Jupiter’s Bones
Faye Kellerman

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the United States by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, 1999

This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Faye Kellerman 1999

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photography © 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 author’s 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 2019 ISBN: 9780008293581

Version: 2018-12-07

Dedication

For those who have made it worthwhile

to get up in the morning.

To Jesse for the projects and excitement.

To Rachel for the elegance and style.

To Ilana for the fun and games.

To Aliza for the snuggles and the warmth.

To Anne, my mother,

for the unconditional support.

To Barney, the suffering agent,

for the twenty-four-hour ear.

And to Jonathan—my partner in crime

as well as love.

Special thanks to

Special Agent Gayle Jacobs

for giving me a clue.

Any mistakes are mine, not hers.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Keep Reading

About the Author

Faye Kellerman booklist

About the Publisher

Prologue

Because her recent days had been filled with scientific data and research, Europa had paused only for the most basic of human necessities—food, water, bathroom breaks. Her nights had been equally jammed as she tried desperately to play catch-up—exercising on the stationary cycle, calling friends and attempting a life. Time had taken on a pace as unstoppable as the biblical flood. The rushing tempo had given her sporadic anxiety attacks as well as migratory bouts of heart palpitation—unusual since she was in peak condition and excellent health. She’d probably live a long time, judging by her parents’ genetics. Her mother had been in her early sixties when she had died, but she had been a broken woman.

Unlike her father.

Her father. He’d be in his seventies. And like most narcissists, he’d probably be in wonderful health.

Or so she thought.

But no time for any musings. Her professional calendar had been too demanding.

Except there had been that recurring daydream, a fragment from her past, a sneaky little devil that kept insinuating itself into Europa’s brain when she least expected it.

A remembrance of things past, thank you, Proust.

Sitting by the lake, watching the water gently lap up on the shoreline. For her tenth birthday, her father had decided to take her camping—just the two of them, leaving her squalling younger brothers at home with Mom. Dad had taken her somewhere up in the San Bernardino Mountains. To this day, Europa wasn’t sure of the precise location, and after she had become estranged from her father, she hadn’t bothered to ask.

The moment to remember had been at night. Back then, the stars weren’t subjects of scientific scrutiny nor were they inanimate objects of cosmological theory. They were millions of diamonds set into a velvet sky. The moon had been out—a waning moon, Europa recalled that. Its beams had bounced and rolled along the caressing waves. They had just finished a trout dinner cooked on the campfire … roasted marshmallows for dessert. Snuggling under her sleeping blanket with her father by her side.

Just the two of them.

When her father had been the most important person in her life.

To help her fall asleep, he had told her stories, something he rarely did. Tales of evil empires in faraway places called black holes. There were also the heroic, fleet-footed knights of Quasar. And when demons of black holes tried to capture the knights of Quasar with their secret destructive weapon called gravity, the knights would turn themselves into invisible, weightless rays, and escape faster than the speed of light.

A fantastic story because her science teacher had told them that nothing traveled faster than the speed of light. And when she had mentioned that fact to her father, he had laughed, then kissed her cheek. The only time in her life when Europa remembered being the recipient of her father’s affection. Not that Dad had been overtly cruel, just inconsiderate. But mostly absent.

She thought of that night when she received the news—that her father was not only dead, but had died under suspicious circumstances.

1

“The thing is, they moved the body, Lieutenant.”

“What?” Decker strained to hear Oliver’s voice over the unmarked’s radio static. “Who’s they?”

“Whoever’s acting as the head honcho of the Order, I guess. Marge did manage to seal off the bedroom. That’s where Jupiter was found—”

“Could you talk up, Scott?”

“—point being that the crime scene is screwed up, and the body has been messed with because of the shrine.”

“Shrine?”

“Yeah. When we got here, the members were in the process of dressing him and constructing this shrine—”

“Where’s the body now?”

“In a small anteroom off some kind of church—”

Temple, Decker heard a male voice enunciate from the background. “Someone with you, Detective?”

“Hold on, lemme …”

Decker tapped the steering wheel until Scott came back on the line. It took a while.

Oliver held his voice low. “I told them to stop messing with the corpse until you got here. Not being a trusting soul, I’ve been guarding the body with some self-appointed guru who calls himself Brother Pluto. I sent an officer in there to keep him company so we could talk more privately.”

The electronic noise cracked through Decker’s ear. He said, “You need to talk louder.”

Oliver spoke up. “This Pluto person doesn’t want the police here. He keeps insisting that the death was natural, waving this bogus death certificate to prove it, disregarding the empty fifth of Stoli underneath the bed. Which he claims wasn’t Jupiter’s because Jupiter didn’t drink.”

“Death certificate?” Decker said. “Has the coroner been there?”

“Nope. It was signed by a gent named Brother Nova.”

“Who’s he?”

“Got me, sir.”

“Did you explain to them what we’re doing is standard procedure in sudden deaths?”

“I’ve tried to explain it, but Pluto’s not listening.” A laugh. “I’ve been biting my tongue, refraining from asking him where Goofy was.”

Decker smiled. Oliver was showing unusual discretion. “Did you tell him that we have to transport the body to the morgue for autopsy?”

“Been saving the good news for you. Because right now, Pluto and his toons are not happy campers, though I suspect they’ve never been a cheerful lot. Who called the death in?”

“Jupiter’s daughter. Her name is Europa Ganz. She’s on the faculty at Southwest University of Technology. Jupiter used to be a hotshot professor there years ago. His real name is Emil Euler Ganz. Apparently, the daughter’s not associated with the Order.”

“So how’d she find out about the death?”

A good question. “I don’t know, Scott. The details are sketchy.” He hesitated. “Find out about Ganz’s death certificate. This Nova must be a member of the Order, right?”

“I’d assume so. Probably some kind of in-house doctor. But that doesn’t qualify him to sign off on Jupiter.”

True enough. Decker’s finely tuned psycho-BS-detector was on max. He said, “The static is really bad. I’m having trouble hearing you. Just keep status quo until I get there.”

“We’re trying. But the parishioners are getting feisty. Is ‘parishioners’ the right word?”

It was fine with Decker although cult followers seemed more apropos. “Just try to keep everyone quiet.”

“How far are you from the holy spot?”

“Four, five miles. Traffic’s a little thick. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“See you.” Oliver clicked off.

The initial call had come through while Decker was still home, eating breakfast with his younger daughter, who was as skinny as the stick figures she drew. Hannah thought it was great fun to pick the raisins from her oatmeal, leaving behind the grainy mush. Decker was trying to spoon-feed her, attempting to get some nutrition down her gullet until Rina aptly pointed out that the child was five, and capable of feeding herself.

He lived about twenty minutes by freeway from the station house, about thirty-five minutes from the crime scene. That was on good days, and today wasn’t one of them. Decker ran his left hand through strands of ginger hair now streaked with white, and settled into the seat of the unmarked Buick. He guzzled strong coffee from a thermos. Across the passenger’s seat was the front page of the Los Angeles Times.

Eight-oh-five and nothing was moving.

Inching his way up to the next off-ramp, he decided to exit and take Devonshire. The boulevard was one of the main east-west arteries through the San Fernando Valley, six lanes lined with strip malls, wholesalers and industrial warehouses. Going farther west, the street’s industry gave way to residences—stucco ranch houses sitting on flat land that once held agricultural orchards—oranges, lemons, apricots. He and Rina had recently purchased a house in the area, intending to move in after a few minor renovations.

Which had turned (predictably) into a major overhaul.

He could have done the job himself if he hadn’t been gainfully employed. So they bit the bullet, hiring subs while Rina acted as the contractor. One day, Decker had come to the property to find his wife precariously balanced on a ladder, pointing out to the roofer a defect near the chimney. Her skirt blew in the wind as she spoke animatedly, though Decker couldn’t hear a word of the conversation. Apparently the roofer had run the hose over the top of the house for twenty minutes, proudly pronouncing the place water-tight. But Rina had been skeptical. She had run the hose for three hours, discovering a leak after two hours and twenty minutes.

(The first rain would have ruined the hardwood floors, Peter.)

Decker smiled, thinking about her image—that of his Orthodox Jewish wife perched on the highest rung of a tall ladder, one hand pointing out flaws while the other held down that hat she wore to cover her hair.

The scene helped to buoy his spirits. The day was gray and dirty, typical overcast May weather in Los Angeles. At least the cars were moving. He proceeded west into open terrain, the foothills on the right greened by the recent rains. They had become rolling waves of wild grass and flowers, spewing their pollens, making it a miserable allergy season. What Decker wouldn’t have given to have the Allegra concession this year.

He thought about Europa Ganz’s call to headquarters—reported as a suspicious death. In this case meaning suicide as opposed to death by natural causes. How could she know anything if she wasn’t there?

Someone tipped her. Who? And why?

Decker found suicides annoying because everything was left pending until the coroner made a definitive ruling. In the meantime, Homicide was saddled with the unpleasant job of keeping everything and everyone on hold, plus preserving the integrity of the “crime” scene—just in case. If Ganz had been someone less noteworthy, Decker wouldn’t have been called down. But since the corpse had once been a luminary prizewinner in astrophysics—a visionary for his generation eons ago—as well as the current leader of a two-hundred-plus-person enclave, Strapp thought it a good idea for someone with a title to make an appearance. The captain would have come in person, except he’d had a morning meeting downtown.

From what Scott Oliver had said over the radio, the members of the Order of the Rings of God were griping about the police. Of course, they’d gripe about anything establishment. Decker had been inside the compound once. It was not the stark and sterile place he had imagined. The interior had high ceilings with lots of skylights—blueness and sunshine visible from all angles. A complete view of the heavens, as if Ganz hadn’t quite given up cosmology.

Lots of skylights, several gable vents, but very few windows.

Decker had been called out to investigate a kidnapping charge, which turned out to be another case of a wayward kid exchanging the complexities of freedom for straightforward rules and regulations. He hadn’t talked to Ganz. Instead, he had been given some underling with a celestial name. (Had it been Pluto?) The sect member had insisted that no one was ever held against his or her will.

He seemed to speak the truth. He had allowed Decker inside the entry hall to interview the kid. Clearly, the boy had wanted to be there. Although Decker’s heart went out to the parents, he was hog-tied. Their son was over eighteen and legally—if not emotionally—an adult.

Looking into his rearview mirror, Decker saw the meat wagon about thirty feet behind him. He led the way to the compound. Together, they pulled up curbside, parked and got out.

The Order of the Rings of God had placed itself on five acres of flat land blending into mountainside. The structure was a series of square, gray stucco bunkers linked together chock-a-block. From this view, Decker could see the tops of the skylights peeking out from the roofs. And his memory had served him correctly. There were very few windows—small, square panes more suitable for an attic. The domain was enclosed by a six-foot chain-link fence. A pack of Doberman pinschers had materialized, greeting them with vicious snarls.

The driver of the van wore blue scrubs. His name tag called him Postham. With him was the deputy coroner, Dr. Judy Little, a misnomer because she stood about five-ten and weighed around 175. She reminded Decker of Marge, both of them being large-boned, attractive and in their mid-thirties. But Marge’s eyes were softer, brown and doelike. They were one of her best features.

Postham squinted into the glare of the steely sky. Judy Little growled back at the dogs, which made them bark louder. “I don’t envy the mailman. Where’s the gate? Surely they don’t expect us to drive around the entire perimeter.”

Decker picked up his mobile phone and called Oliver. “How do we get in?”

“Where are you?”

“In front, being sized up by a trio of maniacal Dobies. Have someone come out here and direct us.” Decker punched the end button, regarded the stucco cubes. From his perspective, he could see seven.

“A real architectural masterpiece.” Little had to shout to be heard over the dogs. “What’s the style? Neo-Cult military?”

“Squares are the way to get the most space for the least money.”

“May be practical, but no aesthetics.”

“Agreed.”

Little said, “Got any background for me?”

Decker tried to stare down the dogs. No success. “Call came into headquarters as a suspicious death. Detective Oliver found an empty fifth of vodka under the victim’s bed. I’m thinking like a Heaven’s Gate suicide—a combination of drugs and liquor. The victim was Dr. Emil Euler Ganz. He was once a big wheel in academic physics. Then he suddenly disappeared for ten years. When he finally showed up, he had reinvented himself as Father Jupiter. He’s been running the Order for fifteen years.”

Little screamed at the dogs to shut up. They didn’t listen. “Oh. Him. So you think he left this galaxy to ascend to a better universe? Well, good luck to him. I wonder if he took anyone with him?”

The thought made Decker shudder. “We’ve only found the one body.” He waited a beat. “It’s a good point.”

“What is?”

“Ganz’s taking his disciples with him. Maybe he left some instructions for them to join him. Even if he didn’t, there’re bound to be a few unbalanced individuals in there who could play follow the leader.”

“A few unbalanced individuals?”

Decker raised his eyebrows. “Look, if adults inside want to kill themselves, I’d try to stop them, but you can’t save the world. In this case, though, there’re kids involved. That concerns me.”

Little made a face. “Now that’s a very good point.”

Decker rubbed his forehead, wondering how he could possibly ensure the kids’ collective safety. As always, responsibility weighed him down, much more than his two-hundred-plus poundage.

A silver van was approaching from the other side of the fence. When it stopped, a girl of around twenty stuck her head out. No makeup or jewelry. She had a heart-shaped face and a smooth complexion. Her murky pond-colored eyes were swollen, her nose was red and drippy. Her hair was tied up in a bun and covered by a white, crocheted net. She wiped her nostrils with a tissue and said, “How many more of you are coming down?”

“Pardon?” Decker asked.

“Police,” she sneered. “How much longer must we put up with this invasion of our cherished privacy? What we do is no one’s business but our own.”

Decker didn’t speak for a moment, letting the silence hang in the air. Pausing always helped him to deflect anger and control his tongue. Finally, he said, “Ma’am, are you supposed to direct us to the compound’s entrance?”

“I am not Ma’am! I am Terra!”

“Okay,” Decker answered. “Terra! Are you supposed to direct us to the compound’s entrance?”

She nodded. “Yes, I am.”

Decker opened his car door. “So why don’t you do just that?”

2

Ignoring hostility was part of the profession. Decker was used to stony glares and the occasional hurled epithet. But there was something disconcerting about the group. So many disciples, all of them displaying a curious mixture of fury and fragility. Or maybe it was the white cotton robes they wore, making them look like zombies housed in shrouds.

He thought a moment.

That wasn’t fair. Jews also wore white robes—kittles. Men wore them when they married, during the High Holy Days, and at the seder—the festive Passover meal. The garment was also used in burial. A morbid association, but Decker couldn’t help thinking about it.

Most of the sect members simply stared as Decker, along with Oliver, draped the yellow crime tape across the temple door.

Brother Pluto, on the other hand, expressed himself verbally. “Is that yellow ribbon really necessary, or are you two just looking for something to do until that doctor is done?”

He was thin and short and balding. He also wore a robe, but his was blue and appeared to be fashioned from silk. He had a belt on it, but it was partially open. Underneath, Pluto wore a white T-shirt and jeans. The acting head guru was irritated. He spoke in a reedy voice. If Decker were to personify him as a planet, Pluto would have been the logical choice.

Decker finished pinning the tape and straightened his back, towering over the little man. “Sorry about spreading the investigation all over the place. Since the body was moved, we can’t confine ourselves to just the one room—”

“A clear violation of our civil rights!”

Decker smoothed his mustache, then said, “Tell me whose civil rights are being violated and I’ll put a stop to it!”

Pluto spoke bombastically. “You know what I mean! Your people questioning our grieving family.”

Oliver ran his hands through his black hair, wondering if the guy really was an alien. He sure as hell looked like one. “We’re trying to find out what happened to your leader, sir. Don’t you want to know?”

“But we do know, Detective! Our Father Jupiter has gone to a better place.”

So why all the grieving? Decker glanced upward at a peaked skylight of stained glass—swirls of blue, yellow and orange. It looked like something Van Gogh would have designed. Huge mother. It was supported by beams of steel and wire mesh.

