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Serpent’s Tooth
Faye Kellerman


The tenth book in the hugely popular Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus series from New York Times bestselling author Faye KellermanOne moment can devastate countless lives…It’s everyone’s worst nightmare. What starts out as a relaxed evening in a chic Los Angeles restaurant suddenly turns into a bloodbath when an angry former employee starts spraying bullets before turning the gun on himself. 13 people are left dead, and dozens more wounded.For Detective Peter Decker, the case, horrific as it is, initially appears cut and dried. But then evidence comes to light that suggests more than one weapon was fired.As Decker delves deeper, he is plunged into the world of wealthy, powerful California, where everything can be bought, and nothing is as it seems. Continuing to dig will put his reputation at risk, but nothing will stop him from exposing the truth…









Serpent’s Tooth

Faye Kellerman










Copyright (#ud6892401-67f0-55cf-9fce-03a2326414eb)


Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in the United States by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, 1997

This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright В© Faye Kellerman 1997

Cover design В© HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photography В© Shutterstock.com (https://www.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 В© March 2019 ISBN: 9780008293567

Version: 2018-12-10




Dedication (#ud6892401-67f0-55cf-9fce-03a2326414eb)


To Jonathan after having reached

the twenty-five-year mark.

There may be silver at your temples,

but there’s only gold in your heart.

Thanks a heap, Colonel.




Epigraph (#ud6892401-67f0-55cf-9fce-03a2326414eb)


Now the serpent was more cunning than any other beast of the field.

—Genesis 3:1

Because you did this, you are cursed from among all the animals and beasts of the field.

—Genesis 3:14

From this we learn that we do not give one who seduces people [to do evil] the opportunity to justify his actions.

—Rashi

Sanhedrin 29a


Contents

Cover (#ud7e57285-c58c-5e83-a202-903bcd54cbd0)

Title Page (#u718bed3f-935c-5569-8856-aebc746bf413)

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

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

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Keep Reading

About the Author

Faye Kellerman booklist

About the Publisher







1 (#ud6892401-67f0-55cf-9fce-03a2326414eb)


Nobody noticed him.

Not Wendy Culligan, who was too busy pitching million-dollar condos to a half-dozen Japanese businessmen more interested in her rear than in residences. Still, she patiently went about her spiel, talking about in-house services, drop-dead views, revolving mortgages, and great resale values.

Leaning over the table, showing a touch of cleavage while spearing a jumbo shrimp off the seafood appetizer plate. Along with the prawns were oysters, abalone, gravlax, and raw sea-urchin sashimi, the last item a big hit with the Asians—something about making them potent.

Men—regardless of race, creed, or color—thought only about sex. And here she was, trying to earn an honest buck while they popped squiggly things into their mouths, washing the tidbits down with sake as they licked their lips suggestively.

What’s a poor working girl to do?

Inwardly, Wendy acknowledged that Brenda, her boss, had been generous in arranging the dinner at Estelle’s. The restaurant was exquisite—all silver and crystal and candlelight. Antique mahogany buffets and chests rested against walls lined with elegant sky-blue Oriental silk screens. Exotic flower arrangements adorned every table—giant lilies, imported orchids, and twotone roses. A hint of perfume, but never overwhelming. The chairs were not only upholstered in silky fabric but comfortable as well. Even the bar area was posh—plush stools, smoked mirrors, and rich walnut panels, all tastefully illuminated with Tivoli lights.

She felt as if she were dining in a palace, wondered why the rich ever had any problems. So what if they came with baggage—their scheming mistresses and lovers, their tawdry secrets and perverted kinks, their whining children and mooching relatives. Wendy could have withstood the pain, just so long as those big bucks kept rolling in.

Transfixed by the splendid surroundings, so intent on doing her job—getting a fat and much-needed commission—Wendy didn’t blink an eye when the young man with the green sport coat walked through the door, eyeing the room with coldness and calculation.

Neither did Linda or Ray Garrison.

At last, Ray was enjoying a little solitude with his wife of thirty-five years. Recalling the anniversary party that their daughter, Jeanine, had thrown for them even if she had thrown it with his money. At least it had gone well. Jeanine was one hell of an organizer. The guests had remarked what a wonderful party it was, what magnificent parents he and Linda must have been to have raised two such devoted children … politely including David in the same category as Jeanine. No one had dared to hint at his son’s recent jail term.

An elegant affair. But Ray knew it had been just as much for Jeanine as it had been for Linda and him. Lots of her “club” friends—people Ray barely knew—had come along for the ride.

Still, it had been fun. And David had behaved himself. At last, the boy finally seemed to be moving in the right direction, was using his God-given talents. Ray would have disinherited him years ago, but it had been Linda’s soft heart that had kept the avenues of communication open.

Linda. Soft, beautiful, generous, and solid, his backbone for three and a half decades. At times, he was aware of the age in her face, the webbing around the corners of her eyes and mouth, the gentle drop of her jaw and cheeks. But Linda’s imperfections, completely absent in her youth, only served to increase his desire for her.

He loved her with all his heart. And he knew that she returned the sentiment. At times, their closeness seemed to exclude everyone else, including their children. Maybe that was why David had grown up so resentful. But more than likely, their love for one another had nothing to do with their son’s problems. Weak-willed and cursed with talent and charm, Dave had drifted into a Bohemian life at an early age.

But why think about that now? Ray reprimanded himself. Why think about Jeanine—her spending habits, her high-strung hysteria, and her fits of temper when she didn’t get what she wanted? Why think about David’s repeated stabs at rehab? Concentrate on the moment … on your lovely wife.

Ray took his own advice and reserved his remaining attention for Linda. Although his eyes did sweep over the young, grave-faced man in the green jacket, holding a drink, they failed to take him in.

Even if Walter Skinner had noticed the odd man, he wouldn’t give the punk the time of day. At this stage in his life, Walter had no patience for youngsters, no patience for anyone. He had worked in Hollywood for over fifty years, had earned himself a fat bank account and a modicum of recognition and respect. He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it with no questions asked. If you didn’t like it, you could take a long walk to China.

And what Walter wanted now was the young lady sitting across from him. A lovely lass with big, red hair, and long shapely legs that melded into a firm, round ass that sent his juices flowing.

Not here, Walter scolded himself. To calm himself down, he thought about Adelaide.

A good woman, a tolerant woman. Once she had been a beautiful woman, a Vegas dancer right after Bugsy had turned the desert sands into dunes of gold. Walter had chased her, pursued her relentlessly. Finally, she gave in. For her, it had paid off. As a minimally talented show girl, Adelaide had been destined for obscurity. Instead, she became a Hollywood wife. He gave her status, money, and a role she could have for life. If she was willing to indulge him from time to time. Which she did gracefully.

Good old Addie. As steady as the old gray mare.

Walter looked across the table, through the diamond-cut stemware. Good grade Waterford. Estelle had done it up nicely. Elegant without being pompous. And good food. No wonder the place was always jammed.

He’d had doubts about bringing Big Hair here. She had dolled up for the occasion, and much to Walter’s surprise, she had pulled it off without looking cheap.

A gray-haired old lady smiled at him, nodded.

Walter nodded back.

Ah, recognition. It was sweet.

However, it was not quite as sweet as Big Hair’s ass. Walter looked deeply into his table companion’s baby blues, his eyes shifting downward to her superb surgically designed chest. He felt a tug in his pants and that was wonderful. At seventy-eight, no hard-on was ever taken for granted.

Face it, Walter said to himself. At seventy-eight, waking up in the morning was a cause for celebration.

So enamored of his sexual response and his beating heart, Walter didn’t think about the serious young man leaning against the bar, his eyes as chilled as the drink he was nursing.

Carol Anger did glance at the thin young man in the green coat, thinking he looked familiar. She couldn’t quite place him. A face that had changed and had changed again. But she couldn’t dwell on it because she was too busy. Gretchen had called in sick and Carol was running double shift.

On her slate was a nice group of tables. Carol especially liked the party of sweet-sixteeners in the corner. Eight giggly girls trying to pretend they were grown-ups, decked out in sophisticated suits and too much makeup.

Like she had been at sixteen—sans the suits and jewelry of course. She had grown up in a home where money had always been tight. But down deep, all sixteen-year-old girls were the same.

Where had the time gone?

At first, right after her divorce, her life had been a blur of tears. Tears of fury at her ex, tears of gratitude at her parents for their love and understanding.

And their help.

Mom had come through. Always there when Carol needed her. Saying she’d take care of Billy so Carol could go back to nursing school. Carol had insisted on doing her fair share. Hence the job … this job. And it was a doozy.

She had Olaf to thank for that.

She had met him at a bar, had laughed when he had told her his name.

OLAF!

OLAF, THE VIKING MAN!

He had blushed when she laughed. Which of course had made her feel terrible. Olaf had come to America to be a cook. When he told her he worked at Estelle’s, she had nearly fainted.

You’re not a cook, she had chided. You’re a chef!

Within a month, Olaf had convinced Estelle to give Carol a job interview. A week later, she was dressed in a tux and ready to work.

How she loved Olaf, with his half smile, his stoic manner, and his thick upper lip that was often dotted with sweat from the heat of the kitchen. She had often wondered how she could have been so upset over her failed marriage, since from it came all this good fortune.

So occupied by her fate and work, Carol failed to see the thin young man’s mouth turn into a twisted smile, his eyes as blank as snowdrifts.

Ken Wetzel didn’t think twice about him. He was too busy slurping up oysters while giving his wife the bad news. He was trying to be as gentle as possible but it wasn’t coming out right.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love Tess. He guessed he still did. She had been there for him, was still a decent wife, a good mother, and a passable lover. Unfortunately, she just didn’t fit into his world anymore.

Especially since he had been promoted to assistant vice president.

He needed a partner who was more dynamic, not some ordinary woman whose sole occupation was raising children. Granted, the kids were good kids … Tess’s doing. But that wasn’t enough anymore. A woman had to know things—how to dress, how to smile, how to make conversation about the vagaries of the market. A woman like that could help him get ahead. Trouble was, Tess was holding him back.

A great gal, but a high-school dropout. And with the last kid, she had gotten heavy. Those awful tents she wore. Why did the prints always have to be so garish? Why didn’t she realize she would have looked more sophisticated and sleek in a plain black suit?

That was Tess.

Ken sighed inwardly, wishing she’d wipe the tears off her cheeks. Because she was embarrassing him. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself a brief fantasy of Sherrie. Sherrie, with her milky eyes, her sensuous mouth, her wonderful hips, her full breasts, and her MBA from Stanford.

They had met on interoffice E-mail, she being in marketing, he being two floors up in stock research. He joked that it had been love at first byte. The affair was almost immediate, fueled by the thrill of their respective infidelities and what each one could do for the other’s career.

Yes, Ken still loved Tess on some level. And yes, Ken still cared for the kids. But life was about reaching one’s potential. The marriage just wouldn’t work any longer.

Times change, he had told her.

Life changes.

You move on.

With each pronouncement, Tess had shed a new batch of tears.

Still, the drama of the evening did little to quell his appetite. As much as he hated himself, he had to admit that telling Tess it was over was a definite high. The exhilaration of liberation.

Flying high with freedom, Ken paid no attention to the thin young man. Not even when the young man’s face fell flat, turning his physiognomy into something inanimate, his eyes as murky as pond water.

No one even noticed when he reached into the pocket of his green jacket.

Not until he pulled out a gun and the lead began to fly.

But by then, it was too late.







2 (#ud6892401-67f0-55cf-9fce-03a2326414eb)


A microsecond flash of yesteryear as images too frighteningly clear burst from the hidden recesses of Decker’s brain. A familiar scene with familiar sounds and smells. Charlie’s discards. Twisted corpses. Moans of the wounded echoing through a gripping fog of panic. Medics worked frantically, hands and arms bathed in blood and flesh. The metallic odor of spilled blood mixed with the stink of emptied bowels. Surreal. The magnitude of death and destruction. It destroyed faith in a hand clap.

Decker swallowed, trying to lubricate a parched throat. Rationally, he knew Nam was over. So what was this? An instant replay? Except the surroundings were off. Confusion reigned. But only for a moment.

Because there was work to be done.

Instantly, he rolled up his jacket and shirt sleeves, gloved his hands. Saw a woman whose leg had been turned into Swiss cheese by dime-sized bullet holes. Lying in a pool of crimson. Her complexion pasty … clammy. Pushing aside debris with his foot, Decker made room for himself … knelt at her side.

Stop the bleeding, treat ’em for shock, get ’em to a chopper.

Scratch the chopper, make it an ambulance.

“You’re going to be all right,” Decker spoke soothingly as he worked. Perspiration had soaked through his jacket from his armpits. His crotch was as hot and humid as an Orlando summer. Sweat was dripping off his hair, off his face and brow. He turned away from his patient, shook off the water like a drooling mastiff. He said, “Just hang in there.”

Lots of bleeding, some of it arterial. Rhythmic squirts of bright red blood. Decker put pressure on the leaking area as the woman screamed, tears rolling down her cheeks.

He bit his upper lip, nibbling on his ginger mustache, trying to keep his own breathing slow and steady. He examined her torn tissue, working through bits of bone. Femoral artery appeared to be intact … the other major arteries as well. Arteriole bleeding, probably from one of their branches. She didn’t realize it, but she had been a very lucky pup. Much better than her male companion, who’d never again see the light of day.

“I need a blanket, STAT!” Decker shouted.

“We’re out!” someone shouted back.

“Then get me a tablecloth, napkins … something!” Decker screamed back. “I got shock settling in!”

“You and half the room! Get it yourself!”

“For Chrissakes—”

“Here!” A tiny female paramedic with green eyes threw Decker a tablecloth. She was bent over a bearded man, wrapping a bandage around his neck. Instantly, the starched white linen turned tomato-colored. Her eyes glanced at Decker, at his shoulder holster peeking out from under his jacket. “What ambulance company are you from?”

“LAPD. Lieutenant Peter Decker.”

The paramedic raised her brows. “Celia Brown. Need anything, just ask.”

“Thanks.” Spreading out the tablecloth as best he could, Decker raised the woman’s good leg, dabbing her forehead and face as she sobbed and spoke. She told him her name was Tess. She had heard popping noises. Then everyone had started screaming, running for cover. Her leg exploded as she dived under her table.

Taking mental notes.

The victim wore a thick gold chain around her neck; her purse was still at her side. A horrific crime but robbery didn’t appear to be a motive. Or maybe the gunman just didn’t bother with her. She wasn’t decked in diamonds and pearls, not like some of the other patrons. She wore a loud print dress that appeared to be a couple of sizes too big for her body. She asked Decker if her leg was still there. She couldn’t wiggle her toes. All she felt were throbs of agony.

“Your leg is there.” Again Decker checked for bleeding. “You’re doing great.”

“My husband …”

Decker was quiet.

“He’s dead?”

Again there was silence.

“I want to know,” Tess whispered.

Decker took a deep breath. “The dark-haired man wearing a blue serge suit?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. He’s gone.”

Tess said nothing, looked away with tears in her eyes.

“Just keep as still as you can.” To the paramedic, Decker said, “Got any spare wound gel, topical, and bandage?”

Celia gave him some equipment. “You need a shot of coagulant?”

“Bleeding’s subsided. Besides, I’d prefer if one of you administered the meds.”

“Fine.” Celia thought a moment, then said, “You’re a lieutenant … as in a cop?”

“Yes.”

“Calling in the big shots for this one.”

Muted by the enormity of destruction, Decker couldn’t make chitchat.

Celia said, “They must be training you guys pretty well in ER services.”

“I was a medic in the army.”

“Ah, now it makes sense. Vietnam?”

“Yes.”

“Betcha had lots of experience.”

Too much, Decker thought. He applied the salves, unfurled a roll of gauze. “She’s going to need a neck brace and a hip and leg splint. Can you finish her up for me when you’re done?”

“No problem. Thanks for helping. We need it.”

They both worked quickly and quietly. When she was done with her man and his bloodied neck, she yelled out. “Gurney and transport.”

Within seconds, she ungloved and regloved. Walked on her knees over to Decker’s patient. “Unbelievable.”

“Truly.”

“I’ll finish her up now.”

“Thanks. Her name is Tess. She’s doing great.”

“Hey, Tess,” the paramedic said. “We’re taking good care of you.”

Decker stood. A dozen doctors charged through the door, scattering themselves about where needed.

Trampling on evidence.

As if that were important at the moment. But down the line it would make his job harder. As yet, no one was in charge. Since there seemed to be enough medical staff, he figured he might as well take control. He called over some officers, flashed his badge.

“We need to secure the area. I want a fifty-yard radius around the place, two officers stationed at every entrance. No one will be allowed in, no one will be allowed out unless it’s medical personnel or Homicide detectives. And I mean no one. Not even survivors of this mayhem may leave until it’s cleared with me. As hard as it will be, don’t let in any family members. Be polite and sympathetic, but firm. Tell them I’ll come out, speak to them, tell them what’s going on. I’ll inform them of … of their loved ones’ conditions just as soon as we make identifications. Certainly no one from the press corps will be permitted on the premises. If they start asking questions—which they will—tell them someone from the department will hold a conference later. Reporters who break the rules get arrested. Go.”

