Serpent’s Tooth

All business, he made phone calls, signed papers, went over reports, checked in with his detectives, then buried himself in pathology reports and bullet trajectories for the next four hours. Head buzzing, he finally broke for lunch at one-thirty. At his desk, he opened his brown bag—two chicken sandwiches, two pieces of fruit, two bottles of Martinelli’s sparkling apple juice, and a half dozen cookies. Food that could be easily eaten in a car.

He took his lunch and his briefcase and headed for the Volare. Within minutes, he was on the road, felt his shoulders relax, his face go slack with freedom.

Devonshire division patrolled a varied geographical area—some residential, some small business, some factories, and lots of rolling foothills and fallow acreage waiting for a land boom that was always “just around the corner.” Developers ran scared out here and not without reason. The district had been the center of two major earthquakes, was Saharan hot in the summer, and was situated far from city action. Still, it was God’s green acres in the late autumn—glorious blue skies with long stretches of wildflower fields and oak-dotted hills ribboned with miles of hiking and horse trails. Giant sycamores and menthol-laden eucalyptus swayed in the winds.

The division also contained several million-dollar housing developments—big mama, multiroomed mansions floating in seas of green lawn. The gated communities ran complete with pools, spas, tennis courts, recreation rooms, and banquet facilities. When Greenvale Country Club opened its doors fifteen years ago, Decker wondered why the rich would join a club, paying hefty premiums for amenities available on their own premises.

Yet Greenvale had made itself a known quantity. Though it wasn’t as prestigious as some of the older, established L.A. clubs, it had its own cachet, boasting an elitist membership and hosting its fair share of society weddings and black-tie-only charity events. It seemed that human beings had an infinite capacity to rate—to separate and segregate into in-or-out crowds.

The club sat on twenty-five acres, the buildings obscured by umbrellas of specimen trees. As the Volare chugged up the long, shaded drive, Decker noticed several gardeners tending the lawns and numerous flower beds. Going into the fall, they were planting jewel-colored pansies. Within moments, the buildings came into view, Tudor in style, but with L.A. modifications: thin brick facing over stucco because solid brick crumbled in earthquakes. There were several structures loosely connected to one another, probably built at different times. Lots of stained glass, lots of crossbeams and peaked roofs. A theme park re-creation of the Tower of London.

By the time Decker reached the gatehouse, he had finished his lunch. Displaying his badge, he told uniformed guards that he was there to speak to the manager. And no, he did not have an appointment. His sudden appearance was disruptive to their sleepy flow. The guards conferred, scratched their heads, made phone calls, until one of them decided to lift the booth’s restraining arm, told Decker to handle it at the front desk.

Instead of parking in the ample lot, Decker used the circular entrance driveway and instructed the valets to keep the car in front. With reticence, a red-coated attendant settled the ten-year-old algae-green Volare between a sleek black Jag and a dowager brown Mercedes.

Through the double doors and into a two-story white-marble-floor rotunda. The walls were wainscoted—walnut panels on the bottom, cream-colored paint on top. A circular band of white rococo molding marked the division between the walls and the ceiling. A giant canopy of crystal lights dangled from an ornate plaster medallion. The rest of the dome was painted with angels and cherubs floating on cotton clouds in a turquoise sky. A winding staircase carpeted with plush peach pile led to a second-floor landing. In front was a short hallway that bled into a paneled library/reading room. Decker strolled to the front desk which was tucked away on the right-hand side. A bespectacled thirtysomething blonde sat behind a glass window; she slid it open and smiled.

“Can I help you?”

“Probably.” Decker held up his badge. “Lieutenant Peter Decker, LAPD. Who’s in charge at the moment?”

The blonde’s smile faded, wary brown eyes looking him over. “Let me make a phone call, sir.”

With that, the woman shut the glass window and dialed. Her face was expressive—the wrinkled brow, the down-turned lips. It was clear she was getting bawled out by the person on the other end of the line. She hung up, reopened the window.

“Can I take your name and number and have someone call you back this afternoon?”

Decker smiled. “Why don’t you get back on the phone and tell your boss that I’m getting pushy.”

She closed the window a second time. Reopened it, told him that someone would be coming and he should take a seat. Decker glanced at the satin-covered French-style benches. Looked way too small and very uncomfortable. He elected to stand.

Within minutes, a man jogged through the hallway. Short, stocky, a head of curls and a shadowed face even though he’d recently shaved. He was built like a tank—barrel chest, thick legs creasing his gray slacks, muscle-packed forearms. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled to his elbows. He stuck out a meaty hand but kept walking.