He returned his eyes to Pluto and said, “Spiritually, I’m sure you’re right, sir. Unfortunately, we need to know what happened physically—”

“Spiritual and physical are one and the same. Of course, the violators will never understand that. Society’s thinking has been fractured irreparably, constantly separating the soul and body. Just as you’ve done now, Lieutenant. It’s not your fault, though. You’ve just never been schooled.”

Decker said, “Perhaps, at another time, you can enlighten me.”

“You’re being sarcastic. Your attitude is typical for a violator. Even more in sync with your work as a policing agent.”

Pluto’s vitriolic words had drawn a little crowd. It was growing by the moment.

Now what was the friggin’ purpose of all that? But of course, Decker knew the purpose. To embarrass him, to make the outsider—the violator—look like the ignorant fool. Still, he held his tongue. He wasn’t about to start a riot for what appeared to be an open-and-shut case of suicide.

“I’m not trying to be contentious. Just curious. If I were an outsider interested in joining the Order, how would you explain to me the true nature of the universe?”

Pluto sneered. “Our philosophy is not a parlor game, Lieutenant!”

“I didn’t say it was. Tell me your philosophy. And if we have time, I’ll spout off a few theories of my own.”

Pluto seemed amused. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the temple door, breaking the crime ribbon. “Very well. We’ll trade philosophies. But you two go first—”

Oliver’s brown eyes darted across the masses. He held his hands up. “Hey, leave me out of this one.”

“As you wish.” Pluto turned to Decker. “Lieutenant.”

Spitting out the title as if it were a swear word.

Decker picked up the yellow tape and tacked it back onto the door, aware that the gathering was waiting for him to begin. “Interesting that you should mention the universe. Because I remember reading one of Ganz’s—”

“Father Jupiter,” Pluto interrupted.

“Excuse me.” Decker was deferential. “I was reading Father Jupiter’s lay articles on the universe … back when he was a cosmologist.”

Like Pluto, Decker knew he was playing to an audience. He divided his glances between the cotton-robed followers and the silk-robed Pluto.

“As an observant Jew, I was struck by one of Jupiter’s statements—that the universe has neither a past nor a future. It was something that just was … or is. Sort of flies in the face of the Big Bang theory—”

“The Big Bang?” Oliver smiled. “I like the sound of this theory.”

Decker held back laughter. “It stated that the universe came from one massive explosion.”

“Explosion of what?”

“An explosion of … stuff.”

“How’d the stuff get there?”

“That’s an open question,” Decker answered.

Pluto broke in. “It’s not the universe that always was. It’s matter in the universe that was, is and always will be. The physical component of course explains nothing about the spiritual.”

“Agreed. Which is why we Jews have kind of combined the two aspects. We believe that God—whom we call Hashem, which means the name in Hebrew—is the source of all matter and is neither a creation nor susceptible to destruction. Hashem just is. God is material and God is spiritual. And He described His heavens as limitless way before science got into the act.”

Pluto continued to slouch with his arms across his chest. “Precisely why Father Jupiter left science and returned to the spiritual.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t think you’ve said anything too profound about God’s existence. In fact it’s rather simplistic.”

Decker was winging it now. “Well, I was just thinking … now correct me if I’m wrong—if the universe or at least matter was, is and always will be, and if matter has existed forever … and all matter is conserved, then Jupiter’s still a part of the universe—”

“More simplicity—”

“So if your leader isn’t dead, just … transformed, then why grieve for him? Why the shrine? Why all this hoopla for someone who—as you stated—is in a better place? You shouldn’t be grieving. You should be having a party.”

Oliver added, “Yeah, like a wake or something. BYOB. Judging from the fifth under Jupiter’s bed, maybe your leader was doing just that.”

The crowd’s eyes went back to Pluto. The short man’s cheeks had taken on a deep blush. “Your cavalier attitude to our Father Jupiter the Beloved is obscene!”

Pluto turned on his heel and stomped off.

Oliver and Decker exchanged glances. Decker shrugged. No one spoke for a moment as the crowd stood shell-shocked in the absence of a leader. Decker cleared his throat. “I’m sure you’d like us out as soon as possible. And we’d like to give you back your privacy. So could you all please keep the aisles clear so we can conduct our business?”

No one moved.

Decker said, “Come on. Let’s break it up. Debate club is over.”

As if programmed, the people began to disperse. After the crowd had thinned, Oliver whispered, “Think the lobotomies are done before or after they join up?”

Decker smoothed his pumpkin mustache. “Some people just have a rough time coping.”

Oliver shook his head. “You did pretty good … being put on the spot like that.”

“I plagiarized from Rina. Actually, she made the connection between the universe and how Jews view God. We were watching some science yawner on PBS or the Discovery Channel … ‘Nova’ or ‘Omni’ or something with a short name.”

“You mean there are human beings who actually watch those shows?”

“Rina does. She likes that stuff. I don’t remember much. I fell asleep.” Decker looked up at the skylight. The gray overcast was beginning to burn off. “We pissed Brother Pluto off. That wasn’t smart. It’s going to make our job harder.”

“Loo, what exactly is our job?”

“To bring the body to the morgue for a complete autopsy. Once Dr. Little formally declares this a suicide, we can button this case up.”

“So let’s load the body into the meat wagon.”

Decker shook his head. “Not yet. Let me talk to the Doc. If she sees no overt sign of homicide, I’m inclined to let these guys have their shrine and their last good-byes.”

“Why? Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

“Patience. I’d like to give you and Marge more time to check out the bedroom. It would also give the people here some closure. Maybe make them feel a little less hostile toward us. And maybe that would mean fewer problems if we need to come back.”

“Body temperature hasn’t dropped much. I’d guestimate that he’s been dead for less than six hours. No rigor, but it was cool last night. If the room wasn’t heated, the lower temperature could have delayed its onset. Lividity was shot to hell because the body was moved.” Little consulted her notes. “No stab wound, no gunshot wounds, no overt bruises, contusions or ligature marks. Nothing to suggest foul play by brute force.” She leaned over the body. “But there are subtler ways of doing a guy in.”

Decker’s interest perked up. “Meaning?”

“He had a few puncture marks in his arm—the left bicep. A neat job. No evidence of hitting a vessel or a subdural hematoma. Just a tiny prick. See this little dot right here?”

“Sure do. Is it self-inflicted?”

“Possibly,” Little said. “He also had some punctures in his buttocks. Could be harmless, but I won’t know anything definitive until I get the bloods and gases back. I’m about done here … ready to take Professor Ganz to the chophouse—”

“Uh yeah, that might be a problem—”

“They don’t want to autopsy the body.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s the law.”

“Exactly.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “How much time before the body chemistry starts changing?”

“The sooner I get him in a meat locker, the better.”

“The folks here want to have some kind of processional, walk by the body to say good-bye to their leader.”

“How long?”

“There’s two hundred and thirty-five of them—”

“Two hundred and thirty-five?”

“Including children, yes. Still, I think we could wrap it up in a half hour … forty-five minutes.”

Little made a face. “Can we put him on ice?”

“Will it mess up your tests?” Decker asked.

“It’s certainly not ideal.” She smiled, showing big, yellow incisors. “You want to do this for them, Pete?”

“It would give me a chance to look around and allow my homicide team to finish up with the bedroom. Once we’re kicked out of here, we may have a hard time getting back in.”

“Someone going to stand guard here to make sure they don’t screw up the body?”

Decker winced. “They’d like to dress him … throw on his royal robe.”

“Royal robe? What the hell is a royal robe?”

“Some purple silk job with gold embroidery. Wouldn’t mind having it for a smoking jacket.”

“You smoke?”

“If stressed enough, I even burn. They also want him to hold his royal scepter. Can they squeeze his fingers around the staff without screwing you up?”

“This is all very odd.”

“Can they do it? Yes or no?”

Little smiled. “Sure, dress him in a robe. Put the scepter in his hand. And while you’re at it, add a crown on his head and a ruby in his naval. Let them pay homage to their Grand Imperial Poobah!”

3

The processional gave Decker the opportunity to skulk around. Assigning two uniforms to watch over the body, he slipped away just as Pluto took center stage. As he left, he caught a glimpse of the guru, who still wore his blue silk robe, but had overlaid it with a long, purple vest, which was no doubt meaningful of something.

Carefully, he tiptoed down a hallway which held one door after another, like a hotel corridor. He jiggled a couple of knobs—closed but not locked. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw nary a soul.

Just a quick peek.

He opened a door.

The space was spare and tiny. Bare walls except for a postage-stamp, square window opened to let in a wisp of cool air. On the floor was a cot with a brown blanket. A shelf above the bed held a pot, a mug, a ceramic bowl and several black-spined books. More of a prison cell than a bedroom.

Again he looked around.

The foyer was empty.

He went inside, managing to squeeze his giant frame into a cavity’s worth of square footage. Then, he shut the door.

Time’s a tickin’. If you’re gonna do it, get to it.

He took the pot from the shelf. It had been used, but was scrubbed clean. The mug was also clean, and contained one tablespoon and one teaspoon. The pottery bowl held ashes of burnt incense. Decker sniffed. Sandalwood maybe? No evidence of pot. He put the accoutrements back. The books turned out to be videotape cases. No labels. He hesitated, then took a tape at random, and tucked it under the strap of his shoulder harness. He buttoned his jacket.

Just borrowing, he told himself. No harm in that.

No sign of a closet. With care, he crouched down and peered under the bed. A suitcase. He pulled it out. Inside were two neatly folded white cotton robes, and two pairs of denim jeans along with two white T-shirts. Several pairs of woman’s white cotton briefs—the only indication that the room’s occupant was female. Gingerly, he restored everything back to pristine condition, and stowed the valise under the bed.

No connecting doors to any room. Ergo, no connecting bathroom.

And that was that. Opening the door a crack, he scanned the foyer. Still empty. In a swift move, he glided out to safety, then came through another corrider, opening several doors and peeking inside. Replicas of the bedroom he had just seen. Spartan surroundings, even for those without material attachments. Were they also without emotional attachments? Maybe, but maybe not. There had been a lot of weeping following Father Jupiter’s death.

Eventually, the pathways led Decker to a set of double doors. He pushed on one, revealing the Order’s kitchen. It was cavernous and industrial with metal cabinets, stainless-steel counters, massive sinks and a built-in refrigeration system. It was also flooded with light from the ceiling’s giant glass dome.

The cooking area was devoid of people but not of smells. A wave of something savory tickled Decker’s nose, causing his stomach to do a little tap dance. He checked his watch—ten forty-two. Twenty-three minutes had passed since the procession had begun.

Go for it, he told himself. Worse came to worst, he could say he was just looking for a drink of water.

He walked into the area, running his index finger along the countertop. Spotless and dustless. Lots of heavy cauldrons hanging from an oval-shaped central rack secured by chains from the ceiling. Four mammoth-sized kettles sat on the cooktops. Using the cloth of his jacket as a pot holder, Decker lifted a lid and got a faceful of steam. Blinking back the heat, he was looking at some kind of soup or stew. He replaced the lid, then pulled forward on one of the oven doors. Warm, but not hot air. A pan with loaves of bread still in the rising stage. He returned the door to its original position, hoping he didn’t screw something up.

Lots of light coming down from on top, but still, not much in the window department. There were long but narrow fenestrations running along the top of the walls. Hands on his hips, he looked around.

Alone.

He opened one of the cabinets above the counter—sacks of flour, a dozen packets of dried yeast and jars of dried spices. Another had the same contents. A third held a dozen canisters of different types of teas. The cupboards seemed to hold provisions only. The bottom storage area was filled with water bottles—at least a hundred five-gallon jugs. He closed the doors and leaned against the counter.

No plates, no bowls, no cups, no eating utensils and no other cookware except the hanging kettles. Soup or stew in the cauldrons, and a small pot and a mug in each room. Probably stew or soup was the sect’s usual fare, and each person was allotted an individual pot and spoon for his or her portion. Maybe a personal cup for the tea. And that was that for tableware. It would sure save on the kitchen labor if each person took care of his or her own vessels.

Pulling the handle of one of the built-in refrigerator doors, Decker saw rows of jars, each labeled with a specific fruit or vegetable. Some of the produce was pickled, others had been made into purees or sauces. Some of the citrus fruits had been candied. He had to hand it to the Order. The members were earthquake-ready, better prepared than he was. In the case of absolute shut-down, the sect could go on for months.

He took out his pad and made a quick sketch of the physical layout. As his eyes panned over the room, Decker noticed another door along the back wall. It opened to an immense garden with rows of produce, sided by orchards of fruit trees. The plot seemed big enough to qualify as commercial agriculture.

Tucking his notepad into his jacket, he climbed down the three steps, then ambled along a dirt path lined with trellises woven with plant material—vines of tomatoes and cucumbers dotted with their small, yellow flowers. The twisted suckers of pole bean plants climbed along a steel vegetable cage. There were also raised beds made out of brick. They housed squash plants abloom with mustard-colored flowers, two-foot-high eggplant with purple blooms and a panoply of pepper plants. Also included were remnants of the winter vegetables—lettuce and spinach heads on the verge of bolting. Sprinkled among the edibles were beds of flowers—newly planted marigolds and petunias. Aesthetically pleasing as well as practical because marigolds were insecticidal. Strike another notch for the Order’s self-reliance. The patch was damn impressive.

The area looked to be about a couple of acres with two fruit orchards sandwiching a vegetable garden. Beyond the arable portion was scrubland overrun with wild fauna and airborne spores: dandelions, orange nasturtiums, purple statice, wild daisies, sage plants and chaparral. Copses of silver eucalyptus gave the land some texture and height. Gnarled California oaks sat dormant in ground water, grumbling because El Niño had overwatered the turf.

Decker stopped walking, his ears hearing more than ambient sounds. Dogs barking—the Dobies. He hoped they were locked up somewhere, but suspected they were close at hand. Stupid to explore with them on the prowl. Yet he kept going.

He came upon a good-sized tool and potting shed—around two hundred square feet. The usual stuff—trowels, claws, rakes, hoes, weeders. Shelves with terra-cotta pots, and dozens of plant starts sitting in egg cartons. There were also shelves containing bags of fertilizers, boxes of nutrients, plant food sprays and aerosol cans of weed killer. There were also jars of rat killer, all clearly marked with the skull-and-crossbones logo, some pest traps and animal cages as well. Apparently the Order of the Rings of God had decided that bugs and pests took a backseat to human needs.

Not that Decker found that philosophy objectionable. He embraced the Jewish philosophy that had animals serving people, and not the other way around. God had given the human race the gift of reason, although in Decker’s line of work he rarely saw it utilized. That being said, people—with their theoretical gift of reason—had obligations to their animals. Cruelty was strictly forbidden. As a matter of fact, pets and livestock had to be fed before sitting down to one’s own meal, the rationale being that though people don’t forget to eat, they are occasionally remiss about that bowl of dog chow. Tsar Ba’alei Chayim—kindness to animals.

The shed was neat, the garden implements hanging on the walls or stowed in one of the built-in slots. There were several plastic trash cans for dirt and leaves. The floor had been swept clean.

Cleanliness and godliness—hand in hand.

Decker mulled over the adage.

The sect must believe in some type of a god. Why else name yourself the Order of the Rings of God? Why not just … Order of the Rings. Or just plain Rings. Much thought often goes into naming. Decker remembered how he and Rina had endlessly debated baby names even after they decided to name Hannah Rosie after Rina’s grandmothers. Then how much more important would the name be if it denoted a personally tailored philosophy? Or a new religion? Each word would be important.

Decker heard a throat clear, and turned around. The man wasn’t as tall as Decker, but must have cleared six feet. He appeared to be in his late thirties with a thin face and brown eyes. He sported a goatee, and had a black ponytail, which fell between his shoulder blades. Like Pluto, the man wore a blue silk robe overlaid with a purple silk vest. Decker wondered about his name. Mars? Maybe Uranus. That would be fitting. Because the whole investigation was a big pain in the ass.

