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Blindman’s Bluff
Faye Kellerman


The eighteenth book in the hugely popular Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus series from New York Times bestselling author Faye KellermanGuy Kaffey thought his wealth could acquire anything- including the best security money can buy. When his family are gunned to death on their vast Butterfly Ranch estate, it's clear that he was tragically wrong.Lieutenant Peter Decker of the LAPD is given the task of piecing together what happened. From the start, he suspects an inside job and that the answer lies with Kaffey's fortune. The daunting scale of Kaffey's business empire produces no shortage of suspects: from members of his bodyguard, to business partners, rival tycoons, even family members.But as LA's ferocious street gangs hire themselves out to unknown paymasters in a cycle of revenge and death, Decker's own family is threatened. And if a billionaire like Kaffey can't protect his own, what hope does Decker have?












Blindman’s

Bluff

Faye Kellerman


















To Jonathan:

forever my inspiration




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u3f98ed47-274f-5d9d-a44d-ff3eec4bcfa2)

Title Page (#u6ebeb1a3-8b4f-5560-a0d1-8b77dc6d5954)

Dedication (#u623b2eff-f9a5-565d-836e-3cb61c08c67a)

ONE (#u9db8bad2-b78d-53f2-bb37-c8092be274cd)

TWO (#uc3845d29-f11c-5d50-af19-aa0b98f79d0a)

THREE (#u54dbf262-f407-5b55-a525-03f67919f138)

FOUR (#u3fcfb72b-014f-584d-8961-a9800dd59fbc)

FIVE (#uc867b924-d47c-580c-afc9-1989bd8ba345)

SIX (#ue07f7341-81d3-50a1-b6be-7668baaa252b)

SEVEN (#u9814d59f-1f7e-5e8f-b556-78cd87a0b60d)

EIGHT (#ubc080ced-9543-57a6-8800-91b7337f37ee)

NINE (#u2037a877-dbb9-52e7-9abf-5f7fba06bc63)

TEN (#u45ea7e3e-3c36-5dc7-bee0-89a98d58b33c)

ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

FORTY (#litres_trial_promo)

ALSO BY FAYE KELLERMAN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




ONE (#ulink_105b9b82-ff2c-5372-ad64-9ba1fc053c2c)


AH, FANTASY: the stuff of life.

As he dressed for work, he looked in the mirror. Staring back at him was a handsome man around six feet four…

No. That was way too tall.

Staring back at him was a six-foot-one, devilishly handsome angular man with a surfer mop of sun-kissed hair and preternatural blue eyes, so intense that whenever any woman looked at him, she had to avert her eyes in embarrassment.

Well, the eyes part was probably true.

How about this?

In the mirror, staring back at him was an angular face topped by a nest of curly, dark hair and a shy smile that made women swoon—so boyish and charming, yet masculine at the same time.

He felt his lips turn into a smile, and he raked fingers through his own curly locks, which were on the thin side—not thinning, but not a lot of weight to the fibers. Pulling up on the knot of his tie, he eased it into the folds of his collar and felt the fabric: deluxe, heavy silk handpainted with an array of colors that would go with almost anything randomly chosen from his closet. As he tucked his shirttail into his pants, his hands ran over the rises and falls of a six-pack courtesy of crunches and weight lifting and a very strict eating regimen. Like most bodybuilders, his muscles craved protein, which was fine as long as he trimmed the fat. That was why whenever he looked in the mirror, he liked what he saw.

More like what he imagined he saw.

DECKER WAS GENUINELY perplexed. “I don’t understand how you got past the voir dire.”

“Maybe the judge believed me when I said I could be objective,” Rina answered.

Adding artificial sweetener to his coffee, Decker grunted. He had always taken his java straight up, but of late he had developed a sweet tooth, especially after a meat meal. Not that dinner was all that heavy—skirt steaks and salad. He liked simple cooking whenever it was just the two of them. “Even if the judge shamed you into serving, the public defender should have booted your attractive derriere off the panel.”

“Maybe the P.D. believed that I could be objective.”

“For the last eighteen years, you’ve heard me piss and moan about the sorry state of the justice system. How could you possibly be objective?”

Rina smiled behind her coffee cup. “You’re assuming I believe everything you tell me.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Being a detective lieutenant’s wife has not leeched all rationality from my brain. I can think for myself and be just as rational as the next person.”

“It sounds to me like you want to serve.” Decker took a sip of his coffee—strong and sweet. “More power to you, darlin’. That’s what our jury system needs, smart people doing their civic duties.” He gave her a sly smile. “Or it could be that Mr. P.D. enjoys looking at you.”

“It’s a she and maybe she does.”

Decker laughed. Anyone would enjoy staring at Rina. Over the past years, her face had grown a few laugh lines, but she still cut a regal pose: an alabaster complexion tinged with pink at the cheekbones, silken black hair, and cornflower-colored eyes.

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get out of it,” Rina explained. “It’s just that past a certain point, if you want to be excused, you have to start lying. Saying things like ‘no, I can’t ever be objective,’ and that makes you sound like a doofus.”

“What’s the case?”

“You know I can’t talk about it.”

“Ah, c’mon!” Decker bit into a sugar cookie, home baked courtesy of his sixteen-year-old daughter. Crumbs nested in his mustache. “Who am I going to tell?”

“An entire squad room perhaps?” Rina replied. “Do you have any court appearances in L.A. coming up?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“I thought maybe we could meet for lunch.”

“Yeah, let’s get crazy and spend those fifteen dollars a day the courts give you.”

“Plus gas, but only one way. Indeed, serving on a jury is not the pathway to riches. Even selling blood pays more. But I am doing my public duty and as one employed to protect and serve, you should be grateful.”

Decker kissed her forehead. “I’m very proud of you. You’re doing the right thing. And I won’t ask you about the case anymore. Just please tell me it isn’t a murder case.”

“I can’t tell you yes or no, but because you have seen the worst of humanity and have a very active imagination, I will tell you not to worry.”

“Thank you.” Decker checked his watch. It was past nine in the evening. “Didn’t Hannah say she’d be back home by now?”

“She did, but you know your daughter. Time is a fluid concept with her. Want me to call her?”

“Will she answer her cell?”

“Probably not, especially if she’s driving…Wait. That’s her pulling up.”

A moment later, their daughter came barreling through the front door, lugging a two-ton knapsack on her back and carrying two paper bags filled with groceries. Decker relieved her of the backpack, and Rina took the food.

“What’s all this for?” Rina asked.

“I’m having a few girlfriends over for Shabbos. Other than what I bake, we don’t have anything good in the house anymore. Do you want me to put the groceries away?”

“I’ll do it,” Rina said. “Say hello to your father. He’s been worried about you.”

Hannah checked her watch. “It’s ten after nine.”

“I know I’m overprotective, I don’t care. I’ll never change. And we don’t have junk in the house, because if it’s there, I eat it.”

“I know, Abba. And being as you pay all the bills, I respect your wishes. But I’m only sixteen and this is probably one of the few times in my life that I’ll be able to eat junk without gaining massive amounts of weight. I look at you and I look at Cindy and I know I’m not always going to be this thin.”

“What’s wrong with Cindy? She’s perfectly normal.”

“She’s a big girl like I am, and she watches her weight like a hawk. I’m not at that point yet, but it’s only a matter of time before my metabolism catches up with me.”

Decker patted his belly. “Well, what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you, Abba. You look great for…” Hannah stopped herself. For your age were the unspoken words. She kissed his cheek. “I hope my husband will be as handsome as you.”

Decker smiled despite himself. “Thank you, but I’m sure your husband will be much handsomer.”

“That would be impossible. No one is as handsome as you are and with the exception of pro athletes, hardly anyone is as tall as you. It gets a tall girl down sometimes. We either have to wear flats or tower over most of the class.”

“You’re not that tall.”

“That’s only because to you everyone is short. I’m already taller than Cindy and she’s five nine.”

“If you’re taller, it’s not by much. And there are many boys over five nine.”

“Not Jewish boys.”

“I’m a Jewish boy.”

“Not Jewish boys who are still in high school.”

Decker liked that. It meant she’d have to wait until college to find a boyfriend. Hannah noticed the subtle smile. “You’re not being very sympathetic.”

“I’m sorry I gave you the Big T gene.”

“That’s okay,” Hannah said. “It comes with its benefits but also its detriments. When you’re tall and thin and dress nicely, people think you’re trying to be a model and that you don’t have a brain in your head.”

“I’m sure you get lots of sympathy from your friends about that.”

“I don’t tell my friends that, I’m telling you.” She looked at the dining room table. “Did you like the cookies?”

“Too much. That’s precisely why I don’t want junk in the house.”

“Enjoy the cookies, Abba,” Hannah told him. “Life is short even if you’re not.”

IT STARTED AS a soft tinkling in the background of her dream until Rina realized it was the phone. Marge Dunn was on the line and her voice was a monotone.

“I need to speak to the boss.”

Rina regarded her husband. He hadn’t changed positions since falling asleep four hours ago. The nightstand clock said it was almost three in the morning. Because Peter was a lieutenant, he didn’t get many middle-of-the-night calls. The West Valley didn’t teem with crime, and his elite squad of homicide investigators usually fielded whatever mayhem happened in the wee hours. Murders were rare, but when they occurred, they were usually nasty. But even nasty did not necessitate waking up the Loo at three in the morning.

A sensational story was another animal altogether.

Rina rubbed goose bumps on her arm, then gently shook him awake. “It’s Marge.”

Decker bolted up in bed and took the phone from Rina. His voice was still heavy with sleep. “What’s going on?”

“Multiple homicide.”

“Dear God—”

“At last count, there were four murdered and one attempted homicide. The survivor—a son of the couple murdered—is on his way to St. Joe’s; he was shot but he’ll probably live.”

Decker stood up and grabbed his shirt, buttoning it while he spoke. “Who’re the victims?”

“For starters, how about Guy and Gilliam Kaffey—as in Kaffey Industries.”

Decker gasped. Guy and his younger brother, Mace, were responsible for most of the shopping malls in Southern California. “Where?”

“Coyote Ranch.”

“Someone broke into the ranch?” He tucked the phone underneath his chin and talked as he slipped on his pants. “I thought the place was a fortress.”

“I don’t know about that, but it’s gigantic—seventy acres abutting the foothills. Not to mention the mansion. It’s its own city.”

Decker remembered a magazine feature someone had done on the ranch a while ago. It was a series of compounds, although the main quarters were big enough to house a convention. Along with the numerous other buildings on the ranch, there were the requisite swimming pool, hot tub, and tennis court. It also had a kennel, a riding corral big enough for Olympic equestrian courses, a ten-stall stable for the wife’s show horses, an airstrip long enough for any prop plane, and its own freeway exit. About a year ago, Guy Kaffey made a bid to purchase the L.A. Galaxy after the team had secured David Beckham, but the deal fell through.

As Decker recalled, there were two sons and he wondered which one had been shot. “What about all the bodyguards?”

“Two in the guardhouse at the front and both of them dead,” Marge answered. “We’re still searching. There’s something like ten different structures on the property. So there may be more bodies. What’s your ETA?”

“Maybe ten minutes. Who’s down there now?”

“About a half-dozen squad cars. Oliver called in Strapp. Only a matter of time before the press gets wind.”

“Secure the property. I don’t want the press messing up the crime scene.”

“Will do. See you soon.”

Decker hung up and made a mental checklist of what he’d need—a notepad and pens, gloves, evidence bags, face masks, magnifying glass, metal detector, Vaseline, and Advil, the last item not for forensic use but because he had a pounding headache, the result of being awakened from a deep sleep.

Rina said, “What’s going on?”

“Multiple homicide at Coyote Ranch.”

She sat up straight. “The Kaffey place?”

“Yes, ma’am. No doubt, it’s going to be a circus by the time I arrive.”

“That’s horrible!”

“It’s going to be a nightmare in logistics. The place is around seventy acres—absolutely no way to totally wall off the area.”

“I know, it’s tremendous. About a year ago, they did a showcase home there for some kind of charity. I heard the gardens were absolutely magnificent. I wanted to go but something came up.”

“Doesn’t look like you’ll get a second chance.” Decker opened the gun safe, took out his Beretta, and slipped it into his shoulder harness. “That’s a terrible thing to say but I make no excuses. Dealing with the press in high-profile cases brings out the bastard in me.”

“They’ve called the press at three-fifteen in the morning?”

“Can’t stop death and taxes—and you can’t stop the news.” He gave her a peck on the top of her head. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” Rina sighed. “That’s really sad. All that money is a deadly magnet for leeches, con artists, and just plain evil people.” She shook her head. “I don’t know about being too thin, but you certainly can be too rich.”

THE ONLY GOOD thing about being called in the early hours of the morning was ripping through the city sans traffic. Decker zipped through empty streets, dark and misty and occasionally haloed by streetlamps. The freeway was an eerie, endless black road fading into fog. In 1994, the Southland had been pummeled by the Northridge earthquake, a terrifying ninety seconds of doomsday that had brought down buildings and had collapsed the concrete bridges of the freeways. Had the temblor occurred just a few hours later during the morning commute, the casualties would have been tens of thousands instead of under a hundred.

The Coyote Road off-ramp was blocked by two black-and-whites, nose to nose. Decker displayed the badge around his neck to the police officers, and it took a few minutes for the cars to part to allow him forward. One of the cops directed him to the ranch. It was a straight shot—no turnoffs anywhere—and the packed dirt road seemed to go on for about a mile before the main house came into view. Once it did, it grew like a sea monster surfacing for air. The outdoor lights had been turned on to the max with almost every crevice and crack illuminated, giving the place a theme park appearance.

The mansion was Spanish villa in style and, in its own blown-up way, harmonious with the surroundings. The final height was three stories of adobe-colored stucco with wood-railed balconies, stained-glass windows, and a red Spanish tiled roof. The structure sat on the rise of a man-made knoll. Beyond the mansion were vast, empty acres and the shadows of the foothills.

About two hundred yards into the drive, Decker saw a parking lot filled with a half-dozen squad cars, the coroner’s van, a half-dozen TV vans with satellites and antennas, several forensic vans, and another eight unmarked cars, and there was still room to spare. The media had set up shop, with enough artificial illumination to do microsurgery because each network and cable TV station had its own lighting, its own camera and sound people, its own producers, and its own perky reporter waiting for the story. The mob longed to be closer to the hot spot, but a barrier of yellow crime scene tape, cones, and uniformed officers kept them corralled.

