False Prophet. Faye Kellerman

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      FAYE KELLERMAN

      FALSE PROPHET

      THE PETER DECKER/RINA LAZARUS NOVELS

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      As usual for my family

      And for Liza Dawson, Leona Nevler, and Ann Harris

      —thank you

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Dedication

       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

       Chapter 34

       A Little Something Extra from Faye

       Salsa Chicken

       About the Author

       Also by Faye Kellerman

       Predator

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

      1

      Working off duty meant doing the same job without pay. But since the call’s location was only twelve blocks away and the case would wind up in his detail anyway, Decker figured he might as well jump the uniforms. Cordon off the scene before the blues could trample evidence, making his on-duty tasks that much easier. He unhooked the mike, answered the radio transmitting officer—and turned on the computer screen in the unmarked Plymouth. A few moments later, green LCD lines snaked across the monitor.

      A female assault victim—suspected sexual trauma—no given name or age. The Party Reporting had been female and Spanish speaking. The victim had been found by the PR in a ransacked bedroom. Paramedics had been called down.

      Decker made a sharp right turn and headed for the address.

      The interior of the Plymouth was rich with the aroma of newly baked breads—a corn rye loaded with caraway seeds, two crisp onion boards, a dozen poppy-seeded kaiser and crescent rolls, and assorted Danishes. Goodies just pulled from the oven, so hot the bakery lady didn’t dare put them in plastic. They sat in open white wax-lined bags, exhaling their yeasty breath, making his mouth water.

      Fresh

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