Читать книгу Serpent’s Tooth - Faye Kellerman - Страница 9

Though bandaged tightly, the arm was still leaking blood. But the waitress refused to budge, watching over her brood of eight teenage girls with hawkish eyes. Her face was damp with blood, dirt, sweat, and fury. “I am not leaving them until they’re safe and sound with their parents.”

Marge said, “That may take a while, Ms. Anger. You really need to take care of that arm.”

The man sitting with them was the kitchen’s assistant chef—Olaf Anderson. He was pale, but his eyes were steady and his manner stoic. “You don’t do any good if you make yourself sick, Carol.”

“I am fine, Olaf!”

One of the girls—dressed up in a pink mock-Chanel suit—spoke up. She had long permed hair and red-rimmed blue eyes. Her mascara had streaked down her cheeks. “We’ll be okay, ma’am. You should get fixed up.”

Immediately, the girl collapsed into tears.

The waitress hugged her with her good arm, looked up at Marge. “When can they leave? It’s inhuman to keep them here. Right now, everyone’s too hysterical to help you out.”

“It’s true,” said the Chanel girl. “No one was paying attention, we were just like … ducking, you know. And screaming. Everyone was screaming.”

“And praying,” added another.

“You’re …” Marge looked at the pink-suited girl, then down at the list. “Amy Silver?”

The girl nodded.

“You just ducked under the table when the shooting started.”

Again, she nodded. “And screamed. I must have screamed a lot. My throat hurts.”

“Everything hurts,” added another teen.

This one wore a navy suit. Marge consulted her list. Navy suit was named Courtney. “Do you need medical attention, honey?”

Courtney shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “We just heard like these pops. Then everybody like started to scream. Then we like ducked under the table and like hugged each other. And cried … but like quietly. We were real scared.”

“Too scared to look at anything,” Amy said. “Except that awful green jacket … moving like a blip on a radar.”

“I didn’t see a thing,” Courtney said. “I had like my eyes squeezed shut and was praying real hard—Please, please, just let this be over.” Her eyes overflowed with water. “I’d like to call my mom if I could.”

“When can we see our parents?” Amy asked.

“Soon—”

“How soon?” Carol demanded. “At least let her call her mother?”

“I’m sure she’s outside.”

“So tell her that her daughter’s okay, for godsakes! And when can I call my mother? She must be worried sick about me. She’s not in the best of health.”

“Please, Carol,” Olaf said. “The woman is just trying to do her job—”

“I know that, Olaf. We are all trying to do our job!”

“You must have patience—”

“I’ve been plenty patient,” Carol shot back. “Now I want some action!”

Marge said, “Let me consult with my boss. You all stay put—”

“Well, we can’t exactly go anywhere with the Nazis blocking the doors.”

Marge kept her expression neutral. “I’m so, so sorry. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is cause anyone additional pain. I’ll be right back.”

Carol’s face was still irate, but she held her tongue.

Marge tried out a smile, but Carol responded by rolling her eyes. Before Marge made it to the door, Oliver flagged her down. “You’re going to see Decker?”

“Yeah, we’ve got to start letting some of the people out of here. It’s not fair—”

“I’ll go with you,” Oliver said.

They both stepped into the cool night air, shielding their eyes from the blinding glare of the headlights. Marge quickly counted fifteen vehicles—police cars, press vans, ambulances, and several meat wagons. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows as she made out a group of people inside the tape barrier, off to the left. They’d been sidelined. She could hear their anger stabbing through the mist.

The family members.

The gawkers, along with the press, had been penned outside the yellow tape perimeter, at least fifty yards away.

Marge spotted Decker. His complexion had turned pasty, his big hands had been tightened into white-knuckled fists. She shouted his name. He stopped walking, turned, and came toward them.

Decker said, “You have the finalized list of the dead?”

Oliver showed him the ominous white sheet. “Give it to the captain?”

“Please. I’ve already delivered my allotment of bad news.”

Marge said, “I’ve got a group of teenage girls—”

Decker said, “Go tell their parents. See some tears of joy instead of tears of agony.”

Marge felt her throat tighten. “You all right? What a stupid question.”

“I’m lousy,” Decker said. “Not a fraction as shitty as the group I just left.”

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and looked upward. A starless foggy night, a crescent of moon floating in an endless gray sea. “I’ve got to deal with the press.” He turned to his detectives. “Anyone tell you anything useful?”

