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“What?”
“No joke. The big one about two miles up the road.”
“Greenvale?”
“That’s the one. Greenvale Country Club.”
“This wasn’t one of Harlan’s delusions? You know this for a fact?”
“Check it out yourself.” She grinned. “Bet they’ll welcome your inquiries with open arms.”
Decker wrote furiously. “How long did he teach at Greenvale?”
“Off and on for about three years.”
“Off and on?”
“Yeah, Harlan couldn’t hold anything steady. Greenvale took him in for summer work. He taught tennis in the day, tended bar at night. Harlan could maintain in short spurts. I mean the guy was good-looking, had a certain amount of charm. And he was well endowed. Used it, too. He made more than a few lonely women very happy.”
“Married women?”
“I said lonely women. ’Course they were married.”
“Lucky he didn’t wind up with a gun to his head.”
“Nah, he wouldn’t do anything dangerous. Greenvale has lots of married women whose husbands are fuckin’ sweet young things. I know because I’ve been there. Not the old, lonely, married woman, but the sweet young thing. Lots of rich geezers in this city. Am I shocking you?”
“Not at all.”
“Yeah, you look pretty worldly. You mess around on your wife?”
“No. So Harlan taught tennis to lonely women?”
“No, he taught tennis to anyone who was assigned to him. Women, girls, men, boys.” Rhonda paused. “Occasionally, he’d give a lesson to some hot shit producer or director. Harlan was big on name-dropping. He’d brag to me that this time, he really made an impression. Jerk … he just didn’t get it. What that poor schmuck wouldn’t have given for the life of a big shot … partying … tennis … doing beautiful, rich women …”
She stared at her empty glass.
“Will you excuse me?”
She left, then came back with a fresh glass. The liquid looked pale, lots of vodka, not too much juice. This time, she nursed her drink.
“I tried to tell him that just because you teach some jack how to ace a serve doesn’t mean he’s going to star you in his next movie. But Harlan …”
“But he must have been a good tennis player to teach.”
“Good enough to teach those yahoos.”
“Good enough to make the circuit?”
“He told me he was actually seeded in the top two hundred or something like that. Maybe it was true. But probably not. Harlan lived in fantasies.”
“But he was a member of SAG.”
“Sure, he got a few parts … just enough to feed his delusional brain. Lieutenant, Harlan was a hanger-on. A walking-around guy.”
“Pardon?”
“A walking-around guy. There’s lots of egomaniacal people out there. No offense to Barbra, but people who need people are not the luckiest people. In fact, they’re cursed. They need people to create their identity, to feel important, to look busy, and to be wanted. And they’re rich enough to buy these little trained spider monkeys like Kato and his ilk to walk around with. So the hot dogs never look unattended. That’s what Harlan was. He was a walking-around guy.”
Tears ran down her cheek. She turned her head, fiercely swiped her eyes.
“I still have feelings for him. That shock you?”
“Not at all.” Decker waited a beat. “Can we talk a minute about Harlan’s termination at Estelle’s?”
“Nothing to say. He broke their cardinal rule. Customer is always right.”
“But he was upset—”
“Of course he was upset. He was furious. Some drunken A-hole gets abusive and Harlan’s canned. I was so angry, I almost came down and made a scene.”
She seemed to wilt.
“Then … I don’t know. I guess I thought it was par for the course. Harlan getting axed.”
“Did Harlan continue to talk about it?”
“At first, he talked about getting even. I thought it was just talk … venting.” With watery eyes, she looked at Decker, pointedly. “God, I need to fuck.”
“Why’d you kick him out of your life, Rhonda?”
She sighed. “I found someone else. Also a loser, but at least he’s gainfully employed. A porno actor. Ernie Beldheim aka King Whopper. Can you believe that name?”
“It shows a certain amount of creativity. How did Harlan take the breakup?”
Rhonda sat on a bentwood rocker, legs pushing against the floor, her body moving back and forth. She gazed upward, eyes on her sky ceiling. “I wasn’t real tactful. I told him I was dumping him because he wasn’t big enough.”
Tears streamed down her face.
“I wanted to hurt him. Because he’d been messing around on me for so damn long. If I had known he was so unstable, I wouldn’t have …”
“You couldn’t have known, Rhonda.”
She looked down into her orange juice glass as if reading tea leaves. “After we broke up, he did things. Weird things. I guess I knew he was flipping out. But I didn’t know it would lead to this.”
“Of course not. What did he do?”
Rhonda returned her eyes to Decker. “Tried to scare me. Made calls in the middle of the night, ranted on about how he was going to get me. But I never took him seriously.” She looked up. “Thinking it over, I have a feeling I was one of the lucky ones.”
True enough. Decker pointed to her duffel bag. “Where are you planning to go?”
Rhonda stopped rocking, blew out air. “I got an offer to do a gig in Hawaii. Some honcho wants me to paint Playboy playmates on his walls. No accounting for tastes.”