After showing his badge, Decker ducked under the tape and walked the distance to the entrance on foot, passing meticulously barbered mazes of boxwood elms outlining the formal gardens. Inside the shrubbery were different groupings of spring flowers, including but not limited to roses, irises, daffodils, lilies, anemones, dahlias, zinnias, cosmos, and dozens of other types of flora he didn’t recognize. Somewhere close by were gardenias and night-blooming jasmine, infusing death with a sickly sweet fragrance. The flagstone walkway cut through several rows of blooming citrus. Lemon trees, if Decker had to make a guess.

Two officers were guarding the front door. They recognized Decker and waved him through. The interior lights were also on full blast. The entry hall could have been a ballroom in a Spanish castle. The floor was composed of heavy planks of old, hardened wood—irregular with a patina that no contrived distressing could manufacture. The ceiling soared and was lined with massive beams that had been carved and embellished with petroglyphs, the cave figures looking like something found in the Southwest. The walls were festooned with layers of gilt paneling and held museum-sized tapestries. Decker would have probably kept gawking, enraptured by the sheer size of the place, had he not caught the eye of a uniform who motioned him forward.

Proceeding down a half-dozen steps, he walked into a living room with double-height ceilings and more painted beams. Same hardwood on the floor, only most of it was covered with dozens of authentic-looking Navajo rugs. More gilt paneling, more tapestries along with enormous art canvases of bloody battles. The room was furnished with mammoth-sized couches, chairs, and tables. Decker was a big guy—six four, 220-plus pounds—but the scale of his surroundings made him feel positively diminutive.

Someone was talking to him. “This place is bigger than the college I attended.”

Decker regarded Scott Oliver, one of his crack Homicide detectives. He was in his late fifties and carried his age very well, thanks to good skin and repeated rounds of black hair dye. It was almost four in the morning, yet Oliver had dressed like a CEO at a board meeting: black pin-striped suit, red tie, and a starched and pressed white shirt.

“It was only community college, but the campus was still pretty big.”

“Do you know the square footage?”

“A hundred thousand, give or take.”

“Man oh man, that is…” Decker stopped talking because words were failing him. Although there was a uniformed officer at each doorway, there were no evidence markers on the floor or on the furniture. No one from CSI was busy dusting or dabbing. “Where’s the crime scene?”

“The library.”

“Where’s the library?”

“Hold on,” Oliver told him. “Let me get my map.”




TWO (#ulink_3e0f9a6b-ed94-5eb4-9fd8-e459924de1c3)


THE LABYRINTHINE HALLWAYS should have confounded any ordinary burglar’s escape route. Even with printed directions, Oliver made a couple of wrong turns.

Decker said, “Marge told me there were four bodies.”

“We are now up to five. The Kaffeys, a maid, and two guards.”

“Good lord! Signs of a robbery? Anything ransacked?”

“Nothing so obvious.” They continued down endless foyers. “No single perpetrator, that’s for certain. Whoever did this had a plan and a gang of people to carry it out. It had to be an inside job.”

“Who reported the crime? The injured son?”

“I don’t know. When we got here, the son was being loaded into the ambulance and was out of it.”

“Any idea when the shootings occurred?”

“Nothing definite, but rigor has started.”

“So between four and twenty-four hours,” Decker said. “Maybe the contents of the stomachs can narrow it down. Who’s out from the morgue?”

“Two coroner investigators and an assistant coroner. Turn right. The library should be through the double doors ahead.”

As soon as he walked inside, Decker felt a tinge of vertigo brought on by not only the gargantuan size of the room, but the lack of corners. The library was a rotunda with a domed ceiling of steel and glass. The curved walls were covered by black walnut paneling and bookshelves and floor-to-ceiling tapestries of mythological creatures gamboling in the forests. There was a walk-in fireplace big enough to contain a raging inferno. Antique rugs sat atop the oceanic wooden floor. Lots of furniture: sofas and love seats, tables and chairs, two grand pianos, and lamps too numerous too count.

The crime scene was a story in two parts. There was action near the fireplace and action in front of a tapestry of a gorgon devouring a young lord.

Oliver pointed to a spot. “Gilliam Kaffey was sitting in front of the fireplace, reading a book and drinking a glass of wine; Dad and son were having a conversation in those two club chairs over there.”

His finger was aimed at a grouping of two brown leather, nail-studded chairs where Marge Dunn was working in front of the man-eating gorgon. She was talking animatedly to one of the coroner’s investigators wearing the standard morgue issue: a black jacket with the identifying yellow lettering on back. Dunn saw Decker and Oliver and motioned them forward with a gloved hand. Marge’s hair had grown a little longer in the past few months, probably at the urging of her newest boyfriend, Will Barnes. She had on beige pants, a white shirt, and a dark brown cable-knit sweater. Rubber shoes on her feet. Decker and Oliver made their way over to the crime scene.

Guy Kaffey was on his back in a pond of blood with a gaping gorge in his chest. Tissue and bone had exploded over the man’s face and limbs and what hadn’t spilled onto the floor was splattered on the better part of the tapestry, giving the hapless lad and his plight unasked-for verity.

“Let me get you orientated.” Marge reached into her pocket, removed a map, and unfolded it. “This is the house and we are right…here.”

Decker took out his notepad and glanced around the windowless room. When he commented on it, Marge said, “I was told by the surviving maid that the artwork here is very old and sensitive to direct light.”

“So someone else besides the son survived the attack?” Decker asked.

“No, she came in and discovered the bodies,” Marge said. “Her name is Ana Mendez. I have her in a room guarded by one of our men.”

Oliver said, “We also need to interview the groundskeeper and the groomsman. They’re also being guarded by L.A.’s finest.”

Marge said, “All of them in separate rooms.”

“The groundskeeper is Paco Albanez—maybe around fifty-five—who’s worked here for about three years.” Oliver checked his notes. “The groomer is Riley Karns. He’s around thirty. I don’t know how long he’s been here.”

Decker said, “Do you know who called the crime in?”

Marge said, “We’re sorting that out. The maid said that someone called an off-duty bodyguard and maybe he called 911.”

“It was the maid who found the surviving son lying on the floor,” Oliver said. “She thought he was dead.”

“Who is the off-duty bodyguard that she supposedly called?” Decker asked.

“Piet Kotsky,” Marge told him. “I spoke to him on the phone. He’s coming in from Palm Springs. It works like this…I think. The bodyguards stay on-site only when they’re working. They work in twenty-four-hour shifts, rotating through eight people. There are always two bodyguards in the main house and two men manning the guardhouse located at the entrance gate of the property. Both of those guys are dead. Gunshot wounds to the head and chest. All the camera equipment and closed-circuit TVs are smashed and destroyed.”

“Names?” Decker asked.

“Kotsky doesn’t know who was on duty tonight, but he said once he sees them, he can identify them.”

“What about the two guards in the main house?”

“They appear to be missing,” Marge said.

“So two guards missing and two guards murdered.”

Marge and Oliver nodded.

“Oliver mentioned a murdered maid?”

“In the servant’s bedroom downstairs.”

“And how did Ana Mendez manage to dodge the bullet?”

“She was off tonight,” Oliver said. “Her story is that she had returned to the ranch around one in the morning.”

“How’d she get back? No public transportation for miles.”

“She has a car.”

“She didn’t notice the lack of guards in the guardhouse?”

Marge said, “She went around through the back gate at the service entrance. No guards are routinely stationed there. Ana has a gate access card. She gets in, parks her car, and goes into her room. She sees the body and starts screaming for help. At this point, it gets a little muddy. She apparently went upstairs and found the other bodies.”

“She went upstairs without knowing if there were still people in the house?” Decker asked.

“I told you, her story’s a little confusing. Once she saw the bodies, she called Kotsky and he reported the crime…I think.”

“I’ll talk to her again. She’s Spanish speaking?”

“She is, although her English is pretty good.”

Decker said, “On to the guards. Do you know who arranges their schedules?”

Oliver said, “Kotsky makes the assignments but doesn’t arrange them. That’s done by a man named Neptune Brady who is the Kaffeys’ head bodyguard. Brady has his own bungalow on the grounds, but for the past few days, he’s been visiting his sick father in Oakland.”

“Has anyone contacted him?”

“Kotsky called him up and told us that Brady chartered a jet and should be here soon.” Marge paused. “We did take a brief peek inside his bungalow just to make sure no one else was dead. I didn’t rifle through his room. We’ll need a warrant to do that.”

“Let’s put in for one in case Brady’s uncooperative.” Decker looked around the room. “Ideas on how this played out?”

Oliver said, “Gilliam was sitting in front of the fireplace, sipping wine and reading. Marge and I think that she went down first. She’s still slumped on the couch, her book is a few feet away, covered in blood. See for yourself.”

Decker walked over to the scene. Sprawled on the couch were the remnants of a beautiful woman. Her blue eyes were open and blank, and her blond hair was matted with caked blood. The woman’s torso had been nearly bisected at the waist by several shotgun blasts. It was sickening, and Decker involuntarily averted his eyes. There were some things he’d never get used to.

“This is carnage,” he said. “We’ll need lots of photographs because our memories aren’t going to be able to process all of this information.”

Marge continued, “The disturbance of someone entering the room must have drawn the attention of the father and son. We figured they went down next.”

Oliver said, “There are two Kaffey sons. The one who was shot was the older one, Gil.”

“Does he have immediate family who need to be notified?” Decker asked.

“We’re working on it,” Oliver said. “No one’s called any police station to ask about him.”

“What about the younger brother?” Decker asked.

Marge said, “Piet Kotsky told me that the younger son’s name is Grant and he lives in New York. So does Guy’s younger brother, Mace Kaffey.”

“Who is also in the business,” Oliver pointed out. “Both of them have been notified.”

“By who? Kotsky? Brady?”

Marge and Oliver shrugged ignorance.

“Back to the crime scene,” Decker said. “Any idea what Guy and Gil were doing?”

Oliver said, “They could have been talking business, but we didn’t find papers.”

Marge said, “Guy Kaffey probably stood up and saw what was happening to his wife. Then he was blown backward. The son was a little quicker and started running away when the bullets caught him. He went down a few feet away from one of the doors out of here.”

“And the shooters didn’t bother to check to make sure he was dead?”

Marge shrugged. “Maybe something distracted the shooters and they fled.”

Decker said, “We have one, two, three…six doors in the room. So we could have a band of shooters with each one coming in from a different door and overwhelming the couple. Any idea of what could have sent a posse of murderers out of the ranch without finishing off the son?”

Oliver shrugged. “Maybe an alarm, although we haven’t decoded the system yet. Maybe the maid coming into the house. But she didn’t see anyone leave.”

Decker thought a moment. “If everyone was drinking and relaxing, it probably wasn’t too late: after dinner but early enough for a nightcap—around ten or eleven.”

“Around,” Marge said.

“And the groomer and the groundskeeper,” Decker said, “were they in the house when you arrived?”

“Yes.”

“You said that they live here?”

Oliver said, “In the bungalows on the grounds.”

“So how did they find out about the murders? Did someone get them or were they awakened by the noise or…”

The two detectives shrugged.

“We’re going to be camped out here for a while.” Again, Decker massaged his aching head. “Let’s let CSI, the photographers, and the coroner investigators do their things here in the library. We’ve still got a couple of other crime scenes and witnesses to interview. Where are the other bodies?”

Marge showed him the area on her map. Decker said, “I could use one of those.”

Oliver gave his to the boss. “I’ll get another one.”

“Thanks,” Decker said. “You two take over the other crime scenes, and I’ll talk to the witnesses, especially the Spanish speakers. I’ll see if we can piece together a time frame and a chain of events.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Marge said. “Ana is in this room.” She showed him on the map. “Albanez is here and Karns is here.”

Decker marked the rooms on the map. Then he wrote each name on the top of a piece of paper in his notebook. There were a slew of players. He might as well start the scorecard.

CURLED UP IN a chair, Ana Mendez had just about disappeared. She seemed to be in her late thirties and was diminutive in size—under five feet—with almond skin stretched over a broad forehead and pronounced cheekbones. Her mouth was wide, her eyes round and dark. Her hair had been clipped into a pageboy, giving her face the appearance of someone staring out the window with two black drapes on the side and her short bangs being the valence curtain.

The maid had been sleeping, but woke up when Decker walked into the room. She rubbed her eyes, swollen from crying and squinting in the bright artificial light. He noticed that her white house-keeper’s uniform was smeared with brown stains and made a mental note to give the clothing to CSI.

Decker asked her to start from the beginning. This was her story.

Ana’s day off went from Monday evening to Tuesday evening. Usually she returned to the ranch earlier in the evening, but last night was a special function at her church, including a short midnight prayer service. She left afterward, around 12:30, and drove back to the ranch, arriving around an hour later. The mansion was entirely enclosed with heavy, wrought-iron fencing that had spikes on top, so most of the gates were unguarded. She had a card key for the gate closest to the kitchen. After she entered the premises, she drove to the service lot, parking her car behind the kitchen. She walked down a flight of steps to the service wing and used her bedroom key to get inside the building. When Decker asked about an alarm, she told him that the servants’ quarters was alarmed, but it wasn’t connected to the main house. The mansion had its own security system. This way, the help could go in and out without disturbing the Kaffeys’ safety system.

Her eyes swelled with tears when she described what she saw in the bedroom. She had turned on the light and there was blood everywhere—on the walls, on the carpet, on the two twin beds. But the worst part was Alicia: she was lying on her back and wasn’t moving. Her face had been shot off. It was horrible. Terrifying. She started screaming.

The next part of her story was mixed with giant sobs. She ran upstairs: the interior stairs that led to the mansion’s kitchen. Normally the kitchen door was locked at midnight to prevent anyone using the servants’ entrance from coming into the main house. But not tonight. Ana distinctly remembered flying into the kitchen and screaming for the missus.

But no one answered.

When Decker asked her about the mansion’s alarm going off when she went into the kitchen, Ana couldn’t remember. She had been hysterical, and she apologized for her hazy memory.

Decker thought she was doing pretty well.

She discovered the Kaffeys in the library—first the men, then the missus. No one was moving so she thought they were all dead, including Gil. She had watched enough television to know that she shouldn’t touch anything.

