Blindman’s Bluff

NINE

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

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.”