Blindman's Bluff (29 page)

A
FTER REACHING THE
hallowed Halls of Records at twenty minutes before closing time, Marge and Oliver rushed from floor to floor until they reached the correct department just as the door was closing. Their pleas fell on the ears of Adrianna Whitcomb, a forty-year-old, good-looking blonde.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Marge told the clerk.

They were talking in the anteroom of a basic government space: three teller windows with glass partitions, an institutional table holding brochures that no one ever read, and a floor of green and black terrazzo.

“You caught me at a good time.” She smoothed out the hips of her black pants suit. “I have a dinner date at six with nothing to do until then. Well, not exactly a date. What’s the street address of the business?”

Oliver gave her the address of Ernie’s El Matador. “Where do you eat around here?”

“Tonight we’re going to A Thousand Cranes. My girlfriend and me. She’s an assistant district attorney.” Her smile turned sly.
“Would you care to join us, Detective? You two might have a lot in common.”

Oliver smiled back. “I’d love to join you two, but I have a meeting in the Valley. If you wouldn’t mind giving me your number, we’ll make it another time.”

“She might not be available.”

“We could work something out.”

“Well, we’ll see about
that.”
A pause. “Wait here. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

She disappeared behind the door and the area fell silent.

“You’re having a good day,” Marge whispered.

Oliver grinned. “Hey, when you sink enough shafts, you’re bound to hit oil.”

Adrianna returned a few minutes later and handed a printout to Marge. “Wish all my work was that easy. Anything else I can do for you?”

Oliver took out his business card. “In case you have the sudden need to contact a detective.”

Adrianna took it. “You never know.”

“And do you have a card in return…in case I have to come back?”

“Just call the office,” she told him.

Oliver tried to hide his disappointment. “Thanks.”

“Call the office if you want the office,” Adrianna said with a crooked smile. “But if you want to call me, my cell is on the top of the printout.”

“RONDO PUTS CRUCES
at the scene,” Decker said over the phone. “Pick him up.”

“If you think the timing’s right, absolutely,” Marge said.

“What does that mean?”

“Do we really know if Rondo Martin is reliable? He still could be involved, Pete. It could be a conspiracy between him, Ana Mendez, Paco, and Riley Karns.”

“Why would they conspire to murder the Kaffeys?”

“Same reason you think Cruces and Pine did the killings. Someone paid them to do the hit. I’m looking at how defense would spin it. The bloody prints taken from the scene matched with Rondo Martin, Ana Mendez, and Riley Karns. Sure, they admit being at the scene, but in what capacity? If we had something, anything, to back up Martin’s story, I’d go for it. But since we don’t, maybe we should wait until all the forensic evidence comes in.”

Decker said, “I don’t want to lose this guy. Surveillance isn’t foolproof.”

“You’re certainly right about that. I’m just worried that if we bring him in without forensics, it’ll alert him and we’ll be more likely to lose him. Because we don’t have anything to keep him other than Rondo Martin’s say-so. How strong is that?”

“How far is Lee from unsealing Cruces’s juvenile record?”

“I don’t know. We’re headed back to the station house now.”

“Okay. We’ll give it another twenty-four hours to round up a set of prints. By that time, I’ll be back home. Keep a watch over Cruces. If it looks like he’s taking evasive action, grab him.”

“I hear you. I’ll tell Messing to beef it up.”

“Good. What’s happening with Ernie’s El Matador?”

“The bar is owned by the Baker Corporation.”

“Who the hell is that? And what kind of corporation owns a seedy bar? Sounds like a dummy corporation to me. Did you check if it’s a DBA?”

“Doing Business As? We didn’t have time to check it out. I bet Lee could do that kind of search on the computers in the squad room.”

“Keep me informed. And whatever you do, don’t lose Cruces.”

“Hopefully, we’ll get a set of his prints. I’m just trying to keep egg off our faces.”

“If Cruces rabbits, it won’t be just egg, Margie. It’ll be a whole damn soufflé.”