From the middle of the restaurant, Decker surveyed the room—the disheveled tables, the knocked-over chairs, the pocked walls, and shattered window glass. Graceful wallpaper had been turned into Rorschachs of blood and food, gleaming parquet-wood floors were now deadly seas of spilled fluids, broken crystal, and pottery shards. His eyes scanned across the bar, the kitchen doors, the hallway leading to the rest rooms, the windows, and the front entrance. He took out a notebook, began dividing the area into grids. He heard someone call his name—or rather, his rank. He turned around, waved Oliver over.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” the detective said.

Decker regarded him. Scott Oliver’s naturally dark complexion had paled even through his six o’clock shadow; his normally wiseass eyes were filled with dread.

“We’ve got to ID the dead.” Decker ran a hand through sweat-soaked, pumpkin-colored hair. “Let’s start a purse and pocket search.” He showed Oliver his sketch. “I’ll take the left side, you do the right. When the rest of the team comes in, we’ll divide up the room accordingly.”

“There’s Marge.” Oliver beckoned her near with frantic hand gestures. She arrived ashen and shaking, her shoulders hunched, taking a good inch off her five-foot-eight frame.

“This is horrible.” She touched her mouth with trembling fingers, then pushed thin blond hair off her face. “What happened? Someone just started shooting?”

Oliver shrugged ignorance. “We’re doing a pocket and purse search for ID of the dead. Loo, what about interviewing the survivors?”

Decker said, “Scott, you do the search. Marge, you start interviewing on Scott’s side—Bert, over here!”

Martinez pivoted, jogged over to his team. “Mary Mother of God, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Take a deep breath,” Decker said. “Bathrooms are in the back.”

Martinez covered his face with his hands, inhaled, then let it out slowly. “It’s just the putrid smell. Actually, it’s … everything. God, I’m …”

No one spoke.

Then Decker said, “Scott and Marge are working the right side. You work with me on the left.”

“Doing what?” Martinez picked at the hairs of his thick black mustache.

“Interviewing the survivors or IDing the dead. Take your pick.”

“I’ll do the survivors,” Martinez said. “Tom’s on his way. You heard from Farrell?”

“Got hold of his wife. He’s coming down.”

“Think that’s a good idea, Loo? Man’s got a heart condition.”

“Gaynor’s survived close to thirty years on the force, he’ll survive this. Besides, he’s a wonder at detail work … which is what we’re going to need … lots of detail work.”

“And the captain?”

“He was at a meeting in Van Nuys when this went down. Should be here momentarily.”

Decker started in the far left corner of the room, at a large round table for twelve. Two Asian men lay crumpled and unattended on the floor, spangled with bits of china and slivers of crystal. Loose flowers had fallen upon their torsos as if marking the grave site.

Decker did a once-over of the area. About fifty feet away sat a huddle of business-suited Asian males. Nearby were two Caucasians—one female and one male wrapped in blankets and bandages. He nodded to the woman, she nodded back. Her hands and face appeared cat-scratched, probably scored by flying glass. Decker shook off anxiety, gloved, and carefully kneeled down. He checked the bodies’ pulses.

Nothing.

He went through one of the men’s pants pockets. A portly man shot several times in the face and chest. He pulled out a wallet. Carefully, he wrote down the deceased’s vitals from his driver’s license.

Hidai Takamine from Encino. Black hair, brown eyes, married, and forty-six years old.

Decker winced. His own age.

He glanced up. Martinez hadn’t moved, was looking down, staring at the bodies with vacant eyes.

Gently, Decker prodded him. “Get to work, Bert.”

Martinez blinked rapidly. He said, “You in Nam, Loo?”

“Yep.”

“So was I. Sixty-eight to seventy.”

Decker said, “Sixty-nine to seventy-one.”

Silence.

Martinez took a swipe at his eyes, then got to work.

By the time Strapp showed up, Decker had finished identifying the bodies on his side of the restaurant. The captain had given up the pretense of maintaining a calm demeanor. His thin features were screwed up in anger, his complexion wan. Decker brought him up to date as Strapp tapped his toes, his right hand balled into a fist that continuously pounded his left palm.

“Seven dead on my side.” Decker rolled his massive shoulders, stretched his oversized legs as his kneecaps made popping sounds. The bending was doing wonders for his floating patellas. “I’ve identified the victims from driver’s licenses. I’ll go out and inform the next of kin just as soon as I get a body count and names from the other side.”

He looked around, saw that Tom Webster and Farrell Gaynor had arrived. Tom was interviewing survivors along with Bert. Farrell was going through the pockets of the corpses on the right side as Marge and Scott attempted to calm the distraught.

Strapp shook his head, mumbled something.

“Sir?” Decker asked.

“Nothing,” Strapp said. “Just cursing to myself. At last count, there’s something like twenty-eight over at Valley Memorial’s ER. This is just … I’ve got a slew of shrinks outside for support groups … some ER docs as well … in case someone has a heart attack or faints when the news hits.”

“Shall I do it now, Captain?”

Strapp was still hitting his palm with his fist. “We’ll do the dirty work together.”

“What about the press?”

“Okay, okay.” Strapp started bouncing on his toes. “You handle the press, I stay with the family members. Keep the vultures behind the ropes. No announcements until I’ve finished dealing with the next of kin.”

Decker said, “Here’s a partial list of the dead. I’ll bring you the completed list as soon as I can.”

Both of them stalled for a moment; then they went their separate ways.







3 (#ud6892401-67f0-55cf-9fce-03a2326414eb)


Though bandaged tightly, the arm was still leaking blood. But the waitress refused to budge, watching over her brood of eight teenage girls with hawkish eyes. Her face was damp with blood, dirt, sweat, and fury. “I am not leaving them until they’re safe and sound with their parents.”

Marge said, “That may take a while, Ms. Anger. You really need to take care of that arm.”

The man sitting with them was the kitchen’s assistant chef—Olaf Anderson. He was pale, but his eyes were steady and his manner stoic. “You don’t do any good if you make yourself sick, Carol.”

“I am fine, Olaf!”

One of the girls—dressed up in a pink mock-Chanel suit—spoke up. She had long permed hair and red-rimmed blue eyes. Her mascara had streaked down her cheeks. “We’ll be okay, ma’am. You should get fixed up.”

Immediately, the girl collapsed into tears.

The waitress hugged her with her good arm, looked up at Marge. “When can they leave? It’s inhuman to keep them here. Right now, everyone’s too hysterical to help you out.”

“It’s true,” said the Chanel girl. “No one was paying attention, we were just like … ducking, you know. And screaming. Everyone was screaming.”

“And praying,” added another.

“You’re …” Marge looked at the pink-suited girl, then down at the list. “Amy Silver?”

The girl nodded.

“You just ducked under the table when the shooting started.”

Again, she nodded. “And screamed. I must have screamed a lot. My throat hurts.”

“Everything hurts,” added another teen.

This one wore a navy suit. Marge consulted her list. Navy suit was named Courtney. “Do you need medical attention, honey?”

Courtney shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “We just heard like these pops. Then everybody like started to scream. Then we like ducked under the table and like hugged each other. And cried … but like quietly. We were real scared.”

“Too scared to look at anything,” Amy said. “Except that awful green jacket … moving like a blip on a radar.”

“I didn’t see a thing,” Courtney said. “I had like my eyes squeezed shut and was praying real hard—Please, please, just let this be over.” Her eyes overflowed with water. “I’d like to call my mom if I could.”

“When can we see our parents?” Amy asked.

“Soon—”

“How soon?” Carol demanded. “At least let her call her mother?”

“I’m sure she’s outside.”

“So tell her that her daughter’s okay, for godsakes! And when can I call my mother? She must be worried sick about me. She’s not in the best of health.”

“Please, Carol,” Olaf said. “The woman is just trying to do her job—”

“I know that, Olaf. We are all trying to do our job!”

“You must have patience—”

“I’ve been plenty patient,” Carol shot back. “Now I want some action!”

Marge said, “Let me consult with my boss. You all stay put—”

“Well, we can’t exactly go anywhere with the Nazis blocking the doors.”

Marge kept her expression neutral. “I’m so, so sorry. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is cause anyone additional pain. I’ll be right back.”

Carol’s face was still irate, but she held her tongue.

Marge tried out a smile, but Carol responded by rolling her eyes. Before Marge made it to the door, Oliver flagged her down. “You’re going to see Decker?”

“Yeah, we’ve got to start letting some of the people out of here. It’s not fair—”

“I’ll go with you,” Oliver said.

They both stepped into the cool night air, shielding their eyes from the blinding glare of the headlights. Marge quickly counted fifteen vehicles—police cars, press vans, ambulances, and several meat wagons. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows as she made out a group of people inside the tape barrier, off to the left. They’d been sidelined. She could hear their anger stabbing through the mist.

The family members.

The gawkers, along with the press, had been penned outside the yellow tape perimeter, at least fifty yards away.

Marge spotted Decker. His complexion had turned pasty, his big hands had been tightened into white-knuckled fists. She shouted his name. He stopped walking, turned, and came toward them.

Decker said, “You have the finalized list of the dead?”

Oliver showed him the ominous white sheet. “Give it to the captain?”

“Please. I’ve already delivered my allotment of bad news.”

Marge said, “I’ve got a group of teenage girls—”

Decker said, “Go tell their parents. See some tears of joy instead of tears of agony.”

Marge felt her throat tighten. “You all right? What a stupid question.”

“I’m lousy,” Decker said. “Not a fraction as shitty as the group I just left.”

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and looked upward. A starless foggy night, a crescent of moon floating in an endless gray sea. “I’ve got to deal with the press.” He turned to his detectives. “Anyone tell you anything useful?”

Oliver said. “Everyone ducked as soon as the shooting and screaming started.”

Marge added, “Lots of screaming, lots of praying.”

“Bullets flying around the room from all directions.”

“From all directions?” Decker asked.

“I think they were using hyperbole,” Marge said.

“Most of them were too busy ducking,” Oliver said.

“Shooter say anything?”

Marge shook her head. “People I spoke to said someone just opened fire. No warning, no nothing.”

“Ditto.”

“So that seems to eliminate robbery as a motive.” Decker rubbed his eyes, told them to go and bring some good cheer.

As he watched them approach the anxious relatives, he tried to collect his thoughts … rid himself of the shrieking and sobbing he had just heard from the unlucky family members. Slowly, he let his fingers uncurl, realized his hands were shaking. He wiped wet palms on his pants, tucked them into his pockets.

He needed something.

He needed a smoke.

As he neared the press corps, he bummed a pack of cigarettes and some matches off one of the uniformed cops. He tried to steady his hands as he lit up, sucking hot, dry smog into his lungs.

It felt acrid, but it did the trick. As nicotine coursed through his body, Decker felt his hands settle down, his brain beginning to clear.

He polished off the cigarette in four inhalations, immediately went for number two. Only after he had smoked it down to the butt was he ready to face the cameras. He ducked under the crime tape ribbon, was charged upon by a cavalry of multimedia representatives. He held up his palms, keeping them at arm’s length, then shouted as best he could. His voice traveled well in the night air. “I’m only going to do this once, so let’s give everyone a fair shot. Anyone out there need a little extra time to set up?”

“Five minutes to set up my camera?” a male voice yelled out.

“Make it ten,” replied a female.

Decker said, “Ten minutes. I’ll read from a prepared statement. Please, please, be respectful, ladies and gentlemen. I will take questions afterward for about fifteen, twenty minutes. Then I’m going to have to get back to work.”

With his announcement, Decker turned inward, lit up a third cigarette, and spoke to no one, ignoring the questions that were thrown at him. He smoked two more cigarettes until the requisite time had passed. After checking his watch, he threw down his fifth butt of the evening, crushed it harder than necessary with his heel. He smoothed his hair and spoke to a wire wheel of microphones. Flashbulbs and video lights attacked his eyes.

“Our first concerns are with the people who need immediate medical attention. All the hospitals and medical institutions in the area have been notified and are giving those inside the benefit of their expertise as well as their staff, facilities, and supplies. We’ve received an abundance of community help from local physicians. The help is needed and appreciated. To everyone out there viewing this broadcast, please, please: If you are not involved in the primary medical care of those injured, stay away from the area so that doctors, nurses, medics, ambulances, and police personnel can move in and out of the area freely.”

The questions started.

What happened?

How many killed?

How many wounded?

Do they have a suspect?

Do they have a reason for the shooting?

What’s it like in there?

Decker turned to the last questioner. A Latina. Sylvia Lopez from the local news station. One of the few broadcasters who gave LAPD a fair shake during its bad times. He took her question.

“What’s it like in there?” Abruptly, he broke into a cold sweat, shuddered involuntarily. “It’s your worst nightmare.”

He wiped his face, was about to field another series of questions, but over an ocean of scalps, he saw Martinez waving at him. One of the many benefits of being six four.

“I’ve got to go,” Decker said. “Excuse me.”

He extricated himself from the lights, cameras, and actions, ducking under the yellow tape and meeting Martinez halfway across the parking lot. Decker threw his arm around Bert’s wide shoulders. “What?”

“There are a lot of people unaccounted for, Loo.” Martinez pushed strands of black, wet hair from his forehead. His face had been bathed in sticky sweat. “We’re directing the families to Valley Memorial, but some of the wounded may have gone to Northridge Pres. We’re trying to get names, but everything’s such a mess—”

“One step at a time.”

“Speaking of which, we may have found the perp. He could have been one of the victims, but it looks like a suicide. Close-range single shot to the head around the temple region. You can see the powder burns—”

“Got a weapon?”

“Smith and Wesson double-action, nine-millimeter automatic—”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah, lots of spraying ability. Pistol’s about five feet away from the body. Forensics is waiting for you or Captain Strapp before they move in. Farrell’s guarding the corpse. No ID on the body, but we got a name from a couple of Estelle’s employees: Harlan Manz.”

“Disgruntled postal worker?”

“Disgruntled bartender.”







4 (#ud6892401-67f0-55cf-9fce-03a2326414eb)


“Harlan worked here for around three, four months—”

“Closer to six months—”

“Yeah, well, maybe it was closer to six months.” Marissa, the waitress, sneaked a sideways glance at Benedict, the waiter. “God, I can’t believe it.” Sitting on a barstool, she shivered under her blanket, blond hair falling over her shoulders. “I knew he was angry when he left, but who would have expected …”

Decker stood between the two food servers, his back against the smooth oak bar top. Ten minutes earlier, he had gone through Harlan’s empty pockets, observed the man’s twisted body and blood-soaked head. A close-range shot and a clean one. A 9mm automatic lay a few feet away.

As a corpse, Harlan evoked pity rather than fury. Once he had been a good-looking man. Dark, brooding features now covered with sticky serum. He had died wearing dark slacks, a white shirt, and a green jacket that was splattered with blood, turning him Christmas-colored. The whole evening defied logic.

He returned his attention to the witnesses. “Was Harlan fired from his job?”

“Rather unceremoniously.” Benedict shifted his weight on the stool, scratched a nest of black curls. He was sipping hot water, shaking as he talked.

“What happened?”

“Some asshole at the bar got plastered, started giving Harlan a real hard time. He just blew it, told the guy to get the hell out.”

“A big no-no,” Marissa interjected. “You have trouble with a patron, you’re supposed to report it to the manager and let her deal with it.”

“Any idea why Harlan decided to handle the matter?”

“He probably just had it up to here with rich dicks.” Benedict looked upward. “You get tired of being pushed around.”

Marissa said, “Robin must have heard all the commotion. She came charging in … it was real intense.”

“Is Robin the restaurant’s manager?”

“Yeah,” Benedict said. “She just … started in on Harlan, told him to pack his bags and leave. That was that.”

Decker was skeptical. “Harlan left without a fight?”

“Nothing physical,” Marissa said. “But Harlan and Robin exchanged a few choice words. He was really mad. But she didn’t have to call the cops or anything like that.”

“Was this the only time either of you had ever seen Harlan explode?”

“Harlan was impulsive,” Marissa said. “Did what suited him.”

The servers exchanged brief glances. Decker’s eyes darted between Marissa and Benedict. “What’s going on?”

Marissa looked down. “I went out with him a couple of times. Nothing big. Just a drink after work.”

Silence.

Marissa’s eyes watered. “I had no idea he was …”

“Of course not,” Decker soothed. “Tell me about him, Marissa.”

“Nothing to tell. I thought he was kind of cute.”

Decker looked at Harlan’s corpse, now being worked on by Forensics. It lay some ten feet from the entrance to the bar, resting faceup, eyes open, mouth agape, arms splayed outward, legs bent at the knees. The complexion had taken on a grayish hue, but once it had probably been mocha-colored. Skin that showed wear and tear. Not craggy, but wrinkles about the eyes and mouth. Dark eyes, black hair, a broad nose and strong chin. Latino mixed with a hint of Native American. Looked to be around six feet. Well-proportioned.

“He seems like he could have been a very sexy guy.” He homed in on Marissa’s red cheeks. “Maybe we should talk in private?”

Marissa averted her gaze. “It was nothing serious. Does it really matter?”

“I was just wondering if maybe you were the intended target?”

The girl turned pale.

“No way,” Benedict said. “If he was after anyone here, it would have been Robin.” His voice dropped to a shadow. “And she’s dead, isn’t she?”

Decker nodded. The young man just shook his head. Marissa had tears in her eyes.