Still screaming, she ran outside. She was alone and the grounds were dark and spooky. She knew where Paco Albanez’s bungalow was because she was friendly with the groundskeeper. But to get to Paco’s bungalow, she had to walk by the pool, cross over the tennis courts, and go through the fruit orchards. Riley Karns lived closer to the main house. Even though she didn’t know him well, she woke him up. He told her to stay in his quarters while he looked around. Around fifteen minutes later, Riley came back with Paco Albanez and the three of them tried to figure out what to do. They knew they had to call the police and since Riley spoke English, he volunteered. He told Paco and her to wait in his bungalow while he made the calls. Then he left. He came back about thirty minutes later with two policemen. The officers brought the three of them into the house and separated them. The policeman said that people would be talking to her. First it was the lady policewoman. Now it was him.

The story was a straightforward narrative. She didn’t seem overly addled nor did her words seem rehearsed. When she was done, she looked up at Decker forlornly and asked when could she leave? When he told her she needed to stay for a little while longer, she burst into tears.

Decker patted her hand and left to interview Riley Karns.

The groomsman was a tiny man with a strong grip and an even stronger English accent. His elfin features were set into a weathered face and his complexion was wan from horror as well as lack of sleep.

He had worked with horses for years—as a jockey, as a trainer, and as an equestrian jumper or doing dressage in horse shows. His job not only included tending to the horses and dogs, but also teaching Gilliam Kaffey basic equestrian skills. He wore dark sweats that appeared to be smudged with stains. When Decker asked if had changed his clothing tonight, he answered no. Karns’s account dovetailed with Ana’s story. He filled in Ana’s missing minutes—the half hour or so that she was alone with Paco Albanez in Karns’s bungalow.

Karns admitted that his first call should have been 911, but he wasn’t thinking so clearly. Instead, he had rung up Neptune Brady—the Kaffeys’ chief of staff. Karns knew that Brady was up north in Oakland visiting his father but he called him anyway. When the two of them connected, Neptune told Karns to call 911 immediately, then to ring up Piet Kotsky and have him get over to the ranch to find out what the hell went wrong. Brady told him that he was going to try to charter a private jet to get the hell down to L.A. He’d call Kotsky once his travel plans were firmed up. Brady also told Karns that he’d notify the family.

Karns simply did as he was told. He called 911, then he called Piet Kotsky who said he’d leave right away, but it would take him three hours to get to the ranch. An ambulance arrived about five minutes later, then the police came. He took a couple of officers over to his bungalow where Ana and Paco were staying. The police took them inside and separated them.

Paco Albanez was in his fifties—a mocha-complexioned man with gold eyes, gray hair, and a white handlebar mustache. He was built low to the ground with a barrel chest and thick forearms. He, like Ana, had worked for the Kaffeys for about three years. He didn’t have much to add to the mix. Karns woke him up with a start, told him to get his clothes on, and that a terrible tragedy had happened to the family. He was half asleep, but as soon as he saw how upset Ana was, he woke up pretty quickly. He stayed with Ana until the police arrived. His recitation also seemed on the up-and-up.

Decker left the interviews with many unanswered questions. Among them:



1 Why was the door to the kitchen unlocked?

2 Did the killers come through the staff quarters, murder the sleeping maid, and access the house through the kitchen? If so, who let them in?

3 Did the alarm go off when Ana went into the kitchen? And if it didn’t, who turned it off?

4 Who possesses keys to the main house besides the family?

5 Who knows the alarm code besides the family?

6 Who was the first one to realize that Gil Kaffey wasn’t dead?

7 And, finally, why didn’t the murderers make sure that Kaffey was dead?


There were housekeepers, guardhouse guards, mansion guards, a groundskeeper, a groomer, Piet Kotsky, and Neptune Brady. And this was Guy Kaffey’s personal staff. Decker could only imagine how complicated it would get when he got into the business—a corporation that employed thousands. The manpower devoted to such a high-profile case would be staggering. In his mind, he saw a bursting case file filled with a forest’s worth of felled trees. In recent months, their substation had started using paper from recycled pulp.

Go green.

Better than red: the predominant color of the evening.




THREE (#ulink_9580111f-5590-5b93-9356-9ea3dee17a8b)


THE TWO VOICES were deep and demanding. From the back, Decker noticed the bald guy first, garbed in loose-fitting chinos and a bomber jacket. He was thick necked and broad shouldered and appeared to be packing around 250 pounds of pure muscle. His companion had a head of thick black hair and wore gray slacks and a blue blazer. He was taller and leaner but also powerfully built. If they were football players, one would have been a tackle, the other a quarterback.

From the snippets of conversation, they appeared to be irate at the police. First they had been stopped like common criminals at the off-ramp, grilled like they’d done something wrong. And now Marge was refusing to let them see the crime scene. Though his favorite sergeant didn’t require help, Decker went over to investigate.

Marge made quick introductions: Piet Kotsky and then Neptune Brady. Kotsky was flushed, with sweat dripping off a protruding forehead. His eyes were big and deep-set, and his skin was tightly drawn over prominent cheekbones. His complexion was jaundice in color—the hue of mummified skin.

Brady was younger, in his early to mid thirties. His lean face had spent a lot of hours in the tanning salon. He had pale blue eyes, thick lips, and tightly curled dark hair. His arms were folded across his chest, his hands big and adorned with several gold rings. His chin jutted forward when he spoke. “Are you in charge?” Without waiting for a response, he said, “What the fuck happened?”

Decker said, “We’re still gathering information—”

“Do you know it took me about twenty minutes just to convince the idiots at the off-ramp that I actually had a reason to be at the ranch! Don’t you guys communicate with one another?”

Decker took a step backward, giving them both some space. “What can I do for you, Mr. Brady?”

“For starters, how about some answers?”

“As soon as I have them, I’ll pass them along. I’d like to ask you some questions.” He turned to Marge. “Why don’t you take Mr. Kotsky to one of the studies and interview him there, Sergeant.”

“What is this?” Brady’s nostrils flared. “Divide and conquer?”

“We’re not the enemy, Mr. Brady. And I need information.” Decker checked off items on his fingers. “We need a list of everyone who works at the house either full- or part-time. How many people are in the house at night at any one time? Who was supposed to be working last night? Who lives on the properties? Who lives off the properties? How long has each employee been working for the Kaffeys? Who has access keys? Alarm codes? Who hires? Who fires? Mundane information like that.”

Brady shuffled his feet. “I can help you. First, I’d like to see what happened.”

Marge said, “Mr. Kotsky, why don’t you come with me and let Lieutenant Decker and Mr. Brady conduct their business.”

Kotsky looked at Brady, who nodded. “Okay. Go into the east study.”

Marge said, “Where’s that on the map?”

“Piet will show you.”

After they had gone, Brady said, “I need to see what happened.”

“No one sees the victims unless it’s been cleared by the coroner’s investigators. We’re in charge of the death scene, but they’re in charge of the bodies.”

“Bureaucracy!” Brady spat out. “No wonder the police don’t get anything done.”

Decker stared at him. “We get things done, but because we want to do them right, we’re careful. Do you think Mr. Kaffey would let anyone inside the boardroom at his company just for the asking?”

Brady said, “The difference is I’m a taxpayer and I pay your salary.”

Decker managed to keep a flat face. “Mr. Brady, you’re not going anywhere any time soon because you have to wait for the family. So rather than twiddle your thumbs and be irritated, you might as well cooperate. You’d look a less suspicious in my eyes if you did.”

“You suspect me?” When Decker didn’t answer, Brady said, “I was hundreds of miles away.” When Decker still didn’t respond, Brady grew irate. “I’ve worked for Mr. Kaffey for years. I don’t need this shit!”

“Sir, anyone who has had anything to do with the Kaffeys is a potential suspect right now. That’s just the nature of the beast. If I didn’t have a suspicious mind, I’d be a very bad detective.”

Brady clenched his fists, and then slowly let his fingers relax. “I’m still in a state of shock.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“You have no idea…” His voice dropped a few notches. “I was in the middle of dealing with my own father’s heart attack. Now I have to deal with the remaining family members. Do you know how fucking dreadful it was to make that phone call to Grant Kaffey? To tell him that his parents and brother are dead?”

Decker regarded the man. “Gil Kaffey’s in the hospital, sir. He isn’t dead.”

“What?” Brady’s eyes got wide. “Riley Karns told me he was dead.” After an awkward pause, he muttered out loud, “Thank God for that.” A cynical laugh. “Now the family’s going to think that I’m a fucking moron!”

“Why don’t you let me deal with the family?”

“The family’s safety was my concern and I fucked up.” His eyes suddenly pooled with tears. “I didn’t have anything to do with this, but you’re right to suspect everyone. What do you want to know?”

“For starters, how does your security work?”

“It doesn’t, obviously.” Brady bit his lip hard. “This is going to take a while.”

“How about we find a private room and you can explain it to me.”

“I can manage a room,” Brady told him. “Lord knows there’re enough of them—and then some.”

THE SPOON WAS going around and around in the cereal bowl. Hannah was not interested in breakfast, nor was she interested in going to school. But while breakfast was somewhat optional, education was mandatory.

Rina said, “Why don’t I make you a bagel and you can eat it in the car?”

The teenager pushed red locks out of her blue eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t have to eat it. Just take it.”

“Why?”

“Humor me, okay?” Rina picked up the cereal bowl and put an onion bagel in the toaster. “Get your stuff. We need to go.”

“What’s the hurry?”

“I have jury duty. I’m going to need at least an hour to make it there on time.”

“Poor Eema. Not only does she have to suffer the vicissitudes of her sullen daughter, she’s stuck with eleven other unlucky souls in smoggy downtown L.A.”

The bagel popped up. Rina gave it a schmear of cream cheese and wrapped it in foil. “I’m not complaining. Let’s go.”

Hannah hoisted up her two-ton backpack. “What case are you working on?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“C’mon. Who am I going to tell? Aviva Braverman?”

“You’re not going to tell anyone because I’m not going to tell you.” She checked her purse—more of a tote bag than a fashion statement. It contained a paperback book on Abigail Adams and today’s Los Angeles Times. The murders had made the headlines. She pulled out her keys, set the alarm, and locked the door behind them.

“It’s ridiculous that they didn’t throw you off,” Hannah told her. She put on her seat belt. “Abba’s not only a cop, but a lieutenant.”

Rina started the motor. “I have a mind of my own.”

“Still, he influences you. He’s your husband.” Hannah un wrapped her bagel and started nibbling away. “Mmm…good.” She adjusted the satellite radio until she found a station playing spine-jarring rock. “What’s for dinner?”

Rina smiled to herself. Hannah was on to another topic. Like all teens, she had the attention span of a gnat. “Probably chicken.”

“Probably?”

“Chicken or pasta.”

“Why not pasta with chicken?”

“I can make pasta with chicken.” Rina turned to her. “You can also make pasta with chicken.”

“You make it better.”

“That’s nonsense. You’re an excellent cook. You’re just shunting it to me.”

“Yes, I am. In a few years, I’ll be away at college and then you won’t have anyone to cook for anymore. You’ll miss these days.”

“I have your father.”

“He’s never home, and half the dinners you cook for him wind up in the warming drawer. Why do you bother?”

“Someone sounds resentful.”

“I’m not resentful, I’m just stating fact. I love Abba, but he just isn’t home very much.” She bit her thumbnail. “Is he going to make it to my choir performance tonight?”

“Your performance is tonight? I thought it was tomorrow.”

“Oh, Mrs. Kent changed it. I forgot to tell you.”

“If your performance is tonight, Hannah, are you even going to eat dinner at home?”

“No, I guess not,” Hannah said. “Is Abba going to make it?”

“He’s made it to your last two performances. I’m sure he’ll be there…” She thought about the morning news. “Unless something dire comes up.”

“Something dire like murder?”

“Murder is very dire.”

“It isn’t really. What difference does it make? The person’s already dead.”

It was clear that Hannah was in her own narcissistic world. There was no use in trying to reason with her. Instead, Rina changed the radio station to oldies. The Beatles were singing about eight days a week.

“I love this song!” Hannah turned up the volume knob and sat back contentedly, eating her bagel, humming along while tapping her toes.

All resentment toward her father seemed to have dissipated.

The attention span of a gnat was sometimes a good thing.

WALKING INTO THE courtroom, he was glad he’d taken extra time to make sure his tie was properly knotted and his shirt collar had the right amount of starch. With his shoulders erect and a jaunty stride, he owned the world.

He had a gift.

Like a composer with perfect pitch, he had what he called perfect sound. Not only could he translate words and decipher speech—the minimum requirements for his job—but equally as important, he could code nuances and know everything about that person’s background, often after just a few sentences. He could tell where the person grew up, where the person’s parents grew up, and where the person was currently residing.

Of course, he could discern simple things like race and ethnicity, but who among the living could also zero in on social class and educational level in a single breath? How many fellow human beings could detect whether the person was happy or sad—no biggie there—but also whether he or she was angry, peeved, jealous, annoyed, wistful, sentimental, considerate, empathetic, industrious, and lazy? And not by what they said, but how they said it. He could distinguish between nearly identical regional American accents, and he had a magic ear for international accents, too.

In his world, there was no need for visuals. The eye was a deceptive thing. He’d been given an otherworldly gift, not to be squandered on trivial things like a parlor game.

Name that accent.

People were such assholes.

His PDA buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket and pushed a well-worn button. The machine read the text message aloud in a staccato electronic voice: “See U for usual lunch.” He turned off the handy-dandy portable and stowed it back in his pocket. The time was twelve-thirty, the place was a sushi bar in Little Tokyo, and the date was Dana.

The day was shaping up to be a good one. Taking his seat on the bench, he adjusted his designer sunglasses, turned his head in the direction of the jury box, and flashed the good citizens of Los Angeles a blinding smile of perfectly straight white teeth.

Showtime!

AFTER RECEIVING INSTRUCTIONS from the judge not to talk about the case, the jury filed out of the courtroom.

The woman in front was named Kate and that’s all that Rina knew about her. She looked to be in her thirties with pinched features, clipped blond hair, and hoop earrings dangling from her earlobes. She turned to Rina and said, “Ally, Ryan, and Joy are going to the mall. You want to join us for lunch?”

“I brought a sack lunch, but I’d love to sit with you. Anything to get out of this building.”

“Yeah, who’s really in jail?” Kate smiled. “I’m going to use the little girls’ room, and Ryan and Ally have to make a couple of phone calls. We’re all meeting outside in about ten minutes.”

“Sounds good.” As Rina pushed open one of the double glass doors of the criminal courthouse, a blast of furnace air hit her face, and the roar of traffic filled her ears. The asphalt seemed to be melting with heat waves shimmering in the smog. The only shade in the area was provided by the multistory buildings—not much shadow in the noonday sun—and a row of hardy trees that seemed pollution resistant.