“Barry Fine. Follow me.”

Fine never broke step. Decker kept pace with him through the hallway, into the club’s library/reading room—as big as an arena. More leather here than at a rodeo. Hard to notice any people in the soft lighting. Perhaps it was because they were hidden in the corners or behind the backs of wing chairs. But Decker could ascertain signs of life—the clearing of a throat, the rustle of a newspaper, a hushed conversation between a man and his cellular phone. A uniformed waiter traversed the furniture maze, a tray of drinks balanced on the palm of his hand.

“This way,” Fine said.

Steering him away from the room. The message being: no fraternizing with the elite.

Fine unlocked a piece of paneling which turned out to be a door. He held it open for Decker, who crossed the threshold.

The business offices. No luxury here. Just working space and cramped at that. As Decker’s eyes adjusted to the glare of bright, fluorescent lighting, he noticed stark-white walls, linoleum flooring. A phone was ringing, lots of clicking computer keys. Fine led Decker into his cubicle, shut the glass door. He sat back in his desk chair, thick sausage fingers folded together, resting in his lap.

“Mind if I have a look at your identification?”

Decker showed him his badge, flipped the cover back, and pocketed the billfold after Fine had nodded.

“Please.” Fine pointed to a folding chair and Decker sat. “Must be important to send out a lieutenant.”

“Thanks for seeing me. I have a few questions. Thought that you might be able to help me.”

“Questions about …”

“Harlan Manz.”

Fine’s face remained stoic. “The monster who shot up Estelle’s.”

Decker said, “I understand he worked here for a while.”

Fine said, “You’ve been misinformed.”

Decker rolled his tongue in his mouth. “How long have you worked here, Mr. Fine?”

“Seven years.”

“And you’re saying that Harlan Manz never worked here?”

“To the best of my recollection, that is correct.”

“To the best of your recollection?” Decker waited a beat. “Sir, this isn’t a grand jury.”

Fine didn’t flinch. “I always try to be as specific as possible.”

“Perhaps you knew him under a different name—”

“Don’t think so.” Fine stood. “I’ll walk you out.”

Decker remained seated. “Mr. Fine, are you honestly telling me that Harlan Manz never worked in this country club?”

“Never heard of the man until he hit the news,” Fine said. “Not that I’m about to do it, but if push came to shove, I’d open my books and show you. Never had a Harlan Manz on the payroll.”

“Ah …” Decker licked his lips. “You paid him in cash.”

Fine’s smile turned hard. “Lieutenant, I don’t have to talk to you. You get pushy, I call the owners. The owners get upset and they call their lawyers. The lawyers get upset, they call your captain. Gets you a black mark on your record.”

Decker stared him down. “Are you threatening me, sir?”

The tip of Fine’s nose turned red. He stammered, “No, I’m just pointing out a logical chain of events.”

Decker lied straight-faced. “Harlan Manz had listed income from Greenvale Country Club on his 1040 federal tax forms—”

“You’re bluffing,” Fine busted in.

“As well as state—”

“What is this? A shakedown?”

“No, Mr. Fine, this is a simple fact-finding mission. Quiet, discreet, friendly. Be a shame if damaging information was leaked to the press, that an insane mass murderer once worked here as staff.”

Fine raised his voice. “He was never on staff!”

“You explain that distinction to the press.”

“Now who’s threatening whom?”

“I’m not threatening you, I’m telling you. Press wants information about Harlan, I’m more than happy to oblige. You want to sue me for false allegations, go right ahead. Only in court, you can’t bluff. Because if you do, that’s perjury.”

Fine started to protest, but turned quiet. He buried his head in his hands. “The stupid idiot! I told him it was strictly off the record. He promised me …” He looked up at Decker. “I can’t read your face. Ever play poker?”

Decker took out a notebook and pen. “Tell me about Harlan.”

Fine let out a gush of air. “Worked here about two years ago. Used the name Hart Mansfield … supposedly his stage name, though I’ve never seen him on any sort of a screen. A summer fill-in. All cash. Nothing on the books. That’s it.”

“What were his assignments?”

“Not much. Which was why he wasn’t on staff. He taught tennis when we were short-staffed. In the summertime, our regular instructors go on vacation.”

“I was told he tended bar as well.”

“He was an extra pair of hands when we had a big event.”

“And you paid him in cash for bartending as well?”

“Yep.” Fine bit his lip, ran a hand through his curly hair. “Not that I was doing funny business with the books. The cash-out was listed under miscellaneous expenses. I just never bothered to put him on the payroll.”

