Blindman's Bluff (17 page)

R
INA RECOGNIZED THE
sunglasses first: chic, dark, expensive. Wearing a blue jacket, khaki pants, and a red tie, Harriman leaned against the wall, eating a power bar, his stance relaxed although his jaw suggested tension, muscles bulging with each chomp. Rina knew the reason why. He was eavesdropping on the same two cholos. Now that she knew what was going on, his actions seemed heroic and reckless at the same time.

It took all of her willpower not to stare at them.

No, that would not be smart.

Instead she blended into one of the nearby crowds. With only around five minutes before the courtrooms opened after lunch, she racked her brain to form a plan, weighing her options. Harriman’s face was leaning slightly in the men’s direction, and one of them glanced up at him. She thought about going over and leading him away, but that might draw more attention to him than if she just left him alone.

One of the bailiffs was already calling roll for the jury in the courtroom next to hers. She figured she had a couple of minutes left.
At a standstill about what to do with Harriman, she spent the time trying to memorize the men—their size, their features, their distinguishing marks. The tattoos were her best friends—a snake, a tiger, a shark, the B12 and the BXII and XII in Roman script. The smaller man, the one who was doing most of the talking, appeared to have a scar next to his left ear. Without warning, he turned his head, looked upward, and glared at Harriman.

Then he said something to him.

Harriman’s face darkened. He spoke a few words, then walked away without exhibiting any nervousness. The smaller man with the scar kept glaring at him, watching Harriman go inside the men’s room. Rina’s heart started racing when the smaller man got up and headed in the same direction.

But then someone called out the name Alex and the man stopped.

Rina thought to herself:
Alejandro Brand—the guy with the scar.

Alex, aka small man with snake and tiger tattoos, turned and came toward a man in a wrinkled suit and a comb-over—probably a P.D. The two of them, along with the bigger man whom Alex had been talking to, walked into one of the courtrooms.

She intercepted Harriman just as she heard her own group being called to order by the bailiff. She whispered to the blind man. “You must be careful. He was glowering at you when you went into the bathroom.”

Harriman took a half step back. Without missing a beat, he said, “Which one?”

“The shorter one.”

“That does me no good. The Mexican or the El Salvadorian?”

“I have no idea. I don’t speak Spanish. I think someone called him Alex.”

“Then you know more about his identity than I do. You should talk to the police.”

“I do on a daily basis. I’ve got to go. I’m keeping my jury waiting.”

“So Decker is your husband?” Harriman said.

“You shouldn’t be asking personal questions. But I do know that Lieutenant Decker speaks fluent Spanish. So maybe he can help you out.”

“We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t. If you’re needed, Lieutenant Decker will call you.” Rina hurried off to her proper line. She wasn’t the last one to show up, so technically she didn’t hold up anything, but she was late enough and breathing hard enough for Joy to make a wisecrack.

“You look disheveled.” She lowered her eyes and stared at Rina. “Just what did
you
do during your lunch break?”

Cheeky girl. “I wish.” Rina hoped she was being casual. The case would probably conclude this afternoon and she would never see any of them again anyway. She hoped this would end the conversation, but Ally had been more observant.

“She was talking to Smiling Tom,” she remarked.

“You were?” Joy’s eyebrows arched. “What were you and Smilin’ talking about—again?”

“Since he can’t see, he asked me the time.” Rina rolled her eyes and tried to act annoyed. “Ah, Chronically Late Kent is here. I think we’re ready to go into the courtroom.”

Ally asked her, “Do you know him?”

“Who?” Rina asked.

“Mr. Smiles.”

“No, I don’t know him.” She turned to Ally. “Why would I know him?”

“I guess you wouldn’t,” Ally told her. “Too bad. I thought maybe you can introduce him to me.”

“What?” Rina said.

Ally pinkened. “It’s hard meeting people these days and I think he’s kinda cute.”

WHEN DECKER SAW
his wife’s cell number flash, he picked up immediately. “It’s over?”

“It’s over.”

“Thank God. Did you fry the guy?”

“How do you know it was a guy?”