“Vacation might do you good.”
“Hope so.”
Decker said, “Do you have some old pictures of him?”
“Maybe one or two. Why?”
“I didn’t find any recent pictures of Harlan in his apartment.”
Rhonda was taken aback. “That’s odd. I know he has a portfolio—”
“No, I found that. I’m talking about things like photo albums.”
She shrugged. “Weird. Because we took quite a few …” She smiled. “Quite a few compromising ones. After we broke up, he told me he was going to send them to my mother. I told him to go ahead … ain’t nothing she’s never seen before.”
“Did he?”
“If he did, Mom never said a word.”
Decker said, “Rhonda, if Harlan was a member of SAG, he must have had an agent.”
“He had a couple light-years ago. Fired them all.”
Decker’s beeper went off. Rhonda stood up from the rocker. “Phone’s on the wall.”
Decker’s eyes scanned the mural, rested on a painted phone kiosk. Mounted on the wall, inside the painted booth, was a real, three-dimensional pay phone. “Do I need money to make the call?”
“Credit card’s fine.”
Decker said, “I’m slow on the uptake, didn’t get much sleep. I can’t tell if you’re putting me on.”
Rhonda smiled tightly. “It was a joke.”
“Sorry to be so dense.”
“Mr. Dumb Lug.” Rhonda rolled her eyes. “About as slow as a roadrunner. Sly, too. So why do I find myself trusting you? Is that how you extract confessions? You get people to trust you, then you slam them?”
“I don’t slam anyone, least of all someone like you.” Decker looked at the pager’s number. Strapp’s office.
Rhonda said, “I’ll be back in a minute. Help yourself to the phone.”
“Thanks.” Decker punched in numbers; the captain picked up on the fifth ring.
“Get over to the station house. Community is planning a major memorial for Estelle’s victims this afternoon. You’re expected to be there. Show some community support and help me field the press.”
“I’ll be at my office in ten minutes.”
Strapp said, “Good quote yesterday, Decker. About the scene being your worst nightmare. If you can think up a few more like that … something that shows compassion … that would be good for us … for LAPD.”
Decker was silent.
Strapp said, “Look, I know it sounds politico, but tough. This is our chance to make a good impression. Our asses have been fried in print for so long, it would be real nice if we could be represented as the public servants we really are.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Good, then. Get down here. We’ll strategize together.”
7 (#ulink_6bacec81-afe7-5890-b94e-43dcc898f858)
After a full day of hospital visits, bereavement calls, and heart-wrenching services for the dead, Decker made it back to the station house, his energy depleted, his brain crashing against his skull like a tidal wave. Advil wouldn’t cut it. Dry-mouthed, he swallowed a couple of Darvocets, but knew even that wouldn’t be enough. Rooting in his shirt pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Lit up a smoke and rubbed his aching temples. Marge came in a few moments later, holding a half-dozen manila envelopes which she used to fan away smoke.
“You must feel like shit warmed over.”
Decker stubbed out the cigarette. “Trying to compose myself before I go home. I don’t want Rina to see me like this. How’d the interviews go? Learn anything?”
“Depressingly unremarkable. Can I sit?”
“Of course.” Decker pointed to a chair, eyed his smoke.
“Go ahead, Pete. I remember well your smoking days.”
“Just a temporary lapse.” Again, Decker lit up. “Tell me about the interviews.”
“Nothing to tell. Bullets started flying, people started screaming, running for cover. Truly terrifying.” Marge paused, collected her thoughts. “From what I could gather, it seems that Harlan wasn’t deliberate in his shooting. Didn’t shoot at any one person specifically, or even aim at people for that matter. He just opened fire. A lot of it. The boys and I have been comparing notes. They agree with that assessment.”
Marge paused.
“Since this kind of thing is rare, I don’t really know what’s considered the typical behavior for mass murderers.”
“Off the top of my head, the compatibles that come to mind are Tasmania, the Long Island Railroad, the San Ysidro McDonald’s, and Dunblane—”
“The elementary school in Scotland.” Marge paled. “God, what a world!”
Decker inhaled his smoke, tried to keep his mind focused. “I remember that in Tasmania and in San Ysidro, the murderer aimed at people. Picked them off like prey. But you’re saying that wasn’t what happened. Harlan just sprayed the place.”
“Appears that way. We’ve been working a time frame … how many minutes did the actual shooting last? Time elongates during these catastrophic events. What seems like hours could have been minutes. At the moment, we’re guesstimating.”
She held up the manila envelopes.
“I picked these up for you. Just came in from the Coroner’s Office. Probably some prelim autopsy reports. Want me to go over them? You look tired.”
Decker sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, breathed in wisps of nicotined air. “Who’s still out there?”
“All of us—Scott, Tom, Bert. We’re still writing up reports. Oh, Gaynor left about an hour ago. He said you told him to work on the case at home.”