WANG SAID, “BAKER
Corporation is a subsidiary of Kaffey Industries.”

“You’re kidding!” Marge opened and closed her mouth. “Kaffey owns Baker?”

“Read for yourself, but don’t get too excited. I’m sure Kaffey owns a lot of different businesses.”

“And among the businesses is the bar where Martin Cruces got his alibi.” She skimmed through the pages. “Does this make sense to you, Lee? That Kaffey Industries—a major development corporation that’s responsible for malls nationwide—would bother buying a seedy bar in Van Nuys?”

“Someone bought the bar using Kaffey money—or Baker Corporation money.”

Marge said, “Does the Baker Corporation have officers?”

“If it’s a DBA, probably not. Let me do a little more digging. Or you could just call Grant Kaffey and ask him about it.”

“I’m not calling Grant. He’s still a major suspect.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s back in Newport Beach. We don’t have to check in on him because he calls every two hours and asks about Gil. If he’s truly a concerned brother, I admire him. If he’s faking concern, let me tell you something. He’s a lousy actor.”

CARMEN MONTENEGRO HAD
changed into something black and sexyish without going over the edge. She had put on just a dash of makeup and had drawn her hair into a knot allowing little curls to frame the side of her face. She was every high school boy’s fantasy: a TILF—Teacher I’d Like to Fuck. The only giveaway that the dinner had some business content was her briefcase-like purse.

Oliver had chosen a blue blazer and khaki pants. As they walked to the table, he held out the chair for her. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you.” She scooted the chair closer to the table and took the menu offered by a waiter who introduced himself as Mike. He asked if either of them wanted a cocktail and both opted for a glass of house red wine.

“Excellent,” Mike extolled.

After he left, Carmen said, “It’s nice to get dressed up once in a while. Thank you for taking me out here. I couldn’t afford it otherwise. I hope the department is paying.”

Oliver smiled. “I’ll send in some kind of voucher, but usually the department frowns on these kinds of places. I’m taking you out here just because you’re you.”

“Don’t you know how to charm a woman.” Carmen opened the menu and her eyes widened. “Did you check this place out beforehand?”

“Order from the left side,” Oliver said. “The duck is great, but I’m having the Black Angus. And thank you very much for helping us out this afternoon.”

“You’re welcome. I have the copies of the files.” She opened her purse/briefcase and peered inside. “I hope you can read them, because I had to photocopy the papers. A lot of this stuff was forwarded material from elementary school.”

“Whose files did you get?”

“I’ve got Esteban Cruz, Alejandro Brand, Martin Cruces, and José Pinon. I hope I didn’t miss anyone.”

“Wow. That’s complete. Thank you very much. Are they related?”

“They all went to Pacoima High, and they all dropped out.” She shut her purse. “Not our success stories, I’m sorry to say.”

“Were Cruces and Pinon troublemakers?”

“I don’t know personally, but their records don’t show either as being a thug.”

“They’re Bodega 12th Street gang members.”

“That says nothing. The school is crawling with Bodega 12th Streeters.”

The waiter came back with the wine. “Are you ready to order?”

Carmen’s smile looked frozen. “I guess I’ll have the duck.”

“Excellent choice,” Mike told her.

“Black Angus, medium rare.”

“Excellent,” Mike repeated. “Would either of you like a side vegetable. Our creamed spinach is excellent.”

“Sounds good,” Oliver said.

“Excellent.” Mike took the menus and left.

“As a former English teacher,” Carmen said dryly, “I would tell him to look in the thesaurus for another adjective.”

Oliver burst into laughter. “Indeed. At least he’s pleasant.”

“Yeah, I hate snooty waiters. They make me nervous, like I’m not good enough.”

“That would never be the case.”

Carmen lowered her eyes. The next few minutes were spent in idle chitchat about their respective fields. But Oliver was antsy. He really had arranged the dinner for business purposes. When the time seemed right, he said, “Carmen, would you be offended if I took a peek at the records?”

