“Do I gotta talk to you?”
“No.”
Silence.
Her voice got very heavy. “What time is it?”
Decker checked his watch. “One-thirty.”
A heavy sigh. “Can this wait till morning?”
“Yes, it can wait. Is anyone staying with you, Rhonda?”
“No.”
“Can I call someone for you?”
She began to sob. “No. No one. Just … let me sleep.”
“Did you take anything to help you sleep?”
“Coupla Valiums.”
“And that’s it?”
“Yeah, course that’s it. Whaddaya think? What did you say your name was?”
“Lieutenant Decker. LAPD. Devonshire Substation.”
“LAPD?”
“LAPD.”
“If you’re a reporter, I’m gonna sue you.”
“I’m not a reporter.”
“I’m not talkin’ to reporters.”
“A very good idea. Can I drop by your apartment around …” Decker checked his watch again. Yes, it was still one-thirty in the morning. There were still witnesses to interview, bodies to transport to the morgue, and he hadn’t even touched his paperwork. Definitely an all-nighter. “How about eight in the morning?”
“Fine.” She paused. “If you’re a reporter—”
“Peter Decker, detective lieutenant one. LAPD, Devonshire Substation.” He gave her his badge number. “Give them a call.”
“I will, ya know.”
“You should. So I’ll see you at eight, Rhonda?”
“Fine. Good-bye.”
Once again the phone slammed down.
At least she hadn’t added “Good riddance.”
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