Blindman's Bluff Page 6

  “Lord only knows why. She hides herself as much as possible in the back row. I wouldn”t even notice her except that she”s tall. She never has any solos. Does the teacher have something against her?”

  “Mrs. Kent is Hannah”s biggest fan.”

  “So why doesn”t she ever have a solo?”

  “I don”t think she wants one. She likes to see her father in the audience. It makes her feel like you care.”

  Decker shrugged. “I keep wondering with the kids, including Cindy who is in her midthirties, how long will I have to jump through hoops just to prove I love them?”

  “Oh, I don”t know…” Rina shrugged. “Probably the rest of our lives.”

  SEVEN

  DECKER WAS DEAD to the world from twelve midnight until six-thirty the next morning when the alarm rang out. The bed was empty, but he heard noises coming from the kitchen. He showered and shaved and dressed and walked into the breakfast room at seven where coffee was already brewing.

  “Good morning,”Rina said. “How do you feel?”

  “Not too bad.”He poured a cup of java from the drip machine and took a sip. “Wow, that”s good. Do you want me to wake up the princess?”

  “I”ve already done that. She”s in a good mood.”

  “What”s the occasion?”

  “You. She told me—and I quote—‘ It was really nice for Abba to show up. I know he must be swamped at work. ’”

  “That”s lovely.”A pause. “How long do you think her appreciation will last?”

  “In the short run, it won”t last very long at all. But in reality, it”ll last a lifetime.”Rina kissed his cheek. “I”ll take her to school on my way to court.”

  “That would be great.”He checked his watch. “I need to go. I”ll stick my head in the lion”s den and say good-bye.”

  “This morning, you”ll probably have more of a lamb than a lion.”

  “Whatever I get is fine.”He put down his mug. “She”s a good girl. She”s my baby and I love her dearly. If I”m a safe target for some of her frustration, so be it. If God”ll just keep her safe, I”ll take all those slings and arrows.”

  OLIVER KNOCKED ON the doorjamb and without waiting for an invitation, he walked into Decker”s office. He had a mug of coffee in one hand and was holding a sheet of paper in the other. The man looked positively drained.

  “Get any sleep last night, Oliver?”

  “A couple of hours, but I”ll be all right.”He handed Decker a neatly typed up paper that resembled a family tree. “I”ve outlined Kaffey Security 101. If you look at the top of the sheet, I have Neptune Brady in the starring position because he”s the head honcho. Then I branch off.”

  “Well done,”Decker said.

  “Not too bad for a zombie.”Oliver smiled. “I divided it into two categories—guards at the ranch and personal bodyguards. Personal bodyguards—which I”ve abbreviated as PBG—are or were used mainly when Guy and Gilliam went out in public—restaurants, charity functions, business functions, parties. At least one PBG was with them at all times.”

  “What about if they went out individually?”

  “Don”t know about Gilliam, but there was definitely one on Guy. When no one was home, the security guards, or SG, watched the properties. So far I got fourteen names, but you can see there”s overlap. Rondo Martin, Joe Pine, Francisco Cortez, Terry Wexford, Martin Cruces, Denny Orlando, Javier Beltran, and Piet Kotsky worked as personal bodyguards and security guards.”

  Decker regarded the paper. “You”ve crossed off Alfonso Lanz and Evan Teasdale. Those are the dead guards, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “And these circled names—Rondo Martin and Denny Orlando—they”re the missing guards?”

  “Right again. No luck locating them yet, but we”ve been doing some hunting. When we went to pay a visit to Denny Orlando”s apartment, his entire family was there, waiting for Denny to come home. Marge and I talked to the wife for a while. She described Denny as a good husband, a good father—they have two kids—and said it”s not like Denny to up and disappear.”

  “That means nothing.”

  “I agree. He still needs to be probed, but you get that initial feeling about a person. Sometimes it”s wrong but more often than not, it”s right. We didn”t find anything that points Denny in the direction of hit man. When we asked Brady about him, he seemed stunned. Denny always impressed Brady as a straight shooter. He”s a deacon in his church.”

