Authors: Faye Kellerman
“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 dig
ging 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.”
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 re
ports 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…”