“We were never serious, Lieutenant. Honest. He was just studdin’ around. Harlan did a lot of that.”

“A lot of what?”

“Messin’ around. I wasn’t even his real girlfriend.”

Decker sat up. “Who was his real girlfriend?”

“Rhonda Klegg,” Benedict said. “Used to come in here sometimes. Harlan would comp her drinks. Tequila. She could down shooters as fast as any guy I know.”

“Was she an alcoholic?”

Again they exchanged glances. Benedict said, “Well, she could get a little intense. But she kept it under control. I never saw them going at it in public.”

“Going at it?” Decker asked.

Marissa said, “Harlan would come in with a black eye every once in a while. I asked him about it, he laughed it off.” She studied her hands. “God only knows what she looked like.”

Decker said, “Did you ever see them fighting?”

“Not personally, no.”

“Is she also a wait … an actress?”

Benedict said, “Artist. She actually makes money in her chosen field. Got a great gig going. Paints pictures on the walls of rich people’s houses.”

“Murals?” Decker asked.

“No,” Marissa said. “She’ll paint a make-believe garden scene on a wall. There’s a word for it.”

“Trompe l’oeil,” Decker said.

“That’s it,” Marissa said. “Her apartment is full of her stuff. It’s real weird. She’s got the statue of David on the wall of her john.”

“You’ve been to her apartment?” Decker said. “With Harlan?”

Marissa turned bright red. “Well … just once.”

“Did she and Harlan live together?”

“No, Harlan has … had his own place. But he liked being bad … God, I feel like an idiot.” Marissa rubbed her face. “It seemed so harmless at the time.”

Rule number one. Fooling around is never harmless. Decker asked, “Did Harlan have a key to her place?”

Marissa nodded.

Decker became aware of his heartbeat. “Where does Rhonda live, Marissa?”

“The apartment was called the Caribbean. Third floor. It’s near Rinaldi. I could get you the address.”

“I’ll get it.” Decker looked at Benedict. “Anything else you want to add … something that might give us a clue to what went on?”

“Sorry, but I didn’t see a thing,” Benedict said. “When the shooting started, I ran for cover.”

“Where?”

“Made a beeline for the coat closet. I hid there the entire time, too scared to even breathe.”

“I couldn’t tell you anything, either,” Marissa added. “Everyone just started screaming. I dropped under a table.”

“Where were you?”

“Carol Anger and I were working the left rear portion of the room. I had the odd tables, she had the even.”

“Do you recall where the shooting originated?”

“God, no. It seemed like bullets were flying from all directions. I was too petrified to look up.”

Decker looked over his notes, showed them a page. “These are your current names, addresses, and phone numbers?”

Both servers nodded.

“Okay, you can leave.” He handed them each a business card. “If you think of something important about what happened here … or anything important about Harlan Manz, give me a call.”

“Why bother with Harlan?” Benedict said. “He’s dead.”

“Yes, he is,” Decker said. “But by studying men like him … just maybe we can avert … another tragedy. Workplace violence is on the upswing. Least we can do is publicize warning signs.”

Marissa said, “So where do you go from here?”

Decker said, “Right now, I’m going to call Rhonda Klegg. If I have any luck at all, she’ll be alive and pick up the phone.”

“Oh my God!” Marissa said. “You think that maybe Harlan … before this …”

No one spoke for a moment.

Marissa said, “If she’s alive … are you going to tell her … you know … about Harlan and I?”

Harlan and me, Decker thought. He regarded the waitress, looked at her straggly hair falling over a war-ravaged face. “I don’t think it will come up.”

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Marissa thanked him profusely. Decker patted her shoulder, then left to search out a private phone.

There were two offices upstairs, each fitted with phones attached to answering machines that winked red in the dark. Decker flipped on the light switch in the larger of the two rooms. This one was Estelle Bernstein’s personal salon, done in wood paneling with plush hunter-green carpets. Expensively furnished—antiques or good replicas. The abstract artwork wasn’t his style, but it didn’t look cheap. Decker closed the office door from the outside, chose to use the phone in manager Robin Patterson’s hole in the wall.

Small. Utilitarian. A metal desk with a secretary’s chair parked inside the kneehole. A scarred leather couch. The back wall was lined with file cabinets. A swinging door was tucked into one of the corners. Decker pushed it open. An old white toilet, a scratched sink, and a fan that made a racket when the light was turned on. Robin had tried to dress it up by adding a mirror to the wall and a crocheted toilet-paper cover. On top of the john’s tank was a bowl of potpourri. Staring at the dried leaves, flowers, and spices, Decker felt a wash of sadness.

He called the station house, got the number he wanted. Within moments, Rhonda Klegg’s phone was ringing. Her machine picked up. Decker waited until the beep.

“This is Detective Lieutenant Peter Decker of the Los Angeles Police Department. I need to talk to Rhonda Klegg. I don’t know if you’re home or not, Rhonda, but if you are, please pick up the phone. If you don’t do that, I’m going to come over and have your apartment opened up. I have concerns for your safety. So if you don’t want—”

“I’m fine! Go away!”

The phone slammed down.

Obviously, she had seen the news. Decker called back. This time she picked up.

“Look …” Her voice was slightly slurred. “I meant what I said. I don’t wanna talk to the police or anybody else.”

Decker said, “I’m at Estelle’s. Been here since eight-thirty. Thirteen people are dead, Rhonda. At least thirty-one are wounded—”

“It’s not my fault!”

She erupted into sobs. Decker waited until he could be heard. Calmly, he said, “Of course it’s not your fault. You are completely blameless—”

“Then why are you calling me?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m okay. Just … leave me alone.”

“Be nice if I could talk to you, Rhonda.”

“Do I gotta talk to you?”

“No.”

Silence.

Her voice got very heavy. “What time is it?”

Decker checked his watch. “One-thirty.”

A heavy sigh. “Can this wait till morning?”

“Yes, it can wait. Is anyone staying with you, Rhonda?”

“No.”

“Can I call someone for you?”

She began to sob. “No. No one. Just … let me sleep.”

“Did you take anything to help you sleep?”

“Coupla Valiums.”

“And that’s it?”

“Yeah, course that’s it. Whaddaya think? What did you say your name was?”

“Lieutenant Decker. LAPD. Devonshire Substation.”

“LAPD?”

“LAPD.”

“If you’re a reporter, I’m gonna sue you.”

“I’m not a reporter.”

“I’m not talkin’ to reporters.”

“A very good idea. Can I drop by your apartment around …” Decker checked his watch again. Yes, it was still one-thirty in the morning. There were still witnesses to interview, bodies to transport to the morgue, and he hadn’t even touched his paperwork. Definitely an all-nighter. “How about eight in the morning?”

“Fine.” She paused. “If you’re a reporter—”

“Peter Decker, detective lieutenant one. LAPD, Devonshire Substation.” He gave her his badge number. “Give them a call.”

“I will, ya know.”

“You should. So I’ll see you at eight, Rhonda?”

“Fine. Good-bye.”

Once again the phone slammed down.

At least she hadn’t added “Good riddance.”







5 (#ud6892401-67f0-55cf-9fce-03a2326414eb)


Decker expected to talk to the machine. Instead, Rina picked up after a half ring. He said, “You should be asleep.”

“I was worried about you. I’m glad you called.”

“Nothing to worry about. I’m fine. I’m just not going to make it home tonight. You probably figured as much.”

“Can I do anything for you?”

“Kiss my kids. Say a prayer. I don’t know.”

He sounded drained … lifeless. She said, “I love you, Peter.”

“Love you, too.”

“Don’t hang up.”

No one spoke.

Rina said, “I guess you have to get back to work.”

Decker could picture his wife fidgeting with her hair, wrapping a long, black strand around her index finger or nibbling on the ends with her luscious mouth … her long pink tongue. Gave him a nice buzz between his legs. Obscene to think about sex after witnessing such atrocity. But he wasn’t shocked by his response. After clearing the trail of Charlie’s carnage … after doing the body count … Decker had often made a trip to the whorehouses the first item on his agenda. An old man housed in a nineteen-year-old body. Sex had been the thing that had made him feel alive.

He said, “I have a couple of minutes. Tell me about my kids.”

“They send their love.”

“Did they see the broadcast?”

“The boys did, sure.”

“Are they upset?”

“Honestly, yes, they were upset. You looked so … pained. Are you sure I can’t do anything for you, Peter?”

“Feeling helpless?”

“Exactly.”

“Join the crowd. No, I’ll be all right. The shock’s starting to wear off … that old wartime numbness—”

“Oh, my God! This must evoke such terrible memories for you.”

Decker waited a beat. “I used to get nightmares, Rina. Didn’t remember too much in the morning, but Jan said they were pretty bad. She never admitted it, but I think I scared her. Maybe we should use separate bedrooms for a couple of weeks—”

“I wouldn’t hear of it.” Rina paused. “I love you. Just … know that.”

“I know you want me to be okay. Honestly, I am okay. It just has to run its course. You want to help me, just take care of the kids and yourself. Did Sammy pass his driver’s test, by the way?”

“He is now officially licensed for solo expeditions.”

Something else to worry about, Decker thought. “Tell him congratulations. I’m really proud of him.”

“He wants to take the Porsche out for a spin.”

“Uh, that will have to wait.”

“He thought that might be the case.”

“Your voice is wonderful. I’d love talking, but you need your sleep. And I still have a mound of paperwork facing me.”

“You’re not going to sleep at all?”

“Oh, I’ll probably catch a few fitful hours at the station house. I promise I’ll be home tonight. Did I tell you I love you?”

“Never tire of hearing it,” Rina answered. She kissed the receiver. “Can I call you up in an hour or so?”

“I may not be available. I’m going out for a little bit.”

“Catch some air?”

“I wish.” Decker let out a tired laugh. “I’m planning to break into the apartment of a mass murderer. Not part of the job description when I joined the force. But sometimes you’ve just got to wing it.”

Using a Thomas map and dimly lit street signs, Decker managed to find Harlan Manz’s apartment. It was located on a deserted side road, shaded with oversized eucalyptus that loomed spectral in the gauzy night. No sidewalks. Pedestrians trod upon a dirt path that hugged the street. The block owned about a half dozen old multiplexed residences, all of them two-story stucco squares with small balconies. An occasional weed-choked vacant lot was interspersed between the buildings. Probably the land had once held structures that didn’t make it through the ’94 quake.

The former bartender had lived on a top floor, access to his unit provided by a rusted, wrought-iron outdoor staircase. The night was as still as stone. Not a soul in sight and that was good. Decker gloved, took out a penlight, and examined the door lock—a snap. Keeping his picks in his pocket, he removed a credit card from his wallet, snapped the latch bolt, and turned the knob. Closed the door and flipped the light switch.

He was standing in the living room. A beige couch, a couple of chairs, and a coffee table that held a remote control, a mug with a brown-stained bottom, and yesterday’s local newspaper. A TV rested against the wall opposite the couch, a twenty-six-inch Sony sitting inside a particle-board bookcase. A half dozen paperbacks rested on the shelves alongside numerous videotapes. Most of them seemed to be action/adventure films but there were the requisite adult films as well. Harlan liked blondes. A stereo/cassette/CD player complete with speakers. Decker flipped through a few CDs; Harlan’s taste leaned toward thrash bands and rap.

Decker’s eyes scanned the walls. A few framed movie posters hung from single nailheads on white walls. Cable TV films that Decker had never seen, had never heard of. The carpet was brown and worn—a few scattered crumbs, but relatively clean.

The kitchenette was an outpouching off the living room. The compact fridge contained a quart of juice, a quart of milk, three six-packs, and a tub of margarine. Decker opened the fruit bin—two apples dotted with soft spots, and an orange. Cabinets stocked with salsa, chips, a half loaf of moldless bread, a yellow plastic bottle of French’s mustard, Heinz’s ketchup, a box of raisin bran, mismatched dishes and cookware, and a dead fly. Built-ins included a two-burner cooktop and a microwave-oven combo. No dishwasher, but the sink was cleared of plates and cutlery.

Completely unremarkable.

The bedroom was the same story. Queen-sized bed topped with an older but clean spread. One nightstand containing packets of gum, a bottle of aspirin, and a pack of cigarettes. A small desk was tucked into the corner.

Decker rummaged through its contents. Piquing his interest were several black-and-white head shots. Eight-by-tens of Harlan peering into the camera lens with intense eyes, his full lips slightly agape, and a well-trimmed—ergo calculated—five o’clock shadow. He’d been posed to make the most of his exotic sensuality. Dark and brooding. Heathcliffian.

Portfolio pictures. Like everyone in Hollywood, Manz had been touched by the industry, had taken a shot at the tarnished screen.

The closet was another insight into Harlan’s personality. Lots of clothes. Not expensive threads but the duds had a flair. Well-designed knockoffs. Decker counted seven pairs of shoes, including an expensive pair of Nikes.

The bathroom was a tiny thing which squeezed in a tub with a shower curtain, a toilet, and a sink with a medicine cabinet. The shelves were chock-full of analgesics, nasal sprays, and decongestant capsules. Harlan also stocked disposable razors, several sticks of antiperspirant, and a sandwich bag dusted with white powder.

Decker dipped his pinkie into the bag and touched it to the tip of his tongue.

The real stuff.

He’d bag the rest and submit it for evidence.

Evidence of what, he wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t about to leave cocaine sitting around.

Cologne and aftershave sat on the rim of the tub. Cheap stuff. Decker organized his thoughts as he walked back into the living room. This time he examined the movie posters with a keen eye. As plain as daylight, Harlan’s name had been listed in the cast.

The man had met with some limited success. Of course, that meant nothing.

Decker sat on the couch, rubbed his tired eyes, a puzzling picture emerging in his sleep-deprived brain.

Movie posters on the wall.

Portfolio pictures in the desk.

Stylish clothes and lots of shoes.

Bottles of cologne.

Someone who took pride in his appearance.

Someone with an ego.

Yet the place was completely devoid of personal effects. No scrapbooks, no picture albums, no reminder notes or scratch pads, no would-be scripts, no appointment book for the big auditions, no Filofax, no little black book of phone numbers, no desk calendar … no calendar, period.

There was beer in the fridge, cigarettes in the drawer, cocaine in the medicine cabinet. Which told Decker that the guy was a user. Then there was the coffee table on which lay a dirty coffee mug, yesterday’s newspaper, and the remote control. Forming an image of a lived-in room … un-tampered with … untouched.

But something was off.

As if someone had carefully emptied the place of Harlan’s true personality, leaving just enough items to form a sketchy impression—like his taste in drugs. The home of a disturbed man, a vicious mass murderer. Yet Decker didn’t find a single threatening note, any written psychotic ramblings, nothing that even hinted of a desperate man driven to murder and suicide.

Decker exhaled, his brain buzzing.

Not all psychos leave behind their history—a blow-by-blow schemata, explaining what had led them to their atrocities. Some just explode, spontaneously combust, letting their bloody legacies talk for themselves.

Maybe Harlan had been one of those.

Maybe he woke up one morning … and simply popped.







6 (#ud6892401-67f0-55cf-9fce-03a2326414eb)


The girl reeked of mint—hiding her booze breath with Scope or Certs—leaving Decker to wonder if the orange juice glass Rhonda Klegg held in a white-knuckled grip had been laced with vodka. He presented his badge. She examined it carefully, then allowed him inside. The place pulsated with color, throwing Decker’s equilibrium off balance. The slamming door brought him back into focus.

“Sorry about being so paranoid,” Rhonda stated. “Thought you might be the press.”

Decker blinked. “Have people been bothering you?”

“Not since I took my phone off the hook.”

She offered him coffee; Decker nodded yes. Cream and sugar? Straight black was fine.

With trembling hands, Rhonda sipped her orange juice, stared at him. He stared back at a ravaged, ashen face, lifeless blue eyes and thin pale lips. She probably hadn’t gotten much sleep. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her hair had been bleached candy-apple red and was tied back into a ponytail. She had a nose-pierce, the helices of her outer ears completely covered with tiny hoops and studs. Lots of chains dangled from the many holes in her earlobes. She was garbed in jeans and a white T-shirt, wore a denim work shirt as a jacket. Her feet were stuffed in lace-up ankle boots.

She finished her juice and said, “I really don’t have anything to say.” She held aloft her empty glass. “Get you one of these along with your Colombian?”

“No, thank you. Just a cup of coffee would be fine.”

“Mind if I take another?”

“Of course not.”

“S’cuse.”

She disappeared behind a swinging door painted to simulate a wooden lattice intertwined with blooming pink rose vines. Indeed, Rhonda had used her entire apartment as her canvas, living art done up in the style of classical Mediterranean gardens. Painted boxwood hedges replaced baseboard molding. Behind the hedges—on the wall itself—were trellises of ivy and flowering vines, citrus orchards, classical marble statuary, and fountains—all of it serving as a foreground for distant, rolling green hills. Her perspective was outstanding. Decker felt dizzy from the three-dimensional effect. The molding and ceiling had been bathed in light blue hues, tufted with clouds, and populated with gliding blackbirds and a circling hawk.

So distracting was the scene, Decker hadn’t noticed the furniture. But it was there and it made a statement. An old carved English park bench sided by two upside-down garbage cans doubling as end tables. The room also had an Adirondack lounge upon which rested a duffel bag, and two bentwood rockers. Old-fashioned streetlamps had been placed in the corners, and the hardwood floor had become a windblown field of grass—green swaying blades laced with yellow dandelions and clumps of white clover.

