
“Hi, girl. Are you happy to see me?”
Ginger’s tail wagged furiously.
“Well, someone’s glad I’m alive. Let’s go see what the crew had for dinner.”
Decker dragged himself into the kitchen, draped his jacket over an oak kitchenette chair. Rina had kept his dinner warming in the oven. He put on a quilted mitt and fished it out. Some kind of Chinese cuisine except, by now, the snow peas and broccoli were limp and khaki green, and the rice had developed a yellowish crust. At least the noodles appeared nice and crisp.
He set the dish on top of a meat place mat and took out cutlery. Washed his hands, said a quick blessing, but paused before he sat down. He noticed a light coming from under the door of his stepsons’ room. To be expected. As teens, they often went to bed later than he did. Perhaps he should say hello to the boys first.
That should take all of five minutes.
Kids had been preoccupied lately, hadn’t seemed to have much time for quality conversation. Maybe they were peeved at the late hours he’d been keeping. The more likely explanation was typical teenage behavior. His grown daughter, Cindy, had gone through sullen moments in her adolescent years. Now she was doing postgrad work back east in Criminal Sciences. A beautiful young lady who truly enjoyed his company. Ah, the passage of time …
He glanced at his withered food, eyes moving to the dog. “Don’t get any ideas. I’ll be right back.”
He knocked on the door to his sons’ room. He heard Jake ask a testy “What?” Decker jiggled the doorknob. It was locked.
“Someone want to open the door, please?”
Scuffling noises. Desk chair wheels sliding against the floor. The lock popped open, but the door remained closed. Decker hesitated, went into the room.
Both boys were at their desks, books and papers spilling over the work surface. They mumbled a perfunctory hello. Decker returned the greeting with proper articulation, and studied his sons.
Sammy had grown tall this last year. At least five ten, which, according to Rina, had already made him a couple of inches taller than his late father. From the pictures Decker had seen of Yitzchak, the elder boy strongly resembled his dad—same long face, pointed chin, and sandy hair. His complexion was smooth and fair, freckles dabbling the bridge of his nose. His eyes were dark and quiet in their intelligence. He was also nearsighted like Yitzchak; Sam wore wire-rimmed spectacles. Jake had been the one to inherit Rina’s stunning baby blues, her 20/20 eyesight as well.
The boys were still in their school uniform—white shirt and navy slacks. The fringes of their prayer shawls—their tzitzit—were hanging past the hems of their untucked shirts. Jake wore a knitted yarmulke, its colors designed to look like a slice of watermelon. Sammy had on a black, leather kippah embossed with his Hebrew name in gold letters.
“How’s it going, boys?” Decker asked. “What’re you doing?”
Sammy put down his textbook. “A paper on the evolution of the American Ideal through the literature of Mark Twain. A real conversation stopper.” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses, peered at Decker. “You look real tired, Dad. Maybe you should go eat something. I think Eema left you something in the oven.”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“No, I just thought …” Sammy frowned. “Jeez, try and be a nice guy around here. Do whatever you want.” His eyes went back to his notes. He picked up a highlighter and started underlining.
Well, that was spiffy, Deck. He shifted his weight, wondered what to do next. Jake came to his rescue. “You have a hard day, Dad?”
“Not too bad.”
“Felons took the day off?”
“Never.”
“But no famous people accused of murdering their wives.”
“No, not today.”
“Too bad,” Jake said. “You woulda looked cool on the witness stand.”
“Thank you, I’ll pass.”
Sammy said, “Jeez, Dad, where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Adventure is for the young,” Decker said. “I’m just a stodgy old coot.”
“You’re not a coot,” Sammy said. “What is a coot anyway?”
“A simpleton,” Decker answered.
“Nah, you’re definitely not a coot.”
“As opposed to stodgy and old.”
“Well, better too stodgy than too cool.” Jake grinned.
“You read that article in the paper? ’Bout the father who was arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a minor or something like that with a stripper?”
“What’s this?” Sammy’s interest was piqued.
Jake guffawed as he spoke. “A father hired a stripper to perform at his son’s twelfth birthday.”