“Uh…sure.”

“Why the hesitation?”

She put up a forced smile. “I don’t know if I was really supposed to copy the files and give them to you.”

“Ah…I’ll wait. No problem.”

Carmen slid her purse under the table. “You’re here for a purpose. I respect that. Take a peek, Detective.” She leaned over and wrinkled her nose. “Just be subtle.”

“It’s Scott, and thanks for being such a good sport. I owe you a dinner where we don’t conduct business.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Then I’d like to take you out again.”

“Are you sure about that?” She grinned. “The evening’s not over.”

“I’m sure.” Oliver thought about Adrianna Whitcomb and decided she’d have to wait. At his age, he just couldn’t handle more than one at a time. He lifted one of the files from the briefcase on the floor and set it on his lap. Esteban Cruz; he flipped through the pages, but he couldn’t really make out the type because the lighting was so dim.

Then something stopped him cold.

Carmen said, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing…nothing.” He put the file back and took out another one. This one was José Pinon. Again he paged through the sheets.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Sorry to be abrupt.” He stared at his date. “Where’d you score a copy of José Pinon’s fingerprints?”

“It came with their elementary school records. We have this program where we routinely print the kids in elementary school. We say it’s for kidnapping, but what it’s really been useful for is identifying bodies. We’ve got a lot of gang shooting where often the bodies are dumped without ID and—”

“Do you have the original fingerprint cards on file or do you just have copies?” He realized his voice was breathless.

“We have the originals.”

“With their names on them…just like the copies.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s Scott. I need them, Carmen. Like as in right now. Do you have a key to the high school?”

“I have a key to the school, but I don’t know if I can give you the cards, Detective…Scott. There may be some invasion of privacy issues.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll get a warrant.”

Someone of lesser rank appeared to serve the entrées. Apparently Excellent Mike had bigger fish to fry. Carmen smiled as the waiter placed the duck in front of her. “Thank you very much.” To Oliver, she said, “Shall we ask them to wrap it to go?”

“Uh…” Oliver regarded his steak. “Uh, no. Just let me make a phone call to my partner and have her prepare the papers.”

“It’s really okay. I’m kind of an eat-and-run kinda gal anyway.”

“Give me five minutes, Carmen, and I’m all yours.” He tried to look charming. “Please. It’s going to take a little while anyway to get the paperwork. Why waste a steak?”

“Okay.” She nodded. “I’ll wait. But if you don’t make it quick, I just may eat your steak. I don’t even understand why I ordered the duck.”

“Eat mine. I insist.” He excused himself and stepped outside. Marge came on the line a moment later. “I hit the jackpot. The school files have fingerprint cards for Martin Cruces, José Pinon, and Esteban Cruz.”

“Holy shit! That’s amazing! I’ll call Oldham for print analysis right now.”

“Hold on, Margie, there’s a rub. Carmen Montenegro gave us the files on the sly. She doesn’t think that it’s totally kosher to remove them from the school. We need a search warrant to get us into the original files. Rondo Martin identified Cruces and Pinon as being at the scene. That should be enough probable cause.”

“I would think so. Scott, I don’t want to get the lady in trouble. You don’t think a judge is going to be suspicious about us having to do this at eight in the evening?”

“Uh…good point.” Oliver was pacing. “I don’t want this to wait until tomorrow.”

“How about if I say that Rondo Martin just IDed Cruces and the suspect is in our sights now. That we don’t want him to flee like Pine did.”

“That’s good, that’s really good,” Oliver told her. “As soon as you get the warrant, I’ll meet you at the school with Carmen.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Still at the restaurant. We’ll finish up, and she’ll meet us at the school in her own car. It’ll look a little less suspicious.”

“So you’re still with the lovely lady?”

“Lovely indeed. And she just got a whole lot lovelier.”

M
AN!” DECKER EXCLAIMED
over the line. “That just saved us hours of work.”