The man walked over to Decker and held out his hand. “Bob,” he announced.

Involuntarily, Decker let out a chuckle. He shook the proffered hand. “Lieutenant Decker.”

“You find me funny?”

“Just the name.”

“Why’s that? Bob’s a common name.”

Again, Decker smiled. “Yes, sir, it is indeed. I hope I’m not trespassing—”

“You are. You’re lucky I locked the dogs up. With the police coming and going, I had no choice. They don’t like strangers.”

“Good guard dogs never do.”

“You’d better believe it.” Bob smiled. “Their names are Dormer, Dancer and Rudolph. Santa has his reindeer, I have my friends.”

“They’re your dogs?”

“No.” Bob wiped sweat from his brow. “They belong to the Order. But I’m outdoors a lot so we enjoy a personal relationship.”

Decker sensed an underlying message—a veiled warning that said, “Don’t mess with me.”

Bob said, “When I first arrived, Father Jupiter asked if I wanted to change my name to something more … far-reaching—celestial or heavenly, if you will. That was the trend. To follow our great leader’s lead. But, being an individualist and a bit of an oppositionalist, I declined. Unlike most of the people here, I wasn’t running away from myself per se. Just running to something better, my spirit being my compass.”

Decker nodded, waiting for more.

Bob mulled over his words. “I’ve found peace that had previously eluded me. I found my personal god.”

Decker kept his face flat. “Father Jupiter is your personal god?”

“Perhaps that’s an overstatement.” Bob smiled, showing tea-stained teeth. “He’s not a god, but a leader. Showing me the way. My own personal … Tao. I feel that we were birthed from the same matter.”

“Is he related to you by blood?”

Bob chucked. “How I wish.” His eyes swept over the vista. “Look around, sir. This is a type of modern-day Eden. Rephrasing it into scientific parlance, I’d say here we have ideal Newtonian physics—a perfect world of action and reaction, and absolute time. Out there …” He cocked a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s strictly Einstein where everything’s relative. Or Max Planck and quantum mechanics where things are random and unpredictable.”

Decker waited a beat. “You tend the garden by yourself?”

“I have help. But I’ve been here longer, so I get to wear the blue robe and purple vest.”

“Which means?”

“I’m an official privileged attendant to our Father Jupiter. Like Socrates, we get to sit at his feet and listen his words. We hold the title of guru. So I’m officially Guru Bob. But you may call me brother. After all, we’re one big family.”

The guru’s face remained neutral, but Decker suspected that Bob was speaking tongue-in-cheek.

Bob explained, “There are four of us who hold the rank.”

“Ah. I see. I’ve only met—”

“Pluto. He’s quite the organizer.”

Decker said, “I had assumed he was the acting head of the Order now that Father Jupiter is gone.”

Bob continued to be unreadable. “I suppose you could call him the partial acting head. He certainly is a talking head.”

“He has opinions.”

“That is true,” Bob answered. “Let’s get back to Newtonian physics. Because basically that’s the same concept we’re dealing with. For our everyday reactions, Newton’s laws hold. You know his laws, right?”

“Refresh my memory.”

“A body at rest stays at rest … a body in motion stays in motion. The orbits of the planets. What comes up, must come down. Any of this sound familiar?”

“The up and down part.”

“The specifics are not important. What is consequential is that his laws hold in ordinary life, but they break down when objects start approaching the speed of light. Then time no longer is absolute, but is relative and lumped into this category called space time. Not to mention the effects of the space warp—the curved topology of our universe. And the effect of huge gravitation bodies we can’t see called black holes. In other words, you get massive distortions, you understand what I’m saying?”

“The analogy is eluding me, sir—”

“Bob.”

“Bob, then.” Decker paused. “Were you a scientist in your past life?”

“A graduate student in astrophysics at Southwest University of Technology. I worshiped Dr. Ganz as a scientist, as a physicist, as a cosmologist and as a brilliant philosopher and thinker. I devoured his texts, could quote his writings word for word. He became the idealized father I never had. Mine was a washed-out old coot. Even after he made money, he wasn’t happy.”

“But you hadn’t met Ganz before he disappeared.”

“Of course not. My hero was pure fantasy because I, like others, had thought him dead. When I found out that Ganz was still alive, I rejoiced. My hero had leaped from the dry pages of publication and into real life. When others ridiculed his abrupt transformation, I had to find out for myself what brought about his startling change. So I came here. I heard him speak, I talked to the man, thought about his ideas. Once I entered his world, I never left. To me, Father Jupiter is still king of the universe.”

Melach Haolam, Decker thought. A hefty title for a mere mortal. “So you’ve been with Father Jupiter how long?”

“Fourteen years. But getting back to Newton’s absolute time versus Einstein’s relative time, the analogy is this: I have no objection to Guru Pluto stepping in as acting head of the Order under most circumstances—i.e., Newtonian physics. Just as long as he doesn’t try to impose absolute time under Einsteinian conditions. Because if he does, I’m going to clean his relative clock, so to speak.”

Decker opened his mouth and closed it. “Are you saying he can act as the Order’s head just as long as he doesn’t overstep his bounds?”

“Precisely,” Bob stated. “You’re quick for a cop.”

Decker stared at him.

Again, Bob grinned. He swept his arm over the vista. “Father Jupiter loved the garden. Next to the heavens, he loved this world the most. Can’t say that I blame him.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“You know, to get here from the front of the compound is quite a trek. Certainly not within arm’s reach from the procession … which is where you’re supposed to be. Been doing a little space travel, sir?”

“I got lost.”

“I’ll bet.” Bob scratched his head. “I don’t care, but the dogs wouldn’t like it. Certainly, Pluto wouldn’t approve.”

“And that matters to you, Bob?”

The guru thought about that. “Let’s put it this way. At the moment, Pluto’s nerves are frayed. It’s best that you don’t taunt him. He’s handy with an ax.”

Decker was surprised by the implicit threat. “I beg your pardon?”

“Woodcutting.” Bob smirked. “I’ll show you a shortcut back.”

“Actually, if you could show me to Father Jupiter’s bedroom, I’d be much obliged.”

Bob tapped his foot. “Ordinarily, that’s off-limits. But since a birdie has told me that you’ve parked a couple of your lackeys there, guess I might as well show you the proverbial light. Or at least the way.” Bob started walking, but Decker didn’t follow. Bob stopped. “Yes?”

“You all going to be all right here? Maintain status quo, so to speak?”

Bob said “You all? Much obliged? Originally from the South, sir?”

“I guess that’s true if you consider that Florida was part of the Confederacy.” Decker turned grave. “I have concerns, Bob. I don’t want any unbalanced members trying to join Father Jupiter. An individual adult suicide is one thing. But mass suicide that includes children, well, that qualifies as murder.”

“And you’re wondering who would you arrest as the culprit if we were all dead?”

“Bob, I’m not screwing around anymore. I’m very concerned for the kids.”

Bob said, “Here we believe in free will. Father Jupiter said that nothing is sincere if it’s done under coercion. As far as I know, there are no plans for us to jump to the next level. Not that I can predict anyone’s individual behavior any more than I could predict the position of a photon at any given moment. But I do understand what you’re saying.”

Decker wasn’t too sure about that. “And if you hear anything about mass suicide, you’ll let me know immediately, correct?”

Bob said, “I don’t recall you being assigned to our welfare and safety.” A tap of the foot. “I suppose I could take your concern as a compliment. You care.”

“Especially when it comes to protecting kids.”

“Lieutenant, I live here, but I don’t live in a vacuum. I have a son. I want to see him grow to be a man.”

“So we have an understanding.”

“Up to a certain point.”

“Meaning?”

“As long as Newtonian physics hold, we’re fine. But when we get to Einsteinian travel in space time … what can I say? Things get pretty warped out there. I’ll show you the way to Father Jupiter’s bedroom now. Once you’re there, Lieutenant, you’re on your own.”

4

Guru Bob walked Decker back to the Order’s entryway before deserting him for the young girl van driver known as Terra. He whisked her away, leaving Decker to flounder among the white-robed mourners. Standing solo, Decker felt as welcome as a leper. He hunted around the hallways until he saw yellow crime tape strung across a doorway. He stepped over it and went inside the room. The scene wasn’t much to speak about. In general, overdose suicides weren’t messy or bloody. It was just a matter of finding out which specific agent stopped either the breathing or the beating of the heart. More a matter for a doctor than a detective.

Ganz’s bedroom was significantly larger than his parishioners’ cells, but not grandiose by any means. He had a queen-sized bed instead of a cot, a dresser for his clothing instead of a trunk under the bed, and a wall of bookshelves. Most important, he had an attached bathroom. The techs had just finished dusting; black powder covered Ganz’s nightstand, bookshelves and bedposts. At the moment, Scott Oliver was rifling through Ganz’s clothes. Marge Dunn was scribbling in her notepad. She wore beige slacks, a white blouse and a black jacket. On her feet were basic black loafers with rubber soles. There were gold studs in her ears—no other jewelry. The simplest necklace could become a noose when dealing with a violent felon. She wore no perfume either, because alien scents can screw up evidence.

She looked up. “Lieutenant.”

“Detective.” A smile. “What do you have?”

“A headache.” Marge pushed blond bangs from her brown eyes. “You have any Advil on you, Pete?”

“Always.” Years ago, Decker had been shot in the shoulder and arm. The wound had healed without motor nerve damage, but pain lingered like an unwanted relative. He tossed her his bottle. She took off her gloves and plunked out two pills, swallowing them dry. Then she hurled the bottle back. Decker caught it with one hand.

“According to Pluto …” Marge dropped her voice. “Have you met Pluto?”

Decker smiled. “I have met Pluto.”

Marge rolled her eyes. “A piece of work.”

“Wouldn’t want him for a houseguest.”

She smiled. “Anyway, Pluto’s story is that Ganz was found roughly in this kind of position.” She flung her hand back, opened her mouth and flopped her arms out at her side. “Rag doll style. Head and left arm hanging off the side of the bed. He was lying on the diagonal, the body skewed to the left. You can still see part of the outline on the sheets.”

Decker examined the depression in the rumpled coverings. It ran from the left top of the bed to the right bottom corner. “Who found him?”

“Venus—Jupiter’s significant other—did.” She paused and thought. “You know, there’re only nine planets. Wonder what the rest of the group call themselves?”

“There’re always the asteroids,” Oliver said as he rooted through the pockets of Jupiter’s purple robes. “Isn’t a mile-long asteroid gonna hit earth in something like twenty years?”

“Yeah, I heard something like that on the news.” Marge scratched her head. “Wonder if I should take an early retirement?”

“Where’s Venus?” Decker asked. “And please nobody say second rock from the sun.”

“At the processional, washing Jupiter’s feet as the people pass by,” Oliver answered. “It’s a full-time job because his followers keep kissing Jupiter’s big toe. And no, I don’t know what that means.”

Decker said, “Mennonites wash their feet before praying.”

“Why’s that?” Marge asked.

“I think Jesus used to wash the feet of his followers before praying out of humility. So did Abraham—he did it out of kindness. Of course, way back when, washing feet was a standard Middle Eastern custom. You live in the desert and wear sandals, you’re going to have dirty feet.”

Marge said, “Most of the people here wear tennis shoes.”

Decker thought a moment. “You know, Jews wash the dead bodies before corpses are buried. In addition to their own philosophy, maybe the Order co-opted bits and pieces from different, established religions. A little of this, a little of that.”

Oliver asked, “What is the group’s philosophy?”

“I’m not sure.” Decker pulled out the videotape. “Maybe this’ll help us find out.” He dropped it into a plastic bag.

“Where’d you get that, Loo?” Oliver asked.

“I’ll return it. Don’t worry.” Quickly, Decker changed the subject. “What time did Venus find the body?”

Marge said, “Pluto said around five in the morning.”

“Pluto said,” Decker stated. “Has anyone talked to Venus?”

“I’ve tried but she’s been in seclusion,” Oliver said. “Incommunicado until she took her place at the processional.”

“She’s going to have to be interviewed.” Decker rubbed his eyes. “So all the information about Jupiter’s death is via Pluto?”

Oliver nodded. “He’s the official spokesperson.”

“I don’t know about that.” Decker explained the cult’s pecking order, mentioning that there were three other privileged attendants. He told them about Bob.

Oliver said, “So who are the other two?”

Decker said, “Count the purple vests.”

“Venus was wearing a purple vest,” Oliver stated. “That leaves one more. Want me to go out to the processional and take a look, Loo?”

“Are you done here?”

Oliver shut the dresser drawer. “I’m done. I don’t know about Detective Dunn.”

Decker turned to Marge. “Find anything to suggest that this was anything other than a suicide?”

“Nothing at first glance, at least.” She consulted her notes. “Empty fifth of vodka under the bed, empty vial of … let me get the exact name …” She paged through her notes. “Nembutal sodium capsules … twenty milligrams per capsule. Vial was empty, prescribed originally for ten capsules, no refills. I also bagged a vial of diazepam—”

“Valium,” Decker said. “Diazepam is the generic name.”

Marge looked up. “Whatever you say. I don’t use that stuff. I found an empty vial prescribed for twenty tablets, also twenty milligrams per tablet.”

“Ganz’s name on the labels?”

“Not Ganz, Father Jupiter.”

Decker said, “The label read ‘Father Jupiter’?”

“Yes.”

Decker said, “Where’d you find the empty vials?”

“On his bed stand,” Marge said. “All the vials were dusted and bagged. To me, it plays out like a typical case of mixing drugs and alcohol.”

“What about anything injectable?” Decker asked.

No one spoke for a moment. Then Marge asked why.

“Because the ME found recent IM needle marks in his arm and butt.”

Oliver smiled sheepishly. “Uh … there’s a slew of shit in his medicine cabinet. I wrote it all down, but I didn’t bother to dust or bag it. Not with the two empty vials at his bedside.”

“I’ll bag it,” Decker said.

“It’s not that I screwed up—”

“Who said you screwed up?”

“You’ve got that look on your face, Deck.”

Oliver had screwed up, but Decker let it go. “Go out and find the remaining guru—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Oliver muttered, stepping over the crime tape. Deck wasn’t a bad guy. He never lorded his position over those in his command, and he didn’t buddy up to the brass. Begrudgingly, Oliver was forced to admit that Deck probably made it to the position on merit.

“Come back here when you’re done, Scott,” Decker called out.

“Fine, fine,” Oliver answered.

When he had left, Marge asked, “Needle marks?”

“Yep.”

“Self-inflicted?”

“In the arm, maybe. But in his butt?”

Marge regarded his face. “The empty fifth of vodka … the pills. Everything’s too neat. You have doubts, don’t you? So do I.”

“I just don’t like it when the crime scene has been altered. It would have been one thing if someone had tried to revive the body—moved it just enough to do CPR. But to move a corpse in order to place it in a shrine before contacting authorities? I find that odd. People are usually nervous around dead bodies.”

“The group’s strange. Maybe they have odd ideas about death and bodies.”

“Even so, Marge, someone should have known better. Then you have the fact that the death wasn’t called in by anyone in the group. It was called in by Ganz’s daughter. So how did she find out about it? And if no one in the Order of the Rings called the police, what exactly were they planning to do with the corpse?”

“Bury it on the grounds?” she suggested. “They seem antiestablishment enough to do something like that.”

“That’s certainly true.” Decker slipped on a pair of latex gloves. “We have two immediate tasks.”

“We have to talk to Venus,” Marge said.

“Exactly. Do you want to do it? Might be better woman to woman.”

“Sure. I’m just about done here, so I can do it now. Unless you want me to bag the vials in the bathroom.”

“No, I’ll bag ’em. The second thing we need to know is—”

“Who from the group called Jupiter’s daughter?” Marge interrupted. “Which means someone should talk to her. You’ll do that, right?” She smiled. “Anything to get out of here.”

“Why waste my breath if you know what I’m going to say?”

