enjoy lunch. He phoned from the unmarked and was patched through to Morrison a minute later.
“Captain,” Decker said.
“What do you have on the Brecht case?”
“Lots of notes—”
“Pete—”
“Captain, we’re making progress—no shortage of suspects—but there’s no smoking gun.” Decker filled him in on the details, hearing Morrison audibly sigh when he spoke of Lilah’s imaging of her attackers.
“Lilah Brecht,” Morrison said. “Is she whacked out or what?”
“She might be trying to tell us something in a roundabout way.”
“You think she could give us trouble?”
“Her spa appeals to VIPs,” Decker said. “I can’t see where it would make sense for her to publicize her attack. Bad for business.”
“But she sounds like a nut,” Morrison said. “And you know these perverse Hollywood assholes. Anything that’s full of gossip—the juicier the better.”
Decker said, “I think if we handle everyone with respect, they’ll respect our investigation.”
“What about Davida Eversong?” Morrison said. “She give a shit about her daughter?”
“Probably. It’s hard to tell. She spent most of her time talking about her jewels.”
“Davida Eversong knows a lot of people, Pete,” Morrison said. “We’re talking a seven-figure burglary on top of a rape. That’s a lot of case for you, Marge, and Hollander to handle. I’ll pull in a couple of dicks from Burglary.”
“Fine,” Decker said. “They know the fences better than I do. Just …”
“Spit it out, Pete.”
“I want freedom to call the case as I see it. Not that I want to step on any bigwig’s toes, but if that happens, I don’t want to have to worry about it.”
“You do your job, Pete,” Morrison said, “and I’ll do mine.”
Business out of the way, Decker checked himself out on a Code Seven and took off for the safety and normalcy of home sweet home. Lunch at his ranch had started out as a once-a-week affair. Over the last five months he’d increased his visits to three times a week. The food was better and the amenities were terrific. And despite Rina’s occasional weeping spells and flare-ups, she was wonderful company. Whether they talked or just sat around, he never felt as if he had to entertain her. Their conversations, as well as their silences, were natural. God, how he just loved to watch her putter around the house. Rina was a great putterer.
He parked the unmarked in the driveway, whistling as he walked through the door. The living room was still neo-western macho, but Rina had prettied it up with lace curtains and throw pillows on the suede couch and buckskin chairs. Throw pillows with frilly little borders. Yep, he was definitely married. He suddenly noticed that the place was eerily quiet, not even a bark from the dog. He felt a sudden rush of anxiety.
“Anyone here?”
“We’re in the boys’ room, Peter,” Rina called out.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Ridiculous to worry, but he couldn’t help himself. Then he processed the we part of Rina’s message. We’re in the boys’ room. The boys’ room had been his study.
He went inside. Sammy was dressed in his pajamas, head propped up on a pillow, covers pulled up to his waist. A slight blush tinged his cheeks, his brow was moist. His light-brown hair was mussed and crowned by a brown leather yarmulke. He smiled, but it seemed forced. Tucked under the blankets, he seemed much younger than his twelve years, much more vulnerable. He and Rina were playing cards, a discard pile set out on a bed tray. She was dressed in a cream-colored cotton maternity dress, the red scarf around her neck giving her face a splash of color. Her hair was braided and knotted and partially covered by a gold mesh net. Gold loops hung from her earlobes. How a woman could look so beautiful in simple clothing, without the benefit of makeup, was beyond him.
Rina was good enough to eat. But with Sammy home, the prospects of romance in the afternoon were nil. Decker walked over to his stepson and felt his forehead, then his cheeks.
“Not feeling too good?”
Sammy shrugged.
“Can I get you anything, son?”
“I’m okay.”
“Do you want lunch?” Rina said. “It’s a little early.”
“I’ll fix myself something.”
“No, you sit. I’ll get you a sandwich.”
“Where’s Ginger?”
“Being flea-bathed and groomed, poor thing. Hot weather comes and you know how she suffers. I should pick her up as long as you’re here. Do you mind keeping Shmuli company?”
“Do I mind?” Decker sat on the edge of the bed. “It would be my pleasure.”
Sammy smiled weakly.
“We can call this round a draw, Shmuli,” Rina said. “What do you think?”
“It’s fine, Eema.”
Rina gathered the cards and fit them back into the box. “I’ll be back. Turkey sandwich okay?”
“Perfect.”
Decker smiled and patted his son’s warm hand. “Just woke up like this?”
Sammy nodded.
“Well, you take care of yourself. You gotta drink, Sam. You drinking enough?”
“I’m floating away, Peter.”
“Good.” Decker put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. He sensed a certain amount of stiffness. “Is my arm too heavy for you?”
“I don’t want you to catch anything.” Sammy pulled away. “I told Eema she shouldn’t get too close, either. You know, with the baby and everything.”
Decker kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got great powers of resistance.”
But Sammy held his distance. Decker knew that this was normal. Stepfathers don’t take the place of real fathers overnight. Or even over a period of three years. Had it been that long since he had first met Rina? He had been assigned to a rape case; Rina had been a witness. They’d both come a long way since then.
Rina then came into the room with a turkey sandwich and a mound of coleslaw on a paper plate. She was also carrying a pitcher of pale-looking orange juice.
“This is for you.” She handed Decker the plate and placed the pitcher on the nightstand. “And this is for Sammy. Make sure he drinks, Peter.”
“We’ve already
