Serpent's Tooth (3 page)

“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 mochacolored. 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.”

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…untampered 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.