Blindman's Bluff (20 page)

“Where does she live now?” Oliver asked.

“When Neptune was eighteen, she and her husband moved back east. I get a Christmas card every year from her. She calls me on my birthday. She’s a real good woman.” His eyes were misty. “You never know about people. That’s why there’s something called a second chance.”

Marge flipped a page on her notepad. “What did Neptune do after he graduated from high school?”

“I thought he had a chance at college. Instead he became a cop for the Oakland Police Department.”

“So that was right out of high school?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Do you know how he got his job with Mr. Kaffey?” Oliver asked.

“No idea. He never said nothing to me, but I suspect that he moved to L.A. because he wanted to be an actor. He certainly had the looks for it.”

Marge and Oliver nodded.

Porter said, “Neptune was happy with the position. He made money. Bought himself a little house and a new Porsche—from his half-brother in St. Louis.” A smile. “He’s living the good life.” The old man shook his head. “I feel for my boy. He’s a bundle of nerves, although he tries to hide it from me.”

“Has he spoken to you about the murders?” Oliver asked.

“Nothing much. Something about an insider messed him up.”

Marge tried to hide her excitement. “Did he mention a name?”

“Martin something…”

“Rondo Martin?” When Porter nodded, Marge said, “What did he say about him?”

“Lemme think.” Porter was quiet as he drank tea. “Just that Martin messed him up and that he was missing. He said once the cops found him, they’d know who did this.”

“When did Neptune tell you this?”

“I don’t know…maybe right after it happened.” Porter slowly started to rise from the couch. When it was clear he was having trouble, Marge stood and lent him a hand.

“What can I get for you?”

“Well, if you’re asking, you could get me more tea with a little milk.”

“I could do that.” She poured him a fresh cup. She set the mug down on an end table. “On the night of the murders, do you know what time you received the phone call with the news?”

“I was sleeping, missy. Next thing I know, Neptune’s shaking my shoulder and telling me that there’s been an emergency and he has to leave right away.”

Oliver said, “Would you mind if we looked at a copy of your phone records?”

“You can have a copy, but it won’t do you any good. Neptune always used his cell phone. Kept the damn thing glued to his ear even when we were watching the game.”

“You’re probably right,” Marge said. “He probably didn’t use your phone. But my boss likes us to be thorough.”

“You can have a copy as soon as I get it.”

“We can just call up the phone company,” Marge said. “You don’t have to bother as long as I have your permission and your account number.”

“I don’t know my account number, but I just paid my bill. The receipt is still on the kitchen counter in the mail slot.”

Oliver got up. “I’ll get it.”

“Thanks.” Marge turned her attention back to Porter. “Anything else we can do before we leave?”

“Yeah, find this Martin guy. This whole mess is weighing real heavy on my boy.”

“We’re doing what we can.” Oliver proffered his hand. “We have a plane to catch. Thanks so much for your time.”

The old man took the hand and gave it a dead-fish shake. Probably not so long ago, the man had an iron grip. Oliver handed the old man a card. “Here’s my office number at the station house and here’s my cell number.”

“Here’s mine as well,” Marge said.

“What are these for?”

“If you think of something you want to tell us,” Oliver said.

“Or even if you want to talk,” Marge said.

“Call you up just to talk?” Porter gave her a wide grin. “I’m an old man and spending a lot of time alone. Be careful what you offer, missy. You might not know it, but I’m the king of gab.”

A
S SOON AS
the plane took off, Oliver reclined the seat and stared out the window. He and Marge were the only ones in the row, so they had some privacy. Still, Marge kept her voice low. “The younger Mr. B’s phone records are clean, right?”

“Yes. And since B is not a stupid man, I don’t think the old man’s phone records will show anything. But we should look at them just in case.”

“Agreed,” Marge said. “What about Mr. B’s childhood? Is it even relevant?”

“How about a black who can pass as white who hates rich white people?”

“But according to the grandfather, the mother did a good job,” Marge said. “Besides, what makes you think that B is trying to pass? He was up-front about using his black grandfather as an alibi. And he went up to Oakland to take care of him.” Oliver nodded. “Point taken.”

