Read the book: «Serpent’s Tooth»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

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

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About the Author

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About the Publisher

1

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

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

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

“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.”