Читать книгу Serpent’s Tooth - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 11

Decker expected to talk to the machine. Instead, Rina picked up after a half ring. He said, “You should be asleep.”

“I was worried about you. I’m glad you called.”

“Nothing to worry about. I’m fine. I’m just not going to make it home tonight. You probably figured as much.”

“Can I do anything for you?”

“Kiss my kids. Say a prayer. I don’t know.”

He sounded drained … lifeless. She said, “I love you, Peter.”

“Love you, too.”

“Don’t hang up.”

No one spoke.

Rina said, “I guess you have to get back to work.”

Decker could picture his wife fidgeting with her hair, wrapping a long, black strand around her index finger or nibbling on the ends with her luscious mouth … her long pink tongue. Gave him a nice buzz between his legs. Obscene to think about sex after witnessing such atrocity. But he wasn’t shocked by his response. After clearing the trail of Charlie’s carnage … after doing the body count … Decker had often made a trip to the whorehouses the first item on his agenda. An old man housed in a nineteen-year-old body. Sex had been the thing that had made him feel alive.

He said, “I have a couple of minutes. Tell me about my kids.”

“They send their love.”

“Did they see the broadcast?”

“The boys did, sure.”

“Are they upset?”

“Honestly, yes, they were upset. You looked so … pained. Are you sure I can’t do anything for you, Peter?”

“Feeling helpless?”

“Exactly.”

“Join the crowd. No, I’ll be all right. The shock’s starting to wear off … that old wartime numbness—”

“Oh, my God! This must evoke such terrible memories for you.”

Decker waited a beat. “I used to get nightmares, Rina. Didn’t remember too much in the morning, but Jan said they were pretty bad. She never admitted it, but I think I scared her. Maybe we should use separate bedrooms for a couple of weeks—”

“I wouldn’t hear of it.” Rina paused. “I love you. Just … know that.”

“I know you want me to be okay. Honestly, I am okay. It just has to run its course. You want to help me, just take care of the kids and yourself. Did Sammy pass his driver’s test, by the way?”

“He is now officially licensed for solo expeditions.”

Something else to worry about, Decker thought. “Tell him congratulations. I’m really proud of him.”

“He wants to take the Porsche out for a spin.”

“Uh, that will have to wait.”

“He thought that might be the case.”

“Your voice is wonderful. I’d love talking, but you need your sleep. And I still have a mound of paperwork facing me.”

“You’re not going to sleep at all?”

“Oh, I’ll probably catch a few fitful hours at the station house. I promise I’ll be home tonight. Did I tell you I love you?”

“Never tire of hearing it,” Rina answered. She kissed the receiver. “Can I call you up in an hour or so?”

“I may not be available. I’m going out for a little bit.”

“Catch some air?”

“I wish.” Decker let out a tired laugh. “I’m planning to break into the apartment of a mass murderer. Not part of the job description when I joined the force. But sometimes you’ve just got to wing it.”

Using a Thomas map and dimly lit street signs, Decker managed to find Harlan Manz’s apartment. It was located on a deserted side road, shaded with oversized eucalyptus that loomed spectral in the gauzy night. No sidewalks. Pedestrians trod upon a dirt path that hugged the street. The block owned about a half dozen old multiplexed residences, all of them two-story stucco squares with small balconies. An occasional weed-choked vacant lot was interspersed between the buildings. Probably the land had once held structures that didn’t make it through the ’94 quake.

The former bartender had lived on a top floor, access to his unit provided by a rusted, wrought-iron outdoor staircase. The night was as still as stone. Not a soul in sight and that was good. Decker gloved, took out a penlight, and examined the door lock—a snap. Keeping his picks in his pocket, he removed a credit card from his wallet, snapped the latch bolt, and turned the knob. Closed the door and flipped the light switch.

He was standing in the living room. A beige couch, a couple of chairs, and a coffee table that held a remote control, a mug with a brown-stained bottom, and yesterday’s local newspaper. A TV rested against the wall opposite the couch, a twenty-six-inch Sony sitting inside a particle-board bookcase. A half dozen paperbacks rested on the shelves alongside numerous videotapes. Most of them seemed to be action/adventure films but there were the requisite adult films as well. Harlan liked blondes. A stereo/cassette/CD player complete with speakers. Decker flipped through a few CDs; Harlan’s taste leaned toward thrash bands and rap.