“You ain’t kidding,” Oliver said. “Marge just got the warrant signed so we’re off to Pacoima High. Here’s to hoping that the fingerprint cards match our unknown prints.”

“Amen to that.” Decker’s cell phone beeped for a call waiting. “You put the dinner with Montenegro on your personal credit card, right?”

“Of course. I didn’t want it getting back that Carmen did anything improper.”

“Exactly. Is Marge with you?”

“She’s meeting Carmen and me at the high school. Carmen took her own car.”

Decker’s phone beeped in a second time from call waiting. He looked at the window. Restricted number.
If you aren’t gonna trust me with your number, you can leave a message, bozo.
“Call me when you have the fingerprint cards.”

“I will,” Oliver said. “Where are you now?”

“Just outside the hospital. Willy Brubeck is watching Rondo Martin, but reinforcements are coming up soon. Did either you or Marge find out anything else about the owner of Ernie’s El Matador and Baker Corporation?”

“Marge sent a team out to the bar, to press Sam Truillo for the name of El Patrón. I think it was Wanda Bontemps and Lee Wang.”

“Is Truillo tending bar there now?”

“I don’t know, but whoever is pouring tap should know the boss’s name.”

“If Wanda gets any kind of resistance, tell her to haul the son of a bitch in.”

“I couldn’t have said it better.”

HARRIMAN PUSHED THE
end call button on his phone and plugged it into the cord for recharging. Lying in his bed in cotton pajamas that were too heavy for the weather, he felt sweat trickle down his neck and onto his back. The days were getting hotter and his air-conditioning didn’t seem to be working too well. He had cranked up the fly fan to max whirl, but he was still hot. It could be a psychological heat. Who didn’t sweat when nervous?

For the last ten minutes, his ears had perked up…heightened to every little nuance of sound. Foreign sounds. Sounds he shouldn’t have been hearing at eleven at night. The noises lasted about ten minutes, and then seemed to fade.

Precisely why he didn’t leave a message. He felt silly.

Take a chill pill. Relax and read a book. He had four of them piled up on his nightstand. What the hell was he waiting for? Because the noises were probably nothing more than his overactive imagination. If it hadn’t been for that car across the street from Mrs. Decker’s house, he wouldn’t have given the scratches a thought.

You’re safe.

He was more than safe. For Chrissakes, there was a cruiser outside his town house watching his front door. How much more security could a person ask for?

But the sounds weren’t coming from the front of his unit. His place was on ground level, and there was a back entrance. That’s where he heard the scratching. True, that entrance had three locks on it, but still…

It wasn’t just that he heard things. He smelled things, like the odor of male sweat. And then there was that kid in the parked car across from the Decker house. Nowadays, it seemed that everything was making him nervous.

So why hadn’t he bothered to leave the lieutenant a message?

That was an easy one to answer. He felt uneasy about being anxious. It reminded him of his childhood, his feelings of being a ’fraidy cat. It took him years to get over his fear of darkness, and damn if he was going to let it get to him again.

Thinking back over his youth, he recalled how terrified he had felt every time his mother dropped his hand. He was little—five or six or seven—but too old for boys to cry. His father castigating his tears; the old man believed in him, though. He had psychologically and physically pushed him to his upper limits. By the time he was twelve, he could use a cane to expertly navigate his way around anywhere.

His mind jumped from topic to topic.

How many times had he tripped and fallen as a youngster?

How many things had he bumped into?

How many times had he felt like an imbecile or a clod?

People treating him as if he was subhuman?

Even now it was painful to think about it.

The old man had been rough but only because he had known the world that his son had to face as a blind man. Harriman had been grateful to his father, but he had always sensed two primates on his back—the monkey of his sightlessness and the much bigger gorilla of his father.

One of his proudest moments had been the day that he had reconciled with the old man, the two of them great friends in adulthood up until the old man’s heart exploded.

Harriman thought of his father as his ears continued to listen for
intrusion. Sometimes, he doubted his own sanity. He was glad he didn’t leave Decker a message. God only knew what the lieutenant really thought about him, but Harriman must have been believable enough for the lieutenant to send out a black-and-white to watch the front door.

Finally, he was sufficiently calm to get comfortable in bed. He took off his pajamas and felt the cool air of the fan wash over his body. He had to go to work tomorrow—a carjacking/murder case—so he’d better get some shut-eye because he needed to be alert in the morning.

He turned his iPod to his classical mix of symphonies. The grandiose nature of the music was usually enough to lull him to sleep. He positioned himself on his right side…his favorite side. Closing his eyes.

No need to turn out the light.

THE NEWS CAME
into the station house just as the clock struck the witching hour.

Cheers soon followed.

After comparing the fingerprints from the cards located inside the high school files of Martin Cruces, José Pinon, Alejandro Brand, and Esteban Cruz against the unknowns taken from the murder scene, Oldham found a number of hits. Next came the painstaking process of evaluating whorls, swirls, and lines and he was magically rewarded when Cruces’s index finger and Pinon’s thumbprint proved to be a five-point match to two previously unidentified images lifted from a cabinet and a table.

An eyewitness plus physical evidence: Decker was in seventh heaven.

“Who’s picking Cruces up?”

“We’ve got a group from CRASH on its way to Cruces’s apartment. Messing and Pratt are going to the scene as well. Oliver and I are sticking close to home. As soon as they nab him, we’ll go in for the kill. I’m doing the interview. You want to talk strategy?”

“Sure. Get a confession.”

“Thanks, boss, I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“Find out who ordered the hits.”

Marge said, “You know, Pete, I figured out that one as well.”

“Find out where Joe Pine is.”

“We’re three for three, Rabbi. Mi strategy es tu strategy.”

Decker smiled. “It would also help if Cruces implicated Alejandro Brand and Esteban Cruz in something bad. I’d love to get those psychos off the streets. How’re my wife and kid doing?”

“Haven’t heard of any problems. Anything else?”

“Actually, yes there is. How much time do you think you’ll have between now and the Cruces interview?”

“How much
time
?”

“Yeah…like supposing all goes smoothly and they pick him up. How much time between now and before he’s ready to be interviewed?”

“They have to pick him up and process him…” She did mental calculations. “He should be ready for interviewing in about an hour.”

“Then do me a favor, Margie. I got a missed call the last time I spoke to you. It was from a restricted number and no one left a message. It could be a number of people, but I know Harriman has a restricted number. Could you swing by his place?”

“Isn’t there a cruiser outside his unit?”

“So swing by and talk to the officers on watch.”

“Why don’t you call up the officers? Better yet, why don’t you call up Harriman?”

“I don’t have his number on me, and besides it’s close to midnight.”

“I can swing by, no problem.” She paused. “Are you worried about something?”

“Not worried. I just want to make sure everything’s okay.” Decker switched ears. “Even if we nail Cruces tonight, I don’t know where Joe Pine or Esteban Cruz is. Harriman is vulnerable. Just drive by, okay?”

Marge stood up and slung her sweater over her shoulder. “Okay, I’m on my way. I’ll call you if anything’s up. Will I be able to reach you?”

“Call the hospital because my cell won’t be working. While Brubeck’s babysitting Rondo Martin, I’m going to try to grab some shut-eye. I’m sure there’s an empty bed somewhere in these corridors. If not, there’s always a slab in the morgue.”

IF THE COPS
out in front of the place weren’t bad enough, the gringo had three locks on the door. But that was rich dudes for you. Thinking that a single piece of metal could prevent a pro from coming in and stealing the gold. The facts were that anything you owned could be taken if the stakes were high enough.

The first barrier was a piece of shit that could be flipped with a flick of a credit card. The second was a dead bolt, a little more challenging but nothing that couldn’t be taken care of with a good set of lock picks. The last obstacle was a chain—a snap once he finished off the dead bolt. He could have cracked the locks sooner except that the policia had nothing better to do than to search the rear area, shining their flashlights over the backyard. On a brick patio was a barbecue and a set of patio furniture—table and stackable chairs. If he had more time and a bigger truck, he would have helped himself to the set, but he had a job to do.

