Peter Decker 2-Book Thriller Collection: Blindman’s Bluff, Hangman. Faye Kellerman
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Decker said. “Don’t move. Where are you?”
“At the Newport Beach residence. Mace and Gr … (static) … hired me … an eye on the place and, more important, on them.”
Decker wasn’t sure he heard right. Grant continued to trust Neptune Brady even after Gilliam and Guy were murdered under his watch? He said, “I need to talk to you.”
“I can’t leave … (static) … promised … (static) … protect them.”
“You’re breaking up, Mr. Brady.”
“Damn this reception.”
“I heard that.”
“I can’t leave my post, Lieutenant.”
“Then I’ll come out to Newport.”
“I’ll ask Mace and Grant. If it’s … (static) … it’s okay by me. When … (static) … be here?”
“It’ll take me at least a couple of hours.”
“… (static) … bosses don’t mind, how about three?”
“Three would be perfect.”
Brady might have tried to say good-bye, but all Decker heard was the crackle of white noise then silence.
After marking the mug books with Post-its, Rina turned to the first preselected page. “This guy here—Fredrico Ortez—he could be the slighter man of the two.”
Decker said, “Could be or definitely?”
“It’s either this guy or maybe this guy.” She turned to another page. “This man here … Alejandro Brand, the guy with the scar. The two men look alike—at least in the mug shots.”
They did resemble each other—shaved heads, narrow faces, small noses with broad nostrils, thick lips, and deep-set eyes. Under distinguishing marks, both had tattoos of animals: Brand had a snake on his arm, and Ortez sported a dragon on his chest. Other marks included XII and a B12 for Bodega 12th Street.
Rina said, “I thought they might be brothers except they have different last names.”
“Didn’t you tell me that one of the guys had a snake tattoo?”
“I did. Maybe you should take a closer look at Brand?”
“Maybe I will. What about the bigger of the two men?”
“Maybe this guy …” Rina showed him a picture. “Or maybe him or him. I’m less sure about that one.” She closed the books. “To tell you the truth, after a while everyone begins to look alike. At the time, I could picture them in my head, but things fade. I just gave them a glance.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”
Secretly, Decker was relieved. “You did great. I’ll copy down these names and see if we have any legitimate reason to bring them into the station house. And even if we don’t have anything on them now, these guys are mess-ups. If I tailed them for an hour, I’m sure I could catch them doing something illegal.”
“I could have been more precise if I looked a little harder, but he kept telling me not to stare … the blind guy … Harriman.”
“He used good judgment.”
“I don’t know if I could pick them out of a lineup.”
“You won’t have to. If I can bring in these jokers on something else, I’ll record the interview and send the tapes over to Harriman along with some similar tapes. He told me he could identify the voices. Let’s see if he means it.” Decker closed the mug books and stood up. “I have to go to Newport Beach. It’s a long ride. Want to keep me company?”
“What’s in New—Oh, that’s the Kaffeys’ main house. I suppose I could go look at the art galleries. See if there are any botanical paintings I want to add to our collection.”
Decker frowned. “Two-thirds of the collection is sitting in closets. And we didn’t pay for those. Why would you want more and pay for them?”
“I don’t pay for anything, Peter. I cull. I talk about what I have, and the gallery owners talk about what they have. Sometimes I trade up and sometimes I trade down. It’s kind of fun.”
“My idea of fun would be to sell the collection and put the money in the bank.”
“That is an option.”
“But not yours. And that’s why I’m a philistine and you’re a connoisseur.”
“You’re not sentimentally attached to the paintings like I am. I see one painting and I think of Cecily Eden and how much fun the two of us had together talking about plants and gardens although I’m still mystified why she left her paintings to me and not her heirs.”
“She knew you’d appreciate them and you do.” He kissed the top of her head. “Let’s get going. If I have a spare minute, I’ll come with you to a couple of the galleries. It would give me great pleasure to see you dangle a Martin Heade in front of the wide-eyed art dealers.”
The fifty-mile ride went quickly, enhanced by good conversation and the clear cerulean skies reflected in diamond-studded water. With the sloping hills ablaze with wildflowers to the east and the sandy shores that marked the western end of the continent, Newport and its environs had to qualify as one of the most geographically scenic places on the planet. Exquisite in its beauty, the berg was also exquisite in its price tag, one of those cases where if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.
The area was teeming with traffic and tourists. The slowdown in the economy didn’t seem to have affected this marina. It was stuffed with sailboats, speedboats, catamarans, cabin cruisers, and yachts of all sizes and shapes. Galleries, boutiques, and cafés seemed to be the businesses of choice. Decker dropped Rina in front of a gallery, then checked his map and headed out to residential territory.
The Kaffeys had named their mansion the Wind Chimes, and it sat behind wrought-iron gates that included a guardhouse replete with sentries, and a twelve-foot hedge that seemed to stretch for blocks. After conversing with one of the uniforms, he and his clunker car were allowed to tool down the sinuous driveway surrounded by a forest of pines, firs, sycamores, elms, and eucalyptus. He would have stopped to gawk, but there were too many guards who kept waving him forward. When he reached the pebbled motor court, the mansion came into view.
Decker’s family had taken a family trip to the Biltmore in North Carolina when he was a kid and though he knew the place couldn’t possibly be that big, it still appeared otherworldly. It appeared that Guy Kaffey had been copying the Biltmore’s French Regency style. Like its model, it was fashioned from limestone and had multiple-peaked blue slate roofs with an abundance of gables and chimneys. He could have picked up more details but he was stopped by a private sentry. The man was squat and brutish looking and was packing a Saturday night special. After checking out Decker’s ID then radioing someone on his walkie-talkie, he decided that the LAPD cop passed muster. “Leave the car here. We’ll take you up to the entrance in a golf cart. And we’ll keep your gun.”
Decker smiled. “Leaving the car here is okay. Going up to the house in a golf cart is okay. Nobody touches my weapon.”
More radioing and walkie-talkie conversation. Finally, the sentry said, “What are you carrying?”
“Standard-issue 9 mm Beretta. Is that Mr. Brady on the wire?”
The guard ignored him, but he must have been cleared. A few minutes later, Decker was winding his way past the house down a paved pathway that led through flower gardens, ferneries, orchards, a grape arbor, and a vegetable garden spilling over with a variety of tomatoes, pole beans, basil, squashes, and baseball-bat-sized Italian zucchini. The golf cart stopped at a gazebo with a roof that matched the house, and everyone got out. The spot overlooked an infinity pool that bled into the Pacific blue.
Dressed in a blue blazer with brass buttons, white linen pants,