“Fifty percent chance of being right. More than a 50 percent chance. Most of the defendants are men. I don’t really care about the case, but I do care about who hangs around the halls of justice. Did you see them again?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Shit! Sorry. Tell me they didn’t notice you.”

“This time I made myself very scarce. I was well hidden.”

“Thank you, Rina, for saying that.”

“But there’s more. Harriman was eavesdropping again. This time one of the cholos caught on and the two of them exchanged words. Harriman went to the men’s room and the cholo started in that direction, but someone called him back before anything happened. Peter, I’m a little concerned.”

Decker felt a sour taste ride up in his mouth. “I’ll give him a call.”

Rina took a deep breath. “The cholo had a scar and a snake tattoo. Someone called him Alex.”

As in Alejandro Brand.
Decker said, “Thanks.”

“I got a better look at both this time. I’d like to look through the books again.”

The sour taste turned bitter. What choice did he have? “All right. I’ll set something up. When do you think you’ll be home?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, let’s go out for dinner. Hannah is at Aviva’s studying for finals so she won’t be home. Let’s take advantage.”

“Great. How about if you go visit your parents and I’ll come into the city. I have to meet someone at eight anyway.”

“Great idea. Where should we go?”

“As long as I can get a steak, I’ll be happy.”

“I can arrange that.”

“You can even invite your parents. It’s been a while.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“I like your parents.” He really did. After all these years, he felt there was mutual respect. “And tell your dad that I insist on paying this time.”

Rina laughed. “You know he won’t let you do that.”

“Ah, gee, then,” Decker said. “If it makes him happy, I’ll let him pick up the check. And if it makes him deliriously joyful, he can even leave the tip.”

THE APARTMENT WAS
on the border between Hollywood and West Hollywood in a beige French Regency-styled apartment building with blue-patina mansard eaves. The lobby gleamed with mirrors and marble decorated with new brown velvet furniture and black coffee tables. The uniformed doorman directed Decker to a set of brass art deco elevator doors and told him to take it to the seventh floor.

Antoine Resseur had a Christmas lights southern view of L.A. from two picture windows, giving punch to the boxy living room. Red leather sofas complemented bird’s-eye maple tables and shelving units. The black granite floors melded into a fireplace hearth. The recess lighting was dim and soft, and there was classical music on the stereo.

Dressed in jeans, a blue oxford button-down shirt, and boat shoes, Resseur was holding a glass of red wine. He was short and slight, with propositional features, dark hair, and hazel eyes that looked like agate marbles. “Can I get you something, Lieutenant?”

“I’m fine, but thanks. I appreciate your talking to me.”

Resseur’s voice was low and soft. He sat down and pointed for Decker to do the same. “This has been a nightmare.”

“You’re still close to Gil?”

“We’re the best of friends.” He took a sip of wine.

“It was very nice of you to offer to look after him.”

Resseur looked down. “I’m the only one who Gil trusts right now.”

“Not his brother?”

“Grant wasn’t shot, was he?” Resseur sighed. “That sounds horrible. Gil’s being a little paranoid, I think.”

“Once you’re shot, there’s no such thing as paranoia. Is that what Gil told you? He doesn’t trust Grant?”

“What he told me is that he doesn’t trust anyone except me.”

Decker took out a pen and a notepad. In the back of his mind, he never trusted the hero of the story and that’s how Resseur was presenting himself. “How long were you and Gil an item?”

“About six years.”

“That’s a long time. What broke you two up?”

Resseur swirled the wine in his glass. “Gil was a very busy man. His dad made sure of that. He didn’t have a lot of time for personal relationships.”

Decker nodded.

“Always busy, busy, busy.” Another swirl, then Resseur took a sip. “But things got frenetic once Guy and Mace started suing each other. I thought things would quiet down once the lawsuit was resolved, but it just got crazier.”

“How so?”

“Mace was shipped back east, and a huge truckload of work was dumped on Gil. It was terrible for him.”

“Could we talk a little about that? Like why Mace was kept in the company when he was caught embezzling funds?”

Resseur rolled his tongue inside his cheek. “How should I say this? There isn’t anything about Kaffey Industries that Guy didn’t know about.”