The first time the policia had come in the back, he’d been caught off guard. Didn’t even hear them until they were almost on top of him. He’d been one kissed cholo because he’d been kneeling, rifling through his bags to get his tools. He was dressed in black, too, making him hard to see. And he’d been extra lucky because he had just taken out the lightbulb over the back door. Even the cops said something about it, that the light must have gone out. But the two fat asses had been too lazy to investigate. They looked around for a minute and then went back to their cruiser, sitting on their butts, probably stuffing their ugly faces with coffee and doughnuts.

He had to work quickly in case they returned a second time. His
only illumination came from a penlight. Couldn’t see too well, but that was okay. Most of the work was done by feel. The scratching of the tools seemed to make more noise than usual, and he was a little worried about that because the neighborhood was quiet. Maybe the dude heard something. But now, the apartment seemed dark and still. All was right.

As he worked, he thought about how far he had come. He was a fucking
pro
now, not some shitty, dime-bag drug runner for some other little fuck who was a step higher on the ladder. No more of that shit:
he
was one of the big boys. And like all pros, he had done his homework, scoping the layout of the place and checking the mark. The gringo was protected and that was a pain in the ass, but he had taken down bigger marks. Being closer to the top meant he had to deliver. The fuck if he was gonna let a few dumb cops stop him.

So far, he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

When he was sure that all was clear, he tiptoed into his spot at the back door and pulled out his lock picks: a set of sixteen manufactured in the highest quality of stainless steel. He liked the feel of the sharp points and the heft of the handles.

He sandwiched the penlight between his chin and his chest, trying to aim the beam at the keyhole. There was enough light for him to see the sweet spot and with a single swoop, he inserted two picks inside the keyhole. Jiggling them around, he tried to feel the click of the tumblers.

He jiggled and jiggled and jiggled. But nothing happened.

Huh!

Well, maybe it was going to be a little harder than he thought.

He let the picks dangle from the keyhole and shut off the penlight. Then he worked by his sense of touch only. It was smart to be in darkness anyway. With the sky being black with no moon out tonight, a penlight could give him away as easily as a spotlight. After a few minutes, he decided that he needed a different set of picks. He carefully chose another set of steel points and put the first two picks in the leather holder.

Scratching and scratching inside the keyhole, trying to feel the tumblers. Yeah, this time, things were working better. He heard the first click of a tumbler falling into place, then the second, and finally the third. As the dead bolt gave, he slowly opened the door.

The chain was connected, but getting that puppy off was no big deal. You insert the tool, move the door until it was just about closed, then slide the lock over the…

His ears perked up.

Someone was talking…a woman with a couple of guys.

He heard the beep of a walkie-talkie.

It was cop talk.

He didn’t like that at all.

Hurry up, hurry up.

For the first time tonight, he began to sweat. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He always had a plan, and he usually had time.

His hands began to shake.

Concentrate, motherfucker, concentrate!

Sliding the lock past…hearing the chain drop. Not the most elegant of jobs but it was over. Within seconds, he had slipped inside.

He flipped the dead bolt back into place and replaced the chain.

The cops could talk as much as they wanted now. He was safe inside—exactly where he wanted to be.

THIS WASN’T A
dream.

The scratching sounds were real. The smell was real—sweat and fear from a man.

Harriman knew he was in trouble.

As perspiration poured down his face and back, he sat up, his hands shaking as he reached over to his nightstand and groped for his cell phone. In the process, he knocked over the remote control to the TV. It fell to the ground with a muffled thud.

Did he hear it? Hopefully not. Thank God for carpets.

More fumbling until there it was in his hot, wet hands, the metal
feeling cool and sleek. Depressing the button to turn it on. The man was getting bolder, walking around, not even bothering to tiptoe, his footsteps easily perceived.