Marge took out her notebook. “I just thought of something.”

“What?”

“Tell you when I find it.”

Oliver rubbed his head. “Man, what a depressing day. The ciudads were one ugly place after another.”

“You’re still there?”

“I never left.”

She scanned her scrawls as she spoke. “Still it must be better than where they came from. Otherwise people would be going the other way.”

“Sometimes they do.”

Marge looked up. “Someone stretching their retirement dollar or buying a second house on the beach doesn’t count as going the other way. Last I heard there wasn’t a plethora of Americans trying to sneak across the border.”

Oliver said, “Hard ass.”

“Bleeding heart.” Marge patted his knee. “Actually I find your empathy very touching.”

“I keep seeing that young girl…looking after her brother and sisters while trying to fend off a hormone-driven idiot. What kind of life is she going to have?”

“Don’t even go there.” Marge returned her attention to her notes. “She reminded me of a hundred cases I saw when I worked Juvenile with the rabbi. All those beautiful little faces saying help me, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do. Homicide is crushing, but juvenile is day in and day out of heartbreak.”

A flight attendant came by with the beverage cart. “What can I get for you today?”

Marge looked up. “Diet Coke, please.”

“One dollar.”

Marge’s eyes got wide. “You
charge
for soft drinks?”

The woman’s eyes glazed over. “Water and orange juice are complimentary.”

“Orange juice,” Marge said.

“Pretzels or peanuts?”

“Are they free?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m paralyzed by such choice. How about pretzels. What do you want, Scott?”

“OJ and peanuts. Do you think the department will reimburse me if I add a little vodka to the OJ?”

“Probably not,” Marge said.

“Department?” the flight attendant asked.

Marge pulled out her badge. “Official business. Do we get any perks?”

The flight attendant didn’t hesitate. “Don’t tell anyone I did this.” She opened up a can of Diet Coke and gave it to Marge. “My dad was a cop.” She turned to Oliver and handed him OJ with a tiny bottle of Skyy. “On the house.”

“Thank you very much,” Marge said. But the woman was already on down the aisle. “I do believe that’s the first time my badge ever got me a freebie.”

Oliver poured the vodka into his OJ. “Wow, that’s good. Want a sip?”

“In a minute…Okay, I found it!” Marge dropped her voice to a whisper. “Edna’s daughter said that Mr. RM used to go down to the northern district of the ciudads for a little R and R?”

“More like Puss and Cee, but why quibble.”

“Edna asked T who lived there and I wrote down the names: Gonzales, Ricardos, Mendez, Alvarez, Luzons. Any of those names sound familiar?”

Oliver sat up. “Paco Alvarez?”

“It’s Albanez. But how about the maid—Ana Mendez?”

Oliver nodded. “Her alibi checked out, but that doesn’t mean anything.” A pause. “Neither does her name. There are lots of Mendez surnames in the Hispanic world.”

“Yeah, for sure, but picture this. RM and Ana meet in Ponceville. They come down to L.A. together. Certain ideas start hatching. We both feel it’s an inside job. Why not those two? Someone knew the layout to move so quickly.”

“I’m sure Mr. RM knew the layout.”

“The layout of the main house but not the layout of the servants’
quarters. It doesn’t look like there was forced entry. It looks like the shooters came busting in from down below. Ana said that the help was usually locked out of the kitchen by twelve, right? It was set up that way so that the help couldn’t enter the house through the servants’ quarters while everyone was sleeping. But someone breeched that point of entry.

“Say that Ana comes home but she’s not alone. She opens the servants’ quarters for the shooters, they kill whoever is down below, then they go upstairs to the kitchen door where Mr. RM lets them in. He tells the guys where everyone is and the shooters do their thing. Then they all leave via the servants’ quarters and Ana fakes like she just came home.”

Oliver shrugged. “She was at the church. People remember her. But maybe she left earlier and no one noticed.”

“Or, Scott, it could be that she gave RM the code to get in. Then her alibi would be righteous and no one would think she was involved.”

“That would work.” He sipped his spiked OJ.

