Blindman's Bluff (7 page)

“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.”

T
HE 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 bil
lionaire’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?”