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Milk and Honey
Faye Kellerman
The third book in the hugely popular Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus series from New York Times bestselling author Faye KellermanIn the silent pre-dawn city hours—alone with his thoughts about Rina Lazarus, the woman he loves, three thousand miles away in New York—LAPD detective Peter Decker finds a small child, abandoned and covered with blood that is not her own. It is a sobering discovery, and a perplexing one, for nobody in the development where she was found steps forward to claim the little girl.Obsessed more deeply by this case than he imagined possible, Decker is determined to follow the scant clues to an answer. But his trail is leading him to a killing ground where four bodies lie still and lifeless. And by the time Rina returns, Peter Decker is already held fast in a sticky mass of hatred, passion, and murder—in a world where intense sweetness is accompanied by a deadly sting.
Milk and Honey
Faye Kellerman
A Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus Novel
Dedication
To the family—
Jonathan, Mom, and the kids.
And to my breakfast buddies:
Elyse Wolf, Lynn Rohatiner,
Debi Benaron, and Frieda Katz.
Contents
Cover (#u30cb736a-cc55-5f55-97d6-1f7e74af7a50)
Title Page (#u884a419d-8157-5681-afd3-a83f85edfa62)
Dedication (#u8ea9bc8f-448a-5469-8d5d-93db02b41a95)
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
About the Author
Also by Faye Kellerman
Predator (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
The flutter of movement was so slight that had Decker not been a pro, he would have missed it. He yanked the wheel to the left and braked. The brown unmarked screeched, bucked, then rebelliously reversed directions in the middle of the empty intersection. Decker began to cruise down the vacant street, hoping for a second look at what had attracted his attention.
The Plymouth’s alignment was off again, this time pulling to the right. If he had a spare minute, he’d check it out himself, haul her onto the lifts and probe her belly. The department mechanics were a joke. Overworked and underpaid, they’d fix one problem, cause another. The guys in the division were always laying odds on what would bust first when the vehicles were returned from service—six-to-one on a leaky radiator, four-to-one on a choked carburetor, three-to-one on the broken air-conditioning system, the odds improving to two-to-one if it was summertime.
Decker ran his fingers through thick ginger hair. The neighborhood was dead. Whatever he’d seen had probably been nothing significant. At one in the morning, the eyes played tricks. In the dark, parked cars looked like giant tortoises, spindly tree boughs became hanging skeletons. Even a well-populated housing development like this one seemed like a ghost town. Rows of tan-colored stucco homes had gelled into a lump of oatmeal, illuminated by moonbeams and blue-white spotlights from corner street lamps.
He slowed the Plymouth to a crawl and threw the headlights on high beam. Perhaps he’d seen nothing more than a cat, the light a reflection in the feline’s eyes. But the radiancy had been less concentrated and more random, a ripple of flashes like silver fingernails running up a piano keyboard. Yet as he peered out the window, he saw nothing unusual.
The planned community was spanking new, the streets still smelling of recent blacktop, the curbside trees nothing more than saplings. It had been one of those compromises between the conservationists and the developers, the construction agreed upon by both parties while satisfying neither. The two groups had been at each other’s throats since the Northeast Valley had been gerrymandered. This project had been hastily erected to smooth ruffled feathers, but the war between the factions was far from over. Too much open land left to fight over.
Decker cranked open the window and repositioned his backside in the seat, trying to stretch. Someday the city would order an unmarked able to accommodate a person of his size, but for now it was knees-to-the-wheel time. The night was mild, the fog had yet to settle in. Visibility was still good.
What the hell had he seen?
If he had to work tomorrow, he would have quit and headed home. But nothing awaited him on his day off except a lunch date with a ghost. His stomach churned at the thought, and he tried to forget about it—him. Better to deal with the past in the light of day.
One more time around the block for good measure. If nothing popped up, he’d go home.
He was a tenacious son of a bitch, part of what made him a good cop. Anyway, he wasn’t tired. He’d taken a catnap earlier in the evening, right before his weekly Bible session with Rabbi Schulman. The old man was in his seventies, yet had more energy than men half his age. The two of them had learned together for three hours straight. At midnight, when the rabbi still showed no signs of tiring, Decker announced he couldn’t take any more.
The old man had smiled and closed his volume of the Talmud. They were studying civil laws of lost and found. After the lesson, they talked a bit, smoked some cigarettes—the first nicotine fix Decker’d had all day. Thirty minutes later, he departed with an armful of papers to study for next week.
But he was too hyped up to go home and sleep. His favorite method of coping with insomnia was to take long drives into the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains—breathe in the beauty of unspoiled lands, knolls of wildflowers and scrub grass, gnarled oaks and honey-colored maples. The peace and solitude nestled him like a warm blanket, and within a short period of time he usually became relaxed enough to sleep. He’d been on his way home when he noticed the flash of light. Though he tried to convince himself it was nothing, something in his gut told him to keep going.
He circled the block, then reluctantly pulled over to the curb and killed the engine. He sat for a moment, smoothing his mustache, then slapped the steering wheel and opened the car door.
