lifted your fingerprints off the dial.”
“So?”
“Your maid said she dusted the safe yesterday. I would have thought she would have dusted off any prints.”
Lilah said, “Mercedes is not that thorough. I think she vacuums the closet, but dusting? Forget it. I’ve found cobwebs in the corner. But why bother making her feel bad about it? When you asked her if she dusted the closet, you probably threatened her. So she lied.”
“Okay,” Decker said. “Out of curiosity, how much front-desk money are we talking about?”
“Only about a thousand dollars.”
Only.
“And I keep some rainy-day money inside my bottom drawer. Five hundred or so. I could understand the ransacking of the drawers. Why did they have to destroy my room—my beautiful craftsmen furniture—pieces I’ve spent years looking for. Why did they smash the glass, break my lamps … rape me … why?”
Why? Because crime is dangerous and dangerous is exciting. Crime is a goddamn adrenaline fix straight into the bloodstream. Assholes get so pumped, testosterone shooting through their system, endorphins flooding their brains. They feel no pain. They rape. They kill. They destroy. And they love every minute of it. They get so friggin’ high on their own hormones, they become addicted to crime as sure as to any drug.
Decker said, “There are a lot of sickos out there. I’m going to do my damnedest to find these bad guys.” He picked up the mug sheets of the registered sex offenders. “So none of these guys fit the bill.”
“No.”
“You’re sure you don’t have … even an inkling as to who did this to you?”
“Positive.”
“We’ll keep investigating, Lilah. Just a few more questions and then I’m out of your hair.”
Lilah lowered her eyes. “Why, you’re not in my hair, Peter.”
“Good. Let’s get back to the safe. Your mother said she has the combination to your safe.”
“The outer safe, yes.”
“Does she use it whenever she wants to wear a piece of jewelry?”
“Usually she tells me to fetch her whatever piece she wants. But she has a key to my house. If I were out of town, she could come in and open the safe.”
“What about the inner safe?”
“She doesn’t know the combination to it.”
“And that’s where you kept the memoirs?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else in the inner safe?”
“My mother’s will. But that isn’t exactly a collector’s item. Copies all over the place. She has one, my brothers each have a copy. The lawyer has a copy.”
“Do you know if your mother has made any changes in her will lately?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Just throwing out questions.”
“I don’t think she has. You’ve arranged a little tryst with her in the limo, why don’t you ask her yourself?”
“I take it you know the contents of your mother’s will?”
“I’ve never bothered with the specifics. I do know that the bulk of her estate is left to me.”
Decker noted that her account of her mother’s will was consistent with Freddy Brecht’s account. Maybe Brother King was actually “insanely jealous” of his sister. He made a note to contact this Merritt guy immediately.
“Did you keep anything else with the memoirs?”
She shook her head.
“Okay. Can I ask the police artist to come up and take those drawings now?”
Lilah broke into an innocent smile. “You really do believe in my powers, don’t you, Peter?”
“I—”
“I knew it. You did feel my energy.”
“I believe you’re trying to tell me something.” Decker paused. “When you … imaged these men, Lilah, you’re sure no one looked familiar?”
“Yes.”
“Lilah, what happened after the men were done? Did you hear them leave?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what time that was?”
“No.”
“Did you try to call anyone?”
“No … I was too scared to move.”
“I understand. Were you raped on your bed?”
“Yes.”
Decker paused. “Do you remember how you got on the floor?”
“He … pushed … kicked me … tore up my bed. I closed my eyes and tried to blank it out. Eventually, I must have passed out. The next thing I remember was your voice. Your … beautiful voice.”
Decker nodded and put his pad away. “You did great.”
Lilah’s eyes moistened. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Decker stood and handed her his business card. “If you think of anything else—need me for any reason—call the station house and I’ll get back to you.”
“This is the station house’s phone number?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you have another number where I could reach you?”
“No.”
She looked at him. “You don’t have a personal phone number, Peter?”
Intense anger had seeped into her eyes. Too bad, Decker thought. He felt bad for what had happened to her, but wasn’t about to give her free rein of his personal life. He waited until she seemed to sense the finality of his decision. Then he said, “This number’s better, Lilah. They can get to me twenty-four hours a day.”
She nodded without enthusiasm. “You can call me at the spa if you have any other questions, Sergeant.”
Sergeant. Her formality was a punishment for his refusal to relinquish his home number. Or maybe she just didn’t feel the need for intimacy anymore. He said, “I have a partner—”
“A