Marge laughed. “No need to get peevish, Loo. All it means is that you trained me well.”

The bathroom was a closet crammed with a toilet, a washstand and a shower without a stall—a curtain cutting across one of the corners, and a mounted handheld water spray. White tile walls, white tile floors, all of it slippery when wet. A drain had been cut into the floor. Above the washstand was the medicine cabinet. Decker opened the cupboard, plastering his body against the opposite wall to avoid getting hit by the swing-out door. There appeared to be around thirty different white plastic bottles, each with its own label. At first glance, nothing was in duplicate form. Which meant everything would have to be bagged separately. Decker draped a clean cloth over the toilet seat—which was surprisingly in the down position (had a woman been in there?)—and laid the plastic evidence bags down on the clean surface. He also placed a cloth over the washstand. Then he took out his pad and pen.

He started at the left upper corner:

Echinacea Purpura—For supporting the immune system. One hundred capsules at 404mg each.

Decker wrote down the name of the drug, the number of tablets per bottle and the dosage of each pill. Then he spilled out the remaining capsules on the cloth draped over the washstand and counted them. Twenty-six still in the container. Carefully, he picked them up and put them back into the bottle, counting each kerplunk as they dropped to the bottom. Twenty-six tablets on the first count, twenty-six tablets on the second count. It’s a wrap. He bagged and labeled the bottle.

One down, around twenty-nine more to go. He glared at the vials, knowing the same routine awaited him. Aah, the glamour of police work. Perhaps a little gray matter helped solve a few cases. But the true tricks of the trade were patience and an eye for detail. Of course, a confession never hurt. With any luck, he’d finish the bagging before the procession ended. And if he didn’t, he hoped that the gurus would leave him alone to do his thing.

He took another bottle from the shelf: Zinc tablets (as citrate). One hundred tablets at 10mg each. Forty-two tablets remaining.

Bottle three: Calcium (as calcium citrate). One hundred tablets at 200mg each. Eighty-six tablets left.

Bottle four: Manganese. One hundred tablets at 100mg each. Seventy-seven left.

Bottle five: Vitamin C (as ascorbic acid). One hundred tablets at 100mg each. Forty-two left.

Bottle six: Sublingual B₁₂ with folic acid and biotin.

Decker read the instructions.

This unique formula is in sublingual (under tongue) form, the most effective form known for the absorption of vitamin B12 and folic acid (other than injection).

He thought a moment.

Other than injection.

Maybe that explained the IM needle marks in Jupiter’s arms and butt. He was shooting up B₁₂. Maybe this was going to turn out to be simple.

One can hope. Decker turned the bottle in his gloved hand. It held one hundred tablets, each containing 800 mcg of vitamin B₁₂, folic acid and biotin. One hundred and eleven left.

Bottle seven: Super-Antioxidants. One hundred and twenty tablets, each containing 100,000 IU of vitamin A (one hundred% as beta-carotene), 500mg of vitamin C, 200 IU of vitamin E and 25mg of selenium.

Decker emptied the bottle onto the cloth. They looked like horse pills. Fifty-seven left.

Bottle eight: Healthy bones supplement: For a healthy skeletal system. This one contained calcium, zinc, manganese, magnesium, copper (as gluconate), boron, horsetail herb extract, yucca juice and vitamins C, D, B and K.

Decker perused his notes, then looked back at the shelves. Lots of concoctions containing the same supplements—vitamins C, D and K. And the minerals zinc, magnesium and chromium. There were five bottles holding megadoses of vitamin C. If Ganz had taken all of the pills, all at once, he would have been overdosing on many of the vitamins and minerals, some as much as ten thousand milligrams more than the recommended daily dose.

Is it possible to OD on vitamins? Decker didn’t see why not. Vitamins were drugs. Judy Little would know.

Moving from the first shelf to the second, Decker found more of the same—vitamins, minerals, extracts and supplements. Interestingly enough, as he waded through the bottles, he found no prescription drugs, nor did he locate any over-the-counter medication. Not even a lowly bottle of Tylenol. Yet on Ganz’s nightstand were recent prescription vials of Valium and Nembutal. And according to Marge, his name was typed on both of the labels.

Speculate later, Deck. For now just finish up.

Fifteen minutes later, the cupboard was empty. As he gathered the numerous evidence bags, Decker felt hostility over his shoulder.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Pluto’s voice. Decker turned around, knocking into the little man with his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right.” Pluto rubbed his shoulder. “You clobbered me.”

“It was an accident. There’s not enough room in here for two people.”

“Agreed. You shouldn’t be here.” Pluto’s face was bright red. He continued to massage his shoulder.

Decker felt the hairs on his neck rise in protest. But he managed to check his temper. “Sir, this is a crime scene. And you, being here, are in violation of the law. Now I know you want me out of your hair. So make it easy for me and leave—”

“You’re taking personal property—”

“I am taking evidence from a crime scene. Now if you don’t get out of my way, and out of this room, I’m going to handcuff and arrest you in front of all your people.”

“Which will only serve to stoke their simmering anger—”

“I’m willing to chance it if you’re willing to spend a night in jail. Now move it!”

Pluto rocked on his feet, faltered, then stepped aside. Decker stomped out of the bathroom, bags in arms, then placed them on the floor. He searched around for shopping bags for easier transport. “Is the processional done?”

Pluto sighed. “Yes.” Another sigh. “Yes, it’s done.”

Decker regarded the man’s face. He seemed genuinely saddened. But as soon as he realized Decker’s eyes were on him, he hardened his expression. “I suppose you ghouls are going to take Father Jupiter’s body now. When will it be released for our private burial?”

“We won’t keep it any longer than necessary.” Decker spoke softly. “I’m very sorry for your loss, sir. Father Jupiter was a great man.”

Pluto held the stare, then looked away. “Yes, he was. Thank you for your words.”

Decker paused. “Perhaps you can explain something to me. The death was called in by Ganz’s—”

“Father Jupiter.”

“Yes, of course. The call to us came by way of Father Jupiter’s daughter. Now, as far as I know, no one in the Order of the Rings of God called it in.”

Pluto was silent.

Decker asked, “Were you planning on reporting the death, Guru Pluto?”

Pluto whispered, “It makes no difference now.”

“So you weren’t planning on reporting it—”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sir, in the future, please be advised that you must report any death. It’s the law.”

“It’s irrelevant now,” the guru stated.

Again, Decker hesitated. “Out of curiosity, were you planning to bury the body on the grounds?”

“What might have been is no longer a concern.”

“Fair enough,” Decker answered. “No point in speculation. Just one more question, Pluto. Who called Father Jupiter’s daughter and told her the news?”

“I wish I knew. Whoever did it needs to be addressed.”

“Addressed?”

“For breaking the vows and overstepping the chains,” Pluto orated. “You have your laws, we have ours.”

5

It took some time and a little internal maneuvering, but eventually Marge was given the go-ahead to interview Venus. She had expected her bedroom to adjoin Ganz’s, but it was located on the other side of the compound. She was led to the chamber, flanked by two gendarmes in white robes, each one looking very grave. One had facial hair, the other was clean-shaven, but both had close-cropped haircuts. The bearded man knocked on the door. It was answered by a smoky, female voice asking who was there. After Marge identified herself, the voice told her to come in. Beard opened the door, but didn’t dare cross the threshold—as if restrained by an invisible net.

Marge went inside, then took a moment to look around. Spare but bright, the room held a double bed, a Shaker-like chair and a bookshelf. Venus was propped up by pillows, her legs stretched out atop the bedcover.

Talking to her guard, she said, “You may go now, Brother Ansel.”

The man hesitated, then spoke in a nasal voice. “Are you sure you want to be left alone with a violator, Mother Venus?”

“Yes, I can manage. Thank you for your consideration. You may go.”

“As you wish.” He left, throwing Marge a hostile look as he shut the door. The two women made eye contact.

Marge said, “Thank you for seeing me, Ms …”

“Just call me Mother Venus. Or just Venus.” She’d been reading a paperback. She put it down in the spine-up position, and pointed to the chair. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Good-looking, Marge thought. Even with red eyes and no makeup, her features were striking. Appearing to be around thirty, Venus had shoulder-length, chestnut hair that framed an oval face. Translucent green eyes were shaded by enormous lashes. Her silken complexion was wan—to be expected—but Marge detected a hint of pink at the cheekbones. She wore a bright blue robe that plunged at the neckline and fell open mid-thigh, exposing graceful legs. She wasn’t wearing a bra, but even without the support, she had cleavage. Her feet were bare and her left ankle was adorned with a gold bracelet. She lowered her gaze, then flung the bottom of the robe over her uncovered legs. Crossed and recrossed her ankles.

Marge felt funny addressing her as Venus, although if one needed a model for the goddess of love and beauty, this one could fit the bill. She craned her neck and managed to read the paperback’s title—Faith and Beyond. She couldn’t make out the author. Extracting a notepad from her jacket, she said, “Would you mind if I took some notes?”

“Why would I mind? I have nothing to hide.”

Marge digested her words, translating them. She has something to hide. “I’m sorry if I have to probe into sensitive areas—”

“You’re just doing your job.” Again, Venus recrossed her ankles.

“What are you reading?”

The question seemed to momentarily stump her. She glanced at her side and picked up the paperback. “This?” A shrug. “Something in Jupiter’s library. The metaphysical part is interesting, but the science is complex.” She tightened the robe around her neck. “That was Jupiter’s forte—science … physics … cosmology. The very origins of existence. But you know that already, don’t you.”

“Yes, we know who Jupiter was.”

“He was a great, great man.” Venus’s voice tightened. “I can’t believe …” A sigh.

Marge said, “How long have you lived here, ma’am?”

“Venus, please. Ma’am is for your world, not ours.”

“Venus, then. How long have you been here with Jupiter?”

“Around ten years. When Jupiter took me in, I was really messed up—drugs, alcohol, two abortions. I had no faith, no beliefs, no … nothing. Just a self-destructive idiot. Jupiter saw right through me.”

She looked at the ceiling.

“Anyway, this isn’t relevant to your investigation. I’m telling you this because …” Tears fell from her eyes. “You don’t know what a savior he was. I truly mean that. That’s what Jupiter did. He dropped a brilliant career as well as fame and fortune to save souls. More than that, he taught others to save souls—me, Bob … Pluto. You wouldn’t know it, but Pluto has rescued many homeless under Jupiter’s guidance.”

More tears. She wiped her face with the corner of her robe. “I suppose you want to know about this morning.”

“Please. Had he passed away when you found him?”

“Yes …”

“How did you know?”

Venus wiped more tears. “He wasn’t moving! He wasn’t breathing! His heart … it had stopped.”

“You felt for a pulse?”

She licked her lips. “Actually, no. I …” She closed her eyes and opened them. “I thought he was sleeping. It was time to get up for morning ablutions and prayers. I went into the room and called out his name. When he didn’t answer, I went over to the bed and … and shook him a little. He …” She stopped to catch her breath. “He fell over when I touched him. His head … falling over the mattress …”

She swallowed.

“I screamed. Pluto … Pluto came in. After that, I really … don’t … one of my attendants ushered me out … brought me back to my room … waited with me. Later, Pluto came to me with the news.”

Marge engaged her with sympathy. “Do you remember what time it was when you came into Jupiter’s room?”

She spoke with effort. “The usual time. Around five.”

“You say he …” Marge tried to be as gentle as possible. “You say he fell over when you shook him. Was he lying down or propped up—”

“Propped up. Jupiter often slept semiupright. He had a sinus condition. Being completely prone stuffed him up.”

“And when you found him, he seemed to be asleep.”

Venus nodded.

“Eyes closed?”

Again, Venus nodded.

“Anything odd about his position?”

“Meaning?” Venus asked.

“Did he appear to be comfortable? Were his limbs contorted, or was anything awry in the room?”

Venus shook her head no. “Everything seemed … fine.”

“Did you see bottles of medicine at his bedside? Things like painkillers or sleeping pills—”

“Jupiter didn’t take painkillers or sleeping pills. He didn’t ascribe to any sort of Western medicine.”

“Did you see any needles—”

“No,” Venus answered. “No needles. Although Jupiter sometimes injected himself with vitamins.”

Marge took in her words. “We didn’t find any syringe.”

“I keep them in my bathroom. Take a look. I have a case of disposables. We use them for hygienic purposes.”

How convenient. Marge said, “Did you inject him with vitamins?”

She raised her eyes. “I injected him a couple of times in the butt.”

“Recently?”

“Three, four days ago.”

“Ah,” Marge said. That explained the needle marks. At least, that was her explanation. She said, “What can you tell me about the bottle of vodka—”

“Ordinarily, Jupiter did not drink. So if he drank himself … himself comatose … or … or dead …” She gulped air. “It could have only been for the purpose of transporting himself to a higher level of faith.”

Transporting himself. Marge would have to get back to that one. “Did you see the bottle in view when you went to wake him up?”

Venus shook her head.

Marge said, “Let me review for a moment. Just see if I have it right. You went into Jupiter’s bedroom around five in the morning to wake him for prayers. He was sitting upright—”

“Semiupright.”

“Semiupright,” Marge corrected herself. “You called out to him and he didn’t answer. You went to shake him awake, and he slumped over, head over the edge of the mattress. At that point, you screamed, and Pluto came in. Is that accurate so far?”

“Yes.”

“Did Pluto come in alone?”

“I believe so. But within seconds, there was a crowd. It was horrible.” Her eyes welled up with tears. “Just … dreadful.”

“Then someone brought you back here, to your bedroom, correct?”

“One of my attendants—Alpha-two, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Alpha-two is your attendant’s name?”

“All my attendants are Alphas.”

“Do they wear vests and robes like Jupiter’s attendants?”

A slight smile. It gave light to her face. Venus said, “Someone explained the color-coding to you. No. My attendants wear white robes with pink collars. They are privileged among the women, but none of them are as privileged as Jupiter’s attendants. This is a male-dominated society. You are told that upfront. Besides, it doesn’t affect me. As Jupiter’s chosen mother, I’m second in command … well, I guess at the moment, I’m officially in command although temporarily Pluto is handling things. Until I can compose myself. But that’s only temporary. I have no intention of letting Pluto step into Jupiter’s shoes. I don’t believe that even Pluto wants that onerous responsibility.”

Marge nodded, scribbling down the cult’s pecking order. “Who will succeed Jupiter?”

“I don’t know who could possibly succeed him. As far as I know, Father Jupiter did not leave any line of succession. And with his sudden death …” Venus’s eyes darted from side to side. “It will have to be worked out. But I assure you the Order of the Rings of God will remain intact. We owe it to Father Jupiter to further his ideals of love, charity and spirituality.”

“Lofty goals.”

“From a lofty man.”

“One more thing,” Marge said. “Pluto came back to your room to tell you the news.”

“Correct.”

“Do you recall the time?”

“Around a half hour later. So maybe it was five-thirty. But I wasn’t clocking him.”

“Of course. So as best as you can remember, Pluto came to your room and told you the news about five-thirty?”

“I suppose.” She buried her face in her hands, then looked up. “It all happened very quickly … very surreal. I still can’t believe … I knew he hadn’t been himself, but …”

“Hadn’t been himself in what way?” Marge asked.

“He wasn’t exactly ill, but he seemed … drained. He hadn’t been in his ordinarily high spirits for least six months. And he often held his head—like he had a bad headache. I was concerned. But when I asked him about it, he shrugged me off and assured me it was all very normal. That it was part of the process.”

“What process?”

Venus eyed Marge. “If I told you, you’d scoff. All the violators scoff.”

“Try me.”

Again Venus hesitated. “Part of the communication process with the beyond. Father Jupiter knew that his body was being tapped of its life energies because he had begun to make serious contact with the forces.”

Again, the room fell silent.

Venus said, “You wouldn’t understand. You couldn’t understand.”

Marge tried to keep skepticism out of her voice. “What kind of forces?”

Venus waved her off.