She dialed Peter’s cell expecting to leave a message. She was delightfully surprised when he picked up.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“I’m still alive.”

“That’s a good thing. Where are you?”

“I’m with Sergeant Dunn and we’re headed for St. Joseph’s hospital intensive care unit. Gil Kaffey is out of surgery.”

“That’s good news. I read the story this morning, although I’m sure it’s out of date already. You’ve got your hands full.”

“As always.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Am I going to see you anytime soon?”

“Eventually I’ll have to sleep.”

“Do you think you’ll make it to Hannah’s choir recital?”

A pause. “When is it again? Tomorrow at eight?”

“It’s actually tonight at eight. The choir teacher changed the date and Hannah forgot to tell me.”

“Oh boy.” Another pause. “Yes, I will make it; however, I will not vouch for my appearance or my hygiene.”

Rina felt relieved. “I’m sure that all Hannah wants is to see your face.”

“That will happen. Just do me a favor. Poke me in the ribs if you see my eyes start to close. How’s it going over there in beautiful downtown L.A.?”

“Summer is upon us.” She wiped sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “I shouldn’t have worn my sheytl today. It’s too hot for a wig.”

“Take it off. I won’t tell.”

Rina smiled. “So I’ll meet you at school?”

“That would make sense.”

“Should I bring you dinner?”

“That would also make sense. Gotta run. The sterile hallways and the antiseptic smells of St. Joe beckon, but don’t be jealous of my good time. I’m sure you have your own party planned within the vaunted walls of justice.”

“Actually, we’ve got some camaraderie going on. A group of us are going to the food mall for lunch across the street from the courthouse.”

“Well, aren’t you the fortunate daughter.”

“We’re doing our civic duty for fifteen dollars a day. Even LAPD pays more than that.”

“Want to switch places?”

“Not on your life. I prefer the living to the dead.”




FOUR (#ulink_1c480bd4-5d90-5174-a57c-b45417a04b21)


IT TOOK MARGE and Decker nearly forty-five minutes to make it to the hospital in light traffic. Had Gil Kaffey been conscious during the ambulance ride, he would have had a lot of thinking time.

What would he remember? Sometimes in traumatic incidents, retrograde amnesia set in: nature’s inoculation against further pain.

St. Joe’s medical complex consisted of the medium-sized hospital in four wings and an equal number of professional office buildings. It took a few passes to find an open parking space, and it was a tight squeeze at that. Marge maneuvered the Crown Vic with aplomb, and within a few minutes they were showing their badges at the nurses’ station that manned the glassed-in intensive care unit. Before they were permitted inside, they needed to get Kaffey’s doctors to sign them in. It took about twenty minutes to locate one of Kaffey’s surgeons.

The doctor in charge, named Brandon Rain, was a beefy man in his thirties with broad shoulders and ham-hock forearms. He gave them an update. “Kaffey is heavily sedated. His body has gone through a terrible ordeal, so not more than a few minutes.”

“How bad is it?” Decker wanted to know.

“The bullet cracked through a couple of floating ribs and caused some bleeding. It took him a while to get here and that area is very vascular. A little more central and the slug would have hit the spleen. He would have bled out.” The surgeon’s pager sprang to life. He checked the window on his cell. “I’ve got to run. Not more than a few minutes.”

“Got it,” Decker said.

“Have you heard from the family?” Marge asked.

“Not yet, but I’m sure I will,” Rain told her. “Did you happen to notice the Kaffey building when you came in?”

“I did,” Decker said. “I take it the family holds some sway?”

“Let me put it this way,” Rain said. “They’re charitable people. They’re also moneyed people. In this economy, that’s a winning combination.”

GIL KAFFEY HAD tubes in his nose, tubes in his arms, and tubes in his stomach. His face was bruised and swollen, his eyes were bloodshot, and his lips dry and cracked. Marge had pulled up his picture on her laptop and the man in front of them bore no resemblance to the good-looking, self-confident guy on the computer screen. Kaffey’s heart rate was steady, and an arm cuff inflated every ten minutes to get a BP reading. Gil was conscious but was very groggy. Decker wasn’t looking for a lengthy interview. All he wanted was a name. It was the first question he asked.

Do you know who shot you?

No one was surprised when Kaffey shook his head no. His heart rate jumped as he tried to speak. “Four…”

The ICU nurse tossed the detectives a meaningful glance. “Just a few minutes.”

“Got it,” Decker said. “Did you say four, Mr. Kaffey?” When Gil nodded, he said, “Were there four people who attacked you?”

Kaffey shook his head. “For an…”

They waited. Nothing else came and Kaffey closed his eyes.

Decker said, “Do you mean the number four?”

Another shake. “For…in.”

Decker said, “Foreign? As in foreign-speaking?”

Kaffey’s heart rate quickened and his eyes opened slowly. He gave them a nod.

“The people who attacked you weren’t speaking English.”

Another nod.

“Do you know the language?” Marge asked him.

“No…dark…”

“Dark?” Marge repeated. “The room was dark?”

A shake of the head.

Marge tried again. “The men who attacked you were dark complexioned?”

Again the eyes opened. Another nod.

“Were they black?”

“No…dark…”

“Dark,” Decker said. “Dark like Hispanic or maybe Mideastern or Mediterranean?”

A nod.

“But you didn’t recognize the language they were speaking?”

No answer.

Marge asked him, “How many men do you remember?”

“May…be…three…four…” The eyes closed. “Tired.”

The nurse broke in. “He’s due for some pain medications. I need to call in the doctor.” She rang a bell. “You should probably go now.”

“You’re the boss.” Decker handed the nurse several cards. “When he’s a bit more awake, please call us. I know that his health is paramount, but the more information we have, the better our chances of solving the crime.”

“See…” Gil said.

Marge and Decker whipped their heads in Kaffey’s direction.

“See what?” Marge asked.

He shook his head. “See…yes.”

The detectives waited for more.

“Yes…see.”

Decker smoothed his mustache, his version of stroking a beard. He did it when he was thinking hard. “Do you mean sí like the Spanish word for yes?”

“One of them.” Labored breathing. “I heard him say sí.”

RINA TOOK HER roast beef sandwich from a plastic baggie. It was on an onion roll with lettuce, tomato, and pickles.

Joy eyed it enviously. “That looks good.”

“Want a bite?” Rina offered.

“No, I have my fast food. What would my system do without all that added sodium?”

The mall was an enclosed series of multiple fast-food outlets designed to appeal to the teeming mass of humanity that the city employed. Although ripe with the smell of cooking oil and meat, it was air-conditioned and on days where the mercury was hovering in the nineties, one could put up with a bit of stale grease.

They were a motley crew. Joy was a secretary for a metal recycling company. She was in her sixties, chunky with dyed red hair and rouged cheeks. Ally had just graduated from community college with a major in communications and was excited about her upcoming twenty-first birthday party. Everyone on the jury was invited. Ally’s dark hair had a blond chip running down the middle like a skunk. Ryan was in his late thirties, married with three boys. He was a contractor and was happy to get off the job for a couple of days. He had been working on a big house and the clients were driving him crazy. Kate was the sole woman in a house of former air force men. Her two boys were now in their thirties and worked as pilots for FedEx. Her husband had put in thirty years with United Airlines.

“We went on a lot of great vacations,” Kate said.

“I bet,” Rina said. “We took an Alaskan cruise last year. It was heavenly.”

“Alaska’s beautiful,” Ryan said. “I try to go fishing every summer up there.”

“Salmon fishing?”

“You got it.”

Joy said, “Aren’t you worried about grizzly bears?”

“You go fishing when there’s lots of fish. When the grizzlies are busy eating fish, they don’t bother you.”

Joy said, “Did you see that awful documentary where the guy and his girlfriend got attacked and were eaten by a grizzly bear?”

“Ugh,” Ally said. “When was this?”

“Several years ago,” Rina said.

Ryan said, “They are wild animals. You’ve got to have respect.”

“Ugh!” Ally repeated.

“Probably not as yucky as today’s headlines,” Joy said. “Did you read about what happened at that huge mansion in the Valley?”

“Coyote Ranch,” Ryan said. “The Kaffeys. They’re major developers.”

“I was sick when I read that…It’s just horrible! Three people dead!”

Joy was just a font of distasteful news. And she delivered it with such glee. Rina didn’t bother to correct her on the body count. Keeping one’s mouth shut was always a good option.

“They must have had an elaborate alarm system,” Joy went on. “It had to be an inside job.”

Kate said, “I certainly wouldn’t want to be on that jury. I’d hang the bastards.” She turned to Rina. “Where does your husband work?”

“In the West Valley.”

“Oh…okay.”

Joy’s eyes widened. “So it’s your husband’s district?”

“Yes.”

“Is he involved?”

“I think all of the West Valley is involved. The victims are high-profile people. It’s going to get a lot of attention.”

Joy leaned over. “What do you know about it?”

“The same as you do: what I’ve read in the morning papers.”

Ally smiled. “She’s going mute.”

Rina smiled back and took a bite of her sandwich. Then she changed the subject. “Does anyone know who that guy in the spectator seating is?”

“The guy with the shades and the Tom Cruise smile?” Kate said. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know, but he’s been in and out of the courtroom since the voir dire.”

“Maybe he’s a reporter,” Ally suggested.

Kate said, “I haven’t seen a notepad.”

“Lots of ’em use tape recorders. That’s what I did when I had to do interviews for journalism.”

Kate shrugged, “Maybe.”

“It’s a little weird,” Joy said. “He just sits and smiles at us. Is he trying to intimidate us or something?”

“I don’t know,” Rina said. “Every time I sneak a glance at him, he’s straightening his tie or wiping lint off his suit. He dresses nicely. He obviously cares about his appearance.”

Ryan said, “Tell you one thing. He isn’t involved with manual labor. Soft hands.”

“Maybe he’s like a private attorney,” Joy said. “The guy on trial can use someone better than that schlump he has.”

“Yeah, he is pretty schlumpy,” Ally said.

Kate said, “We probably shouldn’t be talking about the case.”

“We’re not talking about the case,” Joy said, “just the schlumpy attorney.”

“Still, Kate has a point,” Rina said. “So what’s the guess on who Mr. Smiles is?”

Shrugs all around.

“I just hope he’s not a stalker,” Ally said quietly.

“He’s a little out in the open to be a stalker,” Rina said.

Joy said, “I once had a stalker. Some guy at work. Wouldn’t leave me alone.”

Ally said, “What did you do?”

“I repeatedly told him to bug off. When he wouldn’t, I threw coffee in his face.” When the group stared at her, dumbfounded, Joy said, “It was lukewarm. But I made my point. He never bothered me again.”

“You’re tough,” Ryan said. “Tougher than my clients.”

Joy patted his hand with maternal affection. “I may be a grandma, but that still doesn’t mean you can mess with me.”

Ally said, “Did you bring up the stalker at the voir dire when they asked about experience with crime?”

“Nah, I didn’t bring it up. It wasn’t a crime really. Just bad behavior. Hell, if they eliminated people based on bad behavior, the system wouldn’t have anyone left for jury duty.”




FIVE (#ulink_3104dfd7-d0a6-56b1-a427-9592c71bf72f)


SINCE IT WAS L.A., the scene might have been a generic opening shot for any of the many hospital shows that had graced the small screen over the years. Men were shouting orders as they rushed down the hallways with anxious nurses in tow. Except in this case, the guys weren’t in scrubs but suits and ties with an entourage of walking-around guys. The nurses were barking commands at the executive group, but the men clearly weren’t listening. Someone mentioned calling security.

The crew charged past Marge and Decker as the detectives exchanged glances.

“The Kaffey family?” Marge asked.

Decker answered, “Maybe we should intercede before someone throws them out.”

“Not likely being as we’re in the Kaffey Emergency Services Building.” Marge watched the confrontation in front of the ICU. “We should put a guard in front, Loo. We don’t know if the family is involved. Maybe they’ve come back for unfinished business.”

“Absolutely.” Decker took in a deep breath and let it out. “Let’s go.”

They walked over to the sizable assemblage, the voices loud and demanding. The revolt was led by a young man in his twenties, backed up by an older man in his late fifties. Decker weaved himself into the hubbub. “Can I help someone?”

The young man glared at Decker with furious eyes. He was medium sized with a thick swatch of sandy hair. If Decker squinted hard enough, he could see some common fraternal features with Gil.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Detective Lieutenant Peter Decker, LAPD. This is Detective Sergeant Marge Dunn. She’s from Homicide.” He held out his hand. “Are you Grant Kaffey?”

The eyes narrowed. “Let me see some ID.”

Decker opened the billfold, and both the young and older man scrutinized the badges. When they were satisfied, the older one said, “What the hell is going on?”

“How about some introductions first? We’d like to know who we’re talking to.”

The older man spoke up. “Mace Kaffey. I’m Guy’s brother.” He ran his hand over a face shadowed with grief, fatigue, and grizzle. “This is Grant Kaffey. We want to talk to Gil.”

“Gil is very heavily sedated right now. He was wounded—”

“How bad?” The younger one looked horrified. “Was he shot?”

“He was shot.”

“Oh God,” Mace exclaimed.

Decker said, “How about if we find a quiet room and get some coffee? Sergeant Dunn and I will try to bring you up to speed.”

“When do I get to see my brother?” Grant demanded.

“That’s not my decision, Mr. Kaffey, that’s up to the doctor.” Decker turned to one of the nurses. “Can we get an empty room here?”

The head nurse—a stout woman with a stern expression named Jane Edderly—came charging into the commotion. “There are way too many people here. It’s blocking the hallways.”

Grant said, “Harvey, get us some coffee. Engles and Martin, you two stay here with us. The rest of you wait downstairs.” Upon hearing orders, the underlings scattered. The younger Kaffey was still glaring at Decker. “I want to see my brother now!”

Decker turned to the head nurse. “Can you page Dr. Rain, please?”

“He’s in surgery,” Jane huffed.

“Do you know when he’ll be out?”

“I have no idea! You’re still blocking the aisles.”

Grant started to speak, but Decker held up a hand. “Nurse Edderly, this is Grant Kaffey and Mace Kaffey. They’ve just undergone a terrible shock—the loss of Grant’s father and mother and Mace’s beloved brother and sister-in-law. I need to talk to them. Surely there’s an empty room in the Kaffey building where we could talk.”

Jane’s eyes widened. She finally got it. “Let me look and see what’s available.”

“Thank you, I appreciate your cooperation.” Decker turned to the men. “I’m very sorry for your losses. Tragedy of this kind just defies words.”

Mace Kaffey ran his hands over a haggard face—exhausted eyes and deep-set wrinkles. The man was portly. “What happened?”

“We don’t have all the details right now. As soon as we find a room, I’ll fill you in on what I do know.”

“Goddamn ranch!” Grant started pacing. “Too many fucking people going in and out. Impossible to keep track of all of them. I told my father that.”

“How many people were under your father’s personal employ?” Marge asked.

“Huh?” Grant stopped pacing. “At the ranch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who knows? Too many people with too many keys. It’s just ridiculous!”

Decker said, “I heard that the staff was vetted pretty carefully.”

“Whatever that means! Who does private security anyway? They’re either losers who couldn’t make it into the police or ex-policemen who were thrown out for being on the take. Or with Dad, it was reformed delinquents who tugged on his misguided heartstrings.”

Again, Marge and Decker exchanged glances.

Nurse Jane Edderly had returned. “We found a room for you. Please follow me.”

“Thank you for helping out,” Decker said.

Grant said, “Yeah, thanks for giving me a room in my family’s building after a six-hour emergency flight to tend to my murdered parents. Thanks a whole fucking load, Nurse Edderly!”

The nurse glanced at him but remained silent.

Mace put a hand on Grant’s shoulder, but he shook it off. The space was small but roomy enough for the four of them to sit while Grant’s remaining two lackeys had to stand. Within a few minutes, everyone was drinking bad coffee. Mace looked defeated, but Grant was still on youthful fire.

“When can I see my brother?”

“Mr. Kaffey…” Decker paused. “Would you mind if I called one of you by your first name since both of you are Mr. Kaffey?”

“Call me Mace,” the older man said.

“I frankly don’t care what the fuck you call me. Just tell me what’s going on. And who do I have to screw to see my brother?”

Marge said, “We saw your brother about twenty minutes ago. He was in a lot of pain, so the doctor upped the sedation. He’s out of it. Your seeing him is not a police decision but a medical one.”

“Then get the doctor over here!”

“I tried to have him paged,” Decker said. “He’s in surgery.”

“Grant, let’s just hear what the police have to say,” Mace told him.

Marge turned to Grant. “You’re right in several respects about the ranch’s security. There was an obvious breach. Two of the guards were homicide victims, but there are two others who were on duty who’re missing. We’re working with a man named Neptune Brady. Do you know him?”

Mace said, “Neptune has been under Guy’s employ for a while…first in the business and then he took him as his personal head of security.”

“Why?” Grant asked. “Do you suspect him?”

“Just gathering information,” Decker repeated. “What did Brady specifically do in the business?”

“I’m not sure,” Mace said. “I’m East Coast-based.

Grant said, “He’s a licensed private detective. He did some freelance work. There were some numbers not adding up in the accounting office—embezzling. Dad put Neptune on the cases and he did good work. So Dad being Dad offered him a full-time job at the Coyote Ranch as head of security at an exorbitant salary.”

“He was a generous guy?” Marge asked.

“Generous one minute, a tightwad the next. You never knew how his pocketbook would swing. Dad was paying Neptune a fortune, but Dad insisted that was how you kept them loyal.”

“Do you get along with Mr. Brady?”

Grant said, “Neutral. We don’t have much to do with each other.”

“What about you?” Marge asked Mace.

“I barely know him. You think he did it?”

“We’re just gathering information,” Marge said. “You said something about your dad hiring delinquents?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You mentioned that your father hired security guards who were former delinquents.”

“Yeah, Gil mentioned something about that to me. Is someone going to check up on my brother?” Grant looked at his two underlings. “Joe, find out what’s happening with Mr. Kaffey.”

After the assistant left, Decker said, “Can you help me sort out the specifics of the company? For starters, how many people does Kaffey Industries employ?”

“At the height of the real estate boom, maybe a thousand,” Grant told him. “Now we’re down to around eight hundred. Six fifty on the West Coast, and Mace and I got about a hundred and fifty working for us.”

“You’re real estate developers?” Marge asked.

“Primarily,” Grant said.

“Shopping malls?”

“Primarily.”

Decker said, “Have you two always worked on the East Coast?”

“Dad decided to expand about ten years ago. At first, we were commuting bicoastally. Then we decided to relocate.”

“My wife’s from New York,” Mace said. “She jumped at the opportunity to move back east. Guy still came out every month. Not necessary for him to do so, but my brother has a hard time delegating. Grant can back me up on that.”

“Dad’s a workaholic,” Grant told him. “He not only keeps long hours, he expects everyone else to keep long hours.”

“Is that a problem?” Marge asked.

“Not with us, because we’re three thousand miles away,” Grant said. “My brother gets the brunt end. Dad accuses us of being soft because we have a life. But that’s just Dad being Dad.” Tears formed in his eyes. “Dad came from humble beginnings.”

“We both did,” Mace said with a bristle. “My father came over from Europe with nothing. He opened a small appliance repair shop back when people still repaired things. He was frugal and saved and managed to buy a couple of apartment buildings. Guy and I parlayed our dad’s holdings into an empire.”

Grant gave his uncle a hard stare and then turned his irritation on Decker. “What does this have to do with his murder?”

“Just trying to get a feel for your family, Mr. Kaffey. It helps to know some background. I’m sorry if you find the questions intrusive.”

Marge stepped in. “Was your father having problems with anything specific? Maybe the embezzling accountant?”

“He was actually an account executive,” Mace said. “Milfred Connors. I think there was talk of a lawsuit, but Guy paid him off.”

“Son of a bitch,” Grant said. “He steals and then he threatens to sue.”

Marge wrote down the name. “So why pay him off?”

“Because it’s easier than a protracted legal battle,” Mace told her.

Grant said, “We had enough lawsuits going already.” He backtracked. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Some we initiated. Some were initiated against us.”

Mace said, “What about Cyclone Inc., Grant? They were really pissed when we pulled the permits for the Greenridge Project.” He turned to Decker. “They’ve been impeding the project for years. We finally got all the permits and approvals, so they don’t have a leg to stand on.”

Decker said, “Why is Cyclone Inc. pissed at you?”

Grant said, “They own the Percivil Galleria and Bennington Mall—both of which have been around for twenty or thirty years. Bennington was knocked for a loop by the Woodbury Commons—one of the busiest outlet malls in the country. But Percivil was doing all right because it’s across the Hudson where there isn’t competition.”

“Then we came on the scene,” Mace said. “Kaffey is developing a state-of-the-art mall that’s going to blow the Galleria out of the water.”

Grant said, “Not only will it include almost every chain and luxury goods store, we’re in the process of developing a resort hotel with two Tumi Addams-designed golf courses.”

Mace said, “One indoors, one outdoors.”

“Golf year-round. Plus we’ve signed on with some of the country’s best chefs to open up restaurants.”

“Wow,” Marge said. “That would blow any existing mall away.”

“Exactly!” Mace crowed.

Decker asked, “Where exactly is the development?”

“Upstate New York in Clarence County surrounded by some of the most beautiful land that ever existed,” Mace said. “The area is filled with ecological nuts, but we did our due diligence. We’ve filed all the necessary environmental impact reports. The whole project is going to be green.”

“Cyclone’s been raising a stink about graft and corruption,” Grant said. “Totally unfounded accusations. Assholes! They’ve already sicced the county tax assessors on our books. We came away clean. We’ve got nothing to hide!”

“Who’s the CEO of Cyclone?” Decker asked.

“Paul Pritchard.” Grant paused. “He’s an asshole, but murder?”

Mace said, “Our project will kill his last profitable mall, Grant. Pritchard’s a bastard, and I wouldn’t put anything past him.” He turned to Decker. “Check him out.”

“We will,” Marge said. “Getting back to the more immediate, does Gil live near your father?”

“Gil lives in L.A. Dad lives on the ranch and in Palos Verde Peninsula. The company is headquartered in Irvine.”

Decker raised an eyebrow. “Not so far from Palos Verdes but far from Coyote Ranch.”

“That was the purpose,” Grant said. “When Dad wanted to get away, he wanted to get away. Initially he bought the property for Mom and her horses, but Dad came to love it. Mostly they entertained at the Palos Verdes house, but every so often they’d give a party at the ranch.” His eyes looked far away. “One winter”—a laugh—“Dad got some snow machines and provided skiing on several man-made runs. The party lasted an entire weekend. That was something else.”

“Was the ranch’s security beefed up for the weekend?” Marge asked.

“Probably. That would be Neptune Brady’s bailiwick. He knew the ins and outs of the ranch better than my parents. Fuckhead! How the hell did this happen? He’s the one you should be questioning, not me.”

Decker said, “He’s on our radar. So far, he’s been cooperative.”

Grant became agitated. “Where the fuck is that doctor? I want to see my brother!”

“Let me go check on it,” Marge said.

“Good idea.” Decker turned to the men. “Thank you both for being so forthright at this very difficult time.”

“Fucking nightmare!” Grant tried to pace, but there wasn’t much floor space. Talking business had seemed to calm him down, giving him something else to think about. The minute he was brought back into his current tragedy, he was perched on the edge of an explosion. And who could blame him?

Decker said, “Do you think that the Greenridge Project will go through in the wake of this tragedy?”

“Absolutely,” Mace said stiffly. “One thing has nothing to do with the other.”

“It’s just that Guy was the CEO, and a project of that magnitude is a mammoth enterprise. It sounds like the biggest shopping mall that Kaffey has developed.”

Grant said, “It’ll be difficult, but we can carry out Greenridge without Dad as long as Gil can take care of the rest of Kaffey.” He shook his head. “God, that’s a huge load.”

Mace said, “It’ll be hard to handle anything without Guy, but we can manage if we work together. We’re not just business associates, we’re family.”

Decker regarded Guy’s younger brother. His pep talk sounded forced—maybe trying to convince himself he was up to the job. Marge came back into the room. “Dr. Rain is just out of surgery. He’ll see you both in his office as soon as he’s cleaned up. Nurse Edderly will be happy to take you to his office.”

Grant punched a fist into his palm. “I don’t want anything to do with that bitch!”

“I’ll be happy to take you,” Marge said.

“Thank you,” Mace said. “Are you staying with us?”

“We need to get back to the ranch.” To the crime scene, Decker thought. “I also want to check out these two men you mentioned—Paul Pritchard and Milfred Connors.”

“Connors was a low-level con man,” Grant said. “He’s a nothing.”

“Sometimes it’s the nothings who get pissed off,” Mace told him.

“Exactly,” Decker said. “Here are some business cards, gentlemen. Call me anytime.”

“And here’s my card,” Grant countered. “That’s a business number. You can call it anytime. If it’s important, you can leave your number and I’ll be paged.”

“Thank you,” Decker said. “Uh…just one last question. Do either of you know Spanish?”

“What?” Mace said.

“What’s that about?” Grant asked.

“A lot of people who work at the ranch are Hispanic. In California, Hispanics do a lot of construction work. Just wondering if you and your dad and your brother can communicate with them directly.”

“Of course we visit the job sites, but we don’t talk directly to the men,” Mace told him.

“Why would we do that?” Grant asked. “That’s why we employ foremen.”




SIX (#ulink_fc3c04cf-24b9-51e4-b3dc-a37ec5b25432)


ONCE BEHIND THE wheel, Marge got comfortable in her seat and spoke while adjusting the mirrors. “I’d love to see the company’s financials on Greenridge, especially in this current climate. Sounds like something that was born in real estate boomland and is currently moribund in bustville.”

“Maybe they already had the financing for the project.”

“Something that big, including a hotel? That’s a cool billion, right?”

“Too many zeroes and I get confused.” Decker opened a bottle of water and chugged half of it. “Even if I had the financials, I wouldn’t even begin to know how to interpret something that complicated.”

Marge started the motor and drove out of the underground lot. “Do you think that the project might have something to do with the murders?”

“It’s worth checking out, but I don’t expect anything.” Decker closed the cap. “Let’s concentrate on what we do know.”

“We have murdered guards and we have missing guards. Sounds like an inside job.”

“Two things come to mind,” Decker said. “An inside robbery job that was botched or an inside job where the guards were used in a murder for hire.”

“In which case, we need to look deeper into the family.”

Decker said, “What did you think of Grant?”

“Intense. He did most of the talking for his uncle.”

“What do you think about Mace?”

“Not as much intense. We didn’t know Guy Kaffey, but from today’s conversation snippets, I’d say that younger brother Mace grew up under the shadow of Guy.”

Decker said, “Grant’s also the younger brother and you just described him as intense.”

“Yeah, he’s aggressive. But maybe Gil is even more aggressive. All I’m saying is that if Guy and Mace clashed, we both know who’d come out ahead. I wonder if Guy Kaffey was as enthusiastic on the Greenridge Project as Mace and Grant are.”

“Guy was about to pull the plug and the two New Yorkers weren’t happy with his decision?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Marge said. “But even if that were the case, would that generate enough anger and hostility in Grant for him to kill his parents?”

Decker said, “We don’t really know how Grant feels about his parents. There could have been a lot of playacting going on.”

“True that,” Marge said. “Interesting that you didn’t ask if there was enough anger and hostility for Mace to kill a brother.”

“Cain and Abel,” Decker said. “The very first chapter. There are four recorded people on the newly minted universe and bam, one brother shoots the other because of jealousy. What does that say about the human race?”

“Doesn’t say too much for us or for the Big Cheese in the sky,” Marge noted. “Any police chief who ran a major city with a 25 percent homicide rate would get his ass canned in an eye blink.”

THE MAN CALLED into the witness box was Hispanic.

No surprise there.

The entire afternoon had been a parade of Hispanics from the plaintiff—a beefy guy with tattoos—to the defendant—another beefy guy with tattoos. Rina could sum up the assortment of alleged assaults and batteries in one word.

Alcohol.

All the participants had been drunk at the time, both the ladies as well as the gents. Normally the melee would have been forgotten about the next day, but the police happened to be cruising by when the slugfest had been in full force. The cops managed to arrest whoever didn’t scatter fast with the unlucky remaining souls blaming each one for starting the incident. Witnesses had suddenly come down with bad memories caused by cold feet.

The current participant in the witness box proved to be no exception.

At least, the jury finally figured out who Smiling Tom Cruise was.

When the first witness was called to the stand—a Hispanic woman in her fifties wearing a red miniskirt and with permanently inked eyebrows and a mane of long black hair—Smiling Tom, who had been sitting in the gallery, whipped out an electronic device. Walking slowing toward his destination, Tom held a small PDA in his hand, listening intently to something through an ear pod. When he reached the witness box, Tom turned off the radio and pulled out the earphone, stowing both in his front pocket.