“It’s a long shot. There are zillions of Mendez families. But what would it hurt if someone went to the ciudads with a picture of Ana?”

Oliver said, “How do we do that? If she does have family there, they’ll alert her. I don’t want her bolting south.”

“Neither do I. And I don’t want to involve Sheriff T in what may be nothing more than speculation.”

“Agreed,” Oliver said. “We send another team up to the ciudads without telling the sheriff.”

“How about Brubeck and Decker?” Marge said. “Deck is fluent in Spanish, and Brubeck has the local connections.”

“A black and a Jew.” Oliver finished the last of his drink. “Who says LAPD isn’t multicultural.”

UPON LANDING, MARGE
turned her cell phone back on. The window instantly lit up with message waiting. The first call was from Vega
wishing her a meaningful and productive trip. Marge smiled. It took a Herculean effort on her daughter’s part to engage in the banality of human intercourse. The girl was half Vulcan.

The second call was more alarming.

Call as soon as you get the message.

“Oh boy.” Marge punched in Decker’s cell number. “The Loo sounds upset and that’s never good.”

Decker picked it up on the third ring. “Are you back?”

“We’re at the airport. We just landed.”

“I’m at St. Joseph’s hospital. We have a crime scene. Get here as soon as you can.”

“What’s going on?”

“Gil Kaffey was released at five this evening. As they were wheeling him to the car, someone opened fire—”

“Oh my God!” She brought the phone up to Oliver’s ear so that he could listen in. “Who was with him?”

“Grant, Neptune Brady, Piet Kotsky, Antoine Resseur, and Mace Kaffey, who was supposed to leave yesterday but the memorial service was changed so he stayed for another day. The bullets missed Gil and Grant because of Brady’s quick action. He and one of his guards fell on top of the brothers. Neptune took one in the shoulder, and Mace got hit in the arm. They’re in surgery now. All told, it could have been a lot worse.”

“Did Brady return the fire?”

“No, he did not, and that was smart. Too many people around.”

“Where are Gil and Grant now?” Oliver asked.

“That’s a big problem. They, along with Resseur, took off in the waiting limo. Brady might know where they went, but he’s in surgery. West Hollywood P.D. has already checked out Resseur’s apartment. No one’s there and we don’t have a warrant to get inside, so that’s a dead end right now.”

“What about the shooters?” Marge asked.

“Brady was sharp enough to glance at the car as it sped away. He and Kotsky said it was a red sedan, Japanese model—either Honda or Toyota. About fifteen minutes ago, a local cruiser found an aban
doned car a half mile from the hospital: a maroon Honda Accord with the plates removed. I’ve sent Messing and Pratt out there to secure the scene. How far are you from St. Joseph’s?”

“We’re just walking out of Burbank. We should be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Come up to the tenth floor. Don’t bother calling because my cell will be off. Hospital rules. We’ll talk later.” He cut the line.

Marge pulled out the handle on her wheelie. “You drive.” She tossed Scott the keys. “Another long night.”

“After a very long day,” Oliver said.

“Been a lot of those lately…twenty-four-hour shifts. If I’m gonna work that hard, I should have gone to medical school and made money.”

“I was dating a doctor. She constantly whined about how hard she worked for how little money. But that’s women. They whine about everything.”

“Shut up, Oliver, you complain as much as anyone.”

“But that’s my given persona: the chronic curmudgeon.”

“How come you get the curmudgeon persona and not me?”

“It could have been your persona, Margie, but instead, you chose perky, optimistic, and cooperative. So I took curmudgeon. Now you regret it, but it’s too late. Don’t blame me for your bad decisions. That won’t get you anywhere.”

THE CRIME SCENE
was in the parking lot, but the action was on the tenth floor. It overflowed with men in uniform—hospital security guards in khaki, Kaffey’s personal security guards in khaki, and about a half-dozen LAPD officers in blues. Decker was talking to Piet Kotsky—the big man with the jaundiced complexion—and when he saw Marge and Oliver, he motioned them over.

“We need to get a post schedule pronto,” Decker ordered. “There are too many people in some places and none in others. Coordinate with hospital security to make sure that our people are involved.”