Sam wrinkled up his nose. “That’s gross.” His smile was wide. “Kinda fun, I bet, but gross.”
Jake was doubled over. “One of the kids … told his mother. The mother complained and they arrested the guy … stupid jerk. The father said he was just trying to be a ‘cool dad.’”
Now Sam started chortling. “Now, why can’t you be a cool dad like that?”
“Your rabbaim would really love that,” Decker said.
“Yeah, they’d get mad,” Jake said, his eyes wet with tears. “But only because we didn’t invite them.”
Both boys were seized with laughter. Decker smiled and shook his head. “How you talk about your elders.”
“A very stodgy response.” Sam got up, kissed Decker on the cheek, and patted his shoulder. “You don’t have to hire a stripper for my birthday to be cool. But I wouldn’t mind a motorcycle.”
Decker gave Sam a paternal smile that said “over my dead body.” Sam shrugged. “No harm in asking.” He sat back down at his desk. “Gotta get back to work. Huck Finn is calling.”
Jake looked at his homework—a tractate of incomprehensible Talmud. “Shmueli, you learned Baba Kama, didn’t you?”
“More like a few parts. What don’t you understand?”
“I don’t understand any of it.”
“You gotta do better than that, Yonkie.”
Jake squinted at the mini-print text in an oversized tome of Talmud. “Something about if a guy’s tied up in a field … and there’s fire in the field … if it’s murder or not?”
“It would be murder according to American law,” Decker said.
Jake bypassed Decker’s bit of professional input. “I don’t know what Rav Yosef is talking about. The man is on another planet.”
“Why don’t you ask Rav Schulman?” Decker suggested.
Jake gave him an “are you a moron?” look. “Dad, I don’t think a big Rosh Yeshiva like him has a lot of free time for basic questions.” The boy sighed. “Besides, I don’t want to look stupid.” His voice turned desperate as he spoke to Sam. “You didn’t learn this at all?”
“Sounds vaguely familiar. Read me the passuk.”
The conversation between the two continued. Feeling superfluous, Decker said, “I think I am going to go eat.”
Both boys said a quick good-bye, returning their attentions to their respective academic plight.
Decker trudged back into the kitchen, Ginger still parked under his chair. She picked up her head and made a pathetic squeaking noise. Throwing her a piece of overcooked beef, he sat down and picked at his shriveled dinner.
A minute later, Rina walked in the room, her cheeks pink with warmth. She had tied her ebony hair into a long plait, and her lids were still half-closed as her eyes adjusted from the darkness of the nursery to the white glare of the kitchen’s fluorescent lighting. She squinted at Peter.
“Are you a husband or a hologram?” She bent down and kissed his lips. “I do believe you’re flesh and blood.”
“Funny.”
Her eyes stopped at his dinner plate. “Chinese doesn’t appear to keep well. Let me make you something fresh.”
“Nah, don’t bother.”
“How about salami and eggs?” Rina proposed. “Easy to make and guaranteed to drive your cholesterol off the scale.”
Decker pushed the dish away. “Actually, that sounds great. How’s my baby daughter? Does she still remember me?”
“With much fondness. You look very tired, Peter.”
“As always.”
Rina began to rub his neck. “You’re very tense, Atlas. Why don’t you pass the world onto someone else’s shoulders?”
“I tried. No one would take it.”
Rina said nothing, continued the massage.
“Feels good,” Decker said.
“Maybe you can juggle some paperwork, put me on the department payroll as your masseuse. Isn’t that how the politicians work it?”
“Too bad I’m not a good politician.” Decker blew out air. “I’m not a good bureaucrat, either. I’m also lousy at delegating tasks. As a result, I’m swamped with paperwork. My own doing, of course.”
“Would you like a rope for self-flagellation, or perhaps a cat-o’-nine-tails?”
Decker smiled. “Where do you know from a cat-o’-nine-tails?”
Rina hit his shoulder, went over to the refrigerator and took out eggs and a roll of salami. Decker looked at his wife as she sliced and diced. As tired as he was, damn, if she didn’t look good enough to devour. He still marveled at how the gods had smiled on him. Seven years ago since they had met …
“It’s not that I don’t have my virtues,” Decker said. “In fact, I have many.”