The group exchanged glances and shrugged.

He sat himself directly behind the witness, his head leaning over the hoochie mama’s shoulder. The witness seemed to enjoy his presence, turning to him and gracing Mr. Sunglasses with a wide, white smile. For once, Tom didn’t smile back.

The case continued and Tom’s purpose became clear.

He was a translator.

To call him a translator was an understatement.

What Tom did was act out the testimony. He was a one-man stage show, his voice rising and falling, imparting each phrase with the exact amount of emotion required. If there was an Oscar for translators, Sunglasses Tom would have won it hands down.

As the afternoon hours passed, the witnesses’ recollections got more faint and indistinct and Arturo Gutierrez, now being grilled mercilessly by a hard-driving prosecutor in a red power suit, was more of the same. Although he did remember punches being thrown, he couldn’t tell who threw the punches. Maybe the plaintiff hit the defendant, but maybe the defendant hit the plaintiff. The witnesses were tentative on the stand, and the only one having a good time seemed to be Tom.

By the time the prosecution rested and the defense was due up, it was time to go home. After receiving their orders not to talk or discuss the case with anyone, the jury slowly and silently filed out of the courtroom as the bailiff looked them over one by one by one. Rina was reminded of the metaphor used on the holiday of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year’s. God judges all his people as they pass under him one by one—as if he were counting a flock of sheep.

Once in the hallway, the group made a break for the elevators.

Joy turned to Rina. “We’re going out for drinks. Wanna come?”

“My daughter has a choir recital.”

“When?” Kate asked.

“Around seven-thirty.”

“We’re only going out for about an hour.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Rina said. “It’s going to take me a little time to get home, and I want to pack dinner for my husband. I’m meeting him at the recital.”

Joy said, “Well, aren’t you the nice wife!”

“Sometimes when he’s working big homicides and he’s been up for about twenty hours, he forgets to eat.”

No one spoke and the elevator doors opened and the group got out.

Ally said, “What do you think Smiling Tom was doing with his PDA?”

“I thought about that, too,” Rina said. “Maybe going over testimony before he translated it. Whatever he was listening to, it had to have been sanctioned by the court. No one would be that brazen to approach the witness box listening to music.”

“Good call,” Ryan told her.

Joy said, “He looks pretty damn brazen to me.”

“Yes, he was rather theatrical.” Rina opened the double glass doors to freedom. “I’m on for lunch tomorrow.”

“Great,” Kate said. “We’ll see you then. Wish your husband good luck.”

“Yeah, pump him for some juicy details,” Joy interjected.

“He’s pretty tight-lipped, but I’ll do what I can.”

Joy was pleased with Rina’s answer. She added, “And as long as you’re packing something for him, pack something for me. Whatever you ate this afternoon looked a hell of a lot better than the swill I had.”

ALTHOUGH RINA WAS early, Peter was earlier. While all the other parents were crowded toward the front, Peter had chosen a seat in an empty back row, sitting straight up with his head back, his eyes closed, and his mouth slightly open. She climbed over the folding chairs and gently shook his shoulder. He gave a snort at the same time his eyes popped open. “What?”

Rina took out a sandwich. “Here.”

Decker rubbed his eyes and stretched. “Hi, darlin’.” He leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Do you have something to drink? My mouth feels like cotton.”

“Caffeinated or decaf?”

“Doesn’t matter. I won’t have any trouble sleeping tonight.”

She handed him a can of Coke Zero. “It’s turkey and pastrami on a baguette.”

“I’m starved.” Decker took a bite. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

“You haven’t eaten?”

“No.” He popped open the Coke Zero and downed the entire can, and immediately Rina handed him a caffeine-free Diet Coke. “I think I’m dehydrated.”

“I also have water if you want.”

“A little later, thanks.” He finished half the can. “How was your day in criminal justice?”

“Fine. How was yours?”

“Awful.”

“The murders are all over the news.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Some guards were killed as well?” Rina asked.

Decker nodded and finished the Coke. “I must thank Hannah for getting me out of the squad room. I left in a hurry. Things are a mess.”

“Are you going back?”

“Probably. I’d like to finish some of my paperwork and strategize.”

Rina knew from experience that multiple murders mean multiple, multiple suspects. “Are you awake enough to drive, Peter?”

“I’m fine.” He smiled to prove the point. “Really, I’m fine. I was probably out for around twenty minutes. I feel remarkably refreshed.”

“One of my fellow jurors wants to know all the juicy details of the Kaffey homicides.”

“Tell her to read the papers.”

“I shall.” Rina took Peter’s hand. “I’m glad you made it to the concert. Hannah made a point of asking about you.”

“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 (#ulink_670a19c5-776d-5655-ae80-2c6eff920d62)


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 in volved. 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 (#ulink_11ac66bc-8851-5cbb-8b9e-89e587e86fc7)


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. The 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.”

Martin is bad.

“Muy malo,” the Mexican said, “pero no tan malo como el patrón.”

But not as bad as the boss.

The El Salvadorian agreed with that assessment. He said, “José es un hombre muerte.”

José is a dead man.

“Realmente absolutamente muerte,” the Mexican added. “Hora para que el diga sus rezos.”

Really dead. Time for him to say his prayers.

He heard a bailiff call out a jury panel, and the men stopped talking. The woman with the throaty voice had closed her purse and was walking away from him. Immediately, he turned on his handheld radio and began to follow her as she moved to the other side of the hallway. After a few moments, when he felt they were sufficiently far enough away from the two Hispanics, he took a big step forward and tapped her on the shoulder.

Abruptly, Rina turned around and found herself face-to-face with Sunglasses Tom. “Yes?”

“Excuse me,” he said. “My name is Brett Harriman and I work for the courthouse as a translator. I believe you’re on the panel of one of my cases.” When she didn’t answer him, he said, “I want to assure you that what I’m about to ask of you has nothing to do with that case.”

Rina stared at him and waited for him to continue.

“Um…this is awkward.” He paused. “I know that this sounds really odd, but could you do me a favor?”

Finally she spoke. “It depends on what it is.” Rina sized up the man. Brett Harriman née Smiling Tom seemed nervous. She couldn’t see his eyes under the sunglasses, but his demeanor was jumpy.

He dropped his voice to a whisper, but he still sounded like an actor. “Please, please. Whatever you do, don’t stare at the spot that I’m going to ask you to look at. And whisper, okay?”

Rina paused. “What on earth is going on?”

“I’m getting to that. The spot where you were standing just a few moments ago talking on your cell. A few feet away are two Hispanic men talking…don’t stare at them.”

“I’m not—”

“Without staring at them and acting as casual as you can, can you describe them to me?”

Involuntarily Rina glanced at the men, then turned her eyes away. When she looked back up, the two men were deep in conversation and hadn’t appeared to notice her. She sneaked in a few passing looks and returned her questioning eyes to Tom/Brett, who wasn’t reacting to her perplexity.

And when it finally occurred to her why he was acting so stoic, she almost hit her head and said, Duh! The indoor sunglasses should have been a giveaway, but he had always moved so seamlessly and without any help.

Tom Cruise/Brett Harriman was blind.

She wanted to ask him about it, but that would have been rude. Instead, she whispered, “Why do you want to know about the men?”

He whispered back, “Just describe them to me, please.”

Rina took a quick snapshot. The men looked to be in their twenties, ordinary in size with the one on the right being slightly bigger than the one on the left. Bigger had on a black polo shirt. Smaller, who was doing most of the talking, was garbed in a Lakers’ T-shirt. They both had shaved heads and tattoos on their arms, but the drawings were not professionally done. The homemade ink embedded under their skin looked more like discoloration rather than human artwork—a snake, a tiger head, a B12—someone was a vitamin nut.

Rina said softly, “I realize you’re sight impaired, but why do you want to know what those two men look like?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“I’m sorry, but if you want me to help, you have to tell me what you’re after.”

“It’s personal…” Harriman heard the bailiff call group 23. “Forget it! That’s my panel, I’ve got to go.” He softened his voice. “It’s all probably nonsense anyway.”

He turned on his handheld radio, put an ear pod in his ear, and walked away, leaving Rina confused and curious. She managed to sneak in another sidelong glance at the men. What arm was showing wasn’t overly muscular, but they did have meaty hands. They had on jeans and rubber-soled shoes. If she had to guess, she’d say that they probably worked construction.

When they announced her panel, Rina lined up with the rest of her group outside the courtroom, and they began their number countdown to identify who was present. They were missing juror number 7 who was chronically late, and the panel collectively groaned. Ally, Joy, and Kate came over to Rina.

Joy said, “What were you talking to Smiling Tom about?”

“Just passing the time.” Rina’s lie was smooth.

“I think he likes you,” Ally said.

“Why not?” Kate said. “Just look at her.”

“He’s blind.” When the three women stared at her, she said, “Or visually impaired. He uses that little radio as a homing device, kind of like an electronic cane.”

“Ah…” Kate said. “That makes sense. I knew something was off.”

“He just walked up to you and told you he was blind?” Ally said.

“No, but up close you can tell.”

“How?” Joy asked.

“The way his head rolls when he talks to you…the way he rocks back and forth.” Actually, he didn’t do any of those things, but it sounded like something a blind person might do. “I spoke to him for about thirty seconds.”

“Why’d you speak to him?” Joy wanted to know.

“He asked me for the time. After I answered him, he asked if this was my first time working with the criminal justice system. I told him that my husband was a police officer. Then he remembered me and my voice from the voir dire, that I was the one with the detective lieutenant husband. And then they called his jury so he had to go. And that was that.” Rina gave the group a forced smile. “I was about to give him my challah recipe, but I didn’t have a chance.”

No one laughed.

Juror 7 showed up out of breath and apologized profusely for his tardiness. With his presence accounted for, the bailiff opened the door to their courtroom and the group began to file in. Her new circle of friends were looking at her with bemusement and skepticism.

Maybe she hadn’t lied as well as she thought.

DECKER HANDED NEPTUNE Brady a copy of Oliver’s guard list. Not only had Scott included the duties of each security officer, but he had also managed to find out who, if any, had a police record; a surprising number of them did. Most of the offenses were misdemeanors, but there were a half-dozen felonies among the twenty-two names: eight more added to the original list of fourteen.

Decker took in Brady’s face. It was clear that the head of Kaffey Personal Security hadn’t slept in a very long time. He raked a hand through a nest of black greasy curls.

“Look it over and see if you have anything to add.”

Brady’s blue eyes yo-yoed up and down the sheet. “Looks pretty good.”

“How’d you manage to employ so many men with records?”

“Not me, Lieutenant.” Brady sighed. “Kaffey had a soft spot for the disenfranchised.”

“Yeah, Grant Kaffey said something about Guy hiring delinquents, but I can’t believe you went along with it.” Decker pointed to a name. “This isn’t spray painting. This guy, Ernesto Sanchez, has two aggravated assaults—”

“Look at the dates. The convictions are years old. He went through rehab years ago and got his life back together. There’s nothing more pious than a reformed drunk. Guy was involved in all sorts of bleeding-heart programs for the socially disadvantaged. It was horseshit, but when Guy got in those kinds of moods, I just did what he told me.”

Brady’s blue eyes were bloodshot. He had changed from his original clothes to a freshly laundered blue oxford button-down shirt and a pair of designer jeans. He kept playing with the collar on his shirt.

“The social consciousness was part of it. The other part was that Kaffey was a tightass and I was on a budget. These guys worked cheap.”

“You’re telling me that a man as rich as Guy Kaffey would hire felons because they worked cheap?”

“Exactamente, mi amigo!” He sighed again and ran his hands down his face. “The ranch is vast and the acreage bleeds into public trails. That kind of isolation comes with a price. Despite all the fences and the barbed wire and the alarms, the place has dozens of ways to get in and dozens of ways to get out. You need an army to really secure every exit and entrance and Kaffey wasn’t willing to pay for it. He’d give me names and phone numbers and I’d say, Sure, boss.”

“There are twenty-two names on this list. That’s a pretty big posse.”

“They didn’t all work at once,” Brady explained. “And the turnover was high. I needed a posse just to keep the system going. Kaffey told me we didn’t need geniuses, just bodies. Usually there were only four guards per shift. Guy was happy with that arrangement most of the time.”

“So when wasn’t he happy with the arrangement?”

Brady paused. “Sometimes he felt vulnerable. When he was in those kinds of moods, I’d have as many as a dozen men roaming the property.”

“What about on the night of the murders?”

“Four guards were contracted to work. If Kaffey had asked for more guards, he didn’t call me up and tell me to arrange it.”

“Maybe he knew you were busy with a sick father and didn’t want to disturb you.”

Brady’s laugh was bitter. “You think that consideration for his employees was ever a factor with Kaffey?”

“He let you go to Oakland to nurse your father back to health.”

“At the time, my father was an inch away from dying. He had no choice. I was going even if it cost me my job.”

“Yet he let you stay up in Oakland an extra week.”

“That wasn’t Guy Kaffey, that was Gil Kaffey. Not that Gil isn’t a shark, but he can be human. Guy was loud, abrasive, and demanding. Then like that”—he snapped his fingers—“he’d be the nicest, most generous man on earth. I never knew which Guy would show up. His moods were random.”

“I’ve pulled up a few of the most recent articles on Gil. As of nine months ago, he wasn’t married. Is that still the case?”

“Gil is gay.”

“Okay.” Decker flipped through some of the articles and skimmed the text. “Doesn’t mention anything about that in anything I’ve read.”

“Where’d you get the articles from?”

“Wall Street Journal…Newsweek…U.S. News & World Report.”

“Why should they mention Gil being gay? He’s a hard-nosed businessman, not head of the Gay and Lesbian Alliance. He keeps a low personal profile.”

Decker said, “Does he have a partner?”

“No. He had a partner for about five years, but they broke up about six months ago.”

“Name?”

“Antoine Resseur. He used to live in West Hollywood. I don’t know what he’s doing now.”

“Why’d they break up?”

“I don’t know. That wasn’t my business.”

“Let’s get back to your business. Did you do security for Gil as well as Guy?”

“No, because Gil didn’t want me to. He owns a seven-thousand-square-foot midcentury house in Trousdale and had it outfitted with a state-of-the-art security system. Occasionally, I’ve seen him with a bodyguard, but most of the time he flies below the radar.”

“Were Guy and Gilliam Kaffey your only employers?”

