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“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.”
5 (#ud6892401-67f0-55cf-9fce-03a2326414eb)
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.
