A soft voice came from above. “Michael, what is it?”
Again, Decker looked upward. A woman stood on the upstairs landing, her silver hair clipped short around a round, full face. She wore a multicolored caftan, her skin heavily flushed. Michael’s knees caved in, but he recovered before he fell.
Decker put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll handle it.” He started up the steps, but the young man dogged his heels. Before Decker could speak, Michael said, “Mom, I think you should go back to bed.”
“Why?” The woman was tall and stolidly built. Beads of sweat covered her forehead and sprinkled the top of her upper lip. Green eyes like her daughter. Clear, focusing sharply on Decker. “Who are you?”
“Mrs. Sparks, I’m Lieutenant Peter Decker of the Los Angeles Police—”
Michael blurted out, “He’s here about Dad—”
“Something’s wrong, then.” The woman looked squarely at Decker. But her eyes had already moistened. “Is it Azor? A car accident? He works late hours, doesn’t get enough sleep.”
Decker trudged on. “Ma’am, we discovered a homicide victim about an hour ago, and have reason to believe it’s your husband. I’m very, very sorry.”
The eyes continued to peer into his face. Tears went down her cheeks. She shook her head vehemently. “No, no, you’re wrong, then. Very wrong—”
“Ma’am.”
“Go back and check. Because no one would want to hurt Azor. You have to be wrong!”
Michael said, “Mom, maybe you should—”
Tears flowed openly over her ruddy face. “Michael, tell this man he’s wrong. Tell him he made a big mistake.”
“Mom—”
“I’ll call Father right now. Prove he made a mistake.” She stepped forward, then faltered. Decker caught her, kept her upright as she leaned on his strong shoulders. No easy trick. The woman was around five ten and weighed about one seventy. “Where’s her bed?”
“I’ll take her.” Michael gripped his mother soundly. He was slightly taller than her, but his hold was firm. “Let’s go back to bed.”
“Oh, Michael, what happened?”
“I don’t know—”
“Did you call Bram?”
“Right now—”
“Maybe he knows. Bram always knows.”
“Maybe, Mom—”
“Tell him to come right away!”
“I will,” Michael said. “Come on, Mom. You’ve been sick—”
“Just let me phone Father. To tell this man he’s wrong.”
“Mom, he isn’t wrong.”
“But he has to be wrong! It can’t be.”
She started to sob loudly as Michael pulled her into a room. Then the door closed in Decker’s face. Left him standing there, alone and useless. He could make out sounds behind the door—moans, sobs … no words. At these moments, he felt like a Peeping Tom, privy to private grief. Dirty and perverted. He could never understand why people watched talk shows. Why see people at their worst?
He exhaled slowly, hoping Dolores Sparks would have enough emotional and physical strength to make it through the night. He would have liked to have questioned her, asked her what her husband had been doing, parked in the back alley behind Tracadero’s … asked her about Sparks’s daily habits. But nothing would have sunk in right now because the woman was still in denial. Perhaps when the shock wasn’t as overwhelming, they could talk. Tomorrow, he would try again.
No sense standing around, so he went downstairs. Maggie was shaking, a phone receiver in her right hand. She turned to Decker, her cheeks soaked with tears. “He’s not in. What should I do?”
“Why don’t you sit down, Maggie. Is there a doctor I can call? Maybe a close family friend of your mother’s?”
Michael came running down the stairs. “She’s asking for Bram, Mag. Is that him?”
“He’s not home! I called his apartment three times and just got the machine!”
“You called his apartment?” Michael sighed. “Maggie, you should have called the church!”
“Oh God, what’s the num—auto dial one, right?” She held the receiver to her ear.
Michael began to pace. To Decker, he said, “I gave her a sedative … to calm her down.” He rubbed his face, continued to pace.
Maggie shouted into the receiver. “Bram, if you’re there, pick up the phone! This is an emergen … Hello? It’s Maggie Sparks, can you please get my broth—”
Michael grabbed the phone away from her. “Get my brother on the phone, now. This is an emergency!” To Maggie, he said, “Go upstairs and look after Mom. And try not to be so hysterical!”
Maggie dashed up the steps.
Michael yelled into the mouthpiece. “You’ve got to get over here quick! There’s been a terrible …” Tears exploded from Michael’s eyes. “Police are here, Bram. Dad’s been murdered.”
Decker could hear a voice over the line saying, “Oh my God!”
Michael said, “You’ll come over?”
Another pause. Michael saying, “She’s in the bedroom with Maggie. I gave her a sedative … No … not yet. Can you call them? I can’t … no … no … no … he said he thought it was Dad, but I’m not sure … Look, why don’t you talk to him.” He shoved the phone in Decker’s face, and resumed pacing.
Decker said, “This is Lieutenant Peter Decker. To whom am I talking, please?”
A beat. Then a soft voice said, “I’m Dr. Sparks’s son Abram. What happened?”
The voice was calm, especially when compared to the surrounding hysteria. Decker said, “It would be better if we talked in person.”
“How’s my mother?”
“Resting. Your brother gave her a sedative. Is that all right?”
“Yes, that’s all right. My brother said my father was murdered. Is this true?”
“Yes, sir, that appears to be the situation. I’m very sorry.”
“Are you sure it’s him? Has someone identified him?”
“His personal identification was on him—his license, his credit cards, his professional cards. Besides, your father is a recognizable person in this community.”
“I want to see him.”
“I’d be happy to escort you to make an identification.”
“Tell me where to go.”
“I’m sorry but I’ll have to escort you. Anything I can do to help you and your family through this terrible crisis.”
Another beat. “I’m so stunned, I don’t … May I please talk to my brother again?”
Decker noticed he said “may” instead of “can.” Shaken but in control. “Of course.” He handed the phone back to Michael.
“When are you going to get here?” Michael barked into the phone.
“I’m going down … to make sure it’s Dad,” Bram answered. “Someone has to call the others.”
“Can