Serpent’s Tooth. Faye Kellerman

      “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.”

      “I’m going to have to pass.”

      “You’re married?”

      “Yes.”

      “I don’t care.”

      “But I do. Can we get started?”

      “Why do you need to ask any questions if the case is solved?”

      “Because there are still lots of unanswered questions—”

      “Like why he did it?” She gulped her juice. “Hell if I know.” She cocked her hip. “I knew I had bad taste in men. But this …”

      “You called yourself an ex-girlfriend.”

      “This is true.”

      “When did you two break up?”

      “You mean, when did I kick him out? ’Bout four months ago.”

      “Why?”

      “Why?” Rhonda let out a bitter laugh. “’Cause I got sick of his running around. More than that, I just got sick of Harlan Manz. The man with the plans that never panned out.”

      “He was an actor?”

      “He was a jerk.”

      Decker waited.

      Rhonda sighed. “Harlan was a professional wannabe. Wannabe actor, wannabe model, wannabe tennis pro, wannabe stud, wannabe this, wannabe that. What he was … was a nothing.”

      Decker said, “In his apartment, I saw film posters with his name on them.”

      “Yeah, he was a card-carrying member of SAG. Showed it to you at every opportunity. Those films were shelved, never even made it to video … what is your rank again?”

      “Lieutenant.”

      “A big shot.”

      “A legend in my own mind.”

      Rhonda smiled briefly. “Harlan was …” She sighed. “He was a slacker … a loser with a good backhand. And that’s about it, bub.”

      “A wannabe tennis pro.” Decker waited a beat. “So he had tennis ambitions?”

      “Maybe. Guy had some talent but not good enough to be pro. He used to teach tennis at a country club—”

       “What?”

      “No joke. The big one about two miles up the road.”

      “Greenvale?”

      “That’s the one. Greenvale Country Club.”

      “This wasn’t one of Harlan’s delusions? You know this for a fact?”

      “Check it out yourself.” She grinned. “Bet they’ll welcome your inquiries with open arms.”

      Decker wrote furiously. “How long did he teach at Greenvale?”

      “Off and on for about three years.”

      “Off and on?”

      “Yeah, Harlan couldn’t hold anything steady. Greenvale took him in for summer work. He taught tennis in the day, tended bar at night. Harlan could maintain in short spurts. I mean the guy was good-looking, had a certain amount of charm. And he was well endowed. Used it, too. He made more than a few lonely women very happy.”

      “Married women?”

      “I said lonely women. ’Course they were married.”

      “Lucky he didn’t wind up with a gun to his head.”

      “Nah, he wouldn’t do anything dangerous. Greenvale has lots of married women whose husbands are fuckin’ sweet young things. I know because I’ve been there. Not the old, lonely, married woman, but the sweet young thing. Lots of rich geezers in this city. Am I shocking you?”

      “Not at all.”

      “Yeah, you look pretty worldly. You mess around on your wife?”

      “No. So Harlan taught tennis to lonely women?”

      “No, he taught tennis to anyone who was assigned to him. Women, girls, men, boys.” Rhonda paused. “Occasionally, he’d give a lesson to some hot shit producer or director. Harlan was big on name-dropping. He’d brag to me that this time, he really made an impression. Jerk … he just didn’t get it. What that poor schmuck wouldn’t have given for the life of a big shot … partying … tennis … doing beautiful, rich women …”

      She stared at her empty glass.

      “Will you excuse me?”

      She left, then came back with a fresh glass. The liquid looked pale, lots of vodka, not too much juice. This time, she nursed her drink.

      “I tried to tell him that just because you teach some jack how to ace a serve doesn’t mean he’s going to star you in his next movie. But Harlan …”

      “But he must have been a good tennis player to teach.”

      “Good enough to teach those yahoos.”

      “Good