  “So was BTK.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I think we all agree that this probably isn”t the work of a serial killer.”

  “What about the other one—Rondo Martin?”

  “Brady was equally shocked, but of course, he has to be. He can”t admit to us that he hired a psycho.”

  “You think he”s a psycho?”

  “He”s a former deputy sheriff from Ponceville—a small farm community in central California. Brady wasn”t sure how Rondo heard about the position for the Kaffeys, but he called Brady and told him he was interested in private security work. The pay was better and he was looking for something different. He was interviewed, went through a probationary period, and then was hired full-time.

  Moved down to L.A. with no strings attached.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “Exactly. He lives in an apartment in the North Valley. When we went to his place, no one was home, but we got the keys from his landlord. His place, while not exactly stripped cleaned, was pretty damn bare. His car was also gone—an”02 Toyota Corolla—metallic blue. We”ve got an APB out on it.”

  “What about Orlando”s car?”

  “His wife took him to work. Martin was supposed to take him back home.”

  “So what are your thoughts?”

  Scott ticked off his fingers. “Orlando and Martin were both involved. Martin was involved and shot Orlando. Orlando was involved and shot Martin. Neither was involved and both bolted because they were scared.”

  “What about prints? You pulled up a lot of them.”

  “We”re checking them out.”

  “You have prints for Martin and Orlando?”

  “Orlando, I don”t know. We”ve put in a request at Ponceville for Martin”s prints. He must have had a set to work in law enforcement.”

  “What about the other guards?”Decker asked.

  “We”re running through them one by one. We made phone contact with Terry Wexford, Martin Cruces, and Javier Beltran so we”re on our way to eliminating them. Let me recap the way the system works.”

  Decker sipped coffee at his desk. “Shoot.”

  “There are always four security guards working at the ranch when Gilliam and Guy are in residence—two at the guardhouse and two inside the house. The men work twenty-four-hour shifts and are relieved by a new set of guards the next day. Sometimes individuals from the next group might come in a little early. So theoretically, it”s possible to have as many as eight guards on the property at any one time.”

  “All right.”Decker did some instant calculations. “That means—on average—a security guard works every third day.”

  “Around that.”Oliver finished his lukewarm coffee. “The security guards don”t live on the properties, but there are a couple of staff bungalows with empty beds if one of them is too tired to go home or comes in early.”

  “How many bungalows?”

  “Two each with four cots and a TV for the staff, plus a separate bungalow for Neptune Brady. Both Kotsky and Brady told me it”s not unusual to have a couple of men resting while waiting for their shift to start.”

  “Do the guards have keys to get into the property?”

  “Gate keys but not house keys. There”s a house keycard check system that Brady has in place.”

  “How does that work?”

  “Each incoming guard is required to check out the keycard from an outgoing guard. There”s a sign-in sheet and a sign-out sheet that includes time and date. The sheet for the night of the murder is missing, but that doesn�
�t mean too much. Brady had the schedule for who was supposed to be on.

  We know who was murdered and we know who is missing.”

  “That”s not much of a system—a sign-up sheet.”

  “You said it. Ripe for abuse, but it worked well for a number of years. Brady told me he was very diligent in counting the keycards, and they are next to impossible to duplicate. None were missing from the lockbox, but of course two keycards are gone, probably taken by the two missing guards.”

  “What a way to live,”Decker said. “Rarified to be sure, but that comes with a price.”

  “Ain”t that the truth,”Oliver said. “Coyote Ranch is kind of the California version of Versailles. And we all know what happened to Marie Antoinette.”

  THE SECOND DAY of testimony was more of the same.

  More forgetful people with Smiling Sunglasses Tom doing a bang-up acting job in the translation department. While the deputy D.A. gave off the professional look—navy pin-striped suit, white blouse, sensible pumps—the defense attorney was a schlub—stooped shoulders and a comb-over of unruly gray hair. His suit was too short in the sleeves, but too big on his bony frame. The crux of his case was that the arresting officers couldn”t really see who punched whom and therefore his client should be exonerated.