Oliver said. “Everyone ducked as soon as the shooting and screaming started.”

Marge added, “Lots of screaming, lots of praying.”

“Bullets flying around the room from all directions.”

“From all directions?” Decker asked.

“I think they were using hyperbole,” Marge said.

“Most of them were too busy ducking,” Oliver said.

“Shooter say anything?”

Marge shook her head. “People I spoke to said someone just opened fire. No warning, no nothing.”

“Ditto.”

“So that seems to eliminate robbery as a motive.” Decker rubbed his eyes, told them to go and bring some good cheer.

As he watched them approach the anxious relatives, he tried to collect his thoughts … rid himself of the shrieking and sobbing he had just heard from the unlucky family members. Slowly, he let his fingers uncurl, realized his hands were shaking. He wiped wet palms on his pants, tucked them into his pockets.

He needed something.

He needed a smoke.

As he neared the press corps, he bummed a pack of cigarettes and some matches off one of the uniformed cops. He tried to steady his hands as he lit up, sucking hot, dry smog into his lungs.

It felt acrid, but it did the trick. As nicotine coursed through his body, Decker felt his hands settle down, his brain beginning to clear.

He polished off the cigarette in four inhalations, immediately went for number two. Only after he had smoked it down to the butt was he ready to face the cameras. He ducked under the crime tape ribbon, was charged upon by a cavalry of multimedia representatives. He held up his palms, keeping them at arm’s length, then shouted as best he could. His voice traveled well in the night air. “I’m only going to do this once, so let’s give everyone a fair shot. Anyone out there need a little extra time to set up?”

“Five minutes to set up my camera?” a male voice yelled out.

“Make it ten,” replied a female.

Decker said, “Ten minutes. I’ll read from a prepared statement. Please, please, be respectful, ladies and gentlemen. I will take questions afterward for about fifteen, twenty minutes. Then I’m going to have to get back to work.”

With his announcement, Decker turned inward, lit up a third cigarette, and spoke to no one, ignoring the questions that were thrown at him. He smoked two more cigarettes until the requisite time had passed. After checking his watch, he threw down his fifth butt of the evening, crushed it harder than necessary with his heel. He smoothed his hair and spoke to a wire wheel of microphones. Flashbulbs and video lights attacked his eyes.

“Our first concerns are with the people who need immediate medical attention. All the hospitals and medical institutions in the area have been notified and are giving those inside the benefit of their expertise as well as their staff, facilities, and supplies. We’ve received an abundance of community help from local physicians. The help is needed and appreciated. To everyone out there viewing this broadcast, please, please: If you are not involved in the primary medical care of those injured, stay away from the area so that doctors, nurses, medics, ambulances, and police personnel can move in and out of the area freely.”

The questions started.

What happened?

How many killed?

How many wounded?

Do they have a suspect?

Do they have a reason for the shooting?

What’s it like in there?

Decker turned to the last questioner. A Latina. Sylvia Lopez from the local news station. One of the few broadcasters who gave LAPD a fair shake during its bad times. He took her question.

“What’s it like in there?” Abruptly, he broke into a cold sweat, shuddered involuntarily. “It’s your worst nightmare.”

He wiped his face, was about to field another series of questions, but over an ocean of scalps, he saw Martinez waving at him. One of the many benefits of being six four.

“I’ve got to go,” Decker said. “Excuse me.”

He extricated himself from the lights, cameras, and actions, ducking under the yellow tape and meeting Martinez halfway across the parking lot. Decker threw his arm around Bert’s wide shoulders. “What?”

“There are a lot of people unaccounted for, Loo.” Martinez pushed strands of black, wet hair from his forehead. His face had been bathed in sticky sweat. “We’re directing the families to Valley Memorial, but some of the wounded may have gone to Northridge Pres. We’re trying to get names, but everything’s such a mess—”

“One step at a time.”

“Speaking of which, we may have found the perp. He could have been one of the victims, but it looks like a suicide. Close-range single shot to the head around the temple region. You can see the powder burns—”

“Got a weapon?”

“Smith and Wesson double-action, nine-millimeter automatic—”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah, lots of spraying ability. Pistol’s about five feet away from the body. Forensics is waiting for you or Captain Strapp before they move in. Farrell’s guarding the corpse. No ID on the body, but we got a name from a couple of Estelle’s employees: Harlan Manz.”

“Disgruntled postal worker?”

“Disgruntled bartender.”