“Yes. It’s a full-time job and then some. For as little sleep as I got, I should have been a doctor.” Brady rubbed his forehead and shook his head. “I was always asking Guy for more money, not for myself but in order to hire a better caliber of guys. I must have told Kaffey a thousand times that a little bit more money can go a long way. All those millions…what else is money for?”

“Maybe he took a hit in the market.”

“The unemployment rate has skyrocketed. He could have had his pick of the litter in legitimate guards. Why choose losers on purpose?”

“Hard to understand,” Decker said.

“Impossible to understand, but that was Guy. One minute he was totally cavalier about his personal safety, then he’d suddenly become totally paranoid. I could understand the paranoia. What I didn’t get was the laissez-faire attitude. You’re a target. Why skimp on your own safety?”

A thought came into Decker’s head. “Was he on any psychiatric medication?”

Brady said, “Talk to his doctor.”

“He was manic-depressive?”

“It’s called bipolar disorder.” Brady tapped his toe. “This could get me fired…” Then he laughed. “Like I’m not in deep shit already?”

Decker waited.

Brady said, “It’s like this. When Guy was in one of his…expansive moods, he’d talk about his condition to anyone who’d listen. About how his wife wanted him to take his lithium and he didn’t want to do it.”

“Why not?”

“Guy claimed that when he was on lithium, it did stabilize him. It lifted him out of his lows. The problem was it also sliced the tops off his highs. He said he couldn’t afford to have his highs chopped off. His highs allowed him to take chances. His highs were what made him a billionaire.”




NINE (#ulink_76835a32-806a-57c9-a42d-cc681f08469d)


THE PRESS DEBRIEFING had gone well, although Strapp had little time to spend basking in his close-up. He came into Decker’s office without knocking and shut the door with more force than needed. Decker looked up from his desk while Strapp kicked out a chair and sat down.

“Upstairs has decided that this is too big for a single Homicide unit.”

“I agree.”

Strapp narrowed his eyes. “You agree?”

“We need a task force.” Decker regarded Strapp in his navy suit, light blue oxford shirt, and red tie. The man’s face was all angles, his body language tense—a cork waiting to pop. “What’s the problem? They want to kick this downtown and have one of their own guys lead it?”

“That was the idea. I fought for you. I thought you’d want it that way.”

Meaning Strapp wanted it that way. The station house had received a great deal of attention a few months ago when Decker and his Homicide detectives had solved a cold case reopened by a billionaire’s promise of funds. Strapp was smelling money again from the remaining Kaffeys if his Homicide unit came up with the solve.

“I appreciate it, Captain, and I’d be happy to lead a full-time team.”

“What’s the minimum you can work with and still keep the department running?”

“Something this scope and size, I’d say eight people. Big enough to work the angles, but not too big to control.”

“Start with six. If you need more, come to me.” Strapp drummed Decker’s desktop. “I got the commander to agree to have the case worked from West Valley. But you’ll need to report daily to me so I can report back to the commander. How many detectives do we have on Homicide detail?”

“Seven full-time Homicide detectives, including Marge Dunn and Scott Oliver who are already involved. If I could have Marge, Oliver, and Lee Wang on it full-time, that would be a good start.”

“Lee for the computer work?”

“For the computer work and for the financials. He’s the only one patient enough to go through columns of numbers. That’ll leave four Homicide detectives for the community.” Decker shuffled through his roster of detectives. “From CAPS, I’d like Brubeck, Messing…and Pratt. They’ve all worked Homicide before. That’s my six.”

“That’s seven counting you.”

Decker said, “Also if you want me on this mostly full-time, somebody needs to help me with my own paperwork and the scheduling issues that come up.”

“We can get a secretary for that.”

“It’s not just paperwork, it’s psychology. I need someone familiar with the guys. How about Wanda Bontemps? She’s worked with me before, she’s computer savvy, and she can do the minutes of the task force meetings.”

“That makes eight.”

“Which is how many I said I needed,” Decker answered with a smile.

Strapp got up. “Eight for now, Decker. We’ll see about the future. I want a list of everyone chosen and their assignments. I also want a summary of the decisions made written up in triplicate—a copy for you, me, and the commander. You can fudge on your own paperwork, but I’m going to need something in writing for downtown.”

“I understand, sir.” Decker smiled. “You’re only as good as your last report.”

IT TOOK LONGER than expected to assemble the crew because Brubeck was out in the field and Pratt had an emergency dental appointment. When Decker finally got them all together, he had seven eager detectives. Marge had prepared a summary of the case, bringing the others up to speed. As she spoke, the newly assigned detectives wrote frantically with pens in their notepads, except for Lee Wang and Wanda Bontemps who took notes on their laptops.

Wynona Pratt appeared to be jotting down every word. A ten-year vet, she was in her forties, five feet ten with a thin and wiry frame. Her face was long and her straw-colored hair was cut shorter than Decker’s. She had worked Homicide in the Pacific Division, and the feedback on her had been good. She had transferred to West Valley a couple of years ago and wound up in Crimes Against Persons—CAPS—while waiting for something to open up in Homicide. Until that happened, she did her job well and with efficiency.

In his early sixties, Willy Brubeck had talked about retirement for the last ten years. But when the time came to turn in his badge, he decided to give it one more year. Decker was glad to have him onboard. A thirty-five-year vet, Brubeck had worked Homicide in South Central for twenty years. When the last of five kids was finally out of the house, Willy and his wife, Daisy, opted for a smaller home in a less trafficked area in the San Fernando Valley.

Brubeck had a round face, sharp eyes, and mocha-colored skin that was often grizzled with white stubble by five in the afternoon. He had an easy laugh, and eating was one of his favorite pastimes: five ten and 250—with high blood pressure. But Brubeck was philosophical. Life was for living, not for starving.

Andrew Messing had joined LAPD five years ago, moving out from Mississippi where he had worked Homicide for five years. Drew had a boyish face with a hand-in-the-cookie-jar grin. The man was twice divorced, and Decker thought he’d be a good fit because he lacked personal obligations. Oliver liked him. Of late, the two of them had taken to bar hopping with Scott using Drew as bait. Didn’t hurt that Messing had the curly hair, a wide smile, and an “ah shucks” southern accent.

Lee Wang had infinite patience to sort through trivia and columns of numbers. The man was a third-generation cop as well as a third-generation American. He didn’t speak a word of Chinese, although he spoke fluent Spanish: handy with the growing Latino community in the West Valley.

Decker knew Wanda Bontemps from her uniform days. He suspected that she’d rather be investigating than taking minutes, but she was pleased that he had chosen her to sub for him, putting her in a position of authority. Decker knew she wouldn’t abuse it. She was now in her fifties, a stout black woman with short blond hair and penetrating eyes. Like Wang, she was a computer person, and among her many virtues was her ability to troubleshoot operating systems.

After Marge’s summary, there were lots of questions, stretching the meeting time past the two-hour mark. Decker called for a ten-minute coffee break and when the group reconvened, he was standing in front of the whiteboard on which he had written a list of assignments that needed to be done.

He put down his coffee cup and said, “Item number one. We need to interview all the guards in Guy Kaffey’s employ—either present or past. Find out what they were doing the night of the murder and recheck their background.” Decker passed out a sheet of paper to everyone in the room. “This list does not contain the two missing guards on duty the night of the murders. They’ll be dealt with individually. If, in your investigations, you find an additional name, let all of us know about it, understood?”

Nods all around.

“Scott Oliver has checked for priors. You can see that we’ve got some outright felons. According to Neptune Brady and Grant Kaffey, Guy Kaffey had a penchant for hiring rehabilitated gang members.”

Simultaneous expressions of disbelief from “C’mon” to “That’s bullshit.”

“That’s why everyone needs to be interviewed, and their alibis have to be ironclad. Some of these yo-yos are good candidates for hit men. I need a couple of people on this.”

Brubeck was the first hand up, followed by Messing.

“Okay, Drew and Willy, you’re on.”

Decker passed additional papers, the cluster secured with a paper clip.

“This packet is all the forensics picked up at the scene so far. I think the Coroner’s Office is almost done processing the victims’ bodies. A partial list of evidence includes some partial and latent prints, hair, saliva, fluids, and skin cells. Drew and Willy, take a print kit with you during the interviews and see who’ll let you print them. Also a swab kit for DNA. That’s more expensive to process but easier to collect.”

Messing’s hand went up. “Question.”

“Yep?”

“It was my impression that the victims were gunned down,” Messing drawled. “What kind of saliva and fluids did you find of interest?”

“We found some cigarette butts and a toothpick. We’re working on pulling DNA from that.”

“Discarded paper cups are good for DNA collection when people refuse a swab,” Messing said. “Do we get a coffee budget?”

“As long as you don’t get anything with foam or chocolate.” Decker turned to Wanda. “You don’t have to put that little interchange in the minutes.”

Wanda smiled. “I kinda figured that out.”

“Moving right along…” Decker flipped through the packet. “It looks like we found two types of firearms: a Smith and Wesson Night Guard .38, probably model 315, and a Beretta 9 mm. I want to know the firearms each of the guards routinely used. Any questions?”

“I’m good,” Brubeck said.

“Ditto,” Messing said.

Decker said, “This is what we have so far. Dunn and Oliver are still pulling up evidence from the other buildings on the property so there could be more. This brings us to item number two.”

He checked it off on the whiteboard.

“The grounds have not been combed. That’s about seventy acres. We need someone to organize and lead a meticulous ground grid search. This should be done and carried out within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Who’s interested?”

“I’ll do it,” Wynona volunteered.

“It’s yours,” Decker said. “I’ll give you eight uniforms on the day of the search. Let’s set it up for the day after tomorrow, six in the morning. You’ll need every photon of daylight you can grab. I’ll be there, but I’ll have to leave around five since it’s a Friday. Also, you’re probably not going to finish in one day. Any problems with working through the weekend?”

“Not with me. I can’t speak for the people working with me.”

Decker said, “Coordinate with Lieutenant Hammer and tell him that you’ll need eight men to work over the weekend.”

“I’ll give him a call as soon as we’re done.”

“Do a grid search first. Then I need a drawing of the entire property with all the gates, doors, and fencing clearly marked. The place is enclosed, but with an area that big, there must be weak spots.”

Wynona was writing as fast as she could. “Got it.”

“On Sunday morning at six, I’ll meet you at the main entrance and you can show me what you have. That way, when this team meets again on Monday, I’ll have the results of your work for everyone.”

He turned to Marge and Oliver.

“Okay, I understand that you two got permission to go through the main house and the staff quarters?”

Marge said, “We’ve got permission from Grant and Gil to go through the house—”

“You’ve talked to Gil since yesterday?”

“Talked to his lawyer,” Oliver said. “Though we don’t know anything specific, he’s going on the assumption that the sons are set to inherit the ranch.”

“Interesting. What else have you found out about the inheritance?”

“We’re working on that,” Marge said.

“When do you think you can actually speak to Gil directly?”

“His doctor said that someone can come by tomorrow for a few minutes.”

“What time?”

“Whenever he’s up,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “We’ve gone through the main house and are working our way through Neptune Brady’s place. Paco Albanez, the gardener, and Riley Karns, the horse guy, have given us permission to go through their places. There are a few other buildings that we need to comb. Most likely, we’ll finish everything this weekend and can present our findings to everyone on Monday.”

Pratt asked, “How many buildings are on the ranch?”

Marge turned to Oliver. “How many? Eight?”

“Nine.”

“Any other questions?” When no one spoke, Decker said, “The next thing on the list is for you, Lee. I need you to pull up everything you can on the family—personal and business. Run through each family member, their spouse, their kids, their business associates. Also run through everything you can find on Kaffey Industries and on the Greenridge Project in upstate New York near the Hudson River. I also want you to find out everything you can about Cyclone Inc. and its CEO—Paul Pritchard.”

Decker wrote the names on the whiteboard and explained the billion-dollar project currently headed by Mace and Grant Kaffey.

“I want everything looked at, no matter how trivial: any article, any analysis, any puff piece, any letter to the editor, any in-house publication—”

“Anything that will help get a feeling for the family and the business,” Wang said.

“Exactly,” Decker said.

“I did an initial Google search. Over two million hits. I could use some help.”

“Volunteers?” Decker asked.

Wanda raised her hand. “I’m no PC whiz, but I can look up articles.”

“Me, too,” Messing said.

“Great.” Decker continued on. “I also have a lead on a possible disgruntled employee, an account executive named Milfred Connors.” Decker wrote the name on the whiteboard. “Connors worked as an accountant for Kaffey Industries and was caught embezzling by none other than Neptune Brady. That’s all I know about the case. I’ll talk to Brady; who wants Connors?”

“I’ll do it,” Brubeck said.

“It’s yours, Willy,” Decker told him. “Marge and I initially talked to Grant and Mace Kaffey. We’ll follow up on them since no one’s been ruled out.”

Oliver said, “That’s good. The rich only like to deal with the top dog.”

“In that case, they’ll probably try to go over my head,” Decker said. “No matter. I’ll handle them. I’ve been known to be diplomatic.”

The room erupted into laughter.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Decker shouted. “It’s not that funny.”

Wanda said, “Strike that from the minutes as well?”

“Please.” Decker smiled. “I’ll also get in touch with Gil’s former boyfriend, a man named Antoine Resseur. Lee, if you could find out about him before I do the interview, it would be helpful.”

“Not a problem. Could you write the name on the board?”

Decker complied. “Okay, one other interesting side note about the family. Guy Kaffey may have suffered from manic-depression now known as bipolar disorder. I don’t know if it’s relevant, but in a manic phase, maybe he threatened someone. Lee, when you look up articles, bear that in mind. I’ll check it out with his doctor. Are we all together? Any questions?”

When no one raised a hand, Decker turned to Marge and Oliver. “After you’re done with the evidence collection in the buildings, I want you two to go back and reinterview Brady, Kotsky, Riley Karns, Paco Albanez, and the surviving maid, Ana Mendez. Get their stories down. If you suspect they’re playing loose and fast with the truth, get back to me. Anything new on the missing guards?”

Marge said, “We’re in constant contact with Denny Orlando’s family, nothing so far on Rondo Martin. We’ve got a couple of calls into the Ponceville sheriff’s office. I think we might have to do a field—”

Brubeck broke in, “S’cuse me, but did you just say Ponceville?”

“I did,” Marge said. “Why? What’s going on, Willy?”

“My wife’s family owns a farm about ten miles east of downtown Ponceville.” Willy smiled. “Don’t look so surprised. Blacks have been farming for centuries. Only difference now is we get paid for it.”

Wanda said, “I know. Strike it from the minutes.”