“Guy
knew
that Mace was embezzling?”

“It’s not embezzling if the boss knows about it, is it.” A shrug. “That’s what rich people do for pocket change…dip into the slush fund and why not. It’s their money.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “So why the lawsuit?”

“Kaffey got into trouble with the IRS. Mace took the brunt of the fall. On the surface, it looked like Mace got hammered, but actually he was rewarded by Greenridge.” Resseur took a sip of his wine. “I talk too much when I drink.”

Decker assured him that the information wouldn’t be used against him, but it got him thinking in another direction. Though still high
on the list of suspects, Mace dropped from the top spot. “How did Mace and Guy get along?”

Resseur rubbed his chin. “As well as can be expected. Guy had a temper. And Grant’s not far behind in that department.”

“Have you experienced Grant’s temper?”

“Not directly, but I’ve seen it. Gil is much more even tempered—like Mace. That’s why it was hard on him after Mace left. It was just Gil and his father without an intermediary.”

“I heard that the two of them were very close.”

“If you call working twenty-four/seven with a person close, then the two of were very close.”

“Weren’t they planning on turning Coyote Ranch into a winery?”

“They were?” Resseur seemed genuinely surprised. “That’s a new one, but I’ve been out of the loop. Good idea though. Gil had a fabulous wine palate. It’s certainly a good use of that monstrous place.”

“Monstrous?”

“That’s not a home. That’s a national park.”

“You seem to have a lot of insights into the family.” Decker put down his notebook. “What do you think happened, Mr. Resseur?”

“Me?” He pointed to his chest. “I don’t know.”

“But you’ve thought about it.”

“Of course.” He went over to his picture window and studied the view. Then he turned and faced Decker. “Nothing too profound. To get through all that security, it must have been an inside job. Isn’t one of the security guards missing?”

“Yep. But do you see just one person pulling this off by himself?”

“No, but that’s not how it happened. Someone hired thugs to do the murders. Gil remembers seeing people with tattoos before he crumpled and blacked out.”

“Any candidates for the mastermind besides Rondo Martin?”

“I’d check out the head of security: Neptune…something.”

“Neptune Brady. Why do you suspect him?”

“He was supposed to keep Guy and Gilliam safe. And now they’re dead.”

“Grant is keeping Brady on as a security guard. What do you think about that?”

“That speaks to Grant’s stupidity or Gil’s paranoia about Grant.”

“He really thinks his brother was in on the murders?”

“Gil has said a lot of things. But he’s delirious and doped up. His brain is scrambled right now.”

“Have you arranged for any type of security once Gil leaves the hospital?”

Resseur tapped a nearby end table. “I’ve broached the subject. Gil is disinclined to talk about it. He keeps harping on being released because he thinks the doctors are trying to poison him. That’s why I can’t take his talking against Grant too seriously.”

“For the record, Grant told me he thought you were a good guy.”

“He said that?” Resseur finished his wine. “That’s good to hear. There was always…tension whenever I was around Gil’s family. Whenever there was a big public party, I always asked my very attractive sister to come along. Not that we were fooling anyone. Gil’s mother was always cordial to me, but his father was…let’s just say uncomfortable.”

“Did Guy ever say anything to you about your relationship with Gil?”

“No.” Resseur got up and poured himself another glass of wine. “Gil was always very protective. He took care of me, and I was happy to go along with whatever he wanted.”

“You didn’t feel resentful?”

A forced laugh. “Resentful? Not at all.” He attacked his wine again. “What care I if we vacation in Monaco or the Spanish Riviera?”

Decker smiled. “I see your point.”

“That’s the way it went. Gil told me where we were going so I could either pack my tux or my Speedos. I didn’t see the point of making a fuss, especially because my time with Gil was so limited.”
He studied his wineglass as if reading tea leaves. “Now it looks like we’re going to have lots of time to catch up.”

“It sounds like that’s okay with you.”

Resseur’s eyes got teary. “I love Gil. I always have. I’ll take what I can get.”