  The P.D. called up the young officer for the cross, and although the uniform wasn”t the sharpest tool in the box, he seemed credible. The officer saw the defendant punch the plaintiff in the face. It was as simple as that. To Rina, the trial wasn”t a total waste of the jurors”time, but it was proving to be not an efficient use of time. No one complained when the panel was dismissed for the lunch break.

  Ryan was meeting a friend for lunch, so this afternoon it was just the girls. In a hope to steer the conversation away from the Kaffey murders, Rina had made extra sandwiches on homemade challah bread and was spending most of her time giving the women the recipe.

  “I thought challah had to be braided,”Joy said.

  “Obviously not, since we”re eating square slices,”Kate said. “Wow, this is good. I love the olives and sun-dried tomatoes. It works really well with the salami.”

  “Thank you,”Rina said. “In answer to your question, Joy, no, it doesn”t have to be braided, although the braid is traditional on Friday night. On the Jewish New Year”s through the holiday of Sukkoth, it”s round. There”s also something called a pull-apart challah that”s also round.”

  “What”s that?”Kate was taking notes.

  “You make individual balls of dough around the size of a lime and pack them tightly into a round pan.”

  “Same recipe?”

  “Same recipe. When it bakes, all the dough coalesces into one round loaf, but you can still see the individual sections. People use it because when you say the blessing over the bread, you pull apart the sections for your guests and it”s a nice presentation.”

  Joy said, “Someone once told me that you burn part of the dough or something. Or did I get it wrong?”

  “No, you didn”t. You do burn a small section of the dough. That”s the part called challah, actually.

  We do it to commemorate a different time when the Jews had the temple and burned flour sacrifices to God. But you can only do it if you”ve used a certain amount of flour. You don”t take challah on a single loaf unless it”s gigantic. Sometimes if I”m in the mood, I make a big, big batch and freeze some of the dough between the first and second rise so I can take challah, but that”s for another day.”

  “Do you also bake?”Ally inquired.

  “I do. I find it very good therapy.”

  Joy said, “You must have a lot of time on your hands with your husband busy solving murders.”

  “Less than you think,”Rina said. “Peter mostly works a desk job.”

  “But not always, like right now.”Joy almost licked her lips. “So what”s going on with the Kaffey murder?”

  “I know as much as you do,”Rina told her. “Peter doesn”t talk about his current cases. Sorry, but I don”t have the inside dope.”

  “I think you”re just being coy.”Joy sat back in her chair and folded her arms.

  “I”m not being coy. I just don”t know more than what I read.”

  “How long do you think it”ll take to solve it?”Ally asked.

  “I wouldn”t even hazard a guess,”Rina said. “Peter”s worked on cases that were solved within twenty-four hours, and the flip side is the cold cases that have been going on for years.”

  “Anything good?”Joy asked.

  “What kind of a question is that?”Kate said. “I”m sure it”s all very tragic.”

  Rina smiled. “You know, Joy, when Peter and I first got married, I tried to pry stuff out of him because I was as curious as you are. Now, to me his job is just a job. It pays the bills, and sometimes it gets in the way of doing what we want to do. I mean, you”re married. What do you and your husband talk about?”

  “My husband”s a CPA,”Joy said. “What are we going to talk about? Tax deductions?”

  Rina paused, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “You know, I just inherited some paintings that might be of significant value. Do I have to pay a gift tax on them or only if I sell them?”

  “I”m a respiratory therapist. Why would I know about that?”

  “That”s the point, Joy,”Kate said. “She”s a teacher. What does she know about murder?”

  “Yeah, but there”s a big difference,”Joy said. “When Albert starts talking about numbers, it puts me to sleep.”

  Rina said, “I have the opposite problem. When Peter starts talking about the evils of mankind, it keeps me awake.”