Rhonda returned with Decker’s coffee, more orange juice for herself.

Decker thanked her. “Interesting place you’ve got here. You’re very talented.”

She sipped her juice. “Ain’t gonna make Architectural Digest, but it suits me.” Her eyes hardened. “Although this town is sure filled with star-fuckers. Think the ex-girlfriend of a homicidal maniac counts?”

Decker was quiet.

“Hollyweird. A penchant for the bizarre. Sure I can’t get you some OJ as in orange juice?”

“I’m fine, Rhonda.” Decker’s eyes fell on the duffel bag. “Impromptu vacation?”

“I’m getting outta here. At least until this thing blows over. Who the hell wants this kind of notoriety?”

A savvy point. Decker placed his mug on an upside-down trash container. “Is that okay?”

Rhonda laughed. “It’s a garbage can. I’m not exactly worried about coffee rings.” She looked him up and down. “You’re cute. Wanna fuck?”

“No, thank you.”

“I look like shit, huh?”

“You look fine, Rhonda.” Decker took out his notepad. “You know, the sooner we get started, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”

“You’re gonna ask me questions about Harlan?”

“Yep.”

“Why do you care? He’s dead.” Her eyes watered. “They’re all dead. I thought the only things that the pigs cared about were looking good on the witness stand and beating up minorities. You’re real big. I bet you’ve punched around more than your fair share of niggers.”

Decker said, “Me? I shuffle paper.”

“Bullshit,” Rhonda shot out. “You look defensive, cop. Betcha I hit a nerve. See, we all have pasts. So don’t you go judging me like I’m some freak because I hooked up with a nutcase.”

“I don’t think you’re a freak, Rhonda. Right now, I see you as a very vulnerable woman.”

“Where’d they teach you that? Cop Psych 101? You should stick to pounding the shit outta motorists.”

Decker was quiet.

She gave him a long hard stare. “You were there last night, weren’t you? At Estelle’s?”

“I was there the entire night.”

“I saw you on TV. You’re the one who said it looked like your worst nightmare.”

“Glad to be remembered as a sound bite.”

“You’re also in today’s paper—picture, quote, and all.” She glared at him. “You had tears in your eyes.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah, you did. Did they also teach you how to cry in Cop Psych 101? Or was it Cop Compassion 101?”

Decker offered a sad smile. “Wish I conformed to your hard-ass image. I’d sleep better at night.”

Again, her eyes moistened. She rubbed her cheeks, wiped away tears. “I’m real attracted to you. Sure you don’t want to fuck? Might put me in a gabby mood.”

“I’m going to have to pass.”

“You’re married?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do. Can we get started?”

“Why do you need to ask any questions if the case is solved?”

“Because there are still lots of unanswered questions—”

“Like why he did it?” She gulped her juice. “Hell if I know.” She cocked her hip. “I knew I had bad taste in men. But this …”

“You called yourself an ex-girlfriend.”

“This is true.”

“When did you two break up?”

“You mean, when did I kick him out? ’Bout four months ago.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Rhonda let out a bitter laugh. “’Cause I got sick of his running around. More than that, I just got sick of Harlan Manz. The man with the plans that never panned out.”

“He was an actor?”

“He was a jerk.”

Decker waited.

Rhonda sighed. “Harlan was a professional wannabe. Wannabe actor, wannabe model, wannabe tennis pro, wannabe stud, wannabe this, wannabe that. What he was … was a nothing.”

Decker said, “In his apartment, I saw film posters with his name on them.”

“Yeah, he was a card-carrying member of SAG. Showed it to you at every opportunity. Those films were shelved, never even made it to video … what is your rank again?”

“Lieutenant.”

“A big shot.”

“A legend in my own mind.”

Rhonda smiled briefly. “Harlan was …” She sighed. “He was a slacker … a loser with a good backhand. And that’s about it, bub.”

“A wannabe tennis pro.” Decker waited a beat. “So he had tennis ambitions?”

“Maybe. Guy had some talent but not good enough to be pro. He used to teach tennis at a country club—”

“What?”

“No joke. The big one about two miles up the road.”

“Greenvale?”

“That’s the one. Greenvale Country Club.”

“This wasn’t one of Harlan’s delusions? You know this for a fact?”

“Check it out yourself.” She grinned. “Bet they’ll welcome your inquiries with open arms.”

Decker wrote furiously. “How long did he teach at Greenvale?”

“Off and on for about three years.”

“Off and on?”

“Yeah, Harlan couldn’t hold anything steady. Greenvale took him in for summer work. He taught tennis in the day, tended bar at night. Harlan could maintain in short spurts. I mean the guy was good-looking, had a certain amount of charm. And he was well endowed. Used it, too. He made more than a few lonely women very happy.”

“Married women?”

“I said lonely women. ’Course they were married.”

“Lucky he didn’t wind up with a gun to his head.”

“Nah, he wouldn’t do anything dangerous. Greenvale has lots of married women whose husbands are fuckin’ sweet young things. I know because I’ve been there. Not the old, lonely, married woman, but the sweet young thing. Lots of rich geezers in this city. Am I shocking you?”

“Not at all.”

“Yeah, you look pretty worldly. You mess around on your wife?”

“No. So Harlan taught tennis to lonely women?”

“No, he taught tennis to anyone who was assigned to him. Women, girls, men, boys.” Rhonda paused. “Occasionally, he’d give a lesson to some hot shit producer or director. Harlan was big on name-dropping. He’d brag to me that this time, he really made an impression. Jerk … he just didn’t get it. What that poor schmuck wouldn’t have given for the life of a big shot … partying … tennis … doing beautiful, rich women …”

She stared at her empty glass.

“Will you excuse me?”

She left, then came back with a fresh glass. The liquid looked pale, lots of vodka, not too much juice. This time, she nursed her drink.

“I tried to tell him that just because you teach some jack how to ace a serve doesn’t mean he’s going to star you in his next movie. But Harlan …”

“But he must have been a good tennis player to teach.”

“Good enough to teach those yahoos.”

“Good enough to make the circuit?”

“He told me he was actually seeded in the top two hundred or something like that. Maybe it was true. But probably not. Harlan lived in fantasies.”

“But he was a member of SAG.”

“Sure, he got a few parts … just enough to feed his delusional brain. Lieutenant, Harlan was a hanger-on. A walking-around guy.”

“Pardon?”

“A walking-around guy. There’s lots of egomaniacal people out there. No offense to Barbra, but people who need people are not the luckiest people. In fact, they’re cursed. They need people to create their identity, to feel important, to look busy, and to be wanted. And they’re rich enough to buy these little trained spider monkeys like Kato and his ilk to walk around with. So the hot dogs never look unattended. That’s what Harlan was. He was a walking-around guy.”

Tears ran down her cheek. She turned her head, fiercely swiped her eyes.

“I still have feelings for him. That shock you?”

“Not at all.” Decker waited a beat. “Can we talk a minute about Harlan’s termination at Estelle’s?”

“Nothing to say. He broke their cardinal rule. Customer is always right.”

“But he was upset—”

“Of course he was upset. He was furious. Some drunken A-hole gets abusive and Harlan’s canned. I was so angry, I almost came down and made a scene.”

She seemed to wilt.

“Then … I don’t know. I guess I thought it was par for the course. Harlan getting axed.”

“Did Harlan continue to talk about it?”

“At first, he talked about getting even. I thought it was just talk … venting.” With watery eyes, she looked at Decker, pointedly. “God, I need to fuck.”

“Why’d you kick him out of your life, Rhonda?”

She sighed. “I found someone else. Also a loser, but at least he’s gainfully employed. A porno actor. Ernie Beldheim aka King Whopper. Can you believe that name?”

“It shows a certain amount of creativity. How did Harlan take the breakup?”

Rhonda sat on a bentwood rocker, legs pushing against the floor, her body moving back and forth. She gazed upward, eyes on her sky ceiling. “I wasn’t real tactful. I told him I was dumping him because he wasn’t big enough.”

Tears streamed down her face.

“I wanted to hurt him. Because he’d been messing around on me for so damn long. If I had known he was so unstable, I wouldn’t have …”

“You couldn’t have known, Rhonda.”

She looked down into her orange juice glass as if reading tea leaves. “After we broke up, he did things. Weird things. I guess I knew he was flipping out. But I didn’t know it would lead to this.”

“Of course not. What did he do?”

Rhonda returned her eyes to Decker. “Tried to scare me. Made calls in the middle of the night, ranted on about how he was going to get me. But I never took him seriously.” She looked up. “Thinking it over, I have a feeling I was one of the lucky ones.”

True enough. Decker pointed to her duffel bag. “Where are you planning to go?”

Rhonda stopped rocking, blew out air. “I got an offer to do a gig in Hawaii. Some honcho wants me to paint Playboy playmates on his walls. No accounting for tastes.”

“Vacation might do you good.”

“Hope so.”

Decker said, “Do you have some old pictures of him?”

“Maybe one or two. Why?”

“I didn’t find any recent pictures of Harlan in his apartment.”

Rhonda was taken aback. “That’s odd. I know he has a portfolio—”

“No, I found that. I’m talking about things like photo albums.”

She shrugged. “Weird. Because we took quite a few …” She smiled. “Quite a few compromising ones. After we broke up, he told me he was going to send them to my mother. I told him to go ahead … ain’t nothing she’s never seen before.”

“Did he?”

“If he did, Mom never said a word.”

Decker said, “Rhonda, if Harlan was a member of SAG, he must have had an agent.”

“He had a couple light-years ago. Fired them all.”

Decker’s beeper went off. Rhonda stood up from the rocker. “Phone’s on the wall.”

Decker’s eyes scanned the mural, rested on a painted phone kiosk. Mounted on the wall, inside the painted booth, was a real, three-dimensional pay phone. “Do I need money to make the call?”

“Credit card’s fine.”

Decker said, “I’m slow on the uptake, didn’t get much sleep. I can’t tell if you’re putting me on.”

Rhonda smiled tightly. “It was a joke.”

“Sorry to be so dense.”

“Mr. Dumb Lug.” Rhonda rolled her eyes. “About as slow as a roadrunner. Sly, too. So why do I find myself trusting you? Is that how you extract confessions? You get people to trust you, then you slam them?”

“I don’t slam anyone, least of all someone like you.” Decker looked at the pager’s number. Strapp’s office.

Rhonda said, “I’ll be back in a minute. Help yourself to the phone.”

“Thanks.” Decker punched in numbers; the captain picked up on the fifth ring.

“Get over to the station house. Community is planning a major memorial for Estelle’s victims this afternoon. You’re expected to be there. Show some community support and help me field the press.”

“I’ll be at my office in ten minutes.”

Strapp said, “Good quote yesterday, Decker. About the scene being your worst nightmare. If you can think up a few more like that … something that shows compassion … that would be good for us … for LAPD.”

Decker was silent.

Strapp said, “Look, I know it sounds politico, but tough. This is our chance to make a good impression. Our asses have been fried in print for so long, it would be real nice if we could be represented as the public servants we really are.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good, then. Get down here. We’ll strategize together.”







7 (#ulink_6bacec81-afe7-5890-b94e-43dcc898f858)


After a full day of hospital visits, bereavement calls, and heart-wrenching services for the dead, Decker made it back to the station house, his energy depleted, his brain crashing against his skull like a tidal wave. Advil wouldn’t cut it. Dry-mouthed, he swallowed a couple of Darvocets, but knew even that wouldn’t be enough. Rooting in his shirt pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Lit up a smoke and rubbed his aching temples. Marge came in a few moments later, holding a half-dozen manila envelopes which she used to fan away smoke.

“You must feel like shit warmed over.”

Decker stubbed out the cigarette. “Trying to compose myself before I go home. I don’t want Rina to see me like this. How’d the interviews go? Learn anything?”

“Depressingly unremarkable. Can I sit?”

“Of course.” Decker pointed to a chair, eyed his smoke.

“Go ahead, Pete. I remember well your smoking days.”

“Just a temporary lapse.” Again, Decker lit up. “Tell me about the interviews.”

“Nothing to tell. Bullets started flying, people started screaming, running for cover. Truly terrifying.” Marge paused, collected her thoughts. “From what I could gather, it seems that Harlan wasn’t deliberate in his shooting. Didn’t shoot at any one person specifically, or even aim at people for that matter. He just opened fire. A lot of it. The boys and I have been comparing notes. They agree with that assessment.”

Marge paused.

“Since this kind of thing is rare, I don’t really know what’s considered the typical behavior for mass murderers.”

“Off the top of my head, the compatibles that come to mind are Tasmania, the Long Island Railroad, the San Ysidro McDonald’s, and Dunblane—”

“The elementary school in Scotland.” Marge paled. “God, what a world!”

Decker inhaled his smoke, tried to keep his mind focused. “I remember that in Tasmania and in San Ysidro, the murderer aimed at people. Picked them off like prey. But you’re saying that wasn’t what happened. Harlan just sprayed the place.”

“Appears that way. We’ve been working a time frame … how many minutes did the actual shooting last? Time elongates during these catastrophic events. What seems like hours could have been minutes. At the moment, we’re guesstimating.”

She held up the manila envelopes.

“I picked these up for you. Just came in from the Coroner’s Office. Probably some prelim autopsy reports. Want me to go over them? You look tired.”

Decker sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, breathed in wisps of nicotined air. “Who’s still out there?”

“All of us—Scott, Tom, Bert. We’re still writing up reports. Oh, Gaynor left about an hour ago. He said you told him to work on the case at home.”

“I’ve got him doing some computer work. His home equipment is better technologically than what we’ve got here.” Decker stubbed it out. “Give me the reports. Call the others in.”

“Right away.” Marge handed him the envelopes and left.

Decker broke open a seal, pulled out some slice-and-dice autopsy photos. Hitting him like a mace in the gut. He sifted through them with deliberation … concentration. Marge soon returned with the others. They pulled up chairs, sat in front of Decker’s desk, all of them uncharacteristically quiet.

Decker said, “I’ve got some prelim autopsy reports. Finals won’t be ready for days, so we’ll go over these—”

Oliver interrupted, “Like they’re going to tell us something we don’t know?”

“Never know.” Decker placed the photos back in the envelope. “We’ve got to re-create the shooting. Where Harlan first stood when he opened fire, who appeared to be his first victim, who was his next, and so on and so forth.”

“How do we do that?” Martinez asked.

“We’ll start with the floor plan. Draw each table and who sat where, using the reservations book. Who checked the book into evidence?”

“Yo.” Marge held up her hand.

Decker said, “Okay. We draw each table and label them. Next comes the brain work and the tedium. For this part, we’ll need basic geometry and gunshot angles. Since we couldn’t rod the victims, we’ll have to rely on Forensics.”

Decker leaned forward.

“Harlan was found dead at the bar. Don’t know if he started his shooting at the bar, but assume that he did. The bar area is off the entrance, correct?”

Nods all around.

“So assume he entered there and just started shooting. Here’s what we’re going to do. We ask ourselves … if Harlan started shooting from the bar area and was facing left, where would the first bullets have landed? Say they would have landed on table three. We look in the reservations book, find out who was at table three, and determine the nature of their wounds, if any. If it seems consistent with Harlan’s position, we go on to our next assumption. If it’s not consistent, we change our first assumption—”

“I’m lost,” Martinez said.

Decker said, “We’re trying to trace bullet paths using geometry. Go down the friggin’ list. If Harlan shot from the bar, where would his first bullets have landed? If that matches, we move on.

“If Harlan had turned to the left and shot, who would have been his next hit?

“If Harlan had turned to the right and shot, who would have been his next hit?

“If Harlan had taken a couple of steps forward, who would have been his next hit?

“If Harlan had taken a couple of steps forward and then turned to the right, who would have been his next hit?

“If Harlan had taken a couple of steps forward and then turned to the left, who would have been his next—”

“This could take months!” Oliver blurted out.

“Yes, it probably will take months,” Decker said.

“Loo, pardon mah ignorance,” Webster drawled, “but just what do you reckon to accomplish?”

“Let’s talk politics for a moment. There are bound to be lawsuits—against Estelle’s, maybe even against the city. Our police reports are going to be scrutinized with a microscope. And we’re going to be judged, folks. Every single one of us. You, me, and this entire beleaguered department.”

Decker rubbed his temples.

“I want every single bullet accounted for. Make sure that all the slugs came from Harlan’s gun and not some other outside source that we overlooked because we were too lazy—”

“Outside source?” Marge grimaced. “You think there was more than one shooter?”

“Who knows? Last count we’ve got thirteen dead, thirty-two wounded. Lots of damage for one guy, Margie.”

Martinez said, “Harlan was packing a nine-millimeter automatic double action, Loo. Fourteen rounds per magazine—”

“How many rounds did he fire, Bert?”

Martinez was quiet. “Don’t know.”

“Anyone?”

No one spoke.

Decker said, “Thirteen dead people, thirty-two wounded, and we can’t answer a simple question like how many rounds the fucker fired.”

Oliver said, “So we’ll do a bullet count.”

“We’ll do a lot more than a bullet count. I want this crime scene nailed. Every step and every shot that Harlan took must be checkbook-balanced.”

Decker leaned back in his chair.

“We’ll start tomorrow with the bullet count. Dunn and Oliver, you two take the corpses in the morgue as well as the shells and bullets left behind at Estelle’s. Check the walls, check the furniture, check the potted plants, turn the place upside down if you have to. I want every bullet, every shell, every empty magazine cited and bagged.”

“Talk about tedium,” Oliver muttered.

Decker looked at his detective—worn, disheveled, spent. “I don’t envy your assignment, Scott. The place gives me the creeps. But someone has to do it.”

Oliver ran his hands through his oily black hair. “I’m not complaining, Loo. I’m just tired.”

“I know.” Decker looked at Webster and Martinez. “You two go over to the hospitals, talk to the victims’ doctors. Have them help you get a bullet count from their patients’ medical charts or surgery dictation or even from the X rays. And if any of the victims feels like talking, you can start conducting interviews. Once we get the bullets accounted for, we’ll start analyzing the angles—”

“Y’ever think of using a computer, Loo?” Webster asked.

“Forensic reenactment.” Decker said. “Farrell’s working on a program for this as we speak. It’s a very useful tool, but first we’ve got to have data to plug into the computer. Then it’ll probably take months before he comes up with something. But that’s all right. We have time. If we’re meticulous in our calculations, maybe the computer will spit us back a step-by-step simulation of Harlan’s movements at Estelle’s.”

Webster said, “Welcome to Cybermurder.”

“Except the victims were flesh and blood.” Decker stood. “We start tomorrow. For now, all of you. Go home.”

As Decker pulled into the driveway of the ranch, he noticed the living-room light shining through the bay window. Immediately, his heart took off. Not that it was late—quarter after ten. Still, when Rina waited up for him, she always kept vigil in the kitchen or their bedroom.

He shut off the Volare’s motor, jogged to the front door, and opened it. His wife was asleep on the living-room couch. On the floor was his dog, Ginger, nestled among piles of loose papers. Next to the sheets were a calculator, pens, pencils, and a couple of ledgers.

Instant relief. Everything was all right.

Then came the curiosity. What was Rina working on? He considered rifling through the pages, but discarded the thought. All in due time. For now, let her sleep.

He regarded the room. In dim light, it seemed worn, his furniture over a decade old, purchased during his divorced days. The buckskin couch had been rubbed shiny in spots, the coffee table was scratched, the two wing chairs had faded. Keeping guard at the bay window was Rina’s pine rocker purchased after Hannah was born—the only new thing standing.

Yet Rina never said a word about replacing his shopworn pieces. Guess she was waiting for him to relinquish the last vestiges of his bachelor years. Not that his wife hadn’t added her own feminine touches. The silk-screened floral couch pillows, two hand-crocheted throw blankets, fresh flowers, and lots of framed family photos. Observing her sleeping form … he really needed to do better for her.

She stirred. Even without makeup, her face was striking, though her creamy skin was a shade paler than usual. Her lips—lush and red and always alluring. Eyes moving behind translucent lids. She was dressed in a black angora sweater and black knit skirt. Her outfit matched her raven hair, which fell over her shoulders like a sable shawl.

He shut off the light, put Ginger outside, debated checking the horses’ stables but nixed the idea. Too damn tired.

He headed into the bedroom, stripped in seconds, then beelined into the shower. Turning the water up to full pressure, he stood under the faucet, allowing the blast to run over his stubbled face while razor-hot needles rained down on his aching back, cooking his freckled skin bright red. He continued his baptism by fire until the water grew cold. By the time he was done, Rina had tucked herself into bed. She was half awake, her lids still hooded. But she spoke. “S’right?”

“I’m just fine.” Decker toweled himself off as he spoke. “Go back to sleep.”

“Boys send their regards.”

“Regards back.” He ran his hands several times through red shocks of wet hair, then went over and kissed his wife. A short one, then a long one. She purred. “That was wonderful.”

He slipped under the sheets. “That’s because you’re half asleep.”

She opened her eyes fully. “How are you holding up?”

“Been better, but I’ll survive.” Immediately, he switched the topic. “What were you doing out there in the living room with all those loose papers? Building a nest?”

Rina thought a moment. “Oh. That. Rav Schulman called—”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. He had some bookkeeping questions. They turned out to be a bit complicated, so I stopped by the yeshiva and picked up some of the ledgers.”

“The yeshiva doesn’t have a bookkeeper?”

“Peter, I didn’t question him. He asked me to do him a favor, I said yes.”

“You have that much spare time, go ahead.”

Rina was quiet. Decker forced himself not to push it. But he knew there was more. Lately Rina had been using the learned Rabbi for therapy … just as Decker had done many times in the past. His wife had been very depressed since an old friend of hers—and her late husband’s—had died. Abram Sparks had also been a friend of Rabbi Schulman. Decker was sure that Bram’s name had come up in the course of their conversations. Holding that thought, Decker rolled over, buried his head in the pillow.

Rina turned off the light. “Your father called today.”

Decker pivoted to face her. “And?”

“The shooting must have made the news over there. He was concerned about you.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I lied. I said you were fine.”

“That’s not lying, I am fine.”

Rina didn’t answer.

Decker hesitated. “Did he mention my mother at all?”

“No … why?”

“No particular reason. Let’s go to sleep.”

Rina knew he was fibbing, that tight catch in his throat. He was worried about his mother, leaving Rina to wonder if her mother-in-law was ill. Eyes closed, Rina waited and waited, then gave up. She was just about asleep when he finally decided to talk.

“She called me about two weeks ago. She’d been cleaning out the garage … had some of my childhood junk and wanted to know what to do with it. I told her to send it here … or throw it away … whichever was easier. Then …”

He paused.

“Then I asked her why … at this moment in time … was she cleaning out the garage … which has been a storage house of our family junk for God only knows how many years. She just said, �If not now, when?’”

Rina touched his arm. “Did you ask her if something was wrong?”

“Yes, of course. As I expected, she denied any problems.”

“Did you press her?”

“I can’t press my mother, Rina. This is as big a hint as I’m going to get.”

He waited a beat.

“I can’t approach my father. Because she could be keeping something from him, too. I did call Randy. He doesn’t seem to know anything, so I guess they’ve kept him in the dark.”

“Or maybe nothing’s wrong.”

“Maybe. Either that or my brother hasn’t picked up on Mom’s nuances. He’s not a font of sensitivity.”

“Peter, why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“I don’t know. You have your own parents to deal with … your own problems as well.”

Rina was silent, guilt coursing through her body. “I know I’ve been very upset since—”

“It’s not important.”

Again neither spoke.

“Do you want to go out for a visit, Peter?”

“She wouldn’t like that … me, just popping in. She needs her privacy, I’ve got to respect it.”

“Darling, can you try talking to her? Hiding behind a wall of stoicism isn’t good for either of you.”

“Rina, I respect your culture. You respect mine.”

She counted to ten, told herself to breathe calmly. “How about if I called her up—”

“No—”

“Can you let me finish?”

Decker waited a moment. “Sorry. Go on.”

“I’d like to invite them out here for Thanksgiving.”

“A nice thought, honey, but I’m afraid it would rob her of her dignity. You know what Thanksgiving means to her.”

“Yes, I do. But hear me out, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Peter, I don’t like making Thanksgiving. It’s no charge for me to make yet another big feast, a month after our major holidays are over. And yes, I do know what that holiday means to her. Peter, we’ve gone down to Gainesville twice for Thanksgiving. It’s lovely, but it isn’t the kind of holiday she wants. It hurts her tremendously that we can’t eat her beautifully cooked food in her house on her special china.”

“Why? She says things to you?”

“No, of course not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t notice her wincing when we sit there at her table with fruit and raw vegetables on our paper plates.”

Decker was quiet.

Rina said, “I can’t change the fact that we’re observant, kosher Jews and they’re Baptist. That’s just life. I can’t take over her kitchen. But she can take over mine. Let me invite her out here to make her Thanksgiving with my pots and pans. Cook everything in my house in my kosher kitchen—”

“Rina—”

“I’ll buy the meat and all the trimmings, but she can have free rein. I’ll even go shopping with her to pick out a set of china of her choice. I have so many sets of dishes, one more won’t hurt. She can cook to her heart’s content. Do all her favorite recipes including her pumpkin pie. Only accommodations she’ll have to kashrut is using nondairy margarine and Mocha Mix instead of butter and milk. And, of course, no honey-glazed ham.”

“She won’t do it.”

“She doesn’t even like ham—”

“It’s not the ham, Rina, it’s the whole thing. She’ll feel displaced.”

“At least let me try. I think she’ll come out. I think she’d love to cook up a storm, actually have us eat her meals. And then there’re the grandchildren—Cindy as well as our Hannalah—”

“That means Randy’s left alone.”

“So I’ll invite Randy and the kids and wife number …”

“It’s still three.”

“Your nieces and nephews will love it here. Disneyland—”

“They’ve got Disney World, Epcot Center, and Universal Studios. Theme parks are no big deal to them.”

“Yes, but we’ve got Las Vegas—”

“Oh, my sister-in-law will love that.”

Rina sighed. “Just think about it, okay?”

Decker was quiet. “You’d put up my brother’s family?”

“Absolutely. I find Randy … interesting—”

“I love my brother.”

“I know that.” Rina smiled. Even though Randy worked two jobs—he was a vice cop and moonlighted as a security guard—he was always flat broke. Peter had been sending him cash for years.

Silence. Then Decker said, “I’ll call Mom tomorrow.”

Rina said, “I’ll call her tomorrow. She’ll say no to you, but yes to me.”

Decker knew that was all too true. He turned toward his wife, draped an arm around her shoulders, and drew her to his chest. He kissed her mouth, licked her lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She kissed him again. “Want to make more out of this?”

“Wish I could.” He laughed. “I’m afraid I’d be arrested on charges of Assault with a Dead Weapon—”

Rina laughed, slapped his shoulder. She kissed him gently, licked his mustache. Her hands snaked around his body, stroked his long muscular back with tender fingertips.

He let out a soft rumble. “Feels good.”

“I think I detect signs of life—”

“That’s not life, that’s just a reflex.”

“Whatever it is, it’s good enough for me.”







8 (#ulink_fb83c688-9a1f-5e53-98d6-c9c48d1e6af5)


Waking up before the sun, Decker showered, shaved, and said his morning prayers alfresco, bathed in the golden light of dawn. Afterward, he let the dog out, pitched fresh hay to his stable of four horses, changed the animals’ water, went through yesterday’s mail, and had coffee brewing by the time Rina roused the crew for school.

Although anxious to get his professional life going, Decker forced himself to make a little time for breakfast and family affairs. The day’s topics included his stepson’s driver’s license, buying a newer car for Rina, and giving Sam his own set of wheels in the form of Rina’s old Volvo. Decker promised they’d hit the car lots on Sunday. And if Rina had the inclination, maybe they’d look at new living-room furniture as well. His wife was surprised, delighted. Immediately bright with ideas. Decker felt good. It had been a long time since he’d seen Rina’s smile.

After the boys left for school on the bus, Decker played zoo with Hannah, her stuffed animals being nefarious creatures of prey, and Ginger, the Irish setter, doubling as Simba the Lion. Then Decker carted his daughter off to school. Hannah threw her pipe stem arms around his neck, kissed him on the cheek with soft little lips. Decker felt an overwhelming desire to cling to her, to lug her into work in a papoose. Instead, he lowered her to the ground and watched her scamper off. The experts talk about separation anxiety. Were they referring to the child or the parent? Cloaked in wistfulness, Decker left the neon-painted schoolhouse, arriving at the station by half past eight.

All business, he made phone calls, signed papers, went over reports, checked in with his detectives, then buried himself in pathology reports and bullet trajectories for the next four hours. Head buzzing, he finally broke for lunch at one-thirty. At his desk, he opened his brown bag—two chicken sandwiches, two pieces of fruit, two bottles of Martinelli’s sparkling apple juice, and a half dozen cookies. Food that could be easily eaten in a car.

He took his lunch and his briefcase and headed for the Volare. Within minutes, he was on the road, felt his shoulders relax, his face go slack with freedom.

Devonshire division patrolled a varied geographical area—some residential, some small business, some factories, and lots of rolling foothills and fallow acreage waiting for a land boom that was always “just around the corner.” Developers ran scared out here and not without reason. The district had been the center of two major earthquakes, was Saharan hot in the summer, and was situated far from city action. Still, it was God’s green acres in the late autumn—glorious blue skies with long stretches of wildflower fields and oak-dotted hills ribboned with miles of hiking and horse trails. Giant sycamores and menthol-laden eucalyptus swayed in the winds.

The division also contained several million-dollar housing developments—big mama, multiroomed mansions floating in seas of green lawn. The gated communities ran complete with pools, spas, tennis courts, recreation rooms, and banquet facilities. When Greenvale Country Club opened its doors fifteen years ago, Decker wondered why the rich would join a club, paying hefty premiums for amenities available on their own premises.

Yet Greenvale had made itself a known quantity. Though it wasn’t as prestigious as some of the older, established L.A. clubs, it had its own cachet, boasting an elitist membership and hosting its fair share of society weddings and black-tie-only charity events. It seemed that human beings had an infinite capacity to rate—to separate and segregate into in-or-out crowds.

The club sat on twenty-five acres, the buildings obscured by umbrellas of specimen trees. As the Volare chugged up the long, shaded drive, Decker noticed several gardeners tending the lawns and numerous flower beds. Going into the fall, they were planting jewel-colored pansies. Within moments, the buildings came into view, Tudor in style, but with L.A. modifications: thin brick facing over stucco because solid brick crumbled in earthquakes. There were several structures loosely connected to one another, probably built at different times. Lots of stained glass, lots of crossbeams and peaked roofs. A theme park re-creation of the Tower of London.

By the time Decker reached the gatehouse, he had finished his lunch. Displaying his badge, he told uniformed guards that he was there to speak to the manager. And no, he did not have an appointment. His sudden appearance was disruptive to their sleepy flow. The guards conferred, scratched their heads, made phone calls, until one of them decided to lift the booth’s restraining arm, told Decker to handle it at the front desk.

Instead of parking in the ample lot, Decker used the circular entrance driveway and instructed the valets to keep the car in front. With reticence, a red-coated attendant settled the ten-year-old algae-green Volare between a sleek black Jag and a dowager brown Mercedes.

Through the double doors and into a two-story white-marble-floor rotunda. The walls were wainscoted—walnut panels on the bottom, cream-colored paint on top. A circular band of white rococo molding marked the division between the walls and the ceiling. A giant canopy of crystal lights dangled from an ornate plaster medallion. The rest of the dome was painted with angels and cherubs floating on cotton clouds in a turquoise sky. A winding staircase carpeted with plush peach pile led to a second-floor landing. In front was a short hallway that bled into a paneled library/reading room. Decker strolled to the front desk which was tucked away on the right-hand side. A bespectacled thirtysomething blonde sat behind a glass window; she slid it open and smiled.

“Can I help you?”

“Probably.” Decker held up his badge. “Lieutenant Peter Decker, LAPD. Who’s in charge at the moment?”

The blonde’s smile faded, wary brown eyes looking him over. “Let me make a phone call, sir.”

With that, the woman shut the glass window and dialed. Her face was expressive—the wrinkled brow, the down-turned lips. It was clear she was getting bawled out by the person on the other end of the line. She hung up, reopened the window.

“Can I take your name and number and have someone call you back this afternoon?”

Decker smiled. “Why don’t you get back on the phone and tell your boss that I’m getting pushy.”

She closed the window a second time. Reopened it, told him that someone would be coming and he should take a seat. Decker glanced at the satin-covered French-style benches. Looked way too small and very uncomfortable. He elected to stand.

Within minutes, a man jogged through the hallway. Short, stocky, a head of curls and a shadowed face even though he’d recently shaved. He was built like a tank—barrel chest, thick legs creasing his gray slacks, muscle-packed forearms. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled to his elbows. He stuck out a meaty hand but kept walking.

“Barry Fine. Follow me.”

Fine never broke step. Decker kept pace with him through the hallway, into the club’s library/reading room—as big as an arena. More leather here than at a rodeo. Hard to notice any people in the soft lighting. Perhaps it was because they were hidden in the corners or behind the backs of wing chairs. But Decker could ascertain signs of life—the clearing of a throat, the rustle of a newspaper, a hushed conversation between a man and his cellular phone. A uniformed waiter traversed the furniture maze, a tray of drinks balanced on the palm of his hand.

“This way,” Fine said.

Steering him away from the room. The message being: no fraternizing with the elite.

Fine unlocked a piece of paneling which turned out to be a door. He held it open for Decker, who crossed the threshold.

The business offices. No luxury here. Just working space and cramped at that. As Decker’s eyes adjusted to the glare of bright, fluorescent lighting, he noticed stark-white walls, linoleum flooring. A phone was ringing, lots of clicking computer keys. Fine led Decker into his cubicle, shut the glass door. He sat back in his desk chair, thick sausage fingers folded together, resting in his lap.

“Mind if I have a look at your identification?”

Decker showed him his badge, flipped the cover back, and pocketed the billfold after Fine had nodded.

“Please.” Fine pointed to a folding chair and Decker sat. “Must be important to send out a lieutenant.”

“Thanks for seeing me. I have a few questions. Thought that you might be able to help me.”

“Questions about …”

“Harlan Manz.”

Fine’s face remained stoic. “The monster who shot up Estelle’s.”

Decker said, “I understand he worked here for a while.”

Fine said, “You’ve been misinformed.”

Decker rolled his tongue in his mouth. “How long have you worked here, Mr. Fine?”

“Seven years.”

“And you’re saying that Harlan Manz never worked here?”

“To the best of my recollection, that is correct.”

“To the best of your recollection?” Decker waited a beat. “Sir, this isn’t a grand jury.”

Fine didn’t flinch. “I always try to be as specific as possible.”

“Perhaps you knew him under a different name—”

“Don’t think so.” Fine stood. “I’ll walk you out.”

Decker remained seated. “Mr. Fine, are you honestly telling me that Harlan Manz never worked in this country club?”

“Never heard of the man until he hit the news,” Fine said. “Not that I’m about to do it, but if push came to shove, I’d open my books and show you. Never had a Harlan Manz on the payroll.”

“Ah …” Decker licked his lips. “You paid him in cash.”

Fine’s smile turned hard. “Lieutenant, I don’t have to talk to you. You get pushy, I call the owners. The owners get upset and they call their lawyers. The lawyers get upset, they call your captain. Gets you a black mark on your record.”

Decker stared him down. “Are you threatening me, sir?”

The tip of Fine’s nose turned red. He stammered, “No, I’m just pointing out a logical chain of events.”

Decker lied straight-faced. “Harlan Manz had listed income from Greenvale Country Club on his 1040 federal tax forms—”

“You’re bluffing,” Fine busted in.

“As well as state—”

“What is this? A shakedown?”

“No, Mr. Fine, this is a simple fact-finding mission. Quiet, discreet, friendly. Be a shame if damaging information was leaked to the press, that an insane mass murderer once worked here as staff.”

Fine raised his voice. “He was never on staff!”

“You explain that distinction to the press.”

“Now who’s threatening whom?”

“I’m not threatening you, I’m telling you. Press wants information about Harlan, I’m more than happy to oblige. You want to sue me for false allegations, go right ahead. Only in court, you can’t bluff. Because if you do, that’s perjury.”

Fine started to protest, but turned quiet. He buried his head in his hands. “The stupid idiot! I told him it was strictly off the record. He promised me …” He looked up at Decker. “I can’t read your face. Ever play poker?”

Decker took out a notebook and pen. “Tell me about Harlan.”

Fine let out a gush of air. “Worked here about two years ago. Used the name Hart Mansfield … supposedly his stage name, though I’ve never seen him on any sort of a screen. A summer fill-in. All cash. Nothing on the books. That’s it.”

“What were his assignments?”

“Not much. Which was why he wasn’t on staff. He taught tennis when we were short-staffed. In the summertime, our regular instructors go on vacation.”

“I was told he tended bar as well.”

“He was an extra pair of hands when we had a big event.”

“And you paid him in cash for bartending as well?”

“Yep.” Fine bit his lip, ran a hand through his curly hair. “Not that I was doing funny business with the books. The cash-out was listed under miscellaneous expenses. I just never bothered to put him on the payroll.”

“Owners know he worked here?”

Fine rubbed his face. “Hasn’t come up … yet.”

“You haven’t received phone calls from some of the membership?”

“Sure I got a few phone calls. People asking �Was that asshole at Estelle’s the guy who used to work here?’ kind of thing. Names were different. I told them no.”

“You lied?”

“If it should come back to haunt me, I simply made a mistake because the names were different.”

Fine grimaced.

“You want to know something, Lieutenant? The people who called me … far from being squeamish … they hung up from the conversation disappointed. It was an exciting notion to them … a safe brush with the dark side. Personally, I think it’s sick. But then again, I just cater to the rich. I don’t really understand them.”

“They accepted your denials?”

“I tell them it’s not the same guy, they don’t have the conviction of character to debate me.”

“And the owners don’t know about Harlan working here?”

“No. Owners know a great deal about the membership, but not too much about staff. They don’t want to be bothered with business details. That’s what they pay me for. And like I said before, I’ve accounted for Harlan’s expenses. Just not on the payroll—”

“Avoiding taxes and Social Security—”

“Hired him as freelance. Club’s only responsible for the taxes and Social Security of its full-time employees. And Harlan never worked enough hours to warrant putting him on the payroll. Our books are clean. You find cause to subpoena our books, you won’t find a hint of an irregularity.”

“Owners won’t be happy if Harlan’s alias is publicized.”

“No, they won’t be. I’ll probably be blamed. And I’ll probably lose my job.”

“That’s not my goal, sir.”

“But it still may be an end result.” Fine blew out air. “Hell with it. What else do you want to know, Lieutenant?”

“Harlan taught tennis?”

“Yes.”

“Groups? Individuals?”

“Mostly private lessons.”

“How was Harlan with his tennis students?”

“Never had a complaint. If I had, Harlan would have been out on his ass.” Fine smiled, but it lacked warmth. “I wish someone had complained. It would play a lot better with the bosses if I had fired the guy.”

“Why didn’t you hire him on as a regular?”

“’Cause he was a jerk. Sure, he was okay for an occasional lesson, but that’s about all. All these wannabes.” He shook his head. “If I hired tennis instructors and bartenders on the basis of stability, I wouldn’t have much of a roster. Harlan was also chronically late and drank a lot. But …”

The manager paused, held a finger in the air.

“He usually showed up when called. And that’s about as much as you can hope for in a temp. You have no idea how flaky a summer staff can be.”

“I’ve heard that Harlan had some potential as a tennis player.”

“Actually, he wasn’t bad. Wasn’t pro quality, of course, but he had some power serves. Good speed. A natural athlete. But that isn’t enough. You want to make it big, you’ve got to work … train. We’ve got a couple of members on the circuits. They train here every single day, usually start at something like six in the morning. They’re talented, but even more, they’re dedicated. Harlan? Sure, he had some talent, but he lacked drive. Takes a heap of both to make it in the pros.”

“Did Harlan have any regular students when he worked here?”

“Strictly fill-in. His schedule changed daily depending on who was on vacation or who called in sick.”

“Did he ever get chummy with any of his students?”

“If he did, I never heard about it.”

But Decker wasn’t so sure that Fine was being up front. “If you didn’t get complaints about him, did you ever get compliments about him?”

A fire lit in Fine’s eye, smoldered quickly. “No.”

“None of your ladies ever say to you what a fine teacher he was?”

“Are you implying something?”

“Asking a question, sir.”

Fine said, “It was a long time ago, Lieutenant. I don’t remember so well.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me names?”

“You’re right about that. Anything else?”

“Just one more question. Were any of the people tragically murdered at Estelle’s also members of the club?”

Fine turned red. “You know I’m not going to answer that. I think I’ve been very patient.”

Decker smiled. “You’ve been helpful. Thank you.”

Fine said, “Explain something to me, Lieutenant.”

“If I can, sure.”

“What do you possibly … hope to accomplish by digging up Harlan aka Hart’s past? He’s dead. I thought analyzing nutcases was the bailiwick of shrinks, not cops.”

Man had a point. Decker’s job was cleaning up the crime scene, not doing psychiatric Monday morning quarterbacking. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure why he was there … trying to make sense out of the incomprehensible.

Decker said, “This was a horrible event. A very big case with lots of publicity, lots of questions and finger-pointing. LAPD has a vested interest in tying up loose ends.”

Fine was incredulous. “That’s it? You take time away from my business to grill me … just to tie up loose ends?”

“Yes, sir, that’s exactly right. I’m tying up loose ends. You know why, Mr. Fine? Because you leave a loose end hanging around, the sucker has an annoying tendency to unravel.”







9 (#ulink_90c7f974-4d46-5623-9227-8ba337a7f92f)


Marge knocked on Decker’s doorjamb, walked through the open door to his office. “A one eighty-seven came in while you were gone—a domestic turned nasty. Wife took the bullet between her eyes. I was in court, so Oliver and Martinez caught the call. If you want, I can go join them.”

Decker frowned, took off his reading glasses. “Why didn’t someone page me?”

“We did,” Marge said. “You didn’t answer.”

“What?” Decker checked his pager. “What the …” He stared at the blank window, flicked his middle finger against the instrument. When nothing happened, he tossed it on his desk. “Remind me to pick up a new one from Bessie. Tell me the details.”

“Husband and wife were slugging down shooters when the altercation broke out. A neighbor heard them arguing, didn’t think too much of it.”

“Frequent occurrence.”

“Yeah, except this time the husband … his name is Meryl Tobias … went psycho. Showed up at the neighbor’s door—gun in his hand—bawling like a baby. He didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it. The neighbor called nine one one. The rest is …” She threw up her hands. “His blood alcohol was over point-two-o. Hers wasn’t much lower. What a waste!”

Decker glanced at the clock. “It’s almost four. We’ve all been working overtime. Pack it in, Detective.”

Marge sat down, dropped her head in her hands. “Honestly, Pete, I’m all right. Just give me an assignment that doesn’t involve counting bullets.”

Decker smiled. “How’s it coming?”

“I wouldn’t have made a good accountant.”

“Why?” Decker’s interest suddenly perked up. “You’ve got discrepancies?”

“I don’t know yet.” Marge lifted her head. “Because we’re not through. So far we’ve recovered an awful lot of shells for one shooter … even if the shooter was using a double automatic.”

“Interesting.” Decker started making notes. “Tell me.”

Marge was thoughtful. “We picked up lots of strays, Pete. In the walls, in the floor, in the furniture. Which puzzled Scott. He mentioned the same point that you did yesterday. That mass murderers often hunt their victims. Part of the thrill.”

“But that wasn’t what happened,” Decker said.

“No, not according to witnesses. The killer just sprayed the place.”

No one spoke. Then Marge said, “You know, it’s a miracle that more people didn’t die.”

“How many bullets did you recover?”

“So far enough to account for around … ten, maybe twelve magazines. We’ve found eight empty cartridges.”

“About a hundred and fifty rounds upward. And Harlan’s shooting time was what … three to six minutes?”

“It’s possible to peel off twelve rounds in a double automatic in six minutes if you’re not aiming at anything. But you’d have to work quickly. Go in and blast the place and hope the sucker doesn’t jam.”

Marge studied Decker, reading his face not as her boss but as her ex-partner.

“You’ve got something on your mind, big guy?”

“Just speculation.” Decker began to doodle. “Doesn’t amount to much.” Marge pushed hair out of her eyes, stared at him with purpose. “Out with it.”

“I’ve been going over some of the prelim autopsy reports on the victims.” Decker paused. “I’m … disconcerted by them.”

“What in particular?”

“The bullet trajectories. People at the same table being hit with shots at different angles.”

“They were probably facing in different directions.”

“I took that into consideration. Still, there are things that don’t make sense.” Decker spread out several police photographs. “For instance, look at this couple. Victims numbers nine and ten—Linda and Ray Garrison.”

Marge’s eyes swept over the snapshots. She winced.

“The couple was seated … here.” Decker showed Marge a floor plan of Estelle’s. “Right here. At table number fifteen. I figure they must have been among the first to be hit because they died in their seats. Didn’t even have enough time to duck under the table.”

Marge studied the prints. “They weren’t really close to the entrance to the restaurant.”

“About a hundred feet away. If the shooting took place as soon as Harlan entered the place, they should have realized what was going on … had enough time to duck or run for cover.”

“Which may mean that the shooting broke out closer to them.”

“Or possibly they both just froze,” Decker added. “Anyway, look at the photograph. They died in their chairs, sitting opposite each other, slumped over the table. Both of them … riddled with holes. On the surface, no difference. Except Forensics tells us an alternate story. The bullets entered Linda Garrison’s back and exited through her chest. Mr. Garrison was also shot from back to front.”

Decker paused.

“Think about it, Margie. If Harlan was shooting from one position—say he stood in back of Mr. Garrison—the bullets would have entered Garrison’s back and exited Garrison’s chest. Agreed?”

“Yes. Go on.”

“Those same bullets … flying in the same direction … should have entered Mrs. Garrison through her chest and exited her back. Instead, it’s just the opposite. What’d Harlan do? Shoot in one position, then move to the opposite side and shoot in the other?”

Marge was silent. “Weird.”

“Perhaps a bit suspicious,” Decker said.

“Maybe Harlan immediately picked off one of them, walked around and shot a little bit more, then changed his direction and picked the other one off.”

“But that contradicts what you just reported … that the shooter wasn’t picking people off.” Decker sat back in his chair. “Taken out of the context of Estelle’s … even forgetting about all the eyewitness accounts … just looking at the forensics … it looks deliberate. It warrants further investigation.”

“I concur.”

“So this is what I want you to do. I want you to go over the list of the victims and find out if any of them belonged to Greenvale Country Club.”

Marge stared at him. “Now there’s a non sequitur. Why?”

“Because Harlan once worked there.”

“So?”

“Well, it’s like this. I see lots of stray bullets and unexplained bullet trajectories. Suggestive of maybe more than one shooter—”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly. I told you this is speculation.”

“Go on,” Marge urged.

“I’m just wondering if this isn’t a botched hit masked as a mass murder. Looking at the case from that perspective, I’d like to see if maybe we can find a connection between Harlan and a specific victim.”

“Harlan Manz committed suicide, Pete. Most hit men don’t whack themselves.”

“Maybe he didn’t whack himself. If it was a botched hit, maybe the second shooter whacked him by accident—”

Marge made a face.

“I know I’m stretching. Ballistics confirms that the bullet in Harlan’s head matches the gun.” Decker paused. “I’m trying to make sense out of it … looking for a catalyst that drove him over the edge. Even if I’m completely off base, it wouldn’t hurt us or LAPD to be thorough. Get all the possible connections so we don’t get caught with our pants down.”

Marge nodded. “No big deal to cross-check the victims against Greenvale’s membership list. How do I get hold of the names?”

“Uh … that might be a bit of a problem.”

Marge stared at him. “You’ve asked them for a list?”

“Yes.”

“And they’ve refused.”

“That sums it up.”

“So now what?”

“Harlan’s employment at the club was kept secret … off the record. Now you could go down and be intimidating … threaten you’ll leak the information to the press unless they help you out. Or you could be quiet and discreet. There are thirteen victims. You could try to contact their surviving relatives and friends. Casually ask them if the victims belonged to Greenvale.”

“And if they did?”

Decker twirled his thumbs. “Ask them if the victims took tennis lessons at the club. If they did, maybe they’ve met an instructor named Hart Mansfield, known to us as Harlan Manz.”

Decker recapped his conversation with Barry Fine. “Or maybe they might have met Harlan/Hart at a party.”

“And?”

“I don’t know, Marge,” Decker said. “Just go out and seek and maybe we’ll find something. Or if you’re tired, you can call it a day. All of this can wait.”

“No, it’s all right.” She smiled bitterly. “Lucky for you, I canceled my heavy date.”

Decker looked at her. “You need some time off, hon?”

Her smiled turned warm. “You care. That’s so sweet.”

Decker laughed softly. “Why don’t you and Scott come over on Sunday for a barbecue.”

“Why do you always invite me and Scott?”

“Margie, I invite you, he finds out, calls you up. Then you wind up inviting him along out of pity. I’m just saving you the agenting.”

He was right. Marge said, “Sure, I’ll come. I’m tired and lonely and ain’t about to play hard to get. Your family’s the only thing that gives me a sense of normalcy. It’s really pathetic.”

“Honey, my family’s the only thing that gives me a sense of normalcy.”

“Then we’re both pathetic.”

“I call it dedicated.” Decker grinned. “But I’m big on euphemisms.”

Pulling the Volare into the driveway, shutting off the motor, Decker sat for a few moments, enjoying the dark and the silence. It was restful. It was peaceful. For a few blissful seconds, he was utterly alone and without obligation and it felt wonderful. He took a deep breath, let his body go slack, allowed his eyes to adjust to the shadows and starlight. He might have sat even longer except he suddenly realized there was a red Camaro parked curbside.

Cindy’s car.

His heart started to flutter. His daughter was supposed to be in school three thousand miles away. What did this mean? After he had asked the question, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

He bolted out of the Volare, unlocked his front door. She stood when he crossed the threshold, gave him a timid wave and a “Hi, Daddy.”

A beautiful girl in a big, strong way. She was around five ten, built with muscle and bone. Her face was sculpted with high cheekbones; her complexion was overrun with freckles but as smooth as marble. Wide-set, deep-brown eyes, long, flaming red hair, a white, wide smile. She photographed well, had done some small-time modeling to make some pocket change a few years back. But it wasn’t for her. Her career goals focused on jobs involving her mind equally with her heart. Cynthia was a girl of extreme generosity and blessed intellect.

She was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, some kind of army boot as shoes. She looked troubled. No doubt why she was here instead of in New York.

“My goodness!” Decker gave his daughter a bear hug. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

“Something like that.”

Before he could question her, Rina came into the room, smiled, and said, “She just showed up on the doorstep. I let her in. I take it that’s okay with you.”

“More than okay.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Go wash up and sit down.”

“Baby asleep?”

“For about an hour, Baruch Hashem. She is getting so feisty. But sharp as a whip. Takes after her daddy … and her sister.”

“In the feistiness or sharpness?”

“Both.”

Cindy laughed.

Decker said, “Maybe I’ll say hi to the boys first.”

“They’re not home. Sammy and Jake went with some friends for pizza.”

Perversely, Decker felt relieved. One less human element to deal with. Then he felt guilty. They were his sons, for godsakes. But then again, they were doing what they wanted to do. Why should he feel negligent if they were out having a good time? He realized that within the span of a few moments, his emotions had gone the gamut. Which meant he was unstable. Not the best time to deal with his daughter, who obviously had a thing or two on her mind.

After he had washed, Cindy led him to the table. “Sit. Rina made a delicious stew. One of those dishes that gets better the longer you cook it.”

“With my hours, she cooks a lot of those,” Decker said wryly. “Are you going to join me? Tell me what’s going on?”

“It can wait until after dinner.”

“That bad?”

“It isn’t bad at all.”

Rina came back in, set up dinner for her husband. “I told them to be home by eleven. Do you think I gave them too much freedom?”

“No, not at all.”

“It’s just that Sammy’s so excited.”

“It’s a big event in a boy’s life.”

“A girl’s too,” Cindy said. “I remember when I got my license. The feeling of freedom … it was … exhilarating.”

“Never knew you felt that oppressed.” Decker smiled.

“It wasn’t that—”

“Cindy, he’s teasing you,” Rina broke in. “It doesn’t deserve an answer.” She gently slugged her husband’s good shoulder. “I know you’re tired and cranky, but be nice.”

“I am cranky.” Decker ate a few heaping tablespoons. “This is wonderful. Did you eat, Cin?”

Cindy nodded, smiled. But she seemed anxious. Decker felt a protest in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was his daughter’s nervousness or hunger pangs. After two bowls of stew, two helpings of salad, and a couple of cups of decaf, he felt ready to take on his daughter.

Take on.

As if there were an impending battle.

Rina excused herself, went into the kitchen to clean up. Cindy suggested they talk in the living room. Decker took a seat on the suede couch, patted the space next to him. Cindy sat, but her spine was ramrod straight. She was all tics and fidgets. Finally, she said, “I quit the program.”

Decker absorbed her words. “You quit the program. Meaning you’re no longer in school.”

“Yes. I have my master’s, I’m tired of all the bullsh … of all the academic hurdles. I don’t need a Ph.D. It does me no good other than to teach the same material to other Ph.D. candidates.”

Decker rolled his tongue inside his cheek. “After six years of tuition and room and board, when you’re finally self-supporting with scholarships and fellowships, you now decide to quit?”

Cindy glared at him. “You are kidding, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m kidding.” Sort of. Decker leaned back. “So …”

“So …”

Decker said, “I guess I should be a parent. Maybe ask about your plans. Like … do you have any?”

“I think I need to get a job.”

“Good start.” Decker bit his mustache. “Want me to ask around the department … see if I can get you on as a part-time consultant?”

“Won’t be necessary.”

“You’ve found a job.”

“Yes, I have.” She closed her eyes, then opened them. “Daddy, I joined the Police Academy. Actually, I signed up a while ago. But you know how it works. There’s the exam, then the personal checks, then I had to wait until they started hiring again. Anyway, it’s a done deal. I’m starting in three months, right after the first.”

Decker stared at his daughter. “This is a joke, right?”

“No joke.” She opened her purse, pulled out a few sheets of paper. “Here’s a copy of their letter of acceptance. Here’s my letter of commitment—”

“So you haven’t mailed anything in.”

“Yes, I have. See, these are just copies. The originals are at home or with the Academy.” She held the paper up for her father to see. “See, right here—”

Angrily, Decker batted them away. He stood up and began to pace. “Cynthia, what on earth could have possibly possessed you—”

“Dad, before our emotions get the better of us, can we be reasonable?”

“No, we can’t be reasonable! Because you did something unreasonable. How could you act so … so damn impulsively?”

“It wasn’t an impulsive decision. I told you I signed up a while ago.”

“So you’ve thought about this? For a long time?”

“Yes.”

“And it never even dawned on you to talk this over with me?”

“Of course it dawned on me, Daddy. I thought about telling you for quite some time. But I knew you couldn’t possibly be objective—”

“Cindy, that’s a truckload of bull.”

“Can we keep this civil?”

“Are you trying to get even with me for not being around when you were growing up?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re obviously trying to rile me—”

“Dad, believe it or not, I really want to be a cop, actually a detective.” She smiled sweetly. “Just like you.”

“Oh, cut the crap!”

“Peter!” Rina said.

Decker whirled around, focused on his wife. “Rina, this isn’t your affair. Would you kindly leave, please?”

“Last I checked this was my house, too.”

“I’m not telling you to leave the house, just the room.”

“She can stay,” Cindy said. “I don’t mind.”

“You stay out of this!” Decker directed a pointed index finger at his daughter. “This is between me and my wife.”

“No, Daddy, it’s between you and me and you’re taking it out on her.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, talking to me like that—”

“I’ll leave,” Rina said.

“Good idea,” Decker said.

Rina went into the bedroom without slamming the door. Which surprised Cindy. If that had been her, she would have made her displeasure known very loudly. Dad was talking, more like ranting … as usual.

“… even bother to come and talk to me about it?”

“I knew what you’d say,” Cindy retorted.

“So you’re a mind reader.”

“No, just a dad reader. And I’m right. You’re not objective.”

“It’s not a matter of objectivity,” Decker shot back. “Not only would I discourage you from joining, I’d discourage anyone from joining.”

“Good thing you don’t write ad copy for LAPD.”

Decker honed in on her. “Cindy, there are some cop types. And even most of them don’t make good officers. But if you’re of a certain ilk and if you have a little bit of brainpower and if you have untold patience and if you can keep your mouth shut and if you have a good intuition and if you think before you react, then maybe you’ll make a good cop. And yes, political correctness notwithstanding, it helps to be big and strong. Which you are not!”

“I’m not a ninety-pound weakling—”

“Any man your size with normal musculature could take you down in a minute.”

“So that’s where my superior brain will come in.”

“You do have a superior brain. You just aren’t choosing to use it. Cynthia, you don’t have patience, you don’t like orders, you’re not detail-oriented, you’re way too emotional, and you’re impulsive … like just … dropping out of school—”

“I thought about it for a long time—”

“Then you didn’t think it through. And I don’t care how much you work out, you’re no match for most men. Someone my size could squeeze you like a tomato.”

“We’re going around in circles, Daddy.”

“You’ve neither the temperament nor the inclination. You’d make a lousy cop and a lousy cop is a dead cop—”

“Gee, Dad, thanks for the encouragement—”

“Better for you to be furious than for me to accept a flag at your funeral.” He turned to her, his eyes burning with anger. “Do yourself a favor. Find a better way to get even with me.”

“So you think I’m doing this from some sort of Freudian revenge motive?”

“Frankly, I don’t know why you’re doing this. This isn’t the first time in your life that you’ve done something outrageous. But it is the most dangerous stunt you’ve ever pulled.”

Cindy’s eyes filled with water. “You’re not being reasonable or fair.”

“And you, Cynthia Rachel, are crying. You think I’m talking tough, just wait. You think your drill sergeant’s going to be impressed with your tears? Or worse, how ’bout your perp. �Better stop shitting around or I’ll charge you with ten to fifteen for felonious tear-jerking.’”

Angrily, Cindy dried her eyes. “Touché.”

Decker suddenly stopped pacing. He closed his eyes, tried to vent some of the rage. This was his daughter he was talking to. Gently, he put his hands on Cindy’s shoulders. Angrily, she wiggled out of his touch. What did he expect?

“Cindy, I’m not trying to win points. But I am being brutally honest. This is one area I know.”

Her voice was a whisper. “And I respect that. But with all due respect to your knowledge, I’m twenty-four. I’ll make my own decisions. And suffer the consequences if they’re bad ones. Dad, I think we’ve both said enough—”

“No, we haven’t said nearly enough—”

“Telephone, Peter,” Rina said.

Decker whipped his head around, asked her a testy “Who is it!”

“Marge.”

Decker barked. “Is it an emergency?”

“I don’t know,” Rina answered quietly. “Would you like me to ask her?”

Decker made fists with his hands, released his fingers. “You stay here, young lady. I’m not through yet.”

Decker charged into the bedroom and slammed the door, which made Cindy startle.

As soon as he was gone, she leaped from her chair and started to pace.

“What a supreme jerk! No wonder Mom had an affair.” Then Cindy gasped, suddenly remembering that Rina was in the room. She felt herself go hot and cold at the same time. Sheepishly, she looked at her stepmother’s face. “Oh, my God! Did you … did he … did …”

“It’s all right, Cindy. I knew.”

Cindy covered her mouth. “Oh, my God! I can’t believe I said that! God, I’m such a moron!”

“You’re riled. Would you like some coffee? Maybe tea?”

“How about a half dozen Advils.”

“How about one?”

“He’s right, you know!” Cindy flopped into one of the buckskin chairs and dried her eyes. “I’ve got an incredibly big mouth. Things just … slip out!”

Rina said nothing.

Cindy looked at Rina. “So he told you?”

Rina nodded.

“He must feel real close to you.”

Rina stifled a smile. “Guess so.”

“It’s not as idiotic as it sounds. Dad never ever talked about it. And it didn’t come up in any of the divorce proceedings. Even during their worst arguments, Dad never brought it up or threw it in Mom’s face. There were times I actually wondered if he even knew. But then I figured how could he not know. Mom wasn’t exactly subtle … all those hang-ups every time I picked up the phone.”

Rina nodded.

“It wasn’t all Mom’s fault, you know. He was never home. Even when he was home, he wasn’t home. He was a decent father. Did the right things. Showed up at all the school events and conferences. But there was this distance. He was dreadfully unhappy. So was Mom. They had to get married, you know. Because of me.”

“They both love you very much.”

“I know that. They dragged it out as long as they could. Though I never asked them to do that. They’re so different. You know how they met?”

Rina nodded. “Your dad arrested your mother.”

“Some stupid antiwar rally. The pregnancy meant Mom had to drop out of college. At twenty, she was stuck at home with a whining baby and no help at all, while all her friends were out partying. I don’t know why she didn’t get an abortion.”

The room was quiet.

“Actually, I do know why. Dad wouldn’t have let her. Anyway, I know she was very resentful. To this day, she still talks about her lost youth.”

“Your mom and Alan have made a nice life for themselves. I think you’re feeling worse about it than either of your parents.”

“I suppose.” She sighed. “Dad seems happy now … happier.”

Rina smiled. “Yes, your father isn’t exactly a jolly fellow.”

Cindy smiled.

“You comported yourself very well,” Rina said.

“Yeah, felons should be a snap in comparison.” She paused. “You heard us then? We were screaming that loud?”

“It’s a small house.”

“God, I have a headache.”

“I’ll get you the Advil.”

“Thanks.”

Rina left, came back a few moments later. “Did you tell your mother yet?”

“No. Believe it or not, Dad’s the lesser of the two evils. Mom will not only go hysterical—just like Dad—but she’ll start blaming Dad. I hate it when she does that. Those two are incredible. They really hate each other.”

“I’m sure they don’t.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do.”

Rina said, “What made you decide to join the Academy?”

“Oh, my goodness, someone really wants to hear my side of the equation.”

Rina nodded encouragement.

Cindy cleared her throat. “I thought I wanted to study criminal behavior. I found that what I really wanted to do was solve crimes. Analyzing the deviant mind is useful, but it’s too academic. It doesn’t make neighborhoods safer places to live. It doesn’t give victims a sense of justice. It doesn’t do anything to enhance the quality of life. Criminal Sciences is about publishing papers, not about community service. And that’s what I want to do. Use the knowledge I’ve learned and apply it. To help people. Pretty corny. But as I speak, it is the truth.”

“I think that’s wonderful.”

“In theory, yes. Unfortunately, Dad has a point. I am impulsive, I am emotional, and I don’t take orders well.”

She leaned forward.

“But I’m also very adaptable. Had to be to get along with my parents. I can learn, Rina. Because I really want to do this. I’ll make it. I’d like his help and blessing. But if not, I’ll make it anyway. If he can’t deal with it, too bad.”

She sat back.

“I love my father, but there are times he is just impossible. So domineering! So bossy! How do you deal with him?”

“He’s a good man.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t. I just said he was a control freak. You know, I’m not excusing Mom. But my dad is just … such an imposing man. I guess she felt just so … swallowed up. I don’t know how you put up with him.”

Rina shrugged. “I’m not much of a fighter.”

“I wish I were like that. I just refuse to be stepped on.”

“I didn’t say I get stepped on.”

Cindy blushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … God, I’ve got a big mouth. I guess I’m more like Mom than I’d like to believe.”

“I do express myself, Cindy. I’ll stick up for what’s important. Which I’ve learned isn’t too much. This baby boomer generation on down … all of us … we’ve become so … confrontive. Stand up for yourself! Speak your mind! Tell it like it is! All this righteous anger … I find it very loud.”

“Better that than being walked on.”

“No one wants to be a shmatta … a dishrag. But sometimes it’s a good idea to keep your mouth shut. Think if it’s worth the effort. And yes, I freely admit to being occasionally two-faced. There have been times when I had agreed with your dad to do things his way, then turned around and did it the way I wanted. Most of the time, he forgot what he had been so insistent on. And the couple of times he was cogent enough to call me on it, I played dumb. I’m sure some psychologist would call me sneaky or tell me I have low self-esteem. Or tell me I was paralyzed by my domineering mother and an unapproachable father or something or other. I call it being practical. Because in the end, I get what I want and he saves face.”

“I don’t think Gloria Steinem would approve of your methods.”

“Oh, forget about Gloria Steinem! She never nursed a husband through cancer, only to watch him die. She never labored in childbirth. She was never a widow with two small children. She’s never been married to a police lieutenant. She never had a hysterectomy at thirty. And she’s not an Orthodox Jew. So she has no concept of shalom bais—peace in the house. Which, in my humble opinion, is to her detriment!”

Cindy looked at her. “You’re tough.”

“Tough enough to handle your dad.” Rina sat down next to Cindy. “And so are you.” She gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You’ll work this out. You’ll be okay.”

“If I ever learn to keep my mouth shut.”

“Cindy, youth is impulsive, thank God. Like you said, it was the reason you were conceived. It’s what made me run off and get married at seventeen, then go have a baby a year later, then have yet another before my first son was out of diapers. It’s what made me enter into a heartbreaking relationship after my husband died, knowing it was doomed from the start. And it’s what made me ignore raised eyebrows in my community when I started dating your father. Within days of meeting him, I was head over heels in love. Impulsive yes. But it worked out.”

Cindy said. “Yes, I am impulsive. But this wasn’t an impulsive decision. It’s really what I want.”

“How could you know?” Decker retorted. “You haven’t the slightest notion what it is to be a cop.”

Both women turned around as if he had intruded in their conversation. Fine with him! Let Rina handle it! Tempted to escape and go burn the Porsche out at 120. Instead, he sat back down on the couch, rubbed his temples.

“How about this? We talk this over calmly. I tell you what being a cop is all about. You ask me questions. If you’re still gung-ho … after I get done with you … then you can go ahead and join.”

“What happened to you in ten minutes?” Cindy asked.

Rina said, “He overheard me talking about how much I loved him and it made him feel guilty for his outbursts.”

Decker grumped, “Got it all figured out.”

“True or false.”

Decker ignored her, turned to Cindy. “Well?”

Cindy said, “Daddy, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to talk to you about my decision. I’d love to hear about your experiences and your insights. But I’m in the Academy regardless.”

“That’s being very pigheaded.”

Rina interjected, “Peter—”

“She’s acting like a mule.”

“There’s no reason to name-call—”

“Why is she afraid of hearing the truth?” Decker said.

Cindy said, “Listen, guys, I’m really tired. I want to go home.”

“You tell your mom about this?”

Cindy sighed.

“You haven’t told her?” Decker began to pace. “Great. I don’t have enough garbage in my life dealing with friggin’ mass murderers—”

“Dad, I’m really sorry about that. It must be terrible. And I certainly don’t mean to add to your stress—”

“But you’ll do it anyway.”

No one spoke. Cindy sighed. “I’m going. We’ll talk later. When everyone’s calmer.” She smiled at her father. “Good night.”

Abruptly, Decker stopped walking, plunked himself down in a chair, and stared out the window, his eyes a thousand miles away.

“She said good night, Peter.”

“Good night, good night,” he muttered.

“Give her a hug, for godsakes.”

Cindy waited a beat. When Decker didn’t move, Rina said, “Peter, did you hear—”

“Yes, I heard you.”

Cindy felt her eyes start to moisten, but quickly she held back the tears. “That’s okay, Rina. Everyone needs their space. Even parents.”

Again, she waited a moment. When Decker didn’t move, she bade Rina good night and left quietly. Soon the car’s engine faded to nothingness. Rina broke the silence.

“You should have given her a hug, Peter,” Rina rebuked him. “Your intransigence was nasty. God forbid, suppose she has an accident or something. How would you feel?”

“Horrible. I’d never forgive myself.”

“So how could you let her leave like that!”

He turned to her, his own eyes moist. “Because … I was afraid if I hugged her, I would have never let her go.”