I
T’S HIM.” RINA
pointed to the mug shot of Alejandro Brand. “This guy is definitely the shorter one who the man called Alex. I recognize the face, but also the tattoos—the snake and the tiger—and the scar. This is definitely the man I saw Harriman with this afternoon.”

“Okay.” Decker checked his watch. It was almost eleven in the evening and he was tired. But he soldiered on, inspired by Rina’s enthusiasm. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” He typed the name into his computer, but the machine froze. “The computer’s down. It’ll keep until morning. Let’s go home.”

“Would you like me to look for the bigger one? If you give me a little time, I could pick him out.”

“Let’s call it a night.”

Rina’s eyes swept the empty station house and landed on her husband’s face. Although it had been a long day for her, it had been an even longer day for Peter. She had been caught up in the excitement of discovery. “You’re right. I would probably do better anyway if I had some rest.”

Decker shut the mug book and helped her on with her sweater.
The two of them left the station house, zooming out of the police parking lot in Decker’s Porsche. “After you’re done trying to ID man number two, your involvement in the case will be over.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be happy to bow out. I won’t have anything more to add.”

“Having just said that…” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m going to be a total hypocrite and ask you another question.”

“You’re not being a hypocrite. You’re just wavering between wanting to know versus thinking about my safety. Stop worrying. They didn’t see me. I was very careful. The men had already left for the courtroom by the time I got to Harriman.”

“What if they had spies?”

“They didn’t have
spies,
Peter.” Rina softened her voice. “I know that the Bodega 12th Street gang is filled with bad guys, but they’re not the CIA. Now what did you want to ask me?”

Decker had lost his train of thought. “Oh yeah. You’re sure that Harriman didn’t tell you
anything
about the words he exchanged with Alex.”

“He didn’t say
anything
about the conversation. He did say that we should talk.”

“That’s not going to happen. Not only do you two have nothing to talk about, if you two did powwow, a clever lawyer could say that you two colluded against the client.”

“Good point, Counselor; your law degree did not go to waste.” Rina sat back in the seat. “I told him I didn’t have anything to say to him. I said if you needed to talk to him, you’d call him.”

“Good answer. He doesn’t have your phone number, does he?”

“No.”

“That’s good. The man twangs my antennas.”

“Harriman? Why? You can’t think he’s making it up?”

“No, he’s on to something, but why is he putting himself in harm’s way by eavesdropping on dangerous guys?”

Rina thought a moment. “Sometimes people jump into situations without realizing the consequences. Harriman has worked for the
court system for a while so he’s probably been around lots of unsavory people without any problems. Also, he’s blind, so he can’t pick up on nonverbal cues. And you know the lure of fame. Maybe this is Harriman’s one chance to be a star witness instead of a drone translator.”

MAKING FREQUENT TRIPS
from L.A. to Santa Barbara, Marge often passed through miles of rural farms in Oxnard and Ventura, endless acreage of green grids featuring just about everything in the salad alphabet, from artichoke to zucchini. Along the roadways were fruit and vegetable stands advertising recently picked organic produce and locally grown flowers. Many times, Marge would arrive at her boyfriend’s place with bags of heirloom tomatoes, red carrots, candy stripe beets, red onion scallions, and a sack of microgreens.

But within a few minutes of driving the rental car from the airport parking lot into the town, Marge realized that Ponceville didn’t grow for the “farmers’ market” clientele. This place was stone-cold agribusiness with acres upon acres of commercial plots fenced and confined with
NO TRESPASSING
signs. No cute roadside stands here. Instead she and Oliver traversed fields and groves of crops and cultivation. There were canopies of avocado shading unripe citrus, the silver-green leaves of olive trees, rows of stone fruit trees—apricots, peaches, plums, and nectarines. The area had patchwork quilts of vegetables, and with each one she passed, a different sensation would tickle her nose: cilantro, jalapeños, onions, green peppers.

Street signs were next to impossible to find, and there were no distinguishing landmarks other than a barn here and a plow there. She and Oliver rode on two-lane asphalt streets surrounded by the breadbasket of America, trying to follow Willy Brubeck’s arcane directions to his father-in-law’s farm. The rental had come with a broken GPS and after a half hour, it was clear that they were lost.