“Owners know he worked here?”

Fine rubbed his face. “Hasn’t come up … yet.”

“You haven’t received phone calls from some of the membership?”

“Sure I got a few phone calls. People asking ‘Was that asshole at Estelle’s the guy who used to work here?’ kind of thing. Names were different. I told them no.”

“You lied?”

“If it should come back to haunt me, I simply made a mistake because the names were different.”

Fine grimaced.

“You want to know something, Lieutenant? The people who called me … far from being squeamish … they hung up from the conversation disappointed. It was an exciting notion to them … a safe brush with the dark side. Personally, I think it’s sick. But then again, I just cater to the rich. I don’t really understand them.”

“They accepted your denials?”

“I tell them it’s not the same guy, they don’t have the conviction of character to debate me.”

“And the owners don’t know about Harlan working here?”

“No. Owners know a great deal about the membership, but not too much about staff. They don’t want to be bothered with business details. That’s what they pay me for. And like I said before, I’ve accounted for Harlan’s expenses. Just not on the payroll—”

“Avoiding taxes and Social Security—”

“Hired him as freelance. Club’s only responsible for the taxes and Social Security of its full-time employees. And Harlan never worked enough hours to warrant putting him on the payroll. Our books are clean. You find cause to subpoena our books, you won’t find a hint of an irregularity.”

“Owners won’t be happy if Harlan’s alias is publicized.”

“No, they won’t be. I’ll probably be blamed. And I’ll probably lose my job.”

“That’s not my goal, sir.”

“But it still may be an end result.” Fine blew out air. “Hell with it. What else do you want to know, Lieutenant?”

“Harlan taught tennis?”

“Yes.”

“Groups? Individuals?”

“Mostly private lessons.”

“How was Harlan with his tennis students?”

“Never had a complaint. If I had, Harlan would have been out on his ass.” Fine smiled, but it lacked warmth. “I wish someone had complained. It would play a lot better with the bosses if I had fired the guy.”

“Why didn’t you hire him on as a regular?”

“’Cause he was a jerk. Sure, he was okay for an occasional lesson, but that’s about all. All these wannabes.” He shook his head. “If I hired tennis instructors and bartenders on the basis of stability, I wouldn’t have much of a roster. Harlan was also chronically late and drank a lot. But …”

The manager paused, held a finger in the air.

“He usually showed up when called. And that’s about as much as you can hope for in a temp. You have no idea how flaky a summer staff can be.”

“I’ve heard that Harlan had some potential as a tennis player.”

“Actually, he wasn’t bad. Wasn’t pro quality, of course, but he had some power serves. Good speed. A natural athlete. But that isn’t enough. You want to make it big, you’ve got to work … train. We’ve got a couple of members on the circuits. They train here every single day, usually start at something like six in the morning. They’re talented, but even more, they’re dedicated. Harlan? Sure, he had some talent, but he lacked drive. Takes a heap of both to make it in the pros.”

“Did Harlan have any regular students when he worked here?”

“Strictly fill-in. His schedule changed daily depending on who was on vacation or who called in sick.”

“Did he ever get chummy with any of his students?”

“If he did, I never heard about it.”

But Decker wasn’t so sure that Fine was being up front. “If you didn’t get complaints about him, did you ever get compliments about him?”

A fire lit in Fine’s eye, smoldered quickly. “No.”

“None of your ladies ever say to you what a fine teacher he was?”

“Are you implying something?”

“Asking a question, sir.”

Fine said, “It was a long time ago, Lieutenant. I don’t remember so well.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me names?”

“You’re right about that. Anything else?”

“Just one more question. Were any of the people tragically murdered at Estelle’s also members of the club?”

Fine turned red. “You know I’m not going to answer that. I think I’ve been very patient.”

Decker smiled. “You’ve been helpful. Thank you.”

Fine said, “Explain something to me, Lieutenant.”

“If I can, sure.”

“What do you possibly … hope to accomplish by digging up Harlan aka Hart’s past? He’s dead. I thought analyzing nutcases was the bailiwick of shrinks, not cops.”

Man had a point. Decker’s job was cleaning up the crime scene, not doing psychiatric Monday morning quarterbacking. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure why he was there … trying to make sense out of the incomprehensible.

Decker said, “This was a horrible event. A very big case with lots of publicity, lots of questions and finger-pointing. LAPD has a vested interest in tying up loose ends.”

Fine was incredulous. “That’s it? You take time away from my business to grill me … just to tie up loose ends?”