“Please. I want to understand, Venus. Who had Jupiter contacted?” Maybe someone was threatening him. “Tell me.” Keep the voice even, Dunn. “Were they humans? Were they aliens?”

To Marge, it appeared that Venus was appraising her sincerity. Finally, the alluring woman said, “Not aliens as you perceive them—little beeping things with five eyes and antennas.”

Her voice became intense.

“For about six months, Jupiter had been receiving signals … electromagnetic waves that he felt were coming from an alternative universe. He was particularly excited because these signals were not classic Big Bang background radiation. You know … stuff given off when the universe was created. They seemed to be organized signals. How he could tell, I don’t know. But that’s why Jupiter was Jupiter. Only a man of his scope could interpret such things.”

Marge tapped her pad. “He was a brilliant man.”

Venus’s expression took on a slight sneer—the upward curve of her lips, the roll of her eyes. “An understatement, Detective.”

Marge ignored the condescension. “Tell me about these signals, Venus.”

The young woman’s smile was patient. All in all, Venus appeared cooperative.

“Jupiter said these were far-away stellar signals—many, many light-years away. So distant that they may have come from the original creation of matter. When the universe was still in ten dimensions instead of four. You know about the four dimensions, don’t you—length, width, depth and time as a function of space. Space time. Einsteinian time. Do you know about Einstein’s special theory of relativity? E equals MC squared?”

“I wasn’t great in science,” Marge said. “Maybe you could skip the equations and just tell me in layman’s terms about the signals?”

The female guru seemed relieved and went on. “According to Jupiter, there are other universes that parallel our own. You get to them through the black holes. Unfortunately, once you enter the event horizon, you can’t come back. Even if Jupiter’s space travel theories are eventually accepted, and time is proven to be multidirectional, travel through black holes is strictly one way. So no one can ever come back to tell us about the experience.”

No one spoke. Marge glanced at her notes—black holes, ten dimensions, time multidirectional. She was lost, but so what? She was investigating a suicide, not exploring the Order’s whacked-out philosophy. Still, it was not something to be completely overlooked. The Order’s “isms” may be the reason why Jupiter killed himself.

Venus’s eyes clouded over. “I think I may have mixed up a few points. All I know is that it made perfect sense when Jupiter explained it. He was preparing us for the eventuality of it all. Especially because of the millennia. The timing just seemed to work out perfectly.”

Marge’s ears perked up. “Eventuality of what?”

“Space travel to a different physical as well as metaphysical plane. He claimed that time was closing in. From the Big Bang to the Big Crunch. Of course, Jupiter’s concept of time is different from ours. A short time to him could have been a million light-years. Which is a very long time.” She looked down. “Anyway, this is all tangential. I guess I’m just trying to figure out why.” She exhaled. “Life as we know it is so … short … so temporary.”

“Jupiter’s space travel …” Marge leaned forward. “Did part of the process include suicide?”

“In theory, I suppose that suicide could be made part of it. Not that Jupiter ever mentioned suicide as a mode of transport. He spoke in more theoretical terms. Let me assure you, Detective, that the Order of the Rings of God is no Heaven’s Gate. Jupiter was no crackpot. He certainly didn’t believe in castration. We have children here. Mass suicide isn’t part of our philosophy.”

Marge said, “Still, it appears that Jupiter did take his own life.”

“If he made that choice, he had a very good reason.”

Marge said, “Did you happen to notice any suicide note?”

“No. But I was taken away so quickly … there could have been.” Seconds ticked by. “Did you find something?”

“Did Jupiter ever talk about suicide?”

“Mostly he spoke of the temporal issues of life. Was there a note, Detective?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. If Pluto removed something from Jupiter’s bedroom—”

“I’ll find out. Whatever is in Jupiter’s bedroom now belongs to me.” A beat. “Once you’re done with the questioning, how long is your involvement going to last?”

“Not too long—”

“What’s the process? You determine the cause of death, then release the body?”

“Basic—”

“And if the death was natural, there’s no problem?”

“None—”

“But if the death was caused by suicide, then what?”

“The coroner issues the death certificate based on his findings—”

“And then you release the body for burial?”

“Yes.”

Venus rubbed her eyes. “So why are the police involved? Why do you care if he killed himself or not?”

Marge hesitated. “Jupiter’s demise may be ruled a suspicious death, Venus.”

She raised her hand to her mouth. “You think … that someone could … that’s impossible!”

Marge said, “We have to rule out murder. Once we’ve done that, we’re out of here.”

“No one here would have killed Father Jupiter. Everyone loved him.”

Marge nodded. “You know, his daughter called in the death—”

“His daughter? Europa?” Venus raised her eyebrows. “Well, maybe not everyone loved him.”

Marge wrote frantically. “What can you tell me about her?”

Venus hesitated before she spoke. “I don’t think I should talk about her.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you are investigating a murder, I don’t want to be the one who … never mind. I’ve said enough.”

“I take it Europa’s not your best friend?”

“She rejected her father. That hurt him very much. Of course, I have feelings about her. But I don’t see how she could have had anything to do with his death. She hadn’t seen her father in fifteen years.”

“Yet she called the death in.”

Venus was quiet. Then she got up. “I must get dressed. I need to be a public figure for my people now. I certainly don’t want to give them the misguided impression that Pluto is in charge. So if you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course.” Marge stood. “Venus, don’t you find it strange that Jupiter’s daughter called in the death?”

“I find it very strange.”

“How’d she know that her father had died?”

“Detective, that’s a very good question.”

6

The thermos of coffee had run dry. Reluctantly, Decker traded the one vice for another. Reaching in the glove compartment of his unmarked, he pulled out a loose cigarette. This one happened to be a Marlboro, but it really didn’t matter. It had nicotine; it would do. He cranked the windows down, sat back in the driver’s seat and lit up, staring out the windshield as smoke exited from his nose and mouth. Chiding himself for the weakness although not too harshly.

He had quit the noxious habit for almost six years. But then came a bloodbath, and the horrific images just wouldn’t quit. The dreaded flashbacks—over a year old—popped up at inconvenient times. It was at those moments when Decker went for the rush. He didn’t fully understand why he’d been thinking about that grisly scene at Estelle’s restaurant. If he had to rationalize it, he’d most likely chalk it up to a hinky feeling about the safety of the children still residing within the compounds of the Order of the Rings of God.

He smoked slowly … leisurely, washing his nerves with a chemical calm. Since becoming a detective lieutenant, he rarely visited crime scenes—only in the extraordinary cases. Like Estelle’s … like this one. The death of famous people always made news, although Ganz hadn’t been an important figure in science for a long time.

The meat wagon had left ten minutes ago, Ganz’s body safely aboard and heading for the morgue. Decker’s job was basically over. Now it was up to the pathologist. If all went well, he’d close shop here within fifteen minutes. He was hungry—it was past two in the afternoon—but wolfing down a sandwich in the car was bound to create a storm of stomach acid. Better to wait and grab a late lunch at home if possible. If not, even his desk was a better place to dine than behind the wheel of a car. He had just finished his smoke when Marge and Scott Oliver came through the gate of the compound. He got out of the car and waved them over.

“What did you learn from Venus?” he asked Marge.

She took out her notes. “The story goes like this. She went into Jupiter’s room around five in the morning. He had been sitting semiupright in his bed and appeared to have been sleeping.”

“Eyes closed?”

“Yes, eyes closed. At least that’s what she said. Venus called out to him. When he didn’t answer, she tried to shake him awake. At that point, he fell over lifeless, and she screamed. Her yells brought Pluto to the room. Immediately, she was ushered out, and taken back to her room. Half hour later, Pluto came to her and told her that Jupiter was dead.”

Oliver said, “So she was in her room for a half hour, just waiting to hear something?”

“Yep.”

“Alone?” Decker asked.

“With one of her attendants.” Marge hesitated. “Alpha-two.”

“That’s the name?”

“Apparently.”

Oliver said, “So what was happening with Jupiter between the time she discovered his supposedly dead body and the time Pluto brought her the news?”

“I don’t know. We should speak to Pluto—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Decker interrupted. “Scott, why did you say his ‘supposedly dead body’? Any reason to think that Jupiter wasn’t dead at that point?”

“Loo, if someone would have done the normal thing—call in the paramedics or 911 as soon as the body was discovered—I would feel a lot better about this being a suicide. The way it stands now, with no official around to verify Ganz’s death until we arrived, which was around … what, Margie? Around seven?”

“Closer to seven-fifteen.”

“When’d you get here?” Oliver asked Decker.

“Quarter to eight.”

“So between the time that Venus went into Jupiter’s room and someone from the outside actually saw the body—that’s two hours. What do we think happened during that time? We’ve assumed that someone moved the body from the crime scene to the temple. Because we were told that Jupiter died in his bed. But we’re not even sure if that’s true. We also know that some dude named Nova signed a death certificate.”

“Anyone talk to him?” Decker asked.

Oliver said, “They couldn’t seem to locate him—which also makes me suspicious. Pluto said I could come back after dinner—around six. Being as it’s after two, I figured why push it for four hours. Now I know they’re going to prep Nova—tell him what to say and what not to say. But if he’s not a pathological liar, I’ll be able to see through that crap.”

Decker agreed. Oliver turned to Marge. “You want to come back with me?”

“Yeah, I’ll come back with you.”

“So what are you doing for dinner? Want to do Chinese?”

“I’ll do Chinese.”

Oliver turned to Decker, “I don’t suppose you’ll be joining us.”

“Thanks anyway, but I’d like to see my wife.”

Oliver said, “I used to have one of those.”

Decker smiled. “Yeah, well … tell you what. You two come over to the house after Nova’s interview.”

Marge chuckled. “Rina would love that.”

“She won’t be thrilled, but besides being a good sport, she genuinely likes you two.”

“Aw shucks, I’m a-blushin’.” Oliver grinned. “Exactly how much does she like me?”

Decker wagged his finger, then turned serious. “So you think something nasty went down, Scott?”

“Yep. Moving the body is a cardinal sin, and they should have known better.”

Decker organized his thoughts. “Let’s back it up … to your statement about the body being supposedly dead. For the moment, let’s assume that Venus was telling the truth: that she found Jupiter either dead or near death. If Jupiter was near death instead of actually dead, are you saying that someone, during those unaccounted for hours, knocked him off?”

“Why not? It’s possible.”

“But why would someone bother to commit murder if Ganz was already dying?”

“Because maybe Jupiter had a chance of surviving if someone called the paramedics. Could be that Venus was about to call 911, and Pluto stopped her. He sent her back to her room, so he could do dirty work.”

“Why would Pluto have wanted Jupiter dead?” Decker asked.

“Because Pluto wanted control of the Order.”

Marge said, “Venus claims the Order is now under her control.”

“There you go,” Oliver said. “Jupiter isn’t even dead for twenty-four hours and already they’re at each other’s throats. Who knows? Maybe they’re in it together.”

“Who? Venus and Pluto?” Marge shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She flipped through her scribblings. “Point of fact. Venus claims not to have noticed any medication on Jupiter’s nightstand. She said she was taken away and didn’t have time to absorb her surroundings …”

“And that would jibe perfectly with my theory,” Oliver said. “Pluto pushes her away before she can call the paramedics. Then he places the empty Valium vial in the room to make it look like a suicide.”

Decker said, “If someone wanted to fake a suicide, don’t you think the vial would have been placed in the room before Venus arrived?”

“Maybe Pluto was about to do it, but was interrupted by Venus’s sudden appearance.” Oliver rocked on his feet. “Loo, what makes the whole thing suspicious is that the body was fresh. Coronor places the time of death within two hours of the discovery. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in.”

“Most common time of death is in the early morning,” Marge said.

“But we’re not thinking death by natural cause, Margie.”

Decker said, “Maybe it took Jupiter all night to summon up the nerve to do himself in. First, he drank the vodka to lower his inhibitions. Next he finished himself off with the pills.” He ran his hand through thick tufts of hair. “Or maybe Jupiter was a lush and a pill popper, and this was a simple accidental overdose.”

Oliver looked dubious. “He downed a fifth of vodka.”

“We’ve all known alkies who drink that much for breakfast.”

“Venus said he didn’t drink or take pills,” Marge stated.

“According to her.” Decker stuffed his hands in his pocket. “We’ve got a suspicious death—three options. Accidental OD, suicide or homicide. We may never be able to distinguish between accidental OD or a suicide. But that’s not that important for us. The only thing that gets us involved is a homicide. So the question is this: Can you force someone to chugalug a fifth of vodka and/or down a bottle’s worth of Valium?”

Oliver said, “If the guy was a secret drinker, someone could have dissolved the pills in the booze.”

“Valium’s insoluble in water,” Decker said.

“Then maybe someone ground the pills up in his food.”

“Valium has a bitter taste—”

“So Pluto injected it into Ganz’s veins,” Oliver tried again. “In case you’ve forgotten, the body had fresh needle marks.”

“Venus said Jupiter often injected himself with vitamins,” Marge commented.

“Injected himself?” Decker asked. “He had IM needle marks on his butt.”

“Sometimes she’d do it,” Marge said.

“How convenient,” Oliver mocked. “The logical assumption is that someone stabbed him with an IV needle, telling Jupiter that it was his vitamins. Meanwhile guy’s being shot up with a lethal dose of Valium.”

“The drug burns like hell when you inject it,” Decker said. “Jupiter was a scientist. He would have known immediately that he wasn’t being shot up with vitamins.”

“But by that time, it would have been too late—”

Decker said, “I don’t like it. Too many ‘ifs.’”

“So maybe Jupiter was dead drunk when he was dosed up with Valium,” Oliver retorted. “Maybe he had already been knocked out with the vodka.”

“You’re saying Ganz drank himself comatose, then someone finished him off with the Valium?”

“Why not?” Oliver asked.

“For one thing, it’s messy.” Decker paused. “You’re saying that someone went to all this trouble just to take over as leader of the Order.”

“Loo, you met that twerp, Pluto. He lusts for control.”

Decker said, “So you not only have a theory, you have a prime suspect.”

“Pluto had the means, the motive and the opportunity. He was Jupiter’s privileged attendant.”

“He was one of four privileged attendants,” Decker said.

“But the first one on the scene after Venus, and he’s the only one who’s come forward as the leader. He needs to dominate. I’m telling you, there’s something off with that guy.”

“Scott, Pluto has been with Jupiter for years. Why now?”

“Because Jupiter was out cold from the vodka. The perfect opportunity presented itself.”

Decker conceded Oliver some points. He said, “Even if the path report comes back with drugs and booze in Jupiter’s system, we’ll still have no way of knowing if Jupiter’s death was suicide or homicide. Not without other overriding evidence. If you have something up your sleeve, Scott, I’m all ears.”

“No direct evidence,” Oliver answered. “Just twenty years experience.”

“I don’t discount that,” Decker said. “But we can’t open a murder case based on your experience.”

“Can I put in my two cents for suicide?” Marge asked.

Decker said, “Let’s hear it.”

“Venus said that Jupiter hadn’t been himself lately. That he hadn’t been exactly ill, but … how’d she phrase it?” Marge consulted her notes. “He hadn’t been his usual spirited self. He’d been drained of his energy, he held his head a lot … like he had headaches. But when she asked him about it, he assured her that this was all part of the process.”

“What process?” Decker asked.

Marge let out a small chuckle. “Well, here goes nothing.” As Marge recounted the leader’s supernatural ideas, they sounded even stranger than the first time she had heard them.

“So he was receiving radiation from all these parallel universes.” Oliver gave her a sneering smile. “Well, why didn’t you just say so. That explains everything.”

“I’m not giving credence to her hypotheses, Scott. I’m just saying maybe he was ill with something serious and he decided to mask it in quasi-scientific theory.”

“Why would he do that?” Oliver asked.

“So as not to upset his followers,” Marge said. “Maybe he decided to go out with dignity rather than suffer an agonizing death.”

“What makes you think he was suffering from a physical illness?” Decker asked. “To me, it sounds more like psychosis … voices telling you to do strange things.”

