Faye Kellerman: Blindman’s Bluff

Decker regarded Guy’s younger brother. His pep talk sounded forced-maybe trying to convince himself he was up to the job. Marge came back into the room. “Dr. Rain is just out of surgery. He’ll see you both in his office as soon as he’s cleaned up. Nurse Edderly will be happy to take you to his office.”

Grant punched a fist into his palm. “I don’t want anything to do with that bitch!”

“I’ll be happy to take you,” Marge said.

“Thank you,” Mace said. “Are you staying with us?”

“We need to get back to the ranch.” To the crime scene, Decker thought. “I also want to check out these two men you mentioned-Paul Pritchard and Milfred Connors.”

“Connors was a low-level con man,” Grant said. “He’s a nothing.”

“Sometimes it’s the nothings who get pissed off,” Mace told him.

“Exactly,” Decker said. “Here are some business cards, gentlemen. Call me anytime.”

“And here’s my card,” Grant countered. “That’s a business number. You can call it anytime. If it’s important, you can leave your number and I’ll be paged.”

“Thank you,” Decker said. “Uh…just one last question. Do either of you know Spanish?”

“What?” Mace said.

“What’s that about?” Grant asked.

“A lot of people who work at the ranch are Hispanic. In California, Hispanics do a lot of construction work. Just wondering if you and your dad and your brother can communicate with them directly.”

“Of course we visit the job sites, but we don’t talk directly to the men,” Mace told him.

“Why would we do that?” