Authors: Faye Kellerman
Webster listened to the music for a moment, trying des
perately not to be distracted with the siren’s call. “Lovely.”
“It’s sublime, Detective.”
“Yes, it is.”
“But you have work to do.”
“Yes, I do.” Sourly, Webster returned to his case notes. “Why did you think your father disinherited you?”
“My cocaine use. He really didn’t like drugs.” He held up his glass. “This doesn’t count, of course.”
Garrison sipped Scotch.
“He must have been impressed with my rehab…with my steady employment this last year. I guess it boils down to the fact that I didn’t need him anymore. Once his money ceased to be a bargaining chip, I was allowed my piece of the rock. Cheers!”
He finished off the fourth round. Then he sat down.
“My sister…”
His smile was wicked.
“My sister, on the other hand, was completely indulged, utterly spoiled because (a) she was a beautiful, beautiful little girl and (b) as a child, she was of mediocre mind and wholly without talent. Jeanine is now twenty-eight years old. She has never held a paying job, has never worked a day in her life. She has lived neither with responsibility nor with the consequences of her behavior. I, on the other hand, was not permitted such luxury because I was precocious, I was intelligent, I was
gifted
. There it is. My family saga in its pure, unadulterated form. Have you any more questions for me, suh?”
Webster waited a moment. “Were you on speaking terms with your parents when they died?”
“Yes.”
“Visit them often?”
“No. But we were on speaking terms. Occasionally, I played the dutiful son and called my mother.” He paused a moment, swallowed hard. “I…liked my mother.”
Garrison looked away, spoke softly.
“No one…including my old man whom I disliked…deserves to
die
like that! Slaughtered like a trophy of some
demented man’s hunt. It is an abomination! The man who did it should be destroyed…completely…thoroughly…without remorse.”
Garrison marched back to his bar. With shaking hands, he poured himself another drink. And that’s when Webster realized how much Garrison had been hurting. The drinking and the slovenliness, his way of dealing with grief. Gently, he said, “Been gettin’ outta bed lately, David?”
“What?”
Webster said, “You’ve been showin’ up to work at all?”
Garrison spun around, drink in hand. “I
told
you I just finished a set.”
“Was that before or after what happened at Estelle’s?”
Garrison looked down. “I’ve got a gig lined up in a week. Not to worry, Detective.” He gulped down a shot. “I’ll pull myself together.”
“Your parents were founding members of Greenvale Country Club, correct?”
He stared at Webster. “This is leading somewhere, I hope.”
“Am I correct? They were founding members?”
“You are correct, suh!”
“In your teenage years, you spent some time at the club?”
“I despised the club. And everyone in it.”
Webster paused. “Didn’t hang out there much then?”
“I believe I used the word
despised
, Detective.”
“So you never visited the club as an adult…maybe to meet your parents for dinner there or something like that?”
“Never.” Garrison hesitated. “You’re asking about Greenvale for a reason. Must have something to do with what…what happened at Estelle’s. Does it?”
“The murderer, Harlan Manz…”
“Yes?”
“He worked at Greenvale before going to Estelle’s.”
There was a moment of silence. Garrison’s face was unreadable. “What does that mean?”
“We’re not sure it means anything,” Webster said. “Just trying to get a fix on Manz, hoping to figure out why he
busted loose. Thought maybe you might have spoken to him at Greenvale…could give us a clue about what made him tick.”
“When did he work at the club?”
“’Bout two years ago.”
“No…” Garrison shook his head. “No, suh, I wasn’t around two years ago. I was working off a drug sentence at County. I assume you’re aware of that?”
Webster nodded, hoping his embarrassment wasn’t showing. Stupid of him not to commit the dates to memory.
Garrison sat down. “This murderer…Harlan Manz…he had worked at Estelle’s, right?”
“Yes.”
“He had been at Greenvale, then he went to Estelle’s. My parents were members of Greenvale and they often went to Estelle’s.” His face went white. “Was this monster
stalking
them?”
“I have no evidence—”
“Then
why
are you implying a connection?”
“If I am, I don’t mean to do that. I told you, we’re just trying to figure why Manz freaked. You seem like a real perceptive fellow. I was hoping that maybe you knew him from Greenvale…could lay a little insight on him.”
“I’ve never met the man in my life. You doubt me? Give me a lie detector test.”
Webster chuckled. “That won’t be necessary. You’re not a suspect.”
Not yet
.
Because a sudden seven-figure inheritance really did sound like a right fine motivation for a hit
.
Garrison said, “What did this Manz do at the club?”
“Tended bar—”
“Ah, so I can see why you thought…” Garrison lifted his tumbler of booze and laughed. “No, in my past, I was a coke fiend. I assure you my friendship with Mr. Scotch is of a quite recent nature.” He appeared pensive. “My father drank…he wasn’t a drunk, but he drank. It is conceivable that he ran into this Manz at the club. You might want to ask my sister.”
“Has she spent some time at Greenvale in recent years?”
“She plays tennis there just about every afternoon. She’s a fanatical player, though she isn’t very good. She’s clumsy actually. Although you’d never believe it to look at her. Because she truly is gorgeous.”
“Harlan Manz also taught tennis at Greenvale.”
Garrison’s eyes widened. He gave off an overly loud laugh. “Perchance is someone asking questions of my sister?”
“Someone is talking to her, yes.” Webster looked up from his notes. “Think she might have met Harlan?”
“Detective, if Manz taught at Greenvale, Jeanine not only knew him, but she slept with him.”
Webster waited a beat. “You’re pretty sure about that?”
Garrison raised his glass and grinned. “To paraphrase your boyhood Suthen lingo: Suh, ah gar-run-
tee
!”
With a wave
of her hand, she invited Decker into her personal office. Fabulous view, art on the walls, handsome furniture, and a big desk. A state-of-the-art computer, but nothing on the screen other than the screen saver, a whirl of geometric shapes gliding across the monitor. She took a seat behind her desk, giving no explanation for her delay.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Decker said.
She spoke in a moderated voice. “Why’d you come here? Out of courtesy? Or was it guilt?”
“Guilt?”
“Crime in the city has become rampant. The police have completely lost control. How else could you explain what went on in that place?”
Decker waited. Jeanine made a pair of fists, knuckles whitening. But her eyes remained steady. “How can I help you?”
Decker met her gaze. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Ms. Garrison. I hope my questions won’t be too intrusive or too painful.”
“But perhaps they’ll be both.”
Decker reasssessed the situation. Her demeanor had abruptly changed since their first encounter, leaving him to wonder if she had taken legal advice in his absence. Best to keep it brief. “Certain inconsistencies have come out during our investigation of the tragedy at Estelle’s—”
“Inconsistencies?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jeanine’s gaze was still on him, eyes never wavering. “Go on.”
Decker made a conscious effort not to squirm. “We’re interviewing a number of people. Your parents belonged to Greenvale Country Club, correct?”
Jeanine waited a beat, lips slightly parted. “Why are you asking me this?”
“Pardon?”
“Why are you asking questions about my parents? Why are you dragging them into your investigation?”
A long pause. With a planned casual manner, Decker leaned back in the chair. “It’s a simple question, ma’am. We both know the answer is yes.”
“So why are you asking me the question if you know the answer?”
“Do you know how long they’ve been members?”
“I suppose you know the answer to that one as well.”
“I was under the impression they were founding members…which means they’ve been there for fifteen years.”
“You can count.”
“You spend some time there growing up, ma’am?”
“How do you quantify time?”
“Did you spend weekends there, for example?”
“Sometimes.”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t see how that’s your business, either.”
Decker tapped his pen against his notebook, put on edge by her sexuality and sudden hostility. He had come for simple information. For some reason, she was perceiving it as an interrogation. “Do you spend time at the club now, Ms. Garrison? I know you have privileges through your father’s lifetime membership.”
Jeanine observed Decker with appraising eyes. “Are you hiding some kind of crucial information from me?”
Again, under her scrutiny, Decker found it was hard to appear relaxed. He realized he had tensed up, been sitting with erect posture. He relaxed his shoulders, loosened his
spine. “I wish I were holding back. Unfortunately, I’m not.”
“Then is there a point to all of this?”
Decker rolled his tongue in his cheek. “Is this a bad time for you to talk to me, Ms. Garrison? If it is, I could come back another day.”
She stared at him. “I resent these questions. Actually, not the questions but the subterfuge.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re ostensibly here to ask questions. But in fact, you’re shifting the blame from the LAPD to the victims. Like it was somehow their fault for being in the restaurant.”
“Ms. Garrison, I’m confused—”
“Typical of LAPD philosophy,” she said, dismissively. “My parents were mercilessly…
slaughtered
in a crimeriddled city…and somehow it’s my fault. Or Greenvale Country Club’s fault. You know what? Do me a favor. Stop attending funerals where you don’t belong. Like I don’t have enough grief in my life without the police harassing me.”
Decker let her words hang in the air. Yes, her parents were slaughtered. But he was on
her
side. Why was she drawing lines in the sand? Could be she, like some of the others, had known Harlan and felt guilty about it.
Then he thought about the Garrisons. Marge had said they were worth beaucoup bucks. Inheritance—pause for thought.
He started to ad-lib. “I hear you’re a tennis player. A pretty good one at that.”
Jeanine was quiet. She closed her eyes and opened them, the blue jewels homing in on Decker’s face. “Where’d you hear that?”
He stepped over her inquiry. “How long have you played?”
“A long time.”
“Do you prefer sod or clay?”
“I only play on clay.”
“Yeah, sod leaves too much to chance, not enough to skill.”
“Are you trying to establish rapport with me, Lieutenant?”
Decker gave her a boyish grin. “Probably.”
Jeanine looked downward, took out a tissue and dabbed tearless eyes. “Do you play tennis, Lieutenant?”
“Not too much anymore. I’m getting too old. You need to be in shape.”
Jeanine gave him a once-over, let her aqua-blue eyes linger on his chest, then his face. “You’re big…well-built. Of course, if you lost ten pounds, you’d probably be lighter on your feet.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Ah, well, we all battle the bulge.”
An attempt to extract a compliment? Because the woman was as thin as lamination. Decker smiled. “Some more than others.”
Jeanine smiled back. A sexy smile with healthy teeth…just like the newspaper photographs he had pulled up. It was getting hot in her office. Still looking at him, she said, “Do you ever play charity games?”
“Charity games?”
“Play sports to raise money for charity. Specifically, tennis.”
“I’m not good enough.”
“How about being on an LAPD team? Does the LAPD even have a
tennis
team?”
“I believe we do.”
“We should set something up…for charity. How about police versus the fire department? Or West Valley LAPD versus West Valley LAFD? Proceeds can go to…to building a community center. Or revamping the one we have.”
“Sounds great.”
“I could get you good press coverage. Maybe even show it on cable TV. I’ve got pull. It’s what I’m known for.”
Decker said, “I’m a little dense today. What exactly do you do?”
Jeanine became impatient, but not hostile. “I organize and host charity events. It used to be parties. But now I concentrate on tennis matches. Brings in the right people.”
“The right people?”
Jeanine smiled. “Rich people.”
“Ah—”
“Those who can afford to give money. Tennis lovers seem to be of a higher socioeconomic bracket. Hence, more money. And rightly or wrongly, that’s the bottom line.”
Decker paused. “And you…take a percentage of the gross for your services?”
“Oh, no!” Jeanine was offended. “Every ounce of profit goes to the charity. I take nothing other than the costs of rental or catering or…whatever. It’s called philanthropy—a lost art.”
She sighed.
“My father was very philanthropic. But he lacked time to put his good thoughts into deeds. That’s where I came in. I made it
happen
!”
“But your father finances—”
“Through his charitable foundation, which pays the bills, pays the payroll including my salary. Which is generous. My dad was a very generous…”
Again, she lowered her head, patted at her eyes with a tissue. “I’m sorry…”
“Ms. Garrison, I’m sorry to be opening up wounds—”
“I know. You’re doing your job.” She looked up. “You were the one on TV. The one who said the inside of Estelle’s was your worst nightmare.” She looked solemn. “That was so insightful.”
“Thank you.”
Still grave, Jeanine said, “So…maybe we should set something up? Show the world that we survivors of that terrible tragedy hold no animosity toward the LAPD?”
Decker paused. From the grieving daughter to the society hostess in five minutes. He said, “Let me talk to my captain.”
“I’ll call him if you’d like.”
“Sure. I’ll give you his number in a min—”
“Oh, I have his numbers.” She pointed to her electronic Rolodex. “I’ve been doing this for a while. I have lots of contacts.”
Decker took in her words, wondering how much of it was bravado. Then he remembered the newspaper picture with Jeanine standing between Strapp and the mayor. Casually, he asked, “How long did you take lessons at Greenvale?”
“Years,” Jeanine answered. “I had some talent, but not enough. In the world of professional tennis, you learn your limitations quickly. Instead of moping, I directed my energies into fund-raising. And in that, my friend, I am a star. Do you know that just last month our culture committee’s celebrity-studded party in our library raised over thirty thousand dollars for the new West Valley Art Museum?”
“Really?”
“Yes. I believe your captain was there. Because the mayor was there. And where there are mayors, there are police officials.”
Decker made a mental note to watch his words. Because this one was not only sexy but
sly
. Seductive was the word. Ms. Femme Fatale wrapped in a cloak of charity.
“Have you been there yet? To the museum? We’re strong on the California pleinairists. We’ve opened with two special exhibits right now. Grandville Redmond and Edgar Payne. Both painters are extraordinary.”
“Have to get over there.”
Jeanine glanced at Decker’s hand, at his wedding ring. It didn’t seem to deter her. “If you’d like, I’ll be happy to give you a guided tour.”
Decker smiled. “Thank you, but—”
“How about…” Jeanine pulled out her calendar. “I can do it tomorrow. Twelve or oneish?”
Again, Decker smiled. “I’m booked this week.”
“I’m sure I can call your captain and tell him—”
“No, Ms. Garrison, that’s quite all right. I’m old-fashioned. City pays me to work, I work.”
“Very refreshing.” Again the sexy smile. “How about after work? I could arrange a private tour after the museum’s closed.”
“Thank you, but my family likes me home for dinner.”
“How about after dinner?” Jeanine’s smile turned to a
grin. “You can bring your wife and kids if you’d like. I’m assuming you have children. Most married men do.”
She was toying with him,
vamping
him. And getting the upper hand. He looked directly into her eyes. “Thank you for the invitation. I’ll take you up on it sometime.”
“Do that.”
“Who’d you take tennis lessons from, Ms. Garrison? Someone at Greenvale?”
Jeanine stared at him, slowly put the calendar away. Her face had suddenly turned gelid and unforgiving. “You can call me Jeanine. Why are you so interested in my tennis years?”
Decker shrugged, still holding her eye. “Just wondering if anyone famous ever taught at the club.”
“Famous?” Jeanine’s tone was condescending. “Oh, yes, at one time, I learned with Martina and Jimmy and Chris and John and—”
“I get the point.” Decker was quiet. She wasn’t giving him an inch to work with. “I was just wondering…if anyone remotely known might have ever taught there…spurred your interest in the game.” He stood. “Not important. Sorry to bother you. And I’ll try to get to the museum. Thanks for the tip.”
Jeanine’s eyes turned distant. “You know who
used
to play at Greenvale?”
“Who?” asked Decker, still standing.
“Wade Anthony.”
Decker sat back down, trying to conjure up an image of a face. Nothing. “Don’t know him.”
“I know,” Jeanine said softly. “And that’s too bad. Once, he was a rising star. He was…in his teens when he played at Greenvale. Sixteen to be exact. I was fourteen. I had a mad, mad crush on him.”
She smiled sadly.
“Me and all the other teenyboppers. He was simply gorgeous. Outrageous as well. He had sex with at least two of my friends. Rumor had it that he had sex with some of their mothers as well.”
“Sounds like a tennis player.”
“Yes, he was strictly
bad boy
. My father ordered me to stay clear of him. Of course, I did the opposite. I watched him play almost every day. He was wonderful to watch.”
She was quiet. Decker waited. When she didn’t continue, he prodded further. “What happened to him?”
“Though he was a master tennis player, he was still a sixteen-year-old. He got drunk one night. Took out Daddy’s Ferrari and smashed up the car with him inside. He’s now confined to a wheelchair.”
Decker paused. “That’s very sad.”
“It was more than sad, it was terrible. I was heartbroken. He stopped coming to the club. Just dropped out of sight.”
She faced him.
“I hadn’t thought about him in years. Then about a year ago, I saw an article on him in the sports pages of the
Times
. Not the front of course, page two or three.”
“Really? What’s he doing?”
“Apparently he’s a top-seeded player in
wheelchair
tennis.”
“Wheelchair tennis?”
Jeanine nodded. “Played on a regulation-size court. Only difference is the players in the chairs get two bounces instead of one. Fascinating to see how fast they can move.”
Her mood had suddenly darkened. Decker knew he was treading dangerous ground. “What’d they say about him in the article?”
“It was a write-up on some charity games in New York—a major fund-raiser for the physically challenged. Five hundred fifty a ticket. Do you know who his partner was?
Ivan Lendl
.”
“That’s incredible!”
“It brought back a flood of memories, Lieutenant. I’m glad he’s doing well.”
Decker said, “I don’t mean to sound thick-headed but…did Lendl play in a wheelchair?”
“No.” Jeanine raised her eyes. “It was Wade and Lendl against John McEnroe and some other paraplegic. It drew a huge crowd.” She stared into space. “Wade and Ivan
won. They showed a picture of them…of him. He still looks good…great to be exact!”
Decker looked at her. “Ever think of asking him to play for one of your charities?”
A wistful smile. Jeanine said, “I think we’re a little small-time for him. I had tried to convince Dad to go out for better, more major causes—things like AIDS—but Dad was
so
conservative.”