Serpent’s Tooth. Faye Kellerman
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.
The girl reeked of mint—hiding her booze breath with Scope or Certs—leaving Decker to wonder if the orange juice glass Rhonda Klegg held in a white-knuckled grip had been laced with vodka. He presented his badge. She examined it carefully, then allowed him inside. The place pulsated with color, throwing Decker’s equilibrium off balance. The slamming door brought him back into focus.
“Sorry about being so paranoid,” Rhonda stated. “Thought you might be the press.”
Decker blinked. “Have people been bothering you?”
“Not since I took my phone off the hook.”
She offered him coffee; Decker nodded yes. Cream and sugar? Straight black was fine.
With trembling hands, Rhonda sipped her orange juice, stared at him. He stared back at a ravaged, ashen face, lifeless blue eyes and thin pale lips. She probably hadn’t gotten much sleep. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her hair had been bleached candy-apple red and was tied back into a ponytail. She had a nose-pierce, the helices of her outer ears completely covered with tiny hoops and studs. Lots of chains dangled from the many holes in her earlobes. She was garbed in jeans and a white T-shirt, wore a denim work shirt as a jacket. Her feet were stuffed in lace-up ankle boots.
She finished her juice and said, “I really don’t have anything to say.” She held aloft her empty glass. “Get you one of these along with your Colombian?”
“No, thank you. Just a cup of coffee would be fine.”
“Mind if I take another?”
“Of course not.”
“S’cuse.”
She disappeared behind a swinging door painted to simulate a wooden lattice intertwined with blooming pink rose vines. Indeed, Rhonda had used her entire apartment as her canvas, living art done up in the style of classical Mediterranean gardens. Painted boxwood hedges replaced baseboard molding. Behind the hedges—on the wall itself—were trellises of ivy and flowering vines, citrus orchards, classical marble statuary, and fountains—all of it serving as a foreground for distant, rolling green hills. Her perspective was outstanding. Decker felt dizzy from the three-dimensional effect. The molding and ceiling had been bathed in light blue hues, tufted with clouds, and populated with gliding blackbirds and a circling hawk.
So distracting was the scene, Decker hadn’t noticed the furniture. But it was there and it made a statement. An old carved English park bench sided by two upside-down garbage cans doubling as end tables. The room also had an Adirondack lounge upon which rested a duffel bag, and two bentwood rockers. Old-fashioned streetlamps had been placed in the corners, and the hardwood floor had become a windblown field of grass—green swaying blades laced with yellow dandelions and clumps of white clover.
Rhonda returned with Decker’s coffee, more orange juice for herself.
Decker thanked her. “Interesting place you’ve got here. You’re very talented.”
She sipped her juice. “Ain’t gonna make Architectural Digest, but it suits me.” Her eyes hardened. “Although