Faye Kellerman - Serpent’s Tooth

“I’m lost,” Martinez said.

Decker said, “We’re trying to trace bullet paths using geometry. Go down the friggin’ list. If Harlan shot from the bar, where would his first bullets have landed? If that matches, we move on.

“If Harlan had turned to the left and shot, who would have been his next hit?

“If Harlan had turned to the right and shot, who would have been his next hit?

“If Harlan had taken a couple of steps forward, who would have been his next hit?

“If Harlan had taken a couple of steps forward and then turned to the right, who would have been his next hit?

“If Harlan had taken a couple of steps forward and then turned to the left, who would have been his next—”

“This could take months!” Oliver blurted out.

“Yes, it probably will take months,” Decker said.

“Loo, pardon mah ignorance,” Webster drawled, “but just what do you reckon to accomplish?”

“Let’s talk politics for a moment. There are bound to be lawsuits—against Estelle’s, maybe even against the city. Our police reports are going to be scrutinized with a microscope. And we’re going to be judged, folks. Every single one of us. You, me, and this entire beleaguered department.”

Decker rubbed his temples.

“I want every single bullet accounted for. Make sure that all the slugs came from Harlan’s gun and not some other outside source that we overlooked because we were too lazy—”

“Outside source?” Marge grimaced. “You think there was more than one shooter?”

“Who knows? Last count we’ve got thirteen dead, thirty-two wounded. Lots of damage for one guy, Margie.”

Martinez said, “Harlan was packing a nine-millimeter automatic double action, Loo. Fourteen rounds per magazine—”

“How many rounds did he fire, Bert?”

Martinez was quiet. “Don’t know.”

“Anyone?”

No one spoke.

Decker said, “Thirteen dead people, thirty-two wounded, and we can’t answer a simple question like how many rounds the fucker fired.”

Oliver said, “So we’ll do a bullet count.”

“We’ll do a lot more than a bullet count. I want this crime scene nailed . Every step and every shot that Harlan took must be checkbook-balanced.”

Decker leaned back in his chair.

“We’ll start tomorrow with the bullet count. Dunn and Oliver, you two take the corpses in the morgue as well as the shells and bullets left behind at Estelle’s. Check the walls, check the furniture, check the potted plants, turn the place upside down if you have to. I want every bullet, every shell, every empty magazine cited and bagged.”

“Talk about tedium,” Oliver muttered.

Decker looked at his detective—worn, disheveled, spent. “I don’t envy your assignment, Scott. The place gives me the creeps. But someone has to do it.”

Oliver ran his hands through his oily black hair. “I’m not complaining, Loo. I’m just tired.”

“I know.” Decker looked at Webster and Martinez. “You two go over to the hospitals, talk to the victims’ doctors. Have them help you get a bullet count from their patients’ medical charts or surgery dictation or even from the X rays. And if any of the victims feels like talking, you can start conducting interviews. Once we get the bullets accounted for, we’ll start analyzing the angles—”

“Y’ever think of using a computer, Loo?” Webster asked.

“Forensic reenactment.” Decker said. “Farrell’s working on a program for this as we speak. It’s a very useful tool, but first we’ve got to have data to plug into the computer. Then it’ll probably take months before he comes up with something. But that’s all right. We have time. If we’re meticulous in our calculations, maybe the computer will spit us back a step-by-step simulation of Harlan’s movements at Estelle’s.”

Webster said, “Welcome to Cybermurder.”

“Except the victims were flesh and blood.” Decker stood. “We start tomorrow. For now, all of you. Go home.”

As Decker pulled into the driveway of the ranch, he noticed the living-room light shining through the bay window. Immediately, his heart took off. Not that it was late—quarter after ten. Still, when Rina waited up for him, she always kept vigil in the kitchen or their bedroom.

He shut off the Volare’s motor, jogged to the front door, and opened it. His wife was asleep on the living-room couch. On the floor was his dog, Ginger, nestled among piles of loose papers. Next to the sheets were a calculator, pens, pencils, and a couple of ledgers.

Instant relief. Everything was all right.

Then came the curiosity. What was Rina working on? He considered rifling through the pages, but discarded the thought. All in due time. For now, let her sleep.

He regarded the room. In dim light, it seemed worn, his furniture over a decade old, purchased during his divorced days. The buckskin couch had been rubbed shiny in spots, the coffee table was scratched, the two wing chairs had faded. Keeping guard at the bay window was Rina’s pine rocker purchased after Hannah was born—the only new thing standing.

Yet Rina never said a word about replacing his shopworn pieces. Guess she was waiting for him to relinquish the last vestiges of his bachelor years. Not that his wife hadn’t added her own feminine touches. The silk-screened floral couch pillows, two hand-crocheted throw blankets, fresh flowers, and lots of framed family photos. Observing her sleeping form … he really needed to do better for her.

She stirred. Even without makeup, her face was striking, though her creamy skin was a shade paler than usual. Her lips—lush and red and always alluring. Eyes moving behind translucent lids. She was dressed in a black angora sweater and black knit skirt. Her outfit matched her raven hair, which fell over her shoulders like a sable shawl.

He shut off the light, put Ginger outside, debated checking the horses’ stables but nixed the idea. Too damn tired.

He headed into the bedroom, stripped in seconds, then beelined into the shower. Turning the water up to full pressure, he stood under the faucet, allowing the blast to run over his stubbled face while razor-hot needles rained down on his aching back, cooking his freckled skin bright red. He continued his baptism by fire until the water grew cold. By the time he was done, Rina had tucked herself into bed. She was half awake, her lids still hooded. But she spoke. “S’right?”

“I’m just fine.” Decker toweled himself off as he spoke. “Go back to sleep.”

“Boys send their regards.”

“Regards back.” He ran his hands several times through red shocks of wet hair, then went over and kissed his wife. A short one, then a long one. She purred. “That was wonderful.”

He slipped under the sheets. “That’s because you’re half asleep.”

She opened her eyes fully. “How are you holding up?”

“Been better, but I’ll survive.” Immediately, he switched the topic. “What were you doing out there in the living room with all those loose papers? Building a nest?”

Rina thought a moment. “Oh. That. Rav Schulman called—”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. He had some bookkeeping questions. They turned out to be a bit complicated, so I stopped by the yeshiva and picked up some of the ledgers.”

“The yeshiva doesn’t have a bookkeeper?”

“Peter, I didn’t question him. He asked me to do him a favor, I said yes.”

“You have that much spare time, go ahead.”

Rina was quiet. Decker forced himself not to push it. But he knew there was more. Lately Rina had been using the learned Rabbi for therapy … just as Decker had done many times in the past. His wife had been very depressed since an old friend of hers—and her late husband’s—had died. Abram Sparks had also been a friend of Rabbi Schulman. Decker was sure that Bram’s name had come up in the course of their conversations. Holding that thought, Decker rolled over, buried his head in the pillow.