Free The Beast A DeckerLazarus Novel by Faye Kellerman

ring.”
    Oliver’s eyes widened. “Nice.” A pause. “I hope not too soon.” Marge’s smile was genuine. “Not immediately, no.”
    “That’s good.” Oliver bit his lip. “I mean . . . it’s good to take your time.”
    “We’ve been working together for years, Oliver. Say it out loud. You’d miss me.”
    “I would miss you.” He meant it. “I hope you’re not contemplating a move to Santa Barbara?”
    “Not at the moment.”
    “He’s moving to L.A.?”
    Marge said, “That would be a no as well. Right now we’re okay with the arrangement.”
    “Good deal from where I’m sitting.” He was visibly relieved.
    “Aw . . . you care.”
    He squirmed and changed the subject. “What kind of ring?”
    “He’s resizing his late mother’s old diamond—three-carat emerald cut.”
    “That’s the real deal.”
    “Yes it is.”
    “Good for you, Marge. I’m happy for you.”
    “Thank you, Scott. I’m happy, too. I’ve got a good guy. I know that the ring’s only a symbol, but it’s still nice. Not only will it look pretty on my finger, but jewelry is always a good investment in times of economic uncertainty.”
    SABRINA TALBOT LIVED behind gates in a multi-million-dollar estate house on multiple acres with multimillionaires and a few billionaires as neighbors. The structure wasn’t visible from the road. It wasmasked behind a forest of trees and iron fencing. The metal pickets had been forged into seven-foot-high helmeted men sporting pikes. Directly behind the fencing were rosebushes, sprouting thorns on each branch. Every ten feet or so were brick pilasters topped with decorative lights and security cameras. The guard house bisected the driveway to the house. Marge stopped in front of the gate and rolled down the driver’s window. The sentry pulled back a door revealing a very big man: around six feet three with at least 275 pounds of fat and muscle. His bluish black skin tone spoke of Africa, so Marge wasn’t surprised when he spoke with an accent.
    “How can I help you?”
    “I’m Sergeant Marge Dunn and this is my partner, Detective Scott Oliver. We’re from LAPD, and we’re here to see Sabrina Talbot. Her secretary set up an appointment today at eleven.”
    “One moment.” The door slid shut. It took several minutes. The guard stayed ensconced in his protective chamber, but the gates parted majestically. Directly in front was a golf cart with a sign on the back that read: FOLLOW ME .
    They rode an asphalt trail that cut through acres of greenery—silvery olive trees, California oak, bare sycamores, and varieties of menthol-exhaling eucalyptus, all of the trees underplanted with thick foliage and bushes. Eventually the specimen trees gave way to acres of avocado groves: evergreens with dark green polished leaves and gnarled trunks. A pale blue sky held filmy clouds. The air was mild and perfumed.
    It was taking a very long time to reach the house, but that could have been the fault of the golf cart, which was ascending at a particularly slow rate. Finally there was a clearing of newly sod lawn and surgical landscaping, hedges trimmed to a precise ninety-degree edge, and symmetrical flower beds of deep jewel hues of pansies and primroses.
    Every queen has her castle, and Sabrina’s three-story stone Tudor estate came complete with mullioned windows and a turret. The cart stopped, and two uniformed valets came rushing over to open the car doors.
    Marge and Oliver stepped out of the car. She said, “Do I need a ticket?”
    The valet stared at her. Another giant of a man answered in the valet’s stead. “No, you don’t need a ticket. I’ll escort you inside.” He held out a hand. “Leo Delacroix.”
    “Like the artist?” Marge asked.
    “Same spelling. No relation.” His touch for a big man was surprisingly light. “This way. You’re right on time. Ms. Talbot is a stickler for punctuality.”
    “Then we have a lot in common.” Marge looked around as they walked to a