“We could call up and ask for help,” Marge suggested.

“We could,” Oliver answered, “but I have no idea where we are.”

Marge pulled the car onto the shoulder of the street. “Call him up and tell him we’re at the corner of cantaloupes and habañeros.”

Oliver smiled. “Give me the number.”

Marge recited the digits and Oliver punched them in. “In case his wife answers, her name is Gladys.”

“Got it…Yes, hello, I’m Detective Scott Oliver from the Los Angeles Police Department and I’m calling for Marcus Merry…Yes, exactly. How are you, ma’am? Your husband was gracious enough to see us today and…Yes, we are lost. We’re at the corner of two fields. One has cantaloupes and the other has habañeros if that helps…Oh, it does…He doesn’t have to do that…Yes, it probably would be very helpful. Yes, thank you. Bye.” He turned to Marge. “The old man’s coming down to fetch us. She’s got a little something for us to eat when we get there.”

“That probably means a big spread in farmer language.”

“That’s all right by me. I didn’t eat any breakfast. Man, I didn’t even get my coffee this morning.”

“Yeah, the airline was pretty skimpy with the food and drink.”

“What food and drink? By the time the beverage cart came to us, all they had left were water and peanuts. I felt like a damn blue jay. Man, even
prison
does a better job of feeding its people.”

“If you like starch and sugar.”

“Those penitentiary wardens ain’t no dummies. All that starch and sugar puts their charges in diabetic comas. They, unlike the airlines, know how to keep the masses happy.”

THEY SAT IN
the living room on chintz-covered chairs, the area painted a cheery lemon yellow. The floors were knotted pine, and the walls held dozens of family photos—black and white as well as color—along with a good-sized canvas of dripping abstract art that looked completely out of place.

A little something to eat included ham, cheese, fresh fruit, sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, avocados, and a variety of dark and whole wheat breads. Mustard was served in a yellow crockery dish.

At first, Oliver tried to be polite, but when Marcus Merry made himself one honking sandwich, Scott let his stomach do the talking.
Willy Brubeck’s father-in-law could have been anywhere between midseventies and midnineties. He was stout with white kinky hair and pale mocha skin. He had on a denim work shirt, overalls, and rubber-soled boots. His hands and nails had been scrubbed clean.

Gladys seemed pleased by everyone’s appetite. “I have some cake.”

Marcus’s wife was petite with gray kinky hair cut close to her scalp. She had round brown eyes and a round face. Gamine-like, she could have been a tanned older version of Audrey Hepburn. She wore jeans with a white shirt tucked into her pants and white tennis shoes, and there were small diamond studs twinkling from her earlobes.

Marge said, “Honestly, Mrs. Merry, this is just terrific.”

“So cake will make it even more terrific. You two go ahead and do your talking with Marcus. I’ll get the cake.”

“I don’t need cake,” Marcus complained. “I’m fat enough as it is.”

“Then don’t eat it.”

Discussion over.

Marge said, “Have you always been a farmer, Mr. Merry?”

“It’s Marcus, and the answer is yes. I can trace my relatives way, way back.” He spoke with a combination of southern drawl and black patois. “The name Merry comes from my great-granddaddy’s owner. After he was emancipated, Colonel Merry gave him fifty dollars and his name.” Merry took another bite of his sandwich. “I think the colonel must have been my great-great-granddaddy. You see how light we are.”

Marge nodded.

“Comes from both sides. My daughter…Willy’s wife…everyone wanted to marry her. She was a real beauty…like my wife. Damn, I miss that girl. Willy ain’t so bad, either. Don’t tell him I said that.”

He laughed.

“It was my grandfather who picked up stakes and decided to come to California from Georgia. Back then, the state was filled with all different kinds of people: Mexicans, Chinese, Japanese, In
dians…a couple of extra black men didn’t bother no one too much. Later on when Dr. King started talking about a dream…that’s when the tension started.”

“Is there still tension around here?” Oliver asked.

“No, sir. We do our job and mind our own business. Now we even got a black man in the White House.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Why am I telling
you
this? You see tension all the time.” A pause. “Willy tells me his area don’t have much crime.”

