Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 10

by Serpent's Tooth

  Decker smiled. “Thank you, but—”

  “How about…” Jeanine pulled out her calendar. “I can do it tomorrow. Twelve or oneish?”

  Again, Decker smiled. “I’m booked this week.”

  “I’m sure I can call your captain and tell him—”

  “No, Ms. Garrison, that’s quite all right. I’m old-fashioned. City pays me to work, I work.”

  “Very refreshing.” Again the sexy smile. “How about after work? I could arrange a private tour after the museum’s closed.”

  “Thank you, but my family likes me home for dinner.”

  “How about after dinner?” Jeanine’s smile turned to a grin. “You can bring your wife and kids if you’d like. I’m assuming you have children. Most married men do.”

  She was toying with him, vamping him. And getting the upper hand. He looked directly into her eyes. “Thank you for the invitation. I’ll take you up on it sometime.”

  “Do that.”

  “Who’d you take tennis lessons from, Ms. Garrison? Someone at Greenvale?”

  Jeanine stared at him, slowly put the calendar away. Her face had suddenly turned gelid and unforgiving. “You can call me Jeanine. Why are you so interested in my tennis years?”

  Decker shrugged, still holding her eye. “Just wondering if anyone famous ever taught at the club.”

  “Famous?” Jeanine’s tone was condescending. “Oh, yes, at one time, I learned with Martina and Jimmy and Chris and John and—”

  “I get the point.” Decker was quiet. She wasn’t giving him an inch to work with. “I was just wondering…if anyone remotely known might have ever taught there…spurred your interest in the game.” He stood. “Not important. Sorry to bother you. And I’ll try to get to the museum. Thanks for the tip.”

  Jeanine’s eyes turned distant. “You know who used to play at Greenvale?”

  “Who?” asked Decker, still standing.

  “Wade Anthony.”

  Decker sat back down, trying to conjure up an image of a face. Nothing. “Don’t know him.”

  “I know,” Jeanine said softly. “And that’s too bad. Once, he was a rising star. He was…in his teens when he played at Greenvale. Sixteen to be exact. I was fourteen. I had a mad, mad crush on him.”

  She smiled sadly.

  “Me and all the other teenyboppers. He was simply gorgeous. Outrageous as well. He had sex with at least two of my friends. Rumor had it that he had sex with some of their mothers as well.”

  “Sounds like a tennis player.”

  “Yes, he was strictly bad boy. My father ordered me to stay clear of him. Of course, I did the opposite. I watched him play almost every day. He was wonderful to watch.”

  She was quiet. Decker waited. When she didn’t continue, he prodded further. “What happened to him?”

  “Though he was a master tennis player, he was still a sixteen-year-old. He got drunk one night. Took out Daddy’s Ferrari and smashed up the car with him inside. He’s now confined to a wheelchair.”

  Decker paused. “That’s very sad.”

  “It was more than sad, it was terrible. I was heartbroken. He stopped coming to the club. Just dropped out of sight.”

  She faced him.

  “I hadn’t thought about him in years. Then about a year ago, I saw an article on him in the sports pages of the Times. Not the front of course, page two or three.”

  “Really? What’s he doing?”

  “Apparently he’s a top-seeded player in wheelchair tennis.”

  “Wheelchair tennis?”

  Jeanine nodded. “Played on a regulation-size court. Only difference is the players in the chairs get two bounces instead of one. Fascinating to see how fast they can move.”

  Her mood had suddenly darkened. Decker knew he was treading dangerous ground. “What’d they say about him in the article?”

  “It was a write-up on some charity games in New York—a major fund-raiser for the physically challenged. Five hundred fifty a ticket. Do you know who his partner was? Ivan Lendl.”

  “That’s incredible!”

  “It brought back a flood of memories, Lieutenant. I’m glad he’s doing well.”

  Decker said, “I don’t mean to sound thick-headed but…did Lendl play in a wheelchair?”

