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“Yes. Go on.”
“Those same bullets … flying in the same direction … should have entered Mrs. Garrison through her chest and exited her back. Instead, it’s just the opposite. What’d Harlan do? Shoot in one position, then move to the opposite side and shoot in the other?”
Marge was silent. “Weird.”
“Perhaps a bit suspicious,” Decker said.
“Maybe Harlan immediately picked off one of them, walked around and shot a little bit more, then changed his direction and picked the other one off.”
“But that contradicts what you just reported … that the shooter wasn’t picking people off.” Decker sat back in his chair. “Taken out of the context of Estelle’s … even forgetting about all the eyewitness accounts … just looking at the forensics … it looks deliberate. It warrants further investigation.”
“I concur.”
“So this is what I want you to do. I want you to go over the list of the victims and find out if any of them belonged to Greenvale Country Club.”
Marge stared at him. “Now there’s a non sequitur. Why?”
“Because Harlan once worked there.”
“So?”
“Well, it’s like this. I see lots of stray bullets and unexplained bullet trajectories. Suggestive of maybe more than one shooter—”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly. I told you this is speculation.”
“Go on,” Marge urged.
“I’m just wondering if this isn’t a botched hit masked as a mass murder. Looking at the case from that perspective, I’d like to see if maybe we can find a connection between Harlan and a specific victim.”
“Harlan Manz committed suicide, Pete. Most hit men don’t whack themselves.”
“Maybe he didn’t whack himself. If it was a botched hit, maybe the second shooter whacked him by accident—”
Marge made a face.
“I know I’m stretching. Ballistics confirms that the bullet in Harlan’s head matches the gun.” Decker paused. “I’m trying to make sense out of it … looking for a catalyst that drove him over the edge. Even if I’m completely off base, it wouldn’t hurt us or LAPD to be thorough. Get all the possible connections so we don’t get caught with our pants down.”
Marge nodded. “No big deal to cross-check the victims against Greenvale’s membership list. How do I get hold of the names?”
“Uh … that might be a bit of a problem.”
Marge stared at him. “You’ve asked them for a list?”
“Yes.”
“And they’ve refused.”
“That sums it up.”
“So now what?”
“Harlan’s employment at the club was kept secret … off the record. Now you could go down and be intimidating … threaten you’ll leak the information to the press unless they help you out. Or you could be quiet and discreet. There are thirteen victims. You could try to contact their surviving relatives and friends. Casually ask them if the victims belonged to Greenvale.”
“And if they did?”
Decker twirled his thumbs. “Ask them if the victims took tennis lessons at the club. If they did, maybe they’ve met an instructor named Hart Mansfield, known to us as Harlan Manz.”
Decker recapped his conversation with Barry Fine. “Or maybe they might have met Harlan/Hart at a party.”
“And?”
“I don’t know, Marge,” Decker said. “Just go out and seek and maybe we’ll find something. Or if you’re tired, you can call it a day. All of this can wait.”
“No, it’s all right.” She smiled bitterly. “Lucky for you, I canceled my heavy date.”
Decker looked at her. “You need some time off, hon?”
Her smiled turned warm. “You care. That’s so sweet.”
Decker laughed softly. “Why don’t you and Scott come over on Sunday for a barbecue.”
“Why do you always invite me and Scott?”
“Margie, I invite you, he finds out, calls you up. Then you wind up inviting him along out of pity. I’m just saving you the agenting.”
He was right. Marge said, “Sure, I’ll come. I’m tired and lonely and ain’t about to play hard to get. Your family’s the only thing that gives me a sense of normalcy. It’s really pathetic.”
“Honey, my family’s the only thing that gives me a sense of normalcy.”
“Then we’re both pathetic.”
“I call it dedicated.” Decker grinned. “But I’m big on euphemisms.”
Pulling the Volare into the driveway, shutting off the motor, Decker sat for a few moments, enjoying the dark and the silence. It was restful. It was peaceful. For a few blissful seconds, he was utterly alone and without obligation and it felt wonderful. He took a deep breath, let his body go slack, allowed his eyes to adjust to the shadows and starlight. He might have sat even longer except he suddenly realized there was a red Camaro parked curbside.
Cindy’s car.
His heart started to flutter. His daughter was supposed to be in school three thousand miles away. What did this mean? After he had asked the question, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer.
He bolted out of the Volare, unlocked his front door. She stood when he crossed the threshold, gave him a timid wave and a “Hi, Daddy.”