What the hell, the walk would do him good. Stretch out his legs. No one was awaiting his arrival at the ranch, anyway. The home fires had been put out a long time ago. Decker thought of his phone conversation with Rina earlier in the evening. She’d sounded really lonely, hinted about coming back to Los Angeles for a visit—just her and not the boys. Man, had he sounded eager—overeager. He’d been so damned excited, she’d probably seen his horns over the telephone wires. Decker wondered if he’d scared her off, and made a mental note to call her in the morning.
He hooked his hand-radio onto his belt, locked the car, and opened the trunk. The trunk light was busted, but he could see enough to rummage through the items—first-aid kit, packet of surgical gloves, evidence bags, rope, blanket, fire extinguisher—where had he put the flashlight? He picked up the blanket. Success! And miracle of miracles, the batteries still had juice in them.
A quick search on foot.
The early morning air felt good on his face. He heard his own footsteps reverberating in the quiet of the night and felt as if he were violating someone’s privacy. Something darted in front of his feet. A small animal—a rat or a lizard. Scores of them roamed the developments, all of the suckers pissed off at being displaced by building foundation. But that wasn’t what he’d seen before. That had been bigger, at least the size of a dog or cat. Yet its gate had been odd—staggering, as if drunk.
He walked a half-block to the north, shining his beam between the nearly identical houses. Not much space to illuminate; the homes almost abutted one another, separated only by a hedge of Eugenia saplings. The houses were cheaply built, the stucco barely dry but already beginning to crack. The front lawns were patches of green sod, and many of them held swing sets and aluminum lawn furniture. Some of the driveways were repositories for toys, bicycles, baby walkers, bats and balls. The uncluttered driveways housed vans and station wagons, and small motorboats as well. Lake Castaic was fifteen minutes away. The developers had advertised that, and had succeeded in their goal of attracting young families. Ten percent down and low-cost financing hadn’t hurt, either.
He strolled to the end of the street—this one was called Pine Road—then crossed over and started back to the unmarked. Then he heard it—a faint whistling in the background. A familiar sound, one that he’d heard many times in the past but couldn’t place at the moment.
He jogged in its direction. The sound grew a little louder, then stopped. He waited a minute.
Nothing.
Frustrated, he decided to head home, then heard the whistling again, farther in the distance. Whatever was making the noise was on the move, and it was a quick little bugger.
He sprinted two blocks down Pine Road and turned onto Ohio Avenue. Loads of imagination the developers had when naming the streets. The north-south roads were trees, east-west were states.
The noise became louder, one that Decker recognized immediately. His heart raced against his chest. The adrenaline surge. The sound was now clear—a high-pitched wail. Goddam wonder it didn’t wake up the entire neighborhood.
He ran in the direction of the shriek, pulling out his radio and calling for backup—screaming heard on Ohio and Sycamore. He pulled out his gun.
“Police!” he shouted. “Freeze!”
His voice echoed in the darkness. The crying continued, softer than before.
“Police!” Decker yelled again.
A door opened.
“What’s going on out there?” asked a deep male voice, heavy with sleep.
“Police,” Decker answered. “Stay inside your house, sir.”
The door slammed shut.
Across the street, a light brightened an upstairs window. A face peeked out between the curtains.
Again, the crying faded to nothing. Silence, then a chorus of crickets singing backup for a mockingbird.
The noise returned again, this time short sobs and gasps for air. Obviously a female, possibly a rape victim.
He would have received the call anyway.
“Police,” Decker shouted in the direction of the crying. “Stay where you are, ma’am. I’m here to help you.”
The sobbing stopped, but he could hear footsteps trudging through the Eugenias, followed by the creak of unoiled metal. Decker felt his fingers grip the butt of his Beretta. The sky held oyster-colored clouds, the smiling face of the man in the moon. Enough illumination to see pretty well even without the flashlight.
Then Decker saw it—the glint of metal!
He jumped out from the Eugenias and yelled, “Freeze!”
The reaction he received was a high-pitched tinkle of startled laughter.
The kid had to be under two, still retaining the chubby cheeks of a baby. It was impossible to tell whether it was a boy or girl, but whatever it was had a head full of ringlets and saucer-shaped eyes. It was swinging on the seesaw on somebody’s front lawn, fragile little hands gripping the handlebars, eyes staring up in wonderment. Decker became aware of the gun in his hand, his finger wrapped around the trigger. Shakily, he returned the automatic to his shoulder harness and called off the backups on his wireless.
“Off,” ordered a tiny voice.
“For heaven’s sakes!” Decker stopped the seesaw. The toddler climbed off.
“Up,” it said, raising its hands in the air.
Decker picked the child up. The toddler lay its head against Decker’s chest. He stroked its silken curls.
“I’m calling the police out there,” yelled a frightened voice from inside the house.
“I am the police,” Decker answered. He walked up to the front door and displayed his badge to a peephole. The door opened a crack, the chain still fastened. Decker could make out unshaven skin, a dark, wary pupil.
Decker said, “I found this child on your front lawn.”