  “No.” Jeanine raised her eyes. “It was Wade and Lendl against John McEnroe and some other paraplegic. It drew a huge crowd.” She stared into space. “Wade and Ivan won. They showed a picture of them…of him. He still looks good…great to be exact!”

  Decker looked at her. “Ever think of asking him to play for one of your charities?”

  A wistful smile. Jeanine said, “I think we’re a little small-time for him. I had tried to convince Dad to go out for better, more major causes—things like AIDS—but Dad was so conservative.”

  “A terrible tragedy that took your parents’ lives,” Decker said. “Lots of victims including yourself. Maybe you could host a game for the victims of the shooting.”

  Jeanine opened and closed her mouth. “I…I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.” Her sculptured face took on an animated glow. Again, she threw open her calendar. “That is a marvelous idea. I could arrange something magnificent, something that would rival the Open.”

  Dream on. He said, “Maybe you could hold the event at Greenvale.”

  “Another good idea.” Jeanine’s body language was suddenly exuberant. “Listen, I’m so sorry I jumped down your throat. It’s just this thing with my parents…it’s thrown me for a loop.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did…did you have any other questions you needed to ask me?”

  He had lots of questions to ask her. Originally, he had wanted to know if she or the family had known Harlan Manz, if she or the family had ever taken lessons from him, could have offended him in any way. But her odd behavior had sent his antennae quivering overtime.

  Be honest, Deck. She quivered other things as well.

  Brushing that aside…which took some effort…he knew, as a professional, that she was acting strange. Her hostility, her flip attitude, her vamping, her summing up the Estelle’s tragedy by calling it a “thing with her parents,” her evasive answers when it came to her past teachers, her strong passion for tennis, her sudden enthusiasm at the thought of hosting a big event tied to the deaths of her parents. Bizarre. Left Decker wondering if she had perhaps known Harlan in an intimate way.

  Yet, he sensed he had gained some kind of rapport with her. He knew that implying any kind of relationship between this eerie but beautiful woman and a mass murderer would blow the trust to smithereens. He was reminded of what a psychologist friend had once told him about his field.

  Good therapy is an art. Timing is everything.

  Decker kept his manner professional but warm. “I do have a few questions, but they can wait until later.”

  Until he found out more about her.

  Until he could calm himself down.

  “Really, it’s all right.”

  Decker stood. “Some other time. We’ll be in contact.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Jeanine’s smile was brilliant. “Nice to have met you.”

  “Same.”

  She offered him her hand. Gently, Decker shook it.

  14

  Some would call him obsessive. Decker referred to himself as thorough.

  More digging. Trying to find some personal information. After an hour he found it—columns in the locals entitled “Milestones.” A small sentence about a failed marriage two years ago. Brent Delaney. No picture. Decker backtracked, tried to find a wedding announcement. Indeed it existed, but not in the local throwaways, in the L.A. Times. Brent had dark hair, thick brows…handsome features. Slick. Striking resemblance to Harlan. Brent’s occupation was listed as actor. His hobbies were car racing and tennis. Their marriage had lasted a total of seven months.

  Then nothing. Still, Decker continued to search and search. For any little telltale hook that could form
ally tie her to Harlan Manz. He never did find the mother lode. But his prospecting wasn’t a total bust.

  Farrell Gaynor let go with a congested cough. The elder statesman of the five-person Homicide team had the floor and was making the most of it.

  “The kids stand to inherit…” Another spasm. “Inherit a lot of money…”

  He was now hacking dry. Decker pounded his back, said to Oliver, “Get the man a drink of water.”

  Oliver made a face. “I’m his personal valet?”

  “For godsakes, Scott!” Marge stomped out of the room.

  Oliver said, “I was going to go…”

  “You okay, Farrell?” Decker asked.

  “It’s the season.” He brought up mucus, spit it into a handkerchief.

  “Christ, Farrell!” Oliver said in disgust.

  “Quiet, or next time I’ll aim it at you.”