Decker’s eyes scanned the walls. A few framed movie posters hung from single nailheads on white walls. Cable TV films that Decker had never seen, had never heard of. The carpet was brown and worn—a few scattered crumbs, but relatively clean.

The kitchenette was an outpouching off the living room. The compact fridge contained a quart of juice, a quart of milk, three six-packs, and a tub of margarine. Decker opened the fruit bin—two apples dotted with soft spots, and an orange. Cabinets stocked with salsa, chips, a half loaf of moldless bread, a yellow plastic bottle of French’s mustard, Heinz’s ketchup, a box of raisin bran, mismatched dishes and cookware, and a dead fly. Built-ins included a two-burner cooktop and a microwave-oven combo. No dishwasher, but the sink was cleared of plates and cutlery.

Completely unremarkable.

The bedroom was the same story. Queen-sized bed topped with an older but clean spread. One nightstand containing packets of gum, a bottle of aspirin, and a pack of cigarettes. A small desk was tucked into the corner.

Decker rummaged through its contents. Piquing his interest were several black-and-white head shots. Eight-by-tens of Harlan peering into the camera lens with intense eyes, his full lips slightly agape, and a well-trimmed—ergo calculated—five o’clock shadow. He’d been posed to make the most of his exotic sensuality. Dark and brooding. Heathcliffian.

Portfolio pictures. Like everyone in Hollywood, Manz had been touched by the industry, had taken a shot at the tarnished screen.

The closet was another insight into Harlan’s personality. Lots of clothes. Not expensive threads but the duds had a flair. Well-designed knockoffs. Decker counted seven pairs of shoes, including an expensive pair of Nikes.

The bathroom was a tiny thing which squeezed in a tub with a shower curtain, a toilet, and a sink with a medicine cabinet. The shelves were chock-full of analgesics, nasal sprays, and decongestant capsules. Harlan also stocked disposable razors, several sticks of antiperspirant, and a sandwich bag dusted with white powder.

Decker dipped his pinkie into the bag and touched it to the tip of his tongue.

The real stuff.

He’d bag the rest and submit it for evidence.

Evidence of what, he wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t about to leave cocaine sitting around.

Cologne and aftershave sat on the rim of the tub. Cheap stuff. Decker organized his thoughts as he walked back into the living room. This time he examined the movie posters with a keen eye. As plain as daylight, Harlan’s name had been listed in the cast.

The man had met with some limited success. Of course, that meant nothing.

Decker sat on the couch, rubbed his tired eyes, a puzzling picture emerging in his sleep-deprived brain.

Movie posters on the wall.

Portfolio pictures in the desk.

Stylish clothes and lots of shoes.

Bottles of cologne.

Someone who took pride in his appearance.

Someone with an ego.

Yet the place was completely devoid of personal effects. No scrapbooks, no picture albums, no reminder notes or scratch pads, no would-be scripts, no appointment book for the big auditions, no Filofax, no little black book of phone numbers, no desk calendar … no calendar, period.

There was beer in the fridge, cigarettes in the drawer, cocaine in the medicine cabinet. Which told Decker that the guy was a user. Then there was the coffee table on which lay a dirty coffee mug, yesterday’s newspaper, and the remote control. Forming an image of a lived-in room … un-tampered with … untouched.

But something was off.

As if someone had carefully emptied the place of Harlan’s true personality, leaving just enough items to form a sketchy impression—like his taste in drugs. The home of a disturbed man, a vicious mass murderer. Yet Decker didn’t find a single threatening note, any written psychotic ramblings, nothing that even hinted of a desperate man driven to murder and suicide.

Decker exhaled, his brain buzzing.

Not all psychos leave behind their history—a blow-by-blow schemata, explaining what had led them to their atrocities. Some just explode, spontaneously combust, letting their bloody legacies talk for themselves.

Maybe Harlan had been one of those.

Maybe he woke up one morning … and simply popped.