Rina pushed sizzling salami around the pan. “That’s the spirit.”
“I sometimes miss working in the field, that’s all. I miss working with Marge as a partner. I’ve teamed her with Oliver. They work well together. But I think there’s friction.”
“Big surprise. Marge is a straight shooter, Scott’s a slick old goat.”
“He’s in his forties. That’s not old.”
“But he is slick and he is a goat.”
“True.”
“Is Marge complaining?”
“No, she’s too much the professional to do that. I should talk to her, find out if she’s happy. Tell the truth, I don’t want to open up a can of worms. I figure if there are real problems, I’ll learn about them sooner or later.”
“In other words, you’re playing ostrich, burying your head in the sand.”
“More like … selective ostrich.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “Sometimes, I have to look the other way. Otherwise, you spread yourself too thin.”
The phone rang.
Both of them looked at the wall, at the malevolent blinking business line. Rina poured the eggs into the pan and scrambled fiercely. “How about doing some fancy head-interring right now, Mr. Cassowary?”
“Lieutenant Cassowary.”
Wordlessly, Rina picked up the receiver, handed it to her husband. He took it, shrugged helplessly.
“Decker.”
“It’s Marge. We need you.”
“Can I finish my dinner?”
“You may not want to. Just found sixty-plus white male slumped inside an ’86 Buick. Gunshot wounds to the forehead, as well as multiple stab wounds to the chest. The man had ID on him. Pete, it’s Azor Sparks!”
It took a few moments for Decker to put flesh and bone on the name. “The heart doctor?” He felt a sudden pounding in his head. “Jesus! What happened?”
“What?” Rina asked.
Decker waved her off. Marge said, “The car was found parked in the back alley behind Tracadero’s. A busboy was taking out the garbage when he saw that the Buick had the driver’s seat door wide open. He went over to investigate … Oh Christ! … Pete, a stray was on top of him, snout buried in his chest—”
“I’ll be right over.” Decker hung up the phone.
Rina handed him his plate of salami and eggs. “You don’t have time to bolt it down?”
Decker’s stomach lurched. Not the time or the inclination. “It’s bad, Rina. You don’t want to know.”
“Will I hear about it on the news?”
“Probably.” Decker grimaced. “Dr. Azor Sparks, the famous heart transplant surgeon. He was found dead in his car … in a back alley behind a restaurant.”
Abruptly, Rina paled, brought her hand to her throat. Decker regarded his wife. As gray as ash. “Sit down, honey.”
“I think I will.” She melted into a chair.
“You want something to drink?”
“No, I’m …”
The kitchen went silent. Decker studied Rina’s expression. “Rina, did you know this man?”
Slowly, she shook her head no. “Not personally. By reputation.”
“I’m sorry you have to witness such ugliness through me.”
A baby’s cry shot through the room. Rina stood on shaky legs. “Hannah’s up. It’s like she has a sixth sense … I’d better see …” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Smiled at her husband, but left without a good-bye.
Decker waited a beat, then slipped on his jacket, puzzled by Rina’s strong reaction.
Odd.
But maybe not.
Homicides weren’t a daily occurrence in her life.
Tracadero’s was one of the few hoo-hah, nouvelle, chic, posh, pick-your-own-effete-adjective restaurants in the West Valley. Translation to Decker: Pay a lot for tiny portions. He had been there once. The inside had been done up to look like scaffolding. For that kind of money and atmosphere, he could have just as easily bag-lunched it at a construction site. The place was located midblock in a commercial strip of street.
A long block. As Decker fast-walked through a decently lit back alley, he noticed a pizzeria, a clothing boutique, a guitar store, a pharmacy, a hair and nail salon, and a tropical fish store. The night was foggy and cool, the glare of starlight spread behind a wall of filmy clouds. Yellow crime tape had been stretched across the alley’s main entrances, two black-and-whites nose to nose at the driveways, preventing pass-through traffic. As he came closer to the actual crime spot, the crowd grew dense. Uniformed and plainclothed officers swarming around a bronze Buick. The strong odor of garbage mixed with the metallic stench of fresh blood and excreted bowels.
