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.”
“And?”
“I don’t know, Marge,” Decker said. “Just go out and seek and maybe we’ll find something. Or if you’re tired, you can call it a day. All of this can wait.”
“No, it’s all right.” She smiled bitterly. “Lucky for you, I canceled my heavy date.”
Decker looked at her. “You need some time off, hon?”
Her smiled turned warm. “You care. That’s so sweet.”
Decker laughed softly. “Why don’t you and Scott come over on Sunday for a barbecue.”
“Why do you always invite me and Scott?”
“Margie, I invite you, he finds out, calls you up. Then you wind up inviting him along out of pity. I’m just saving you the agenting.”
He was right. Marge said, “Sure, I’ll come. I’m tired and lonely and ain’t about to play hard to get. Your family’s the only thing that gives me a sense of normalcy. It’s really pathetic.”
“Honey, my family’s the only thing that gives me a sense of normalcy.”
“Then we’re both pathetic.”
“I call it dedicated.” Decker grinned. “But I’m big on euphemisms.”
Pulling the Volare into the driveway, shutting off the motor, Decker sat for a few moments, enjoying the dark and the silence. It was restful. It was peaceful. For a few blissful seconds, he was utterly alone and without obligation and it felt wonderful. He took a deep breath, let his body go slack, allowed his eyes to adjust to the shadows and starlight. He might have sat even longer except he suddenly realized there was a red Camaro parked curbside.
Cindy’s car.
His heart started to flutter. His daughter was supposed to be in school three thousand miles away. What did this mean? After he had asked the question, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer.
He bolted out of the Volare, unlocked his front door. She stood when he crossed the threshold, gave him a timid wave and a “Hi, Daddy.”
A beautiful girl in a big, strong way. She was around five ten, built with muscle and bone. Her face was sculpted with high cheekbones; her complexion was overrun with freckles but as smooth as marble. Wide-set, deep-brown eyes, long, flaming red hair, a white, wide smile. She photographed well, had done some small-time modeling to make some pocket change a few years back. But it wasn’t for her. Her career goals focused on jobs involving her mind equally with her heart. Cynthia was a girl of extreme generosity and blessed intellect.
She was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, some kind of army boot as shoes. She looked troubled. No doubt why she was here instead of in New York.
“My goodness!” Decker gave his daughter a bear hug. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
“Something like that.”
Before he could question her, Rina came into the room, smiled, and said, “She just showed up on the doorstep. I let her in. I take it that’s okay with you.”
“More than okay.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Go wash up and sit down.”