  Marge came back with the water. Gaynor drank it greedily. He was in good health other than his allergies. Overweight, yes. Old, yes. In need of a lube job in the morning, yes. But considering where some of his peers lay, he was in very good health. His wife had knitted him a new cardigan—the hunter-green one he had on today. He liked it. Went with his gray slacks. He thanked Marge for the water, cleared his throat.

  “You were saying…” Martinez prompted.

  “What was I saying?”

  “Garrison kids are gonna inherit…”

  “Money,” Gaynor said. “Now, they don’t get their inheritance all at once. David gets about a third of his share now and the rest at thirty. Jeanine also gets a third now and the rest at thirty-two.”

  “About four years from now,” Oliver said.

  Marge said, “Does Jeanine work?”

  “Not according to her brother,” Webster stated.

  “So as of right now, she has no income?”

  “She arranges charity events,” Decker said. “Said her father’s foundation gave her a salary and expenses came out of profits.”

  “What kind of expenses was she talking about?” Oliver asked.

  “The catering, the hall, the setup—I don’t know the details.” Decker looked to Farrell. “Maybe you could help me out on that.”

  “I could try.”

  Marge said, “So what happens to her now that her father is gone?”

  “Her inheritance should keep her well afloat,” Gaynor said. “Ray Garrison was worth ten to twelve million—”

  Marge said, “How do people amass that much money?”

  Oliver held out his hands. “Don’t look at me.”

  Decker said, “The age for dispersal in the trust. Can that be changed? Or is the trust irrevocable?”

  “In theory, it is irrevocable,” Gaynor said. “But that doesn’t mean much if one chooses to contest it.”

  “Is anyone contesting it?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Who’s the executor?” Oliver asked.

  “Executor of the will?”

  “No, of the trust.”

  Gaynor said, “There’s no executor for the trust, only a trustee.”

  Oliver held his temper. “So who is the trustee, Farrell?”

  “Jeanine Garrison on behalf of herself and her brother, David. I don’t know how the money is divided. I don’t even know if they inherit the entire estate. I couldn’t push my mole that far without skirting the bounds of legality.”

  Webster said, “David seems to think his inheritance is something in the lower seven-figure range.”

  Oliver said, “Which means Jeanine gets something in the higher seven-figure range?”

  Gaynor said, “If the estate was divided…let’s say…sixty/forty. That means Jeanine would get around two million now, David would get a cool mil.”

  Marge said, “I call that rich.”

  Decker said, “Millionaires, to be sure. All the same, there are estate taxes, lots of hidden costs. Did Ray and Linda Garrison have any insurance?”

  “Like a second to die policy?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Nothing I could find.”

  “So she’s going to have to fork out some cash to the IRS for death taxes. What is it now? Around sixty percent?”

  “Something like that.”

  “She’ll live well,” Decker said. “But she isn’t going to live like a princess.”

  “I ain’t crying for her,” Oliver said.

  Martinez said, “What’d this guy do to earn all that money?”

  “He was a corporate lawyer—his own firm. Seven partners. Seems to have invested wisely—real estate, stocks, bonds. Some risky stuff—futures, derivatives, commodities. Obviously, he came out on top.”

  “And son David was a druggie.” Oliver smiled. “Another American tragedy, yawn yawn.”

  “Stop being so smug,” Marge said.

  “And why not?” Oliver grinned. “I may not have millions but my kids are earning their own keep.” His grin turned malicious. “Hey, how’s Cindy doing, Loo? Still forking out those tuition bills for her schooling?”

  Decker’s face went dark.

  Instantly, Oliver knew he had hit a nerve. Maybe the guy was broke. Decker seemed well heeled, but tuition could stretch any wallet. “Hey, I’m just kidding. You’ve got a terrific kid. Smart, too. I’m threatened by her…by your whole family…especially by—”

  “Oliver, shut up,” Marge said.

  The room went quiet. Webster broke it. “David Garrison is troubled. But he’s nobody’s fool. He’s talented and bright.”

  Oliver said, “Then why did he do eighteen months in County?”

  “’Cause people screw up,” Decker said.