“Yes, sir, that’s exactly right. I’m tying up loose ends. You know why, Mr. Fine? Because you leave a loose end hanging around, the sucker has an annoying tendency to unravel.”

9

Marge knocked on Decker’s doorjamb, walked through the open door to his office. “A one eighty-seven came in while you were gone—a domestic turned nasty. Wife took the bullet between her eyes. I was in court, so Oliver and Martinez caught the call. If you want, I can go join them.”

Decker frowned, took off his reading glasses. “Why didn’t someone page me?”

“We did,” Marge said. “You didn’t answer.”

“What?” Decker checked his pager. “What the …” He stared at the blank window, flicked his middle finger against the instrument. When nothing happened, he tossed it on his desk. “Remind me to pick up a new one from Bessie. Tell me the details.”

“Husband and wife were slugging down shooters when the altercation broke out. A neighbor heard them arguing, didn’t think too much of it.”

“Frequent occurrence.”

“Yeah, except this time the husband … his name is Meryl Tobias … went psycho. Showed up at the neighbor’s door—gun in his hand—bawling like a baby. He didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it. The neighbor called nine one one. The rest is …” She threw up her hands. “His blood alcohol was over point-two-o. Hers wasn’t much lower. What a waste!”

Decker glanced at the clock. “It’s almost four. We’ve all been working overtime. Pack it in, Detective.”

Marge sat down, dropped her head in her hands. “Honestly, Pete, I’m all right. Just give me an assignment that doesn’t involve counting bullets.”

Decker smiled. “How’s it coming?”

“I wouldn’t have made a good accountant.”

“Why?” Decker’s interest suddenly perked up. “You’ve got discrepancies?”

“I don’t know yet.” Marge lifted her head. “Because we’re not through. So far we’ve recovered an awful lot of shells for one shooter … even if the shooter was using a double automatic.”

“Interesting.” Decker started making notes. “Tell me.”

Marge was thoughtful. “We picked up lots of strays, Pete. In the walls, in the floor, in the furniture. Which puzzled Scott. He mentioned the same point that you did yesterday. That mass murderers often hunt their victims. Part of the thrill.”

“But that wasn’t what happened,” Decker said.

“No, not according to witnesses. The killer just sprayed the place.”

No one spoke. Then Marge said, “You know, it’s a miracle that more people didn’t die.”

“How many bullets did you recover?”

“So far enough to account for around … ten, maybe twelve magazines. We’ve found eight empty cartridges.”

“About a hundred and fifty rounds upward. And Harlan’s shooting time was what … three to six minutes?”

“It’s possible to peel off twelve rounds in a double automatic in six minutes if you’re not aiming at anything. But you’d have to work quickly. Go in and blast the place and hope the sucker doesn’t jam.”

Marge studied Decker, reading his face not as her boss but as her ex-partner.

“You’ve got something on your mind, big guy?”

“Just speculation.” Decker began to doodle. “Doesn’t amount to much.” Marge pushed hair out of her eyes, stared at him with purpose. “Out with it.”

“I’ve been going over some of the prelim autopsy reports on the victims.” Decker paused. “I’m … disconcerted by them.”

“What in particular?”

“The bullet trajectories. People at the same table being hit with shots at different angles.”

“They were probably facing in different directions.”

“I took that into consideration. Still, there are things that don’t make sense.” Decker spread out several police photographs. “For instance, look at this couple. Victims numbers nine and ten—Linda and Ray Garrison.”

Marge’s eyes swept over the snapshots. She winced.

“The couple was seated … here.” Decker showed Marge a floor plan of Estelle’s. “Right here. At table number fifteen. I figure they must have been among the first to be hit because they died in their seats. Didn’t even have enough time to duck under the table.”

Marge studied the prints. “They weren’t really close to the entrance to the restaurant.”

“About a hundred feet away. If the shooting took place as soon as Harlan entered the place, they should have realized what was going on … had enough time to duck or run for cover.”

“Which may mean that the shooting broke out closer to them.”

“Or possibly they both just froze,” Decker added. “Anyway, look at the photograph. They died in their chairs, sitting opposite each other, slumped over the table. Both of them … riddled with holes. On the surface, no difference. Except Forensics tells us an alternate story. The bullets entered Linda Garrison’s back and exited through her chest. Mr. Garrison was also shot from back to front.”

Decker paused.

“Think about it, Margie. If Harlan was shooting from one position—say he stood in back of Mr. Garrison—the bullets would have entered Garrison’s back and exited Garrison’s chest. Agreed?”

“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.”