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 … un-tampered 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.
The girl reeked of mint—hiding her booze breath with Scope or Certs—leaving Decker to wonder if the orange juice glass Rhonda Klegg held in a white-knuckled grip had been laced with vodka. He presented his badge. She examined it carefully, then allowed him inside. The place pulsated with color, throwing Decker’s equilibrium off balance. The slamming door brought him back into focus.
“Sorry about being so paranoid,” Rhonda stated. “Thought you might be the press.”
Decker blinked. “Have people been bothering you?”
“Not since I took my phone off the hook.”
She offered him coffee; Decker nodded yes. Cream and sugar? Straight black was fine.
With trembling hands, Rhonda sipped her orange juice, stared at him. He stared back at a ravaged, ashen face, lifeless blue eyes and thin pale lips. She probably hadn’t gotten much sleep. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her hair had been bleached candy-apple red and was tied back into a ponytail. She had a nose-pierce, the helices of her outer ears completely covered with tiny hoops and studs. Lots of chains dangled from the many holes in her earlobes. She was garbed in jeans and a white T-shirt, wore a denim work shirt as a jacket. Her feet were stuffed in lace-up ankle boots.
She finished her juice and said, “I really don’t have anything to say.” She held aloft her empty glass. “Get you one of these along with your Colombian?”
“No, thank you. Just a cup of coffee would be fine.”
“Mind if I take another?”
“Of course not.”
“S’cuse.”
She disappeared behind a swinging door painted to simulate a wooden lattice intertwined with blooming pink rose vines. Indeed, Rhonda had used her entire apartment as her canvas, living art done up in the style of classical Mediterranean gardens. Painted boxwood hedges replaced baseboard molding. Behind the hedges—on the wall itself—were trellises of ivy and flowering vines, citrus orchards, classical marble statuary, and fountains—all of it serving as a foreground for distant, rolling green hills. Her perspective was outstanding. Decker felt dizzy from the three-dimensional effect. The molding and ceiling had been bathed in light blue hues, tufted with clouds, and populated with gliding blackbirds and a circling hawk.
So distracting was the scene, Decker hadn’t noticed the furniture. But it was there and it made a statement. An old carved English park bench sided by two upside-down garbage cans doubling as end tables. The room also had an Adirondack lounge upon which rested a duffel bag, and two bentwood rockers. Old-fashioned streetlamps had been placed in the corners, and the hardwood floor had become a windblown field of grass—green swaying blades laced with yellow dandelions and clumps of white clover.
Rhonda returned with Decker’s coffee, more orange juice for herself.
Decker thanked her. “Interesting place you’ve got here. You’re very talented.”
She sipped her juice. “Ain’t gonna make Architectural Digest, but it suits me.” Her eyes hardened. “Although this town is sure filled with star-fuckers. Think the ex-girlfriend of a homicidal maniac counts?”
Decker was quiet.
“Hollyweird. A penchant for the bizarre. Sure I can’t get you some OJ as in orange juice?”
“I’m fine, Rhonda.” Decker’s eyes fell on the duffel bag. “Impromptu vacation?”
“I’m getting outta here. At least until this thing blows over. Who the hell wants this kind of notoriety?”
A savvy point. Decker placed his mug on an upside-down trash container. “Is that okay?”
Rhonda laughed. “It’s a garbage can. I’m not exactly worried about coffee rings.” She looked him up and down. “You’re cute. Wanna fuck?”
“No, thank you.”
“I look like shit, huh?”
“You look fine, Rhonda.” Decker took out his notepad. “You know, the sooner we get started, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”
“You’re gonna ask me questions about Harlan?”
“Yep.”
“Why do you care? He’s dead.” Her eyes watered. “They’re all dead. I thought the only things that the pigs cared about were looking good on the witness stand and beating up minorities. You’re real big. I bet you’ve punched around more than your fair share of niggers.”
Decker said, “Me? I shuffle paper.”
“Bullshit,” Rhonda shot out. “You look defensive, cop. Betcha I hit a nerve. See, we all have pasts. So don’t you go judging me like I’m some freak because I hooked up with a nutcase.”
“I don’t think you’re a freak, Rhonda. Right now, I see you as a very vulnerable woman.”
“Where’d they teach you that? Cop Psych 101? You should stick to pounding the shit outta motorists.”
Decker was quiet.
She gave him a long hard stare. “You were there last night, weren’t you? At Estelle’s?”
“I was there the entire night.”
“I saw you on TV. You’re the one who said it looked like your worst nightmare.”
“Glad to be remembered as a sound bite.”
“You’re also in today’s paper—picture, quote, and all.” She glared at him. “You had tears in your eyes.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah, you did. Did they also teach you how to cry in Cop Psych 101? Or was it Cop Compassion 101?”
Decker offered a sad smile. “Wish I conformed to your hard-ass image. I’d sleep better at night.”
Again, her eyes moistened. She rubbed her cheeks, wiped away tears. “I’m real attracted to you. Sure you don’t want to fuck? Might put me in a gabby mood.”
“I’m going to have to pass.”
“You’re married?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t care.”
“But I do. Can we get started?”
“Why do you need to ask any questions if the case is solved?”
“Because there are still lots of unanswered questions—”
“Like why he did it?” She gulped her juice. “Hell if I know.” She cocked her hip. “I knew I had bad taste in men. But this …”
“You called yourself an ex-girlfriend.”
“This is true.”
“When did you two break up?”
“You mean, when did I kick him out? ’Bout four months ago.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Rhonda let out a bitter laugh. “’Cause I got sick of his running around. More than that, I just got sick of Harlan Manz. The man with the plans that never panned out.”
“He was an actor?”
“He was a jerk.”
Decker waited.
Rhonda sighed. “Harlan was a professional wannabe. Wannabe actor, wannabe model, wannabe tennis pro, wannabe stud, wannabe this, wannabe that. What he was … was a nothing.”
Decker said, “In his apartment, I saw film posters with his name on them.”
“Yeah, he was a card-carrying member of SAG. Showed it to you at every opportunity. Those films were shelved, never even made it to video … what is your rank again?”
“Lieutenant.”
“A big shot.”
“A legend in my own mind.”
Rhonda smiled briefly. “Harlan was …” She sighed. “He was a slacker … a loser with a good backhand. And that’s about it, bub.”
“A wannabe tennis pro.” Decker waited a beat. “So he had tennis ambitions?”
“Maybe. Guy had some talent but not good enough to be pro. He used to teach tennis at a country club—”
“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.