  Webster said, “From David’s perspective, he got the short end of the deal. Because Jeanine was beautiful but ordinary in the brain department, nobody ever made demands on her. David, on the other hand, had lots of demands made on him. Mostly from his father. Probably wasn’t strong enough to stand up to Papa directly so he did it in other ways.”

  He turned to Decker.

  “You ask Jeanine if she knew Harlan Manz, Loo?”

  Decker said, “I kept trying but she kept changing the subject. Clearly didn’t want to talk about her tennis instructors at Greenvale.”

  Webster said, “David was sure that Jeanine not only knew Harlan Manz, but had probably slept with him.” He related everything David had told him.

  “But he has no proof that Jeanine and Harlan knew each other,” Oliver said.

  “Jeanine knew him.” Decker pulled out a newspaper photograph, gave it to Oliver. A snapshot of a charity tennis match with the proceeds going to New Christian Hospital. For the infirmary’s diagnostic radiation division. It was a couples game—Jeanine Garrison and Harlan Manz alias Hart Mansfield against Sonia Eaton and Terrance Howell. The four of them, smiling in a frozen capsule of time.

  Oliver passed the picture around, each one taking their turn, studying the photo in silence.

  Finally, Decker said, “Now we know that Jeanine knew Harlan. How well?” He shrugged.

  Again, the room was quiet.

  Decker said, “We’ve got a mass murder that produced excessive bullets for the number of empty magazines found. We’ve got a man who committed suicide by shooting at his head, but the gun was held at least two feet away from his temple. We’ve got Ray and Linda Garrison, probably among the first victims to be gunned down, riddled with entrance and exit wounds that defy logic. We know that Garrison’s son has or had a drug problem, and daughter Jeanine has an office and secretaries and no visible means of support other than Dad. Now Gaynor tells us that they stand to inherit around twelve million bucks. You want to tell me what this smells like?”

  Oliver said, “A perfume called Menendez.”

  Webster said, “Except brother don’t like sister.”

  Marge said, “That’s what David told you. Maybe that’s what he wants you to think.”

  Martinez asked Decker, “Does sister like brother?”

  “Never got that far. I told you,
Jeanine’s sly. Didn’t talk about her instructors at the club, never mentioned Harlan Manz by name. The woman is also a roller coaster of emotions. First time I met her, she was all sweetness and light—overly touchy-feely. You know…holding my hand, looking me straight in the eye. Like some inspirational guru. She asked me if I’d return later in the day because something had come up. I said sure. I came back and suddenly she was cautious…wary. Gave me the feeling that she’d consulted an attorney in my absence. Asked what to say to a police lieutenant.”

  “Maybe she did call up counsel,” Marge said.

  Oliver raised his brow. “You call your lawyer when you’ve got something to hide?”

  “I’m not saying she did,” Decker clarified. “Just that the shift in attitude was strange. She’s strange. Referred to the murder as ‘this thing with my parents.’”

  “Can’t arrest someone for filial indifference, Pete,” Marge said.

  Webster said, “Didn’t one of the French existentialists write a book along those lines? The one where they had him arrested and tried for murder because he didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral?”

  The group stared at him.

  Gaynor said, “Maybe the character was in shock. You know people have different reactions to grief.”

  “That wasn’t the point of the book, Farrell—”

  “Can we get back to the case?” Oliver interrupted.

  Martinez said, “Does this woman look as good in life as she does in the picture?”

  Marge said, “You know we’ve completely ignored Wendy Culligan. Harlen actually went out with her.”

  “Who’s Wendy Culligan?” Farrell asked.

  “Real estate agent.” Oliver went through his and Marge’s interview with Brenda Miller, leaving out the dinner date he made with the veep. Marge had left it out as well.

  “But Culligan isn’t dead,” Webster said.

  “No,” Marge said. “But maybe Harlan was trying to prove a point with her. ‘This is what you drove me to!’ That kind of thing.”

  “Was she seated near the Garrisons?” Decker asked.

  “Other side of the room.”