“Or like a drunk after imbibing a fifth of vodka,” Oliver put in. “I’ve heard those kinds of voices before. They sound a lot like my buddies egging me on.”

“I’m serious,” Decker said.

“So am I,” Oliver retorted. “If Ganz drank a lot, I’ll bet he heard voices.”

Marge said, “To hear Venus describe Jupiter … he sounded like a man with something on his mind.” She tapped her foot. “There’s more to Jupiter’s illness than what Venus told me. I feel it in my gut.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Decker said. “But I can’t base a case for suicide on your gut feelings any more than I can base a homicide on Oliver’s experience.”

“So what do you suggest?” Oliver asked. “We keep poking around until we find something that throws us to one side or the other?”

“Exactly. And you can start with Nova. Find out what on earth possessed him to sign a death certificate. Even if he is a doctor and it’s not strictly illegal, it’s a gross irregularity.” Decker looked up at the sky. “Let’s keep the files on the Jupiter/Ganz case open for a while, if for no other reason than to look after the Order’s kids. I don’t want this death paving the way for another Heaven’s Gate or Jonestown.”

“Absolutely,” Marge said. “With Jupiter gone, who knows what they’re thinking.”

Decker said, “Meanwhile, there are loose ends that we can clear up, the first being who told Ganz’s daughter about her father’s death. When I asked Pluto about it, he claimed he didn’t know. Seemed pissed about the leak, grumbling something about the chain of command being broken. The guy does walk around like he has a ramrod up his ass.”

“You don’t like him either,” Oliver said.

“I don’t like lots of people,” Decker said. “But not all of them are criminals.” A pause. “Just a high percentage.”

Marge smiled. “Venus doesn’t know who called Europa either,” she said. “She claims that Europa hadn’t seen her father in over fifteen years.” She turned to Decker. “Weren’t you planning on interviewing her?”

“Planning to do it sooner or later.” Decker looked at his sack lunch, sitting on the passenger’s seat of his unmarked. Guess he was going to eat in the car after all.

7

Over the phone there were no signs of tears, no long sighs, nor any mawkish sentiment. Europa was polite but all business. Of course for her, the loss of her father happened years ago, so Decker supposed her grief had happened then. She was still in her office when Decker had called, and would be there for at least another hour. She told him to come down although she wasn’t sure why he wanted to talk to her.

“Just a few questions,” Decker said. “Tie up a couple of things.”

“For a few questions, a telephone is very expedient,” Europa answered.

“I’m a face-to-face kinda guy,” Decker answered. “I hope you don’t mind. It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Well, I’m an e-mail-to-e-mail kinda gal. But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt me to make human contact. Sure, come down.”

Decker got into his unmarked, apologized to God for not ritually washing his hands, then bit into his turkey sandwich. The fresh meat was thinly sliced with lots of mayo and Dijon mustard, just the way he liked it. No, the food wasn’t the problem. It was the lack of company. He picked up the cell phone and dialed home.

Rina answered after three rings. “Something tells me you’re not on your way here.”

“How’d you know?”

“You’re talking with your mouth full. You’re also on the cellular. Which means you’re probably driving. Driving and eating mean you’re in the field working.”

“You should be in my profession.”

“You’re not only driving and eating at the same time, you’re also talking. If a cop sees you, he’s going to pull you over.”

“I’ll fix the ticket. I know people.”

“It’s not the citation I worry about. Just be careful, Peter. Traffic is getting worse and worse each year.”

“That’s true. Is the baby home yet?” The baby being five years old. “Or is today her long day?”

“Today is her long day at school.”

“So we could have had some real time together?”

“Yes.”

“Ouch!”

“Your choice. What are you working on?”

“The Ganz thing.”

“The news is saying it was a suicide.”

“Maybe.”

Rina said, “Maybe as in probably a suicide? Or maybe as in maybe yes but maybe no?”

“Maybe as in I have to investigate every angle before I close up the file.”

“And the department requires a second-grade lieutenant to do the investigation?”

“Ganz was once a famous man.”

“I see. Am I wrong or do I smell politics?”

“What can I say? Strapp said he’d have someone cover for me in the division. When he says that, it means the guy is on the hot seat. Man, you make a mean turkey sandwich!”

“Thanks. You’re my best customer.”

Decker placed the borrowed videotape in the glove compartment of his car. “I’ve got a tape for us to watch when we get home.”

“What kind of tape?”

“Don’t know.”

“Sounds exciting,” Rina said. “Should I breathe hard?”

“Don’t bother. It’s probably more spiritual than physical.”

“Now I’m curious.”

“Good, it’ll keep you up in case I’m home late.”

“Before I forget, Cindy called.”

Decker’s heart took off. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Rina said. “She’s taking four-day, twelve-hour shifts, that’s all.”

“But she’s okay?”

“Great! Never sounded happier.”

Thrilling, Decker thought.

“She wants to go with you to the range,” Rina said. “Call her when you get a free moment.”

Shooting forty-fives and Berettas at the head and chest regions of paper felons—a real father/daughter bonding experience. Decker said, “I’ll call her tonight. Maybe we can go next week if it’s okay with you.”

“It’s fine with me.” She hesitated. “And if you go to a public range, maybe you can take Sammy?”

Decker was taken aback. “Why in the world would I do that?”

“Because Sammy has made up his mind where he wants to study in Israel next year. He wants to go to a yeshiva in Alon Shvut—Gush Etzion. It’s behind the green line and—”

“Hold on! What do you mean behind the green line?”

“It’s in the territories, so they do Shmerah there—guard duty. It wouldn’t hurt him to have a jump-start on how to handle a weapon—”

“What?!” Decker suddenly realized he’d missed his turn-off. He also realized his heart was still hammering inside his chest. He pulled onto the shoulder of the freeway, and killed the engine. “Hold on a friggin’ minute! When was this decided?”

“He was going to say something to you this morning but you rushed off—”

“Excuse me, I was called off!” He was shouting, but he didn’t care. “Rina, how could you agree without at least talking it over with me! How could you agree to it period! You’re his mother, for goodness sakes! Don’t you care about his safety?”

“Peter, I used to live in Gush—”

“And cavemen used to grunt instead of talk.” He took a deep breath, resisting the urge to reach for a cigarette. “Allowing Sammy to go to Israel was a big concession for me. I love that boy!”

“So do I—”

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to put him in danger! Going anywhere within the disputed territories is out of the question! End of discussion.”

The line went dead for a moment.

Decker said, “Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“Rina, I’m expecting a united front on this one!”

“Peter, as his mother, I agree with you one hundred percent. Except we’re not just two parents, we’re three. He told me that if Gush was good enough for his father, then it’s good enough for him. Now what do I say to that?”

Decker felt his head throb.

His father. Of course that meant Rina’s late husband, Yitzchak. Decker had been Sammy’s father for over seven years, almost two years longer than Yitzchak had been with the boy. Still, the word father was reserved for this ghost.

Rina said, “Are you still there?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “All right. At least I see what the problem is. Not that I’m agreeing to anything. But I understand … we’ll talk about this later.”

Rina said, “It was wrong of me to bring it up.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Decker answered. “I know it’s easier dealing with me on the phone than it is in person. I’ll try to behave civilly about this. But no promises.”

“Fair enough.”

“I love you,” Decker said.

“Love you, too.”

Decker said, “No, I really mean that. I love you.”

“And I really mean I love you, too. We’ll talk later. Finish your sandwich in peace … and hopefully without indigestion.”

Fat chance of that! Decker said good-bye, then cut the line and leaned back in the driver’s seat. As always, after these types of issues, he debated his efficacy as a husband and father. Would his children—unlike Ganz’s—mourn for him when he was dead? Would it make a difference if they did? To him, life wasn’t about memories, it was rooted in the here and now. Yet there was his stepson, Sammy, desperately trying to communicate with the departed. What was the point of telling him it couldn’t be done? It would only build resentment.

But better resentment than to risk his son’s welfare. Youth had no concept of danger. Decker knew that because once he had been young. He waited a few moments, then started the engine. When the lane was clear, he pulled out into the void and joined up with the smooth flow of oncoming cars.

Southwest University of Technology had set its roots in Pasadena, a quiet, staid town northeast of Los Angeles. A small place compared to its overcrowded sister, it harked back to gentler times—less traffic, street parking and even some small cafés without a franchise logo. Once a year, Pasadena still grabbed the spotlight with its annual Rose Parade. But the day after January 1, the city seemed to fade like the flowers on the floats.

The Tech’s campus hosted an amalgamation of low-profile structures nestled among ancient pines and majestic oaks. Some Ivy League architecture had crept into a few of the buildings—the administration house and the student union—but most of it was postmodern and utilitarian. The air was cool, and Decker enjoyed walking around. The backpack-toting students were a diverse lot of ethnicities, and seemed younger every year. Since the weather was inviting, many of the kids studied outdoors, sprawled out on the lawns or sitting at a café table drinking lattes, poring over texts of particle physics or nonlinear topology. Jeans and T-shirts appeared to be the corporate dress, and no one gave Decker or his typical cop-suit a second glance. Judgments here were made on the basis of what was inside the package rather than the wrapping.

Dr. Europa Ganz was stationed in a triangular-shaped corner office on the fourth floor of the astrophysics building. She had the requisite institutional desk, metal chairs and file cabinets and bracket bookshelves. It was fluorescently lit, but it did have a window that showed a patch of steel sky and the quad area below. Hanging on the walls were two black-and-white photographs of some planetary surface, excellent in their clarity and resolution. Decker took a moment to study them, both chalky white, pockmarked and completely barren.

“The moon?”

“This one’s the Mohave Desert at night,” Ganz answered. “The other one’s the moon. Hard to tell the forest from the trees, eh?”

“You fooled me.”

“We were all one once—the moon, Earth and planets, the sun, the entire universe. And when you’re young—like babies—you all look alike. Later on comes the process of differentiation. Look at me. Forty years old and still trying to pull away from my father’s ghost.”

Decker nodded while studying the scientist. Her hair was light brown and had been clipped short across the back. Feathered bangs softened her wide forehead. Her face was square-shaped with a strong jawline. Pale, white skin and intense blue eyes. Her gentlest features were her lips—lush and red. No makeup, but there were gold studs in her ears. She wore jeans, a white T-shirt and a black jacket, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She pointed to a chair.

“Have a seat. Is it Lieutenant Decker?”

“Yes.”

“My father must rate.”

Decker smiled. “Only you can answer that.”

Europa’s lip gave a half-smile. “Snappy retort. I hope you’re not intending to delve into my family’s psychodrama. I don’t have time.”

Decker sat down. “Why would I do that?”

“Now you’re really sounding like a shrink.”

He took out his notepad. “Actually, Doctor, I came here to find out who told you about your father’s death. No one at the Order of the Rings of God seems to know who called you.”

“Can’t answer that because I don’t know who called.” Europa sat down at her desk. “I hope you didn’t drag yourself all the way out here just to ask me that.”

“No idea?”

“No idea.”

“Male or female?”

“That I can answer. Female. She was probably making the call on the sly.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because she spoke quickly and in hushed tones.” Europa stood. “Coffee?”

“Sure.”

“How do you take it?”

“Black.”

“Caffeinated?”

“The more drug-laden, the better,” Decker answered.

Europa laughed. “You’d do well here.” She brought out a bottle of water and poured it into the coffeemaker. “She also told me to alert the police.”

“The police?” Decker wrote as he talked. “Did that make you suspicious?”

“Of course it did.”

“You made the call around seven?”

“I suppose. You’d know better than I would. Don’t you tape incoming phone calls?”

“Just trying to get your recollection.”

She paused, heaved her shoulders as if they held granite epaulettes. “It’s been a long day.”

“I’m sure it has. Thanks for seeing me.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “Recall as best as you can the exact words this female caller used.”

“Something like … ‘I thought you should know. Your father just died. I’m not sure how it happened. It’s suspicious. Call the police.’” Europa measured out coffee. “Then the woman hung up. I knew it was useless to call the Order back. They wouldn’t tell me anything. So I found out the number of the closest police station and reported it as a suspicious death. The news is saying it’s an apparent suicide. Is that your conclusion?”

“One of them.”

“Cagey fellow. What are the others?”

“Too early to speculate,” Decker answered. “People at the Order have said you haven’t spoken to your father in years.”

“Not true. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on their part. If he completely denies his real children, then they’ve co-opted the right to be substitute children.”

“So you’ve seen your father recently?”

“No, not recently. The last time I saw him was maybe fourteen … fifteen years ago. But I have talked to him. He would call me every so often, usually around my birthday. I’m surprised he remembered it. Not that he’d ever wish me a happy birthday. Instead, he’d say something like he’d been thinking about me. He’d ask me about what I was doing. I told him my latest research. If I asked him about an idea, he’d offer an opinion. If I didn’t, he wouldn’t. We’d talk for about twenty minutes. Then nothing until the next year.”

“Why do you think he called you?”

She shrugged. “Maybe he missed me. More likely, he missed his science—real science. Not the pseudoscientific garbage he’s been professing for the past fifteen years.”

“You don’t approve.”

“No, but that doesn’t matter.”

“Have you ever been down to the Order?”

“Way back when.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I came and I went. Jupiter wasn’t the father I remember. Nor did I want him to be. I found the entire experience disconcerting. Also, back then, I was mad at him. Your dad deserts you at a crucial moment in your life … disappears for ten years, well, you don’t suddenly welcome him back into your arms.”

“Do you remember any of the people there?”

“No, not really. Well, this one guy named Pluto. Short, obnoxious fellow. Hated me from the get-go simply because I was Jupiter’s daughter.”

“He’s still there.”

“It doesn’t surprise me. My dad likes people he can push around.”

Decker paused for just a fraction. “He was pushing Pluto around?”

“He was pushing everyone around. Dad always liked his underlings subservient.”

“Your father was a notable man,” Decker said. “I’m sure he had underlings in academics.”

“Yes, he had underlings, but he also had colleagues. Sometimes it’s hard to be challenged.”

“Your father felt that way?”

“I’m second-guessing, but yes, I think he didn’t like to be questioned. I think that’s one of the reasons he dropped out. As his ideas drifted farther and farther from the mainstream, he became a target for intense criticism. I don’t think that set well with him. But this is all very beside the point. I don’t know who called me. I certainly don’t know why she did. But I’m glad she did. It’s good to have the police involved.”

“Did anyone from the Order other than your father ever call you before this?”

“No.”

“So this woman who called you … it was the first time you had heard her voice?”

“Are you asking me if her voice sounded familiar?”

“Did it?”

“No. It wasn’t Venus, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I’m not getting at anything. How do you know it wasn’t Venus?”

She took down two mugs from the bookshelf. “Because I know what Venus sounds like. You see, Venus, née Jilliam Laham, was my girlhood best friend.”

8

Sipping coffee, her feet propped on the desk, Europa said, “Once upon a time, I had friends just like any other little girl. Jilliam was one of them. We formed an alliance out of mutual loneliness. Both of us had absentee fathers and narcissistic mothers, but her situation was more extreme. At least my father and I had occasional talks because I was scientifically inclined. Jilliam and her father had nothing in common. He was a high-powered attorney who hated children but loved sex with teenage girls. Looking back, I suppose her relationship with Dad was a natural sequela of her own father’s misbehavior.”

She paused.

“Our mothers had points in common as well. Mine was self-absorbed, but hers was selfish and egotistical. We met when we were eleven. I took pity on her. She seemed needy.” She rolled her eyes. “Little did I know.”

Decker put down his mug. “When did she actually become involved with your father?”

“Hard to say.” She took another drink from her cup. “My father vanished when I was fifteen. When he was resurrected as Jupiter some ten years later, I knew I had to see him. Jilliam came with me for moral support. It was a reunion from hell.”

“In what way?”

Europa’s eyes glazed over. “I wanted a father.” A pause. “I didn’t get one. I felt betrayed, but not surprised.”

“How did you find out about his return?”

