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,