Marge said, “Not too bad.”

“Well, then that’s good.” Merry took another enormous bite. “No sense having my boy in danger. Don’t tell him I said that, either.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Marge told him. “So how did your daughter meet Willy?”

“At church.”

“Willy isn’t from around here,” Oliver said.

“No, but he served in Vietnam with a boy who grew up about three farms to the north of here. Willy came out for a visit and I was impressed that he bothered going to church.” He shook his head in fatherly consternation.

“What happened to Willy’s friend who grew up on the farm?” Oliver asked.

“Oh, he went back to his roots. He grows corn and is making money off biofuel. Me, I don’t grow crops for no cars. I grow crops for people.” Another bite. “Is that cake comin’?” he shouted out loud.

“Just hold your socks!” When Gladys came in with the cake, everyone oohed and aahed. It was chocolate with chocolate frosting and several layers of fresh berries in between. When she handed Oliver a slice, he noticed he was salivating heavily.

“Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome. And I’ll give you both a slice to take home. He certainly don’t need the whole thing.”

“If you don’t want me to eat it, why do you bake it?” Marcus asked his wife.

“I do it as an artistic project,” Gladys countered.

“Then donate it to a museum.” He finished his slice in four bites. “I know you came here to talk to the sheriff. He won’t be able to see us for another half hour. In the meantime, you can watch us bicker.”

“Oh, you’re so silly.” She gave him a gentle slap on the shoulder. “Coffee?”

“I’ll have some,” Marcus said.

“I’m making up a fresh pot.” She went back into the kitchen.

Marge said, “How well did you know Rondo Martin?”

“Or did you even know him?” Oliver added.

“I knew who he was. Can’t say I knew him well. Did I ever have any business with him? Is that what you’re asking me?”

“Just anything you can tell us about him,” Marge said as she took out her notebook. “You know why we’re interested in him, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. He was the guard in those murders and he’s missing.”

Oliver said, “What can you tell us about him?”

“Nothing much. We didn’t talk other than an occasional nod. I felt he might have kept his distance because of my skin color, but after talking to others around here, he just wasn’t the neighborly type. Not too many neighborly types anymore. Most of the farms here are run by big business.”

Marge nodded.

“There are still several holdouts like myself. I’ve been approached a few times about selling my land. It’s my children’s inheritance. Anyway, you don’t want to talk politics, you want to talk about Rondo Martin.” Marcus cleared his throat. “There were a couple of times when I stopped at the Watering Hole for a beer, he’d be there drinking whiskey, talking to Matt or Trevor or whoever was tending bar. We farmers work sunup to sundown when the days are long and the weather’s good. In the wintertime, it can get cold. That’s when the tavern does its business.”

“Is there a lot of crime around here?” Oliver asked.

“Sheriff would know more than me,” Marcus said. “Reading the daily sheet, I think that most of the crimes come from the migrants
getting drunk on the weekends and whopping on each other. There’s not a whole lot to do around here. We’ve got a general store, a church, a movie house, a lending library, a couple of family restaurants, and a street of taverns. That’s about it.”

“Do the migrants go to the same church as you do?”

“No, they do not. We’re all Baptists. Migrants are mostly Catholic or Pentecostal. We don’t have any Catholic or Pentecostal churches. They must have their own.”

“Where do the migrants live?” Marge asked.

“In the outlying areas. We call them the
ciudads,
which means cities in Spanish. Ponceville is built like a square. Smack in the middle is the town, then the farms, and on the perimeter is where the migrants live. Their living quarters, provided by the big businesses that hire them, are pretty primitive. They got their running water and electrical lines, but it’s still very basic. Don’t matter how basic it is, though, they just keep coming. And they’ll keep on coming as long as conditions down in their countries are poorer than conditions up here.”

“Are they legal?” Oliver asked.

“The businesses get them their green cards. All my workers have green cards. Can’t do it any other way. Otherwise the INS will shut you down. We’re not talking about Martin very much.”

“My partner and I are just trying to get a feel for the town,” Marge said. “Maybe it’ll help us understand Rondo Martin better. Do you know if he spoke Spanish?”