Europa’s eyes took in Decker’s face. “A phone call.”

The room fell quiet, the only sounds coming from the wall clock’s ticking and ambient noise from down below.

“It wasn’t that he was cruel. He just couldn’t help being who he was. And that was good enough for Jilliam. She lapped up every word of his bizarre pseudoscientific ramblings. I don’t think she understood a word of it. But she did react to the force of his personality. Then I realized that the rapture was a two-way street. The way he looked at her—such naked hunger. Though in denial at the time, deep down I knew something was going to happen.”

“Do you think they had a prior relationship before that reunion meeting?”

“You mean before he disappeared? I doubt it.” A grimace. “She was only fifteen.”

“Was your father inclined to seduce women?”

Europa stared at him. “Why are you asking about Dad’s sexual proclivities?”

“Your father’s death is under investigation.” Decker tapped his pencil. “I was just wondering if your father could have angered someone—like an irate husband or jealous boyfriend.”

Europa immediately broke into laughter. It was so abrupt it took Decker by surprise.

She said, “Lieutenant, the more appropriate question is who in this world hasn’t my father angered. Before he disappeared, he must have burned every bridge in existence. Often my brothers and I would muse that he had disappeared because he had done something even more nefarious than ruin careers—which, by the way, was a favorite hobby of his.”

Quickly, Decker turned a page on his notepad. “Your father ruined careers?”

Europa started to speak, then stopped herself. She peered at him with intense blue eyes. “Somehow you suckered me into talking about our family’s sordid saga. Although what it has to do with Dad’s death, I don’t know. No, Lieutenant, I really don’t think he murdered anyone. Back then, my brothers and I were engaging in childish fantasy, giving my father an exotic alibi to excuse his devastating and inexplicable behavior.”

But Decker was persistent. “How did your father ruin careers? Did he sabotage experiments? Did he steal someone else’s research?”

Europa stared out of the window. “No, nothing illegal. If he had done that, he wouldn’t have been so feared. Instead, he decimated within the proper channels.” She hugged herself. “To understand my father’s potency, you’d have to know the academic world.”

Decker said, “I’ve heard its moral accountability falls somewhere between politics and Hollywood.”

“You’ve got it.” Europa gave him a beleaguered smile. “In academia, to be associated with the right people is all-important. And Dad was the right person to know. His stamp of approval added prestige to anything it touched. He was on the board of many scientific organizations and peer-review journals. A good word from him could immediately advance a career just as a well-placed barb could set it back ten years. During his scientific years, Dad doled out much more criticism than praise. He had brought down many a promising career with a single, snide comment. Presenting a paper to Emil Euler Ganz was an ordeal akin to being placed on the rack. A few of Dad’s remaining colleagues have enlightened me as to how truly sadistic he was, taking pleasure in smashing someone’s life’s work.”

Decker formulated his question. “Of all the people your father … offended—”

“Ruined.”

“Is there any specific person that sticks in your mind?”

“No. My older colleagues might be able to help you.”

“I’ll ask around,” Decker said.

“Approaching my father’s colleagues might be akin to entering the enemy camp.” She smiled. “Maybe not now that he’s dead. I’m sure they got their revenge witnessing my father’s downfall in cosmology. Since Emil Euler Ganz had become an object of derision, Dad’s enemies could discredit his previous criticism of their past work.”

She seemed bitter. Decker asked, “When you entered the field, did they hold your father’s behavior against you?”

She thought for a moment. “I’m sure a few did. Mostly, people felt sorry for me. As a girl, I had been abandoned by him. As a scientist, I was now saddled with this embarrassing nutcase called Father Jupiter. In reality, even before Jupiter my father had lost his scientific luster.”

“Why was that?”

“He was espousing some way-out theories even before he took his famous hike. Now, the few times I’ve spoken to him, his mind was as scientifically sharp as ever. But we kept our conversation on neutral ground, never talking about his postulations.” She got up and poured herself another cup of coffee. “Which are not as crackpot now as they were then.”

Decker asked, “What kind of crackpot theories did he hold?”

Europa returned to her desk. “It’s a long story as well as a complicated one.”

“I’ve got time. Try me.”

“How’s your working knowledge of physics?”

“I know Newton had three laws of motion.”

“That’s a start.”

“Actually someone at the Order clued me into that one.”

“Who?”

“Someone named Bob.”

“Ah …” Recognition. “Tall, thin … I think now he sports a beard.”

“Goatee.” Decker tried to hide his surprise. “Does he have a last name?”

“Changes with the wind. When I knew him, it was Robert Ross.”

Decker wrote it down in his notes. “Where do you know him from?”

“From Southwest. We were fellow students—actually dated for a couple of months. He was a fanatic admirer of Emil Ganz the scientist. With my father gone, I was his sole link to the great man. But when Dad was resurrected as Jupiter, Bob went directly to the source. At one time, he had a working brain. By now I’m sure it’s mush.”

“He impressed me as being sharp. But what do I know?”

Europa shrugged. “Maybe.”

Decker regarded her with a swift glance. She wasn’t as separate from the Order as Decker had thought. She had kept in contact with her father via phone, she had dated one of the members, and had been best friends with her father’s woman. Also, she remembered Pluto, albeit not fondly. And this was what she admitted to. Who knew what she wasn’t telling him. He said, “Explain your dad’s whacked-out theories.”

She sighed heavily. “Dad had developed some far-out theories about teleportation and time machines into alternative universes—a combination of H. G. Wells and Beam me up, Scotty.” Again, a sigh. “Not that this bears any relevancy to your investigation.”

“Actually, it may be very relevant,” Decker answered. “Maybe he chose to end his life because he believed that he was transporting himself to a better place with a time machine.”

“Even so, why would that be relevant to the police?”

“Because we have to make sure no one tries to follow in your father’s footsteps. I don’t want another Heaven’s Gate—not anywhere and certainly not in my district.”

“How can you guarantee that?”

“With adults, we can’t. Kids are another story.”

“I see your point.” She held up a finger. “So you are viewing this as a suicide.”

“Everything’s open,” Decker said without emotion. “Especially since your father had enemies.”

“That he did.”

“Getting back to your dad’s theories … did any of them have any scientific bases?”

“Of course. Before my father vanished, he’d been working on superluminal loopholes—things that could scientifically account for instantaneous time travel, backward-in-time travel and faster-than-light travel.”

Decker raised his brow. “Okay.”

“Not a science fiction reader, Lieutenant?”

Decker smiled, “I liked it when Han Solo did that warp speed thing on the Millennium Falcon.” He leaned forward. “What travels faster than light?”

“Undiscovered subatomic particles called tachyons—”

“Undiscovered?”

“They’re out there. We just haven’t found them yet. Also photons coming from the same electromagnetic wave. Subatomic particles called kaons travel backward in time. With them, we see the result of the event before the actual event takes place.”

“I don’t follow you,” Decker said. “I was taught that nothing travels as fast as light. Are you saying that’s not true?”

“I believe you mean that you were taught that nothing travels as fast as electromagnetic radiation. Visible light is only one small part of the spectrum. You’ve got UV waves, microwaves, radiowaves, infrared waves … any of this ring a bell?”

“No.”

She tapped a pencil on the surface of her desk. “All right. I’ll try to sum up twentieth-century physics in a couple of paragraphs.”

“I’m taking notes.”

“Stop me if I lose you.” She finished the dregs of her coffee. “For years, physics was based on Newton’s three laws of motion. The second law deals with the orbits of heavenly bodies. The fact that some of the orbits didn’t comply with Newton’s mathematics bothered no one. They just added a fudge factor, an arbitrary number that makes the math fit the physics.”

“You can do that?”

She chuckled, “It’s not ideal—something akin to smashing a square peg in a round hole—but physicists do it with theories that almost work until someone comes along with a theory that works better. Newton’s theories worked for most cases so why quibble with the few exceptions? Something wasn’t right, but no one knew how to fix it.”

“I’ve known a few cases of that.”

“I’ll bet.” Europa leaned over her desk. “Then along came Einstein, who ushered us into the modern world. His theories on the curvature of space explained the inconsistency in Newton’s planetary laws. But he is best known to the layman for his remarkable theory of relativity. It changed our concept of time from something absolute and immutable to something relative from party to party.”

“Which means?”

She stopped, took in a breath and let it out. It appeared as if she was used to confusing people. “Words don’t do it justice. The mathematics is beautiful, but that won’t help you either. Please interrupt me if I’m going too fast.”

“Oh, I will. Go on.”

“All right. This is the standard model used to explain it. Picture a train pulling away from a platform. To the person on the platform, it appears as if he is standing still and the train is moving, right?”

“Right.”

“But to the person on the train, it seems as if the train is standing still and the platform is moving—”

“But we know the train’s moving.”

“Only because you’ve been taught that it’s the train that moves.”

“But the train is moving. It’s going from place to place. The platform isn’t budging.”

“In space, Lieutenant, you have no way of knowing who or what is actually moving. You always have the option of assuming that you’re moving and other guy is standing still.”

Decker said, “But if you’re moving, you’re moving.”

“Sorry. Motion is relative. So is time, distance and mass. And the faster you go, the more relative it is. Now, at slow speeds, the relativity factor isn’t going to make much difference. Suppose you’re cruising at sixty miles an hour on the freeway and I’m stalled on the shoulder with a flat tire because I didn’t have the time to take my bald retreads into the garage. If you zoom past me at one o’clock in the afternoon, what time will my car clock read?”

Decker said, “It’s not going to read anything because your motor’s turned off.”

She laughed, showing teeth. She had a nice smile when she chose to use it. “It wasn’t a trick question, sir.”

Decker smiled boyishly. “One o’clock.”

“Brilliant.”

“Thank you.” Decker noticed that talking about science loosened her up. That was good. Loose people had loose lips.

She continued. “But as your speed approaches that of light, everything changes. For instance, say you’re in a spaceship going ninety percent the speed of light. Now, inside your ship, everything looks normal to you. The clocks run on time, your spaceship has the same dimensions and your clothes still fit you. Are you with me?”

“I’m here.”

“But to another ship out in space, your rocket will look shorter by a factor of two, your clock will appear to run half as fast and your weight will be twice as heavy.”

“So you’re saying fast speeds distort things. I can buy that.”

“But here’s the entire point of relativity. To your eye, everything inside your spaceship is normal. To your eye, it’s the other guy who’s distorted. His clock is slow, his rocket is shorter and his mass is twice as heavy. To your eye, he’s distorted. But to his eye, you’re distorted.”

“So who’s right?”

“You both are.”

“A Solomonic approach to physics,” Decker stated.

Again, she smiled. “It’s all perspective.”

Decker said, “Getting back to your father, you’re saying he based his theories of teleportation on Einstein’s relativity. Something like he could transport himself from one place to another because everything’s relative?”

“Actually, Einstein wasn’t a major factor in my father’s theories.”

“So there’s more.” Decker held up his pencil. “Shoot, Doc. I’m ready for you.”

She chuckled. “Einstein’s theories kicked off a revolution, but he wasn’t the final word on cosmology. That belongs to quantum physics.”

“Is this going to make me feel really stupid?”

“I’ll keep it simple,” Europa said. “There are two distinctly different aspects to how we view light or any electromagnetic radiation. Now, Newton stated that light acts like a wave, that it’s continuous and uninterrupted, that it has rises and falls, peaks and troughs. Okay so far?”

“I’m with you.”

“Quantum theory says light is not a wave, but discreet packets or bundles made up of particles called photons. Two contradictory theories—light as wave, light as particles.”

“Dare I ask? Which one is right?”

“They both are. Sometimes light behaves as a wave, sometimes it behaves like photons. If you thought relativity was bad at pinning things down, you don’t even want to know about Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle. It says that although you can make predictions on how these photons will behave over the long run, you can never say exactly how they will behave over the short run. At any given moment, you have no way of knowing which energy state any given photon will occupy. Are you with me?”

“No. Can I ask what photons have to do with teleportation?”

“You’re a single-minded man, Lieutenant.”

“A bad physicist, but a decent cop.”

“Photons, sir, have been one of the links implicated in instantaneous travel. Before Dad dropped out, he was one of the few men who was trying to prove that photons originating from the same packet of light had this instantaneous link between them. Whatever was happening to photon one was also happening with photon two no matter what the distance between them was. All because once they had shared the same light bundle. Are you with me?”

“Instant communication.”

“Instantaneous communication,” Europa corrected. “Now, since mass can convert to energy at the speed of light—E equals MC squared—then atoms—like the kind that make up your body—can be converted to electromagnetic energy or light in the form of photons. And since there is an eternal, instantaneous link between photons from the same packet, you can transport your atoms—now in photon form—instantaneously from one position in space to another using this superluminal link. Which is considered a scientific lost cause. Although things can move faster than light, they can’t seem to transport meaningful information … things like organized atoms. Which is what my father spent his scientific life trying to prove. He hit walls, but that didn’t stop him. When he couldn’t do it as Emil Euler Ganz, he went metaphysical and tried to prove it as Jupiter.”

She frowned. “But you know how things get messed up going from theory to actuality. Sometimes we physicists predict it right on—like with the atom bomb. We knew the math way before we had the technology. But most of the time, we sit there and wallow in our own mistakes. Like a baby with a dirty diaper, just crying and squirming while waiting for someone who knows better to clean it up.”

9

Oliver said, “I can buy the thing about time slowing down. Ever been to an opera?”

Decker laughed, but Marge said, “I like opera.”

“That’s ’cause you’re a woman.” Oliver bit into an egg roll. “Sure you don’t want one, Deck? They’re vegetarian.”

“No thanks.” He added sugar to his tea. “So when are you two meeting with the death certificate guy … what’s his name? Omni?”

“Nova,” Marge said. “We found out he’s a podiatrist.”

Decker made a face. “A podiatrist signed Ganz’s death certificate?”

“Maybe Jupiter’s feet were cold.” Oliver polished off a wonton.

“I’m sure they were if he was dead,” Marge said. “For your information, Scott, there are plenty of men who enjoy opera.”

“None of them heterosexual.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

Oliver thought it over. “Okay. Maybe there are a few effete Englishmen who like opera. But I dare you to find one straight guy who likes ballet.”

Decker tried again. “What time are you meeting Nova the podiatrist?”

“Six-thirty,” Oliver said.

Decker looked at his watch. “That’s in a half hour.”

Oliver pointed to Marge’s entree. “Put a dent in your cashew chicken or we’ll never make it.”

“I’ll take the rest to go. The soup filled me up.”

Oliver said, “That’s another gay thing—soup. Straight guys would never get filled up by soup. Straight guys don’t even eat soup. Soup is a broad thing.”

Marge said, “Were you always this concrete or am I just noticing it more?”

Oliver rolled his eyes. To Decker, he said, “So Ganz was a schmuck. Doesn’t surprise me. All these cult leaders are megalomaniacs.” He attacked the remnants of his Mongolian chicken. “I mean look what he was into—time machines, alternative universes … instant travel through space. Playing God basically. Good sci-fi, but for a man of Ganz’s stature … he was freaking out.” He turned to Marge. “You know, the whacked-out ideas combined with the headaches that Venus told you about … maybe he had a brain tumor.”

Decker said, “When Europa spoke to him, she said he was still scientifically sharp.”

“That’s her opinion,” Oliver said.

“I found it interesting that Ganz had made enemies.”

“It’s irrelevant, Deck. Unless one of them sneaked into the Order and laced his vodka with cyanide.”

Decker said, “You never know when the past can come back to haunt. Besides, Ganz wasn’t completely divorced from his former life. He kept in contact with Europa, his significant other was Europa’s girlhood friend—”

“What?” Marge broke in. “You said that Europa’s around forty.”

“She is.”

“Venus looks about thirty.”

“So she looks young,” Decker answered. “Europa said she was a pretty girl.” He told them Jilliam’s background.

Marge said, “So Ganz was the father Jilliam never had. Where have I heard that one before?”

