Sacred and Profane

“If I missed, it was an unconscious thing.”

Marge chuckled.

“Just who do you think you’re shittin’, big buddy?”

Decker shrugged. “Let’s just say I passed the buck to a Higher Source. Besides, I want Arlington and all the other fuckers like him. Can’t get any names from a dead man.”

“Go out and get a breath of fresh air, Pete. You’re white.”

Suddenly feeling dizzy, he knew she was right.

27

He’d closed a lot of cases, but this one had all the ingredients for sensationalism-pornography, murder, and big names.

From his hospital bed, Cameron Smithson accused Arlington, providing proof of his involvement in the snuff films. Arlington, surrounded by loving wife and children looking teary-eyed into the cameras, maintained his i

With every new accusation, out swarmed a new flock of vultures pestering him at the station house or, worse, at his ranch. The ubiquitous microphones shoved in his face. It made him weary, he told Rina. They spoke daily, mostly in the late hours of the evening when both households were quiet.

The more attention he got, the more he retreated. He took to sneaking into the station through the back door. He avoided going home to the ranch at di

Sometimes he’d take a book with him as he walked, sometimes a camera, more often than not he’d explore empty-handed and talk to himself. Maybe he was talking to Someone Else.

Mrs. Bates greeted Decker warmly. It was late afternoon and the day had been gorgeous-spring temperatures that had begun to climb into summer heat. He suggested they take a walk. She thought that was a fine idea.

They began their journey in silence, inhaling clean air, taking in sunshine. He heard her breathing, and it sounded a little winded. He slowed his pace, and she smiled at him and said thank you. Their trek took them past two rows of well-tended houses to La Canada Boulevard. Ten minutes later they were in front of a convenience store. She declined Decker’s offer of a drink, so he bought a pint of orange juice for himself. Another five minutes and they were at the edge of a municipal park. Mrs. Bates suggested they sit on a bench under an elm.

Decker drank half his juice and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He said: “ County Hospital called me this morning. Smithson’s dead.”

She said nothing at first, then asked, “How’d he die?”

“Pneumonia.” He took another swallow of juice.

“I thought he had blood poisoning or something like hat,” she said without emotion.

“He did. Apparently the infection from the hand wound wasn’t responding to any of the safer antibiotics, so they gave him a real strong one. It killed the infection, but it also wiped out his immune system. He contracted pneumonia about a week ago and died late last evening.”

“Good. I hope he suffered.”

“I think he did.” Decker looked up at the sky, then down at his lap. “How’s your husband doing?”

“We’ve separated,” she answered.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shrugged.

“We have little tolerance for each other’s faults now,” she said.

Decker nodded.

“Financially, it won’t be easy for either one of us.” She hesitated, then said, “He lost his job, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Decker said.

“Yes.” She shook her head sadly. “In a way, he has it much worse than I. A woman is allowed to grieve-although no one wants to be with her while she’s doing it. A man has to pull himself together. Snap himself out of it.” She sighed. “We’re both living on savings-exhausting them. It’s a good thing Erin is bright. She’s going to need scholarships.” She faced Decker. “I told her that, and you know what she said?”

“What?”

“‘Don’t worry about it, Mom.’ I do believe that’s the first time we talked civilly since she’s reached her teens.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yes, it is.” She took a deep breath. “I know I have to look for work eventually. But most employers don’t think a museum docent has marketable skills. I suppose they’re right.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something.”

“I feel a little tired, Sergeant. Perhaps it would be best if we headed back.”

When they reached her doorstep, Decker held out his hand. She took it and squeezed it tightly.

“Thank you for everything,” she said. “Thank Detective Du

“Call me from time to time,” Decker said. “Let me know how you’re doing.”

“I will.”

He left the house and drove to his ranch. The sun was begi

About the Author

FAYE KELLERMAN introduced L.A. cop Peter Decker and his wife, Rina Lazarus, to the mystery world eleven years ago. Since that time she has written nine Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus novels as well as a historical novel, The Quality of Mercy. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, author Jonathan Kellerman. There are close to three million copies of her books in print.