Dear Mr. Decker, Your latest brain scans have shown various anomalies that will require further testing and monitoring. Preliminarily, new lesions are presenting, and it seems that previously unaffected sections of your cerebrum are at risk of being transformed in ways that…
Here, Decker stopped thinking about what the letter had said.
Lesions. Previously unaffected. Anomalies. Transformed in ways that…
Not a single bit of that sounded good.
Added to that was the fact that four men whom Decker had played football with or against in college and then in the NFL had died prematurely over the last three years.
One from ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease, one from a heart attack, and another from a stroke caused by his Type-2 diabetes.
And the fourth man had died by suicide, with his brain donated to Boston University’s CTE Center for further analysis to see if he had the disease. Which he did.
Realistically, how much time do I have left? I didn’t play long in the pros, for sure. But I’ve played a lot of football, and the shot I took that day probably did as much damage as five years in the NFL would have.
He looked around the confines of the small room.And is this really how I want to spend it?
But he also knew he could not make any life-altering decisions right this minute. So he lay back on the bed and thought about the case. It was puzzling, as all cases were. But this case was different in that the more he got into it, the more puzzling it became. Even the things he believed he had figured out, namely that Cummins and Draymont had had a sexual relationship, and that they were dealing with two unrelated murders committed in the same house and within minutes of each other, became more inscrutable the further he went into it.
The foreign currency in Draymont’s mouth seemed to connect with Kanak Roe, or at least the Roe family. Kasimira seemed to think it was directly tied to her father’s disappearance and apparent death three years earlier, but Decker had no evidence of that being the case. If the Roes had enemies in what was now Slovakia, had the killer or killers of Alan Draymont gone back there? If so, he had little chance of bringing them to justice.
And then there was Julia Cummins’s murder. It was personal, unlike Draymont’s. The multiple stabbings evidenced a frenzy fueled by hatred.
Was Barry Davidson, the ex who was, by all accounts, including perhaps his own, still in love with Cummins, also behind the woman’s murder? The problem was the man’s alibis were pretty solid. And if Davidson had hired a hit man, would that person have unleashed such a frenzied attack on the woman? With up-close encounters you could leave behind your DNA and other forensic markers. It made no sense.
But if Davidson was out as a suspect, who then? Was Cummins seeing anyone else? He doubted that Alan Draymont had been Cummins’s only romantic interest since her divorce years before. She was young, attractive, a federal judge, wealthy. She would be quite the catch for someone.
He would have to have another go at both Doris Kline and Maya Perlman, to see if they knew of any other romantic partner out there. Or one who had been spurned or dumped by the dead woman.
Decker looked at his watch. It was late, but Kline might still be up. Perhaps Maya Perlman, too, despite her travels, and the crushing news of her friend’s death. At least it was worth a shot.
He decided not to bother White, who had mentioned that she was going to help her kids with their homework over a Zoom call tonight.
He left the hotel and drove to the gated community. He had to show his ID to the security service via a video link, and then was allowed in.
He drove to Cummins’s house and parked in the driveway. All police presence was gone, but the crime scene had not been officially released yet. He supposed Davidson, as the executor and trustee of his wife’s estate, would have to come over at some point and decide what to do with the property and its contents. He doubted Tyler would want to keep a house where his mother had been brutally murdered.
Both the Kline and Perlman homes had lights on. He decided to try Kline first.
He knocked on the door but she didn’t answer. He peered in the sidelights but saw no movement. Her car was in the driveway.
Is she lying in there drunk?
He had no cause to force his way in, so he walked over to the Perlmans’ home and knocked. A few moments passed before a woman’s voice said, “Who is it?”
“Amos Decker, FBI. Do you have a minute?”
“It’s very late.”
“It won’t take long, and we’re doing our best to find out who killed your friend. Speed is of the essence.”
He figured a little guilt trip might go a long way.
“Oh, all right.”
She opened the door. Maya Perlman was dressed in gray slacks, a light blue shirt, and sandals.
She motioned him in and closed the door. They sat in the living room, where the walls were the same color as her slacks.