“And she was also a young piece of ass,” Oliver said. “Yes, it’s the same-old, same-old. But so what? Why the fascination with the past, Deck? Do you have a former associate of Ganz who you think was out to get him?”

Decker admitted he didn’t. “This Bob—the one who dated Europa—she said he was obsessed with Emil Ganz the scientist.”

“But Bob met Ganz after he had become Jupiter, right?”

“Right.”

“So Bob couldn’t have been a past enemy. He would have been too young to be one of Ganz’s colleagues.”

Decker conceded the point. “In fact, he was Europa’s former schoolmate.”

“Look, Loo. Even if every single one of Ganz’s former acquaintances hated his guts, I don’t see what that would have to do with his death. Ganz stopped being Ganz twenty-five years ago.”

Marge said, “If someone murdered him, it has to be a current member of the Order. Someone who wouldn’t arouse suspicion by being there, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.”

Oliver wiped his mouth. “You like this past coming back to get him theory, don’t you?”

Decker said, “I’m trying to get a complete story. So if it turns out to be something other than suicide, I’ve got avenues to explore.”

“Then start with Pluto,” Oliver said. “He’s my nominee for asshole of the month.”

“Actually, I like Europa,” Decker said. “She phoned the police about her dad’s death, and she knows the key players in the Order—”

“Including Pluto?” Oliver interrupted.

“She claims she didn’t know Pluto, only that she met him and didn’t like him.”

“Something in her favor,” Oliver said. “Why would she want to hurt her father now?”

“He was a lousy father,” Marge said.

“He was always a lousy father,” Oliver retorted. “I repeat. Why now? You think she’s been harboring a murderous grudge for twenty-five years?”

“I like simple reasons,” Decker said. “Like money—”

“Ganz had been a professor in his former life,” Oliver broke in. “How much money could he have saved up?”

Marge said, “If he had won a major scientific award, maybe lots. What’s the Nobel prize worth these days?”

“He didn’t win the Nobel prize,” Oliver grumped.

“There are plenty of other organizations that give money to genuises just for being genuises,” Marge answered.

“Or Ganz could have worked for NASA or some other scientific government agency,” Decker said. “Maybe he moonlighted in industry as a consultant—in aviation or aeronautics or even a think tank. Point is, we don’t know what Ganz was worth. We don’t even know who holds the deed for the Order.”

“The building?”

“The building, the land, its bank accounts. Does it have its own bank accounts? Since this is a suspicious death, maybe we should find out.”

No one spoke for a moment. Then Marge said, “Looking into Ganz’s finances … do you think it’s a good use of our time, Pete?”

The implication was right on. Decker blew out air. “Probably makes more sense to wait for the pathology reports to come in. Could be I’m obsessing.” He sipped tea and gave his words some consideration. “How busy is tomorrow, Margie? Could you give it a couple of hours?”

Marge said, “Not a problem.”

“Okay, do the basics. Bank accounts, brokerage accounts, insurance policies—” He stopped himself. “That’s going to take longer than a couple of hours. Margie, you do the bank and brokerage accounts. Scott, you call the assessor’s office and find out who holds the deed to the land, then poke around for insurance policies.”

Marge said, “Pete, insurance isn’t applicable in cases of suicide.”

“They’ll pay death benefits if it’s accidental death. And if he took out whole life insurance, there’d probably be a nice little nest egg cash policy as well as death benefits.”

Oliver was dubious. “You want me to cold call insurance companies? That seems kinda … screwy.”

He was right. Score another for his crew. Decker said, “How about this? Ganz was a full professor at Southwest University of Technology. Faculty usually gets all sorts of perks—health insurance, car insurance, life insurance. Start there with the insurance angle. If you reach a dead end, call it quits and we’ll reevaluate.”

“Simple enough.” Oliver looked at Marge. “Are you gonna take that last egg roll?”

“It’s all yours.” She turned to Decker. “If Ganz had secret money, don’t you think Venus would make a better suspect than Europa?”

Decker said, “Venus wasn’t officially married to Ganz. Kids would be first in line to inherit.”

“Unless he made other provisions in a will,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “Jupiter didn’t seem like the ‘will’ type.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Decker said. “For a guy who was into spirituality, he had his feet firmly planted in earthly trappings—a pretty, younger girlfriend, attendants who waited on him, people who worshiped him. We found an empty fifth of vodka under his bed.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like any capuchin I’ve ever known.”

Marge smiled. “Exactly how many capuchins have you known, Pete?”

Oliver said, “What does cappuccino have to do with this? Speaking of which. How about some dessert? Ever try litchi nuts, Loo?”

“Have to pass.” Decker finished his tea. “I’ve already missed breakfast and lunch with the family. Don’t want to press my luck by missing dinner.”

Each time Decker pulled into the driveway, he grew wistful. Because each passing day brought him that much closer to the end; good-bye to the acreage, the horses, the ranch land, the orchards, the freedom of his carefree divorced days.

Well, carefree wasn’t exactly the right word.

Truth be told he was miserable in that interim period—lonely and disagreeable. Ah hell, who was he kidding? He hadn’t been the Marlboro Man in over seven years. Only thing he and Marlboro had in common was sucking nicotine.

After killing the motor, he got out of the car. The front door opened and a little stick figure with orange ringlets and open arms came running to him.

“Daaaaddeeee!”

“Hannah Roseeee!” He bent down, scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder—a small, chortling sack. He opened the front door with his foot and threw his briefcase onto one of the buckskin living room chairs. He tossed Hannah onto the couch as she squealed with delight. Within moments, Rina materialized, drying a dish. She wore a maroon sweater over a denim skirt. Her thick, black hair was secured by a barrette. She had recently trimmed her long locks. Now they fell just past her shoulders. A becoming style for her beautiful face. Except that most of the time, as required by her religious beliefs, she kept her hair covered with a scarf or a hat, or, at the very least, tied up in a braid or a bun.

“You’re home.” She glanced at the wall clock. “And at a reasonable hour.”

Hannah started jumping on the couch. Again, Decker picked her up, threw her up in the air and set her down.

“Something smells very good.”

“Chicken with garlic.”

“Do I have enough time for a quick shower?”

“It’s not a problem for me.” Rina looked at Hannah, who was tugging on Decker’s sleeve.

“Let’s play, Daddy,” the little girl shouted.

“In a minute, honey,” Decker answered.

“Hannah, let Daddy take off his jacket.”

“You can take off your jacket in my room!”

Hannah’s room was an outpouching off their master bedroom. Decker had built the house with only two bedrooms. In retrospect, poor planning. But after his divorce, he never assumed that he’d be hosting anyone other than Cindy.

Hannah pulled at her father’s hand. “Let’s go, Daddy!”

“Hannah, hold on!” Rina chided.

The little girl looked disappointed, but remained quiet. Rina immediately felt guilty. “Oh, go ahead! We’ll talk later.”

The five-year-old brightened. “Goody! Let’s go!”

“A minute, sweetie.” Decker held back impatience. “Boys okay?”

“They should be home any minute.”

“Do you need me for anything?”

“It’s all right. Go with your daughter. We’ll have the evening to catch up.” She looked at him with piercing eyes. “You are done with work, right?”

Decker winced. “Scott and Margie are coming over around eight. But just for an hour or so.”

Rina didn’t speak. She had heard that one before.

“No, really,” Decker reassured her. “We’ll wrap it up quickly. It’s the Ganz thing. Which seems pretty straightforward … at the moment.”

She had heard that one before as well. “It’s fine, Peter. I put Hannah to bed at that time anyway.”

Again, Decker grimaced. “Didn’t I say that I was going to put her to bed tonight?”

“You can do it tomorrow night.”

“I said that last night, didn’t I?”

“C’mon, Daddy! Let’s go do puppets!”

“Go, Peter,” Rina told him. “I’ll call you when dinner’s on the table.”

Hannah said, “You can sit on the floor while I get the show ready.”

“Can I change my clothes first, Hannah?”

“Sure you can change your clothes!” she shouted with generosity.

“Maybe I can look at the paper while you set up?”

Hannah’s face darkened.

Rina said, “Now you’re pushing it.”

“Silly me,” Decker said, “I meant after dinner.”

Hannah recovered her cheer. “Sure you can look at the paper after dinner, Daddy. After we play squiggles.”

“She’s made plans,” Decker said.

“Yes, she has.” Rina smiled sadly. “Lucky her. She has yet to learn how futile plans can be.”

Pluto led the detective duo into an alcove off the main sanctuary. It had enough room for a trestle table and four chairs. The walls were covered by bookshelves. As she sat, Marge caught some of the titles, all of them having to do with the metaphysical. No surprises there. Nova, the podiatrist, paused before choosing the seat opposite Marge. Immediately, Oliver took up the chair next to the Doc, closing in on the man’s personal space.

Chunky and balding, Nova appeared to be in his middle thirties. He wore the costume of a privileged attendant—the blue robe and purple vest—but the vest sported an embroidered caduceus. His round face held an almost hairless complexion as well as dark, saucer eyes. Probably his hair was once dark brown, but because of its thinness and streaks of gray, it had taken on the sandier tones. His fingers were stumpy, his nails cut short. His hands were shaking—nervous. Marge felt he should be. He had no business signing a death certificate.

Pluto remained at the entryway, his arms folded across his chest. His position made it clear to all that he had no intention of leaving. Marge looked up at him and said, “Thank you, sir, you can go now.”

“I’d prefer to stay,” he answered.

“I realize that,” Marge said. “I’m trying to be polite.”

Pluto remained rooted to his spot.

Oliver shrugged. “If our presence here is problematic, sir, we can take Nova down to the station house—”

“On what grounds?!” Pluto blurted out.

Nova’s voice held a tremolo. “Brother Pluto, I appreciate your show of solidarity. But if they want to talk with me in private, I have no objection.”

Pluto’s eyes narrowed.

Quickly, Nova added, “Brother Pluto, you know how much I respect your wisdom. If I require your help, I shall ask for it immediately.”

Marge said, “Make it easy on all of us.”

Pluto glared at the detectives. “We all have work to do. Be quick.” Then without another word, he turned and left.

Oliver stood up and peeked around the opening. Pluto had remained nearby. Oliver gave him a wave. The short man turned an angry red, but finally left the temple.

Oliver returned to his place. “I think Brother Pluto has a trust problem.”

Nova said, “He’s protective.”

“I think it goes deeper.” Oliver took out the tape recorder and handed it to Marge. “I think he doesn’t want you saying the wrong thing.”

Nova bristled. “I can speak for myself.”

Marge made the necessary identifications for the tape, then placed the recorder in front of Nova. “So you take full responsibility for your own actions?”

“Of course!” Nova was indignant. “We’re all adults.”

Marge said, “So tell me why you signed Jupiter’s death certificate when you’re only a podiatrist.”

Nova raised his voice. “Detective, I am a trained medical practitioner. I was the most qualified here to make such a determination.”

“And if you were on a desert island, I’d say fine and dandy,” Marge said. “But here in L.A. there are better people to make that determination. As a medical practitioner, you must know that suspicious deaths require investigations—”

“I had no way of knowing that the death was suspicious—”

“Exactly,” Marge interrupted. “That’s why you should have called the police and let them handle it.”

“I resent this line of inquiry!”

“You can resent it just so long as you answer me,” Marge said. “Why didn’t you call the police?”

“I saw no need—”

Marge interrupted. “Sir, as a podiatrist, how many autopsies have you conducted?”

Oliver broke in, “Sir, we’re not challenging your abilities. We’re just wondering why you went out on a limb.”

Marge said, “Were you pressured to wrap the thing up?”

“Certainly not!”

“So why’d you do it?”

“Because Father Jupiter was dead!” Nova was flushed, droplets falling down his forehead. “Someone had to make it clear to the followers that he wasn’t returning to earthly life. I felt that I was the chosen one for the mission.”

Oliver said, “Doctor, when did you first check him out?”

“When?”

“What time?” Marge asked.

Nova took in a breath and let it out. He wiped his face with a tissue. “Around five in the morning. Perhaps a little later.”

“And you examined him thoroughly?”

“Of course—”

“Took his pulse?”

“This is insulting—”

“Checked the heart?”

Nova leaped to his feet. “I will not stand here and be abused like this!”

“A standard death certificate asks for time of the demise,” Marge said. “What time did you put down?”

The brother faltered. “I don’t remember the exact time to the minute. As I stated, I was called in a little after five.”

“But that really wasn’t the time of his death, sir,” Marge said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Jupiter didn’t actually die at five in the morning.” She glared at Nova. “Or did he?”

“Detective …” Oliver warned. Time to play off her aggression. He turned to Nova. “I know this sounds like we’re … doubting your competency—”

“It certainly does!” Nova looked pointedly at Marge. “I was just doing my duty—to the Order and to my profession—”

“Meaning you checked Jupiter’s feet for corns?”

“Detective …” This time Oliver was chiding her in earnest. To Nova, he said, “Why don’t you sit back down?”

With reluctance, Nova returned to his chair, refusing to look at Marge. She stood up. “I gotta use the bathroom. Don’t bother with the directions, I’ll find it myself.”

As soon as she left, Nova wiped his brow with a blue silk handkerchief. “She is a detriment to your department!”

“She’s a good cop,” Oliver said flatly.

“She’s got a rotten disposition.” Nova imitated her. “‘Meaning you checked his feet for corns?’ She hasn’t the foggiest notion of what a podiatrist is or what he does. We’re extremely well trained.”

“I’m sure you are,” Oliver said. “But we are bothered by your not calling the police right away.”

“What difference does it make?” Nova said. “The police were obviously called in.”

Oliver said, “So you called them?”

Nova fidgeted. “No, I didn’t.”

“But someone did. Any idea who?”

“I was told it was Ganz’s daughter—Europa.”

“Any idea who called her?”

“None.”

But he squirmed as he uttered the word. Oliver didn’t press him on it … not yet. “Who called you into the room?”

“Brother Pluto. He asked me to make some kind of assessment as to why he died … to tell the people something. I had to make a split-second decision as to the cause of death. Remember I was stunned myself. Shocked! Although Father Jupiter wasn’t feeble, he was in his seventies. A coronary didn’t seem out of line. I knew that if there was more, it would come out later on.”

Oliver scratched his nose. “Sir, what do you mean by more?”

Nova stuttered. “Well, if the death was something other than a heart attack.”

“The empty liquor bottle didn’t make you a bit curious?”

Again, Nova faltered. “Alcohol can bring on a heart attack, especially in an older man.”

“Did Father Jupiter drink?”

“An occasional sacramental glass of wine.”

“But not usually an entire bottle of vodka.”

“Of course not … at least, not that I’m aware of.”

“Meaning he might have, but you didn’t know about it?”

The podiatrist grew flustered. “I’ve never known Father Jupiter to be immoderate. Besides, you have no way of knowing how much alcohol he imbibed. That bottle could have been drunk over a year’s time.”

“The pathology report will tell us his blood alcohol level,” Oliver said.

“Then I suggest you save your questions until then.”

Oliver said, “We like to ask our questions right away. Memories are fresher.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I signed a certificate because he was dead.”

Oliver stared at him. “How’d you get hold of an official death certificate? They are the property of the coroner’s office. Why would you even have them here?”

“I have no idea why we have them. But we do.”

Oliver noticed Nova was looking over his shoulder, not making eye contact.

The podiatrist said, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have put down natural causes. But if it’s something more, I simply made an honest mistake.”

Marge returned. “An honest mistake as opposed to a dishonest mistake?”

Nova said nothing, a sour expression stamped on his face.

Marge said, “By the way, you signed the time of death as five thirty-two A.M. You said you were called in around five. What were you doing for a half hour?”

Nova’s face held a triumphant look. “A good examination takes time, Detective.” He looked at Oliver. “Anything else? I really do have other obligations.”

Marge tossed out, “Any idea who called Europa about Jupiter’s death?”

“The detective and I have already crossed that territory.”

“Please answer the question.”

“No, I don’t know who called Europa.”

But Marge noticed that Brother Nova had blushed.

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