Decker said, “What do you know about Ponceville, Willy?”

“It’s one of the bigger farming communities in California that hasn’t been bought up by agribusiness. Hardworking people…mostly whites but a few blacks and lots of Mexican migrants. Whole town of ’em just outside the farms. Personally, I never heard of Rondo Martin, but if he’s been working in Ponceville within the last twenty years, I can find out about him with a couple of phone calls.”

“Do it.”

“’Course a trip would be better.”

“I can probably get funding to go up there, but let’s start with the phone calls.”

Decker pointed to the next item on the whiteboard.

“Okay, someone needs to check out the murdered housekeeper—Alicia Montoya. It would seem that the intended victims were the Kaffeys, and she was collateral damage. But we can’t make assumptions. When Dunn and I spoke to Gil, he indicated that Spanish might have been spoken during the murders. Maybe some jealous boyfriend of the maid thought she was having an affair and the Kaffeys were collateral damage.”

Shrugs all around. No one was buying.

“I’ve been surprised before,” Decker said. “Lee, you speak Spanish. Talk to Alicia’s family.”

“I could use a partner to make sure that my Spanish is up to snuff.”

Pratt’s hand went up. “I can’t read Cervantes but I speak a decent street Spanish.”

Decker said, “Okay, I’ve put both of you down for Alicia Montoya. We’re down to the last item on the board: the tip line. So far I’ve fielded about twenty calls, but the numbers are bound to rise, especially if the family offers a reward.”

Oliver groaned. “Then the numbers will go through the roof.”

“Are they offering a reward?” Marge asked.

“I don’t know, but I suspect they will because it looks good, if for no other reason. No matter how many tips come in, we’ll need to check them all out.”

Oliver said, “What about the walk-ins, Loo? We always get a couple of those.”

“I’ll take the walk-ins,” Decker answered. “Let me remind all of you that we are public servants. We treat everyone with respect and dignity. When people talk, don’t just go through the motions. Listen and listen carefully because we never know who or what is going to break the case wide open. Any other questions?”

No one spoke up.

“The meeting is officially over. You’ve got your lists, your papers, and your pens. More important, you’ve got your eyes, your ears, and your legs. Now let’s go out and solve some homicides.”




TEN (#ulink_2c2f1ab2-2003-5dce-8452-8719030e7bc2)


THE TWO COPS stationed outside Gil Kaffey’s ICU room momentarily confused Decker because he had approved only one uniform. As he neared the area, he realized that the second sentry was actually a rent-a-cop. Seeing Decker approach, the men stopped their conversation, straightened up, standing with legs apart and arms behind their backs, and watched him suspiciously. Decker flashed his badge to the LAPD uniform—a fifties-plus man with salt-and-pepper hair named Ray Aldofar who had gone a little soft around the middle. The rent-a-cop’s name tag said Pepper. He was young, fit, and short and had combative eyes.

“Gentlemen,” he said.

“Lieutenant,” Aldofar answered. He made the introductions to Pepper and called him Jack.

It was Decker’s turn to be wary. “Who hired you to watch this room, Mr. Pepper?”

“Mr. Kaffey insisted on having someone from his private staff.” His voice was officious.

“Which Mr. Kaffey?”

“Grant, Mace, and Gil.”

Decker peered through the glass windows of ICU. Gil was sleeping and still hooked up to a number of tubular apparatuses. “Gil Kaffey is coherent enough to hire his own security?”

Aldofar stepped in. “I was here when they brought Jack in, Lieutenant.”

“Who is they?”

“Grant Kaffey and a big guy named Neptune Brady. He’s the head of Kaffey security.”

“I know who Neptune Brady is.”

Aldofar said nothing. Pepper said, “Mr. Kaffey and Mr. Brady hired me to do a job. I was cleared by hospital security.”

“You weren’t cleared with me.” When Pepper bristled, Decker said, “I’m sure you’re good at your job, but I’m investigating a multiple-murder homicide. I need to know who has access to Gil Kaffey and since you don’t report to me, you may miss something that I need.”

Pepper remained on the defensive. “The Kaffeys are entitled to hire me.”

“Except if it interferes in a homicide investigation.” Meaning how do I know if Mace or Grant Kaffey were in on the murders? Decker said to Aldofar, “I need to see that visitors’ list.”

The cop took out his notepad and flipped over several pages. “Here it is…everyone who’s gone in and out of the room, just like you requested.”

Decker took the list. Most of the visitors had been hospital personnel: Dr. Rain, attending doctors, and nurses. Family included Grant and Mace, who had come four times together. Grant had visited an additional four times by himself. Two times, Grant had brought along Neptune Brady, and Brady visited two more times alone. Antoine Resseur—Gil’s ex—had come by two times. Since only approved people had been allowed access, there were no other visitors. There had been at least a dozen attempted flower deliveries to the hospital room and all of the ICU; the bouquets were forwarded to the family compound in Newport.

Decker gave the notepad back to Aldofar. “Keep your eyes open. Put me down on the list. I’m going in.”

He looked at Pepper.

“I know you have a job to do, but so do I. Let’s try to avoid stepping on each other’s toes. It works to your benefit, sir, because I have bigger feet.”

AS GIL’S EYES slowly opened, his face twisted in pain and he moaned. Within seconds, a young blond nurse named Didi was at his bedside injecting something into his IV line. “Demerol,” she told Decker.

“Is it going to put him back to sleep?”

“It might.”

Decker waited. Gil closed his eyes and opened them several times. After about ten minutes, he managed to look at him with lids halfway closed. “Do I know you?”

“Lieutenant Peter Decker of LAPD, Mr. Kaffey. I’m investigating what happened at the ranch. How do you feel?”

“Shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

As he pulled up a chair, Didi the nurse said, “Did you clear this with Dr. Rain?”

Gil said, “Leave him…leave him.”

“Just a few minutes,” Didi told Decker. “Just because he can talk doesn’t mean he should.”

“I won’t tire him out,” Decker said.

“You’re…the head?”

“I’m leading the investigation, yes. We have a lot of people working on this, and anything you can tell me might help.”

“I feel…real…shit…” His head bobbed. “Shit.”

“It hurts to be shot…”

Eyes opened and stayed that way. “You ever…”

“Yes, I’ve been shot. It hurts.”

“Burns like shit.”

“Yes, it does.”

Gil’s head bobbed. “They said sí, sí…I heard it.”

Decker took out his notepad. “The men who attacked you spoke Spanish?”

“Yeah…sí, sí.”

“Do you speak Spanish?”

“No…just sí, sí.”

“Did you recognize any other words?”

“It happened…fast.”

“I’m sure you were in total shock. How many people attacked you?”

Silence.

Decker said, “Sometimes it helps if you close your eyes and view it like a movie or a photograph in your head.”

He closed his eyes. “I see one…two…” He was counting them in his foggy brain. “Three…” His face, pale to start, went ashen. “Flashbulb in my eyes…then bang…Bang, bang, bang!”

Beep, beep, beep went the monitor. Gil’s heartbeat started to race.

“So fucking loud! Hurt my head!”

Didi, the nurse, said, “You’re exciting him. You’re going to have to leave!”

Gil was still talking, his eyes moving rapidly under closed lids. “Happened like…” He tried to snap his fingers and his eyes popped open. “My heart…pumping. I’m running away…I feel fire…I fall.”

Didi was about to inject him with more Demerol, when he said, “Stop!”

Both she and Decker were taken aback. Gil spat out, “Get the…bastards!”

“We have the same goal, Mr. Kaffey,” Decker said. “What about their faces? Can you describe any of them?”

The eyes closed partway. “One…two…three of them.”

“You remember three people attacking you.”

“Three people…”

“Can you describe them?” Decker asked.

Tears formed in Gil’s eyes. “Bastards…the one with the gun…I saw the arm…he had tattoos.”

“What kind of tattoos?”

“Beeexcel…” His eyes blinked, and the tears ran down his face.

“Pardon?”

“The letters…B…X…L…L.”

Decker thought a moment. “Could it have been B-X-I-I with a capital I?”

“Maybe.”

The Bodega 12th Street gang contained nasty, nasty men, most of them with origins from El Salvador and Mexico. It had originated in the Ramparts division years ago but had spread like a cancer into just about every state in the union. They numbered around fifty thousand loosely organized criminals. There were men at the top, but most of the bastards were drug runners and hard-core felons. It was one of the most violent gangs in the country.

Gil was one lucky sucker.

“He had B-X-I-I tattooed on his arm,” Decker said. “Can you tell me which arm?”

Gil was breathing shallowly. “Right-handed. On his right arm.”

“His right arm was exposed then?”

Gil didn’t answer.

“He was wearing short sleeves?”

“Black T-shirt.”

“Good,” Decker told him. “Any other tattoos?”

“Black cat…with Spanish words. Something negro.”

“Negro is black in Spanish. Can you close your eyes and see that arm…tell me the other word?”

Gil closed his eyes. “G…A…” He shook his head.

“Could it be G-A-T-O? Gato means cat. So gato negro would be black cat.”

No answer. Gil’s lids were closed with eyes moving underneath them.

“Do you see the man’s face, Mr. Kaffey?”

“I…more tattoos…” He touched his neck. “A snake…B…1 or something.”

“B12?”

Gil opened his eyes. “You know tattoos?”

“I know a few gang tattoos. B12 and BXII are two of them.”

“Gangs…Why?”

The most likely answer was that someone hired hit men from the Bodega 12th Street. But no assumptions. Not yet. “That’s what we need to figure out. Did your parents keep a lot of valuables in the house?”

“There were…guards.”

“Some of the guards are missing.”

“Who?”

“Rondo Martin and Denny Orlando. Maybe others as well.”

“Not Denny.” A long pause. “Dad liked Rondo.”

“Did you know the men?”

“Denny’s good…Rondo is cold.” Gil raised a tube-injected hand to his face. “Cold eyes.”

“Good to know.” Decker tried to keep him on track. “The tattoos are a big help. You saw the neck…can your eyes go up a little bit more to the face?”

Gil closed his eyes and was quiet for such a long time, Decker thought he had fallen back asleep. His voice was very soft. “Dark eyes…a rag on his head.” A big exhale. He touched his chin. “A soul patch…” Another long period of silence. Tears were falling down his cheek. “Then the flash and my father…” More tears. “I started to run…I’m very tired.”

Gently, Decker patted his arm. “We’ll talk again when you’re feeling better.”

He closed his eyes. Decker waited until Gil was asleep. Lord only knew the dreams that awaited him.

AS THE ELEVATOR door opened, Dr. Rain stepped out. “Lieutenant.”

“Dr. Rain.” Decker skipped the elevator. “I just finished a brief conversation with Gil Kaffey. He was a lot more coherent than the first time I saw him.”

“I hope you didn’t tire him out. Gil needs to conserve his energy to heal.” He checked his watch. “Try to keep your future interviews short.”

“Nurse Didi called you?”

“She did, and it was the right thing to do.”

“I’ll be more aware,” Decker told him. “Do you know who Guy Kaffey’s primary physician was?”

“For any medical information, you’ll have to consult with the family. I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

“I found out he was taking medication for bipolar disorder.”

“I wouldn’t know. Guy Kaffey wasn’t ever my patient so I can’t address that.” They both heard his name being paged. “I’ve got to go, but really, Lieutenant, what relevance does something like that have to solving a homicide?”

“It helps to know as much about the victim as you can find out.” Decker pressed the elevator down button. “They say dead men don’t talk, but if you listen carefully, they sure as hell do.”

THE FOLDER CONTAINED summaries of each member of the Kaffey clan. Wang said, “I felt an overview would help the both of us and maybe satisfy the brass until I can wade through all the hits. If I printed out all the articles, we’d totally deforest an entire South American country.”

“Can’t do that. Not green and not PC.” Decker looked at the first heading: Guy Allen Kaffey. Wang had included a brief bio on Guy, Gil, Grant, Gilliam, and Mace.

“These are the principal players in Kaffey Industries.” Wang handed him a separate folder. “Mace has a son named Sean who’s working at one of the big brokerage firms. I don’t know why he’s not in the family business—maybe he’s an independent kind of guy—but as the oddball, he attracted my attention.”

“Oddballs deserve a second look.” Decker nodded. “Thanks. This is a start. Send two copies to Strapp. What are you up to now?”

“Back to my Mac.” Wang stretched. “No matter how ergonomic the setup is, I still leave with a sore back from sitting incorrectly, burning wrists from all the typing, and tired eyes from peering at a computer screen. Man was not meant to work a desk job.”

“Tell me about it. Most of my last six years as lieutenant have been spent with my butt glued to a chair. But I’m not complaining.”

“Neither am I. It’s been a long time since I was in the line of fire. Sometimes I think I miss it, but I betcha I really don’t.”

Decker said, “When I actually get to do some genuine police work, it feels really good. Then I get shot or shot at and it cures me for a while.”

“Yeah, the last one was a close one. What happened to the nutcase guy?”

“He’s at Patton State.”

“He took out the guy behind you, right?”

“He did. He meant to get the guy behind me. The man was definitely mental, but lucky for me, his aim was true.”

COFFEE CUP IN hand, Decker sat down at his desk and picked up Lee Wang’s summaries, making notes in the margins in his illegible scrawl.

Guy Allen Kaffey’s date of birth put him at sixty. He was born in St. Louis, Missouri, to immigrant parents who had long been deceased. A terrible student, Guy had dropped out of high school at sixteen with no marketable skills. But as he told Business Acumen Monthly, “I could keep up a steady patter better than anyone on the planet. That meant I could be a disc jockey or a salesman.”

He chose real estate. Flat broke, he began peddling houses shortly after leaving high school and within a year, he had amassed enough cash to start his own real estate firm. As he told the magazine, “My first employee was my sixteen-year-old brother, Mace. Like me, he was flunking high school, but when he dropped out, at least he had instant employment. Still, my parents couldn’t figure out where they went wrong. It was more like where they went right.”

Five years later, Guy Kaffey picked up from the Midwest and moved his operation to the Land of Opportunity, switching from residential to commercial real estate. At twenty-two, Guy had his first million in the bank. Three years later, he qualified as a multimillionaire. Forbes listed Kaffey as a first-time billionaire when he reached the advanced age of thirty.

At thirty-one, he met his wife, Jill Sultie, at the craps table in Vegas after asking the beautiful woman next to him to blow on his dice. That evening, he had walked away with a hundred grand in profit and asked if the beautiful woman would like to celebrate by joining him for dinner. Sparks flew that night. The affair was intense and four months later, they were married.




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