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“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.”
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“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.”
