False Prophet
Grievous Sin Sanctuary
THREE PETER DECKER/RINA LAZARUS THRILLERS
Faye Kellerman
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GH
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Copyright © Faye Kellerman 2015
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Faye Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © MARCH 2015 ISBN: 9780008108656
Version: 2015-03-05
FAYE KELLERMAN
FALSE PROPHET
A DECKER/LAZARUS THRILLER
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publisher 2014
Copyright © Faye Kellerman 1992
Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com
Faye Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © January 2014 ISBN: 9780007536412
Version: 2015-03-05
As usual for my family
And for Liza Dawson, Leona Nevler, and Ann Harris
âthank you
Working off duty meant doing the same job without pay. But since the callâs location was only twelve blocks away and the case would wind up in his detail anyway, Decker figured he might as well jump the uniforms. Cordon off the scene before the blues could trample evidence, making his on-duty tasks that much easier. He unhooked the mike, answered the radio transmitting officerâand turned on the computer screen in the unmarked Plymouth. A few moments later, green LCD lines snaked across the monitor.
A female assault victimâsuspected sexual traumaâno given name or age. The Party Reporting had been female and Spanish speaking. The victim had been found by the PR in a ransacked bedroom. Paramedics had been called down.
Decker made a sharp right turn and headed for the address.
The interior of the Plymouth was rich with the aroma of newly baked breadsâa corn rye loaded with caraway seeds, two crisp onion boards, a dozen poppy-seeded kaiser and crescent rolls, and assorted Danishes. Goodies just pulled from the oven, so hot the bakery lady didnât dare put them in plastic. They sat in open white wax-lined bags, exhaling their yeasty breath, making his mouth water.
Fresh bakery treats seemed to be Rinaâs only craving during the pregnancy and Decker didnât mind indulging her. The nearest kosher bakery was a twelve-mile round trip of peace and quiet. He enjoyed the early-morning stillness, cruising the stretch of open freeway, witnessing the fireworks on the eastern horizon. He reveled in the forty minutes of solitude and resented the intrusion of the call, the location so close he couldnât ignore it, his mind forced to snap into work-mode.
He turned left onto Valley Canyon Drive, the roadside cutting through wide-open areas of ranchland. In the distance was the renowned Valley Canyon Spa Resortâa two-story pink-stucco monolith carved into the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. It looked like a giant boil on the sandy-colored face of the rocks. The guys in the squad room had shortened the spaâs name to VALCAN, which in turn had been bastardized to VULCAN. The running joke was that VULCANâs clientele were secret relatives of Mr. Spock beamed down to get ear jobs. VULCAN had hosted more stars than the sidewalks of Hollywood Boulevard, its facilities among the most exclusive in the United States. That, and the fact that the place was run by Davida Eversongâs daughter, made it a national draw for rich anorexic women wanting to exercise themselves skeletal.