Faye Kellerman - Serpent’s Tooth

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 this town is sure filled with star-fuckers. Think the ex-girlfriend of a homicidal maniac counts?”

Decker was quiet.

“Hollyweird. A penchant for the bizarre. Sure I can’t get you some OJ as in orange juice?”

“I’m fine, Rhonda.” Decker’s eyes fell on the duffel bag. “Impromptu vacation?”

“I’m getting outta here. At least until this thing blows over. Who the hell wants this kind of notoriety?”

A savvy point. Decker placed his mug on an upside-down trash container. “Is that okay?”

Rhonda laughed. “It’s a garbage can. I’m not exactly worried about coffee rings.” She looked him up and down. “You’re cute. Wanna fuck?”

“No, thank you.”

“I look like shit, huh?”

“You look fine, Rhonda.” Decker took out his notepad. “You know, the sooner we get started, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”

“You’re gonna ask me questions about Harlan?”

“Yep.”

“Why do you care? He’s dead.” Her eyes watered. “They’re all dead. I thought the only things that the pigs cared about were looking good on the witness stand and beating up minorities. You’re real big. I bet you’ve punched around more than your fair share of niggers.”

Decker said, “Me? I shuffle paper.”

“Bullshit,” Rhonda shot out. “You look defensive, cop. Betcha I hit a nerve. See, we all have pasts. So don’t you go judging me like I’m some freak because I hooked up with a nutcase.”

“I don’t think you’re a freak, Rhonda. Right now, I see you as a very vulnerable woman.”

“Where’d they teach you that? Cop Psych 101? You should stick to pounding the shit outta motorists.”

Decker was quiet.

She gave him a long hard stare. “You were there last night, weren’t you? At Estelle’s?”

“I was there the entire night.”

“I saw you on TV. You’re the one who said it looked like your worst nightmare.”

“Glad to be remembered as a sound bite.”

“You’re also in today’s paper—picture, quote, and all.” She glared at him. “You had tears in your eyes.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah, you did. Did they also teach you how to cry in Cop Psych 101? Or was it Cop Compassion 101?”

Decker offered a sad smile. “Wish I conformed to your hard-ass image. I’d sleep better at night.”

Again, her eyes moistened. She rubbed her cheeks, wiped away tears. “I’m real attracted to you. Sure you don’t want to fuck? Might put me in a gabby mood.”