10 (#ulink_d32573d7-ea5b-5f61-b298-0fab99b20d79)


The temperature in the office was arctic. Why did the city feel it necessary to keep the station house in a deep freeze? Or maybe it was just Decker’s mood. Because things weren’t going well. He sat at his desk, looking out at a wall of eyes. His Homicide team arcing around him. Protective. Like a moat. His brain pounded. With any luck, ibuprofen would work its magic. He nodded for Oliver to begin.

Scott scanned his notes, hand raking through his black hair. “Loo, we’ve gone through Estelle’s room to room, wall to wall, floor to floor, ceiling to ceiling. Neither Dunn nor I could find enough empty magazines at the scene to account for all the bullets and casings.”

Decker’s eyes glanced at the newspaper on his desk. A couple of days had passed, but Estelle’s was still front-page news. He spoke quietly. “Would it help if you looked again?”

“We were very thorough.” Marge smoothed out the leg of her beige pants. She wore lightweight fabrics today—white cotton shirt, viscose pants. But if the weather continued its cooling trend, it would be time for the wools. “I’ll show you our grid maps if you want. Right now it doesn’t look like much … a mass of dots.”

“We marked every place where we extracted a bullet or found an empty casing,” Oliver explained.

Bert Martinez twirled the ends of his bushy mustache, his stocky frame bowing the seat of the folding chair. “Whole damn case is starting to smell fishy. Anyone show the Loo Harlan’s autopsy report?”

Decker sat up. “When did that come in?”

“You were in a meeting with the mayor, city council, and Strapp,” Marge said. “We tried paging you …”

Decker grimaced. He’d forgotten to pick up a new pager.

“How’d that go?” Oliver was concerned. “Are our asses on the line?”

“Why should our asses be on the line?” Martinez asked. “We’ve got the perp … of sorts.”

“Lawsuits, right?” Oliver said. “Police should have showed up sooner, right? If they had, more lives would have been saved, right? What was time of arrival on that one? Something like two minutes?”

“First cruiser arrived in two-twenty-eight,” Webster said.

Oliver said. “Am I right, Deck?”

“Close.”

“No matter what happens, we’ll get blamed. Earthquake could drop the city into the center of the earth, it would be our fault.”

“For the time being, the Detective division isn’t a point of concern.” Decker paused. “But if this turns out to be … how should I say this? If this is something more than a straightforward mass murder, the focus will shift to us. Who has that autopsy report?”

“That would be me.” Webster handed the folder to Decker, his blue eyes focused, alert. Today, Tom was dressed in a black suit, sunglasses dangling from his jacket pocket. Looked more FBI than LAPD with his permapressed Anglo good looks. Suave manner. But Decker didn’t hold it against him. Webster was a damn good cop.

Decker thumbed through the pages, eyes working like strobes. “What should I be looking for?”

Webster drawled, “The bullet that killed Harlan Manz. It was fired at a range consistent with a distance of around two to two and a half feet—”

“What!” Decker raced through the report. “Where?”

“Page eleven or twelve. I marked it with a pencil.”

Decker fast-forwarded to the paragraph. Read it once, then read it again. He sat back in his chair, ran a hand down his face.

Martinez said, “I called up the morgue … asked if they were sure about that distance.”

“And?”

“They were sure. Said that if the gun had been fired at a closer range, more damage would have been done to the brain.”

Webster said, “Bigger entry and exit holes, more tearing and ripping, more extensive powder burns on the hands and temple.”

“So when Harlan fired, he looked something like this?” Oliver made a gun with his fingers, extended his arm from his shoulder, then flexed his wrist so that his fingers were pointing back to his temple. “What’s this, guys? About three feet?”

“Anyone have a measuring tape?” Marge asked.

Decker pulled one from his desk, gave it to Marge.

Marge measured. “Thirty-seven inches. Bend your elbow a little bit, Scotty.”

Oliver complied, his elbow making a hundred-and-fifty-degree angle. “Now I’m pointing over my head.”

“So lower your arm.” Martinez got up, positioned Oliver as if he were a Gumby. “There. About like this. That looks like two and a half feet.”

Marge measured. “Thirty-one inches to be exact.”

Webster said, “Now point to your head.”

Oliver did so, maintained the pose. They stared at him.

Marge said, “Might be me, but I think he looks awkward.”

Martinez said, “He looks ridiculous. You want to pop yourself, you put the gun to your temple. You don’t hold it two feet away.”

Marge said, “You know, I could understand someone holding the gun away from his head if he had doubts or wasn’t used to a firearm. Almost like an avoidance thing.”

“Maybe at a little distance,” Martinez said. “But not in the position Scotty’s in. Unless you like contorting.”

“Maybe he had short arms,” Marge suggested.

“Not that short,” Martinez answered.

“Could it have been a misfire?” Oliver asked.

Martinez made a face. “You mean he was aiming for someone and caught himself in the head?”

“No. I mean the gun just accidentally went off.”

“Catching him square in the temple?” Marge was dubious.

“Excuses, excuses.” Webster shook his head. “Why aren’t we saying what we’re all thinkin’?”

“Two shooters,” Oliver said.

“Just what you said yesterday, Loo,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “You did?”

Decker replied, “I was looking over some of the victims’ autopsy reports. Some of the bullet trajectories were inconsistent with a one-killer theory.”

“And you didn’t like the number of bullets we recovered.”

“A lot for one shooter,” Webster said. “Even for someone using a double automatic. What did we recover? Something like two hundred bullets?”

Martinez said, “Two killers means Estelle’s was planned.”

Oliver said, “What do you mean by planned, Bert?”

“Harlan went into Estelle’s with the intention of killing someone specific. He and his cohort masked it by popping others. Like putting a bomb in an airplane to collect insurance.”

“A hit gone bad,” Marge said. “If so, next step is to figure out who the intended target was.”

Webster said, “So y’all take a look at the victims.”

Decker said, “We need to look at the victims who might have crossed paths with Harlan in other capacities.”

Marge reached into her oversized purse and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Which brings us up to date with my current assignment. Discovering which victims—if any—belonged to Greenvale Country Club.”

“What’s this?” Webster asked.

Decker filled them in on Harlan’s job at the country club, on his conversation with Barry Fine, and on yesterday’s brainstorming with Marge. “Harlan Manz worked at Greenvale about two years ago. You know how snobs can be. Treating the hired help as nonentities. I was trying to determine if Harlan had a long-standing grudge against one of the restaurant’s victims.”

Oliver said, “Deck, if a grudge from Greenvale was the motive behind Estelle’s shooting, why didn’t Harlan shoot up the club?”

“Maybe security was too tight. Look, I don’t know any more than you do. But something’s hinky here.”

Oliver asked, “So you’re thinking that one of Estelle’s victims offended Harlan at the club and at the restaurant. And that’s why he went batshit?”

Decker said, “Just trying to find a connection.”

Marge asked, “Maybe you’d like to hear if there are any connections?”

Decker laughed. “We’re going on with these flights of fancy and we don’t even have facts. What do you have?”

Marge settled herself. “Okay. Table number twenty-two: People there were from Ashman/Reynard. A Realtor named Wendy Culligan was pitching to a bunch of Japanese businessmen. Some of the businessmen were murdered, but she survived … which made my job of asking questions a lot easier. The firm is a corporate member of Greenvale. Has been for the fifteen years since the club opened.”

“Is she a member?” Oliver asked.

“Through her business. Wendy’s been at the club maybe six times … goes there for power lunches. Theoretically, she could have crossed paths with Harlan.”

Oliver said, “But she’s still alive, Margie. She obviously wasn’t the target of a hit.”

Webster said, “Or maybe Harlan missed.”

“So what does Greenvale have to do with a bunch of Japanese businessmen who probably never set foot inside its doors?” Martinez asked.

Marge shrugged. “Well, they were making deals with Ashman/Reynard, Bert. Maybe Harlan was resentful of some of the realtors. So maybe he was trying to screw up the agency or block the deal.”

Decker wrote as he spoke. “What else do we have?”

Marge said, “Then we have Walter Skinner, the actor. He was also a member of Greenvale.”

Martinez said, “Now that was a real shame. I used to love him in High Mountain. Anybody remember that show?”

“Yo,” Oliver said. “Saturday morning, ten o’clock.”

“You coulda set your watch by me, I was that loyal a viewer,” Martinez said. “Remember the stampedes? Each episode had at least one stampede. All that sand and dirt and stomping hooves. Scared the shit outta me when I was a little boy.”

“Y’all see The Lion King?” Webster asked. “Took my son to see it. They had a cartoon stampede. Scared the shit outta him. Had nightmares for weeks.”

Oliver said, “Yeah, High Mountain always had a stampede or a twister. Couple times it was both.”

“Yeah, I remember that show!” Martinez said.

“The one where the wagon train stopped in Laredo, Texas,” Decker added.

“That’s the one!” Oliver said, bringing his hands to a clap. “God, that brings back memories. Man, wind was whooshing all over the place. And there was Walter—aka Cattle Foreman Kirk Brown—riding high in the saddle, barking orders, doing a jig with his horse, trying to bring in all those raging dogies while a tornado was blowing everything to shit.”

Marge said, “Maybe we could get back to the business at hand?”

The men stared miserably at her. Decker held back a smile. “So Walter was also a member of Greenvale?”

“Yes. A founding member,” Marge said. “Both he and his companion were murdered in their seats.” She looked at Decker. “Their table was right next to the Garrisons’.”

“Ah, interesting.” Decker took notes. “I haven’t gone over their entrance and exit wounds. Be interesting to see if it matches the patterns of the Garrisons.”

“Skinner and his companion …” Webster paused. “As opposed to a wife. By any chance, is there a wife?”

Marge said. “Yes, there is. Adelaide Skinner. I haven’t talked to her yet.”

The room went quiet.

Oliver grinned. “So the old goat was stepping out on her.”

“It doesn’t mean he deserved to die,” Marge said.

“Certainly I don’t think so. But his wife may have had other ideas.”

“So she hired someone to whack him by shooting up a restaurant?” Webster made a face. “How old is she anyway?”

“Seventy-seven,” Marge answered.

“Y’all picture a little seventy-seven-year-old lady telling someone to massacre thirteen innocent people just to get to her old man?”

“Maybe she hired out without knowing what the killers were going to do,” Oliver said.

Martinez said, “So they decided to execute the hit by attacking an entire restaurant? Pretty clumsy.”

“Worked in the past for the Mafia,” Oliver said.

Martinez added, “Then, for a topper, one of them decides to whack the other?”

“More money for himself,” Oliver said. “Plus someone to pin the blame on.”

Webster said, “Is Walter’s wife a member of Greenvale?”

“Yes, of course,” Marge said.

“Let’s slow it down,” Decker said. “We’re getting wild with our speculations. Any other connection, Marge?”

“Linda and Ray Garrison. From the people I’ve talked to, it’s clear that the couple was worth beaucoup bucks.”

“So who inherits the estate?”

“Don’t know for sure, but they have two adult children, a son and a daughter. David Garrison is twenty-six. And guess what? He has a record. Drug arrests. First time was probation. Second time, he served two years. He’s now out on parole. I’ve got a call in to his officer.”

“Good going, Dunn,” Webster said.

“Daughter Jeanine is completely different. Twenty-eight. A patron of the arts and theater and ballet. Very big in society events … raising money for charities. Now get this, guys! She specifically raises charity money with tennis matches.”

Oliver said, “Didn’t you say that Harlan taught tennis at Greenvale?”

“Yes, I did.” Decker’s intercom rang. He excused himself, took the call. A rape. Everyone from Sex Crimes was busy in the field. Did he want to send down someone from CAPs? Decker turned to Marge. The woman had been a top-notch Sex Crimes detective for six years. He had almost felt guilty when he pulled her away from the detail to follow him into Homicide. After the call was completed, he looked at Marge. “I need someone with experience, Detective Dunn.”

Marge checked her watch. “Sure, I can catch it.”

“Thanks.”

“Are we done here?”

“For the most part,” Decker answered. “Just let me get a couple of assignments out. Bert, you remember Walter Skinner as Walter Skinner the actor. Why don’t you go out to his house and feel out the wife?”

“Feel her up?” Oliver said. “Feel who up?”

“Out,” Decker said. “Feel her out. What are you doing now, Scotty?”

“I got a court case in a half hour. Meryl Tobias.”

Martinez groaned. “Mr. �I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ What a stupid shit!”

“At least he was sorry,” Marge said.

“Don’t help Mrs. Tobias.”

Decker said, “What’s the DA going for?”

“Man one.”

“Cut-and-dried case?”

“Should be.”

“So when you’re finished, go over to Ashman/Reynard. Find out what business they were conducting at Estelle’s. While you’re there, check out the other agents, see if any of them had had prior contact with Harlan.” He turned to Webster. “You’re the youngest of the bunch, Tommy. You take on David Garrison.”

Oliver grinned. “Two young, good-looking white boys mentally duking it out.”

Marge said, “How do you know David Garrison’s good-looking?”

“I don’t know that he is,” Oliver said. “He just sounds good-looking. Aristocratic. Like he should have a �the third’ after his name.”

Webster said, “What about Jeanine Garrison, Loo?”

“You want to take her, Marge?”

“You mean after I catch the rape call?”

“That’s right. I’m going senile.” Decker glanced at the clock. “No, catch the call, then meet up with Scotty at Ashman/Reynard. I’ve got an open lunch hour. I’ll take Jeanine myself.”







11 (#ulink_c2d21715-8e4f-5bd1-b2e9-f48487fe2bc1)


The house was small, disappointingly so. Martinez hadn’t been expecting anything ritzy, but at least “Cattle Foreman Kirk Brown” should have been living in something western. A ranch house set on acres replete with tumbleweeds and cacti. Maybe a couple of horse stables. Instead, Walter Skinner, the man, had lived out his last years in a three-bedroom one-story bungalow in an anonymous residential block in the heart of the Valley. A simple house plopped onto a patch of recently fertilized lawn. A lifetime of nostalgia washed away by the stench of manure.

Badge in hand, Martinez trod up a red-painted cement walkway, hopped the two steps up to the porch. Knocked on the door, and when no one answered, he knocked again. This time he heard someone telling him just a minute. An elderly voice—not feeble, just old. A minute later, she opened the door a crack. Just enough room for Martinez to show her his ID. Then the door opened all the way.

She must have been under five feet, hunched over, hands resting on a cane. Her face was as round as the moon, lined but not overly wrinkled. Her cheeks had a dash of blush, her lips were painted pink. Her eyes were clear blue; her hair, thick and silver, was tied neatly into a bun. She wore a red turtleneck top over black pants, mules on her feet. Her hands were spotted, the fingers bony and bent. Though she had lived almost eight decades, she still struck a nice pose—all seventy-seven years and about eighty pounds of her.

One palm remained on the knob of her cane, the other extended itself to Martinez. “Adelaide Skinner. Pleased to meet you, Detective.”

Martinez took the birdlike hand. “Likewise. Thank you for letting me in.”

“I was afraid you’d arrest me if I didn’t.” A brief smile. “Come in, come in before you catch a chill.”

Martinez stepped inside. Adelaide closed the door. “Is this a condolence call from the police? Someone named Strapp already did that.”

“My captain.”

“A nice man. Sharp. A good politician.”

Martinez went inside the house. “Actually, I came to talk to you, Mrs. Skinner.”

“Me?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“No, I don’t mind.”

She stood for a moment, caught her breath. “Fine. We’ll talk. First let me give you a tour. Which shouldn’t take very long. Because it’s a small house. My idea, not his. If it had been up to Walter, we would have been living on a grand-scale Ponderosa.”

Martinez smiled to himself. Her admission made him feel better.

“Not that Walter was the ranch type.” She walked in tiny steps, directing him toward the left. “But when you’re Kirk Brown you have an image to keep up.”

She stopped, regarded Martinez.

“Or maybe you’re too young to remember—”

“Oh no, ma’am. I grew up on High Mountain.”

She smiled. “Anyway, this … was Walter’s living room. It shows his personality, I think.”

Martinez looked around, his heart beating like a little boy’s. The personification of his western hero, the room’s couches and chairs all done in brown suede and horn. The tables were fashioned from old driftwood. A handmade Navajo rug sat on a floor of knotty pine. A tremendous stone fireplace. And the walls. Loaded with pictures of Skinner as Cattle Foreman Kirk Brown, dressed in western gear, posing with past cowboy luminaries. The daytime ropers—Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger, Wild Bill Hickock, and Sky King. Then there were pictures of Skinner and the nighttime biggies, on the set of Wagon Train, Death Valley Days, and Paladin. Kirk with Bat Masterson and Sugarfoot and Mr. Favor. And Gunsmoke. Lots of pictures of Skinner on that set. With Matt Dillon and Chester and with the beautiful and alluring Miss Kitty. As a boy, Martinez dreamed of Kitty’s boobs, dreamed about them for many years. Then the series got old and so did Amanda Blake …

The snapshots weren’t the only things on the walls. Sharing the space was a display of stuffed and mounted sports fish—a huge mother salmon, barracudas baring teeth, swordfish and marlins flashing weapons on their snouts. The bookshelves had been turned into showcases for more snapshots, also for Skinner’s fishing awards and trophies. Adelaide saw Martinez eyeing the shiny gold cups. She picked one up, hefted it in her hand.




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