Blindman’s Bluff

TWENTY-THREE

AS 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 abandoned 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.”

Immediately, Decker said, “As in Ana Mendez.”

“You got it,” Marge said. “We had to leave before we could nose around. There may be nothing to it. Mendez is a common Hispanic surname. The simplest thing to do would be to ask Ana about it, but we don’t want to scare her away.”

Oliver said, “We thought that maybe you and Brubeck would want to go up and see the ciudads for yourselves.”

Decker smiled. “You’re giving me an assignment.”

“Brubeck is local and you speak Spanish,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “I would leave Sheriff T in the dark. I think he might not like you poking into his territory.”

Decker said, “You don’t like Sheriff T?”

Marge said, “He is a flat guy. He wasn’t self-revealing, but why would he be?”

“All right,” Decker said. “Sounds like a good day’s work. What about Oakland? Did you make contact with Neptune’s dad?”

“It’s actually his grandfather,” Oliver said. “Porter Brady. Neptune’s father was black, but his mother is white. That explains his perpetual tan.”

“What does his race have to do with the Kaffey murders?” Decker said. “Displaced anger or something?”

“According to Porter, Neptune didn’t hate his mom.” Oliver gave him a recap on what they had learned.

Marge said, “That explains why Brady’s in his thirties and the old man is in his seventies.”

“Brady’s phone records put him in Oakland when the shooting went down,” Oliver said. “Do you still consider him a strong suspect, Rabbi?”

“He hasn’t been ruled out. No one has, including that guy.”

Decker was referring to Kotsky. The man hadn’t moved, still standing in the same spot with his arms across his chest. He would have made a dynamite beefeater.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait until we talk to Neptune. He seems to be calling the shots.” Decker shrugged. “Maybe more shots than we think.”

BECAUSE DR. RAIN had met Decker previously, he allowed him contact with Brady. But only he could go in and only for a short time. Neptune’s face was gray and his skin was mottled. There was an oxygen tube up his nose and an IV in his arm. His lips were cracked but his eyes were open.

Bedsheets were covering his lower body. His upper torso, swathed in bandages, was exposed. He was semi-upright, and when he noticed Decker, he gave him a dazed look. “I know you.”

“Lieutenant Decker. How are you feeling?”

“I’m flying, man…don’t want to crash. Ever been shot?”

“A couple of times.”

“Like being stuck with a hot poker. Fuck, it burns.”

“Yes, it does.”

“But now all is mellow.”

“I’ll keep the questions short.”

“Short is good…not in dicks though.”

“Neptune, do you know where the Kaffey boys are?”

“Nope! No idea.”

“They just jumped in the limo and disappeared?”

“I told them…get the hell out of Dodge.”

“What about Antoine Resseur?”

“What about him?”

“Did he go with the Kaffey boys?”

“Did he?”

“I don’t know,” Decker said. “I’m asking you.”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Where do you think they might have gone?”

“To go where no man has ever gone…” He gave the Star Trek V sign. Index and middle finger together on one side of the V split with the ring and pinkie finger on the other. Decker knew that this was a ritual gesture given by the Jews’ priests-the Kohanim-when blessing the congregation.

It was two thousand years old.

“Maybe you can guess within earthly boundaries?”

“No idea.” Another silly smile. “I redeemed myself. I got shot, but not the Kaffeys.”

“Mace got shot.”

Brady was thinking hard. “Yeah…that’s messed up.” A pause. “Demerol is great. I should become an addict. They tried to send me to rehab but I said no, no, no.”

“Neptune, who besides Kotsky and you knew that Gil was coming out?”

“Gil came out a while ago…” A wide smile.

Decker said, “Knew that Gil was being released from the hospital.”

He coughed and winced when he did. “Shit, that burns.”

“Do you need the nurse?”

“I need more drugs.”

Decker pushed the nurse’s call button. He decided to simplify further. “You knew when Gil was going to be released from the hospital, right?”

“Right.”

“So did Grant, Mace, Antoine Resseur, and Piet Kotsky, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Anyone else know?”

“Know what?”

“When Gil was coming out of the hospital.” Decker tried another way. “Did you hire anyone else besides Piet Kotsky to guard the Kaffeys?”

The question stumped him. “I don’t think so…it’s a little foggy…my brain.”

“So far the only one who wasn’t shot was Grant and Resseur,” Decker said. “What do you think about that?”

“I did my job. Otherwise his brains would have been splattered on my bomber jacket.”

“Was a man named Alejandro Brand ever employed by you?”

He blinked several times. “Doesn’t sound familiar. Who is he?”

“You look in pain.”

“I could use another shot of happiness.”

Decker depressed the button a second time. He decided to pull one out of the hat. “Did you know that Rondo Martin and Ana Mendez were an item?”

Brady said, “Ana the maid?”

“Yes. Ana Mendez. I heard they were dating.”

“Hmmm…” Brady appeared thoughtful. “Once time, I came into the guards’ quarters.” He inhaled and exhaled, slow and steady. “Rondo was there in his civvies…he was eating a plate of Mexican food.” He closed his eyes. “Tacos and enchiladas, rice and beans. No roach coaches on the ranch.”

“I wouldn’t think so. Did you ask him about it?”

“Yep. He told me he could cook and offered me some. I told him no thanks and he said, suit yourself. Then he got up and threw the plate in the garbage. He told me he was going to get dressed for his post.” Another spasm of pain.

“Did Ana cook the meal for him?”

“Don’t know. The hot plate and the microwave were clean. He didn’t heat it up there. And it sure didn’t smell like frozen shit… I’m tired.”

“I know. But I’d really like to find Gil and Grant. I’m worried about them.”

“Go get rapists and robbers…they’ll show up.”

The nurse came in and consulted the chart, then the IV line. “How are we doing?”

Brady said, “Don’t know about you, but I’m doing shitty.”

“I’ll add a little more medicine to your drip,” the nurse said. “It’ll make you a little sleepy.”

“Sleepy is fine,” Brady told her. “Just get rid of the fucking pain.”