  EIGHT

  LEANING AGAINST THE wall, he slowly unwrapped a peanut power bar, his brain absorbing the cacophony of clatter. It was nearing the time when the courts reconvened and that meant noise coming at him from all directions. Across the way, two women were discussing bread recipes. One was from the Michigan area. She was older, in her sixties judging by the rhythm and deliberation of her speech. The second was a young Valley girl with a cowboy twang, reminding him that once California was the Wild West. The din increased as the crowd filed in.

  To his right was a woman who was on the Fernandez trial. He had heard her voice as the jury panel left the room even though she had been whispering. As he overheard her speak into her cell, he knew instantly that she was talking to her husband or a boyfriend. Although her language was clean and innocuous, her tone was full of sexual innuendo. The way she laughed and riposted. He imagined her to be a map of sensual curves. She sounded like she was clearly born and bred in L.A.

  He took a bite of his bar and waited for court to resume, the noise level growing exponentially as people congregated in the courthouse hallway, sound waves bouncing off the hard interior surfaces. The open space had cement floors and wooden walls without a stitch of carpeting or upholstered furniture to absorb the racket. The only things to sit on were butt-breaking benches. He didn”t feel like sitting. He sat around enough as it was.

  If he paid attention, he could hear well.

  To his left were two Hispanics: one from Mexico and the other from El Salvador. They were speaking in what they thought were hushed tones, but his ear was so attuned to the nuance of speech, they might as well have been shouting through a loudspeaker. They were jabbering on in rapid-fire Spanish about the news, specifically the horrendous murders in the West Valley. He had heard several different renditions of that story about the billionaire developer, his wife, and his son gunned down in their multiacre ranch.

  How freakin”ironic was that? All that money and the poor schmuck couldn”t buy himself some loyal security. But that was the problem with money. It attracted all sorts of misfits and cretins, but usually small-time con artists didn”t murder. In his limited experience, homicides of big shots were done by other big shots—respectable people in deep shit with something dear to lose.

  He continued to eavesdrop on the Spanish conversation and chuckled to himself. Th
e two bozos kept calling Guy Kaffey, the slain billionaire, Señor Café—which translated into English as Mr. Coffee. Like the guy was a small appliance. As the men continued to talk, their voices dropped a notch. To him, it was strange that the two men were attempting a private conversation, but they clearly needed to talk. He could hear the urgency in their voices. And they probably had to be in these hallowed hallways—as witnesses, defendants, or plaintiffs. People didn”t hang around for the commissary food.

  There were strict rules for jurors on overhearing conversation revolving around current cases. That kind of eavesdropping could influence outcome. But he felt there was nothing wrong with listening in on casual conversation.

  The woman on his right had hung up her cell phone. She sounded like she was now going through her purse. Her rifling was almost drowning out the Spanish conversation, which was becoming so inaudible that he was actually straining to make out the words. Not that their yapping was important to him, but now it was a point of pride.

  Like the limbo song—how low can you go?

  They were still talking about the Kaffey murder, and something about the intensity of the conversation drew his interest. Ever so slightly, he turned his head in the direction of the sound to absorb a couple more decibels. His ears perked up as it became clear that the men were speaking about the killings from personal knowledge.

  The Mexican was talking about a man named José Pinon who had gone missing, and el patrón, the boss, was looking for him in Mexico.

  “Because he fucked it up with the son,”the Mexican told the El Salvadorian.

  “¿Qué pasa?”El Salvadorian asked. What happened?

  The Mexican”s voice was full of contempt. “He ran out of bullets.”

  “Ay…estúpido!”the El Salvadorian said. “So why didn”t somebody else finish him off?”

  “” Cause José”s a retard. He says he asked Martin to do it, but me? I don”t hear nothing about that. I think he”s covering his own stupid ass and he can kiss that good-bye. Martin is really pissed.”

  The El Salvadorian said. “Martin es malo.”