Decker sat up. “Who was his real girlfriend?”
“Rhonda Klegg,” Benedict said. “Used to come in here sometimes. Harlan would comp her drinks. Tequila. She could down shooters as fast as any guy I know.”
“Was she an alcoholic?”
Again they exchanged glances. Benedict said, “Well, she could get a little intense. But she kept it under control. I never saw them going at it in public.”
“Going at it?” Decker asked.
Marissa said, “Harlan would come in with a black eye every once in a while. I asked him about it, he laughed it off.” She studied her hands. “God only knows what she looked like.”
Decker said, “Did you ever see them fighting?”
“Not personally, no.”
“Is she also a wait … an actress?”
Benedict said, “Artist. She actually makes money in her chosen field. Got a great gig going. Paints pictures on the walls of rich people’s houses.”
“Murals?” Decker asked.
“No,” Marissa said. “She’ll paint a make-believe garden scene on a wall. There’s a word for it.”
“Trompe l’oeil,” Decker said.
“That’s it,” Marissa said. “Her apartment is full of her stuff. It’s real weird. She’s got the statue of David on the wall of her john.”
“You’ve been to her apartment?” Decker said. “With Harlan?”
Marissa turned bright red. “Well … just once.”
“Did she and Harlan live together?”
“No, Harlan has … had his own place. But he liked being bad … God, I feel like an idiot.” Marissa rubbed her face. “It seemed so harmless at the time.”
Rule number one. Fooling around is never harmless. Decker asked, “Did Harlan have a key to her place?”
Marissa nodded.
Decker became aware of his heartbeat. “Where does Rhonda live, Marissa?”
“The apartment was called the Caribbean. Third floor. It’s near Rinaldi. I could get you the address.”
“I’ll get it.” Decker looked at Benedict. “Anything else you want to add … something that might give us a clue to what went on?”
“Sorry, but I didn’t see a thing,” Benedict said. “When the shooting started, I ran for cover.”
“Where?”
“Made a beeline for the coat closet. I hid there the entire time, too scared to even breathe.”
“I couldn’t tell you anything, either,” Marissa added. “Everyone just started screaming. I dropped under a table.”
“Where were you?”
“Carol Anger and I were working the left rear portion of the room. I had the odd tables, she had the even.”
“Do you recall where the shooting originated?”
“God, no. It seemed like bullets were flying from all directions. I was too petrified to look up.”
Decker looked over his notes, showed them a page. “These are your current names, addresses, and phone numbers?”
Both servers nodded.
“Okay, you can leave.” He handed them each a business card. “If you think of something important about what happened here … or anything important about Harlan Manz, give me a call.”
“Why bother with Harlan?” Benedict said. “He’s dead.”
“Yes, he is,” Decker said. “But by studying men like him … just maybe we can avert … another tragedy. Workplace violence is on the upswing. Least we can do is publicize warning signs.”
Marissa said, “So where do you go from here?”
Decker said, “Right now, I’m going to call Rhonda Klegg. If I have any luck at all, she’ll be alive and pick up the phone.”
“Oh my God!” Marissa said. “You think that maybe Harlan … before this …”
No one spoke for a moment.
Marissa said, “If she’s alive … are you going to tell her … you know … about Harlan and I?”
Harlan and me, Decker thought. He regarded the waitress, looked at her straggly hair falling over a war-ravaged face. “I don’t think it will come up.”
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Marissa thanked him profusely. Decker patted her shoulder, then left to search out a private phone.
There were two offices upstairs, each fitted with phones attached to answering machines that winked red in the dark. Decker flipped on the light switch in the larger of the two rooms. This one was Estelle Bernstein’s personal salon, done in wood paneling with plush hunter-green carpets. Expensively furnished—antiques or good replicas. The abstract artwork wasn’t his style, but it didn’t look cheap. Decker closed the office door from the outside, chose to use the phone in manager Robin Patterson’s hole in the wall.
Small. Utilitarian. A metal desk with a secretary’s chair parked inside the kneehole. A scarred leather couch. The back wall was lined with file cabinets. A swinging door was tucked into one of the corners. Decker pushed it open. An old white toilet, a scratched sink, and a fan that made a racket when the light was turned on. Robin had tried to dress it up by adding a mirror to the wall and a crocheted toilet-paper cover. On top of the john’s tank was a bowl of potpourri. Staring at the dried leaves, flowers, and spices, Decker felt a wash of sadness.
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