“Any luck on finding Gil and Grant?” Oliver asked.

Decker’s expression was sour, and his eyes went to Kotsky. “There may be people who
do
know where they are, but they aren’t telling.”

“What you want from me?” Kotsky had his arms folded over his chest. “I don’t hide anywhere. I wait instructions of Mr. Brady.”

Decker was trying to keep his temper. “I’ve been trying to tell Mr. Kotsky that Gil Kaffey’s life may be in danger.”

“He’s with his brother,” Kotsky said.

“Grant is still a suspect, Mr. Kotsky. I could subpoena you to reveal his location but by the time I do that, Gil Kaffey may be dead.”

Kotsky waved him off. “I don’t believe that Grant would hurt his brother.”

“Can I quote you if Gil winds up dead? Maybe the shooters are hunting them down at this very minute.”

“What for?”

“What do you mean, ‘what for’?” Decker was aghast. “To kill Gil off and complete the job. Maybe this time the shooter will get lucky and kill all the men.”

Kotsky was imperturbable. “I wait for Neptune Brady. He is the boss. He is out of surgery. Doctor says we can talk to him in maybe half hour.”

It came out “maybe khef hour.”

“What happened?” Marge asked Decker.

“Ask him.” Decker cocked a thumb toward Kotsky. “He was there.”

Kotsky said, “Somebody’s make shots. Mr. Brady jump on Gil and Grant and bring them to the ground, I pull Mace down, but still he is shot in the arm. I feel bullet…the wind.” He brushed his hand across his right cheek. “I hear it like a bumblebee go past my ear. I am lucky.”

“And the shooters?” Oliver asked.

“I don’t see much,” Kotsky said. “When I look up, I see red car sedan. I think it is Toyota or Honda.”

Marge said, “What about Antoine Resseur?”

Kotsky said, “He not get shots. He’s gone, too.”

Decker regarded Kotsky. “Excuse us for a moment.”

“Sure. I no go nowhere.”

Decker led Oliver and Marge into a secluded corner. “Rina identified Alejandro Brand as one of the guys that Brett Harriman overheard talking about the murders. I’ve called up Foothill and asked them to put a couple of men on him. I also assigned Messing and Pratt to hunt around. I’d like to know where Brand has been for the last few hours since he seems to be the only lead we have.”

“Who’s looking for the Kaffeys and Resseur?” Marge said.

“I’ve put out an APB on them.”

“Maybe it’s a setup, Loo, with the three of them in it together,” Oliver said. “Gil and Grant to get the money and Resseur to get Gil back. You told us he was pissed that he broke up with Gil and that he blamed the parents.”

“That’s extreme measures to get back your boyfriend.”

“When passions get high…” Oliver said. “And why would the men run if someone was really trying to whack them? You’d think they’d be too scared not to be protected.”

“Protection hasn’t done anything to help them,” Marge said. “Maybe they’re too scared to stick around. Maybe they don’t trust anyone except each other.”

“Okay…then assuming the shooting is legit,” Oliver said. “Who’s the target?”

Marge said, “Who knows? The only Kaffey who hasn’t been shot is Grant. He’s worth looking at a little closer.”

“I’m still thinking about the embezzling uncle,” Oliver said. “How serious is Mace’s gunshot wound?”

Decker said, “Far from life threatening, but it’s still a bullet in the arm. We still have a missing guard, guys. What’s going on with Rondo Martin?”

Marge said, “The man was a cipher even in Ponceville. No one is even sure where he came from.”

Oliver said, “Martin wasn’t overly social—an occasional beer or two. In his off hours, he used to hang out at the field-hand houses.
They’re called the ciudads and they surround the farms. The areas look like Tijuana on a bad day.”

“It’s more shantytown than city,” Marge said. “And the area probably houses prostitutes.”

“Not much else to do up there,” Oliver said.

“Rondo Martin used to frequent the northern district of the ciudads.”

“They’re divided into four quarters?” Decker asked.

“I believe so,” Marge told him. “The sheriff is a guy named Tim England, but everyone calls him T. His secretary rattled off some of the families who live in the northern district. One of the surnames was Mendez.”