A beautiful girl in a big, strong way. She was around five ten, built with muscle and bone. Her face was sculpted with high cheekbones; her complexion was overrun with freckles but as smooth as marble. Wide-set, deep-brown eyes, long, flaming red hair, a white, wide smile. She photographed well, had done some small-time modeling to make some pocket change a few years back. But it wasn’t for her. Her career goals focused on jobs involving her mind equally with her heart. Cynthia was a girl of extreme generosity and blessed intellect.
She was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, some kind of army boot as shoes. She looked troubled. No doubt why she was here instead of in New York.
“My goodness!” Decker gave his daughter a bear hug. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
“Something like that.”
Before he could question her, Rina came into the room, smiled, and said, “She just showed up on the doorstep. I let her in. I take it that’s okay with you.”
“More than okay.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Go wash up and sit down.”
“Baby asleep?”
“For about an hour, Baruch Hashem. She is getting so feisty. But sharp as a whip. Takes after her daddy … and her sister.”
“In the feistiness or sharpness?”
“Both.”
Cindy laughed.
Decker said, “Maybe I’ll say hi to the boys first.”
“They’re not home. Sammy and Jake went with some friends for pizza.”
Perversely, Decker felt relieved. One less human element to deal with. Then he felt guilty. They were his sons, for godsakes. But then again, they were doing what they wanted to do. Why should he feel negligent if they were out having a good time? He realized that within the span of a few moments, his emotions had gone the gamut. Which meant he was unstable. Not the best time to deal with his daughter, who obviously had a thing or two on her mind.
After he had washed, Cindy led him to the table. “Sit. Rina made a delicious stew. One of those dishes that gets better the longer you cook it.”
“With my hours, she cooks a lot of those,” Decker said wryly. “Are you going to join me? Tell me what’s going on?”
“It can wait until after dinner.”
“That bad?”
“It isn’t bad at all.”
Rina came back in, set up dinner for her husband. “I told them to be home by eleven. Do you think I gave them too much freedom?”
“No, not at all.”
“It’s just that Sammy’s so excited.”
“It’s a big event in a boy’s life.”
“A girl’s too,” Cindy said. “I remember when I got my license. The feeling of freedom … it was … exhilarating.”
“Never knew you felt that oppressed.” Decker smiled.
“It wasn’t that—”
“Cindy, he’s teasing you,” Rina broke in. “It doesn’t deserve an answer.” She gently slugged her husband’s good shoulder. “I know you’re tired and cranky, but be nice.”
“I am cranky.” Decker ate a few heaping tablespoons. “This is wonderful. Did you eat, Cin?”
Cindy nodded, smiled. But she seemed anxious. Decker felt a protest in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was his daughter’s nervousness or hunger pangs. After two bowls of stew, two helpings of salad, and a couple of cups of decaf, he felt ready to take on his daughter.
Take on.
As if there were an impending battle.
Rina excused herself, went into the kitchen to clean up. Cindy suggested they talk in the living room. Decker took a seat on the suede couch, patted the space next to him. Cindy sat, but her spine was ramrod straight. She was all tics and fidgets. Finally, she said, “I quit the program.”
Decker absorbed her words. “You quit the program. Meaning you’re no longer in school.”
“Yes. I have my master’s, I’m tired of all the bullsh … of all the academic hurdles. I don’t need a Ph.D. It does me no good other than to teach the same material to other Ph.D. candidates.”
Decker rolled his tongue inside his cheek. “After six years of tuition and room and board, when you’re finally self-supporting with scholarships and fellowships, you now decide to quit?”
Cindy glared at him. “You are kidding, aren’t you?”
“Of course I’m kidding.” Sort of. Decker leaned back. “So …”
“So …”
Decker said, “I guess I should be a parent. Maybe ask about your plans. Like … do you have any?”
“I think I need to get a job.”
“Good start.” Decker bit his mustache. “Want me to ask around the department … see if I can get you on as a part-time consultant?”
“Won’t be necessary.”
“You’ve found a job.”
“Yes, I have.” She closed her eyes, then opened them. “Daddy, I joined the Police Academy. Actually, I signed up a while ago. But you know how it works. There’s the exam, then the personal checks, then I had to wait until they started hiring again. Anyway, it’s a done deal. I’m starting in three months, right after the first.”
Decker stared at his daughter. “This is a joke, right?”
“No joke.” She opened her purse, pulled out a few sheets of paper. “Here’s a copy of their letter of acceptance. Here’s my letter of commitment—”
“So you haven’t mailed anything in.”
“Yes, I have. See, these are just copies. The originals are at home or with the Academy.” She held the paper up for her father to see. “See, right here—”
Angrily, Decker batted them away. He stood up and began to pace. “Cynthia, what on earth could have possibly possessed you—”
“Dad, before our emotions get the better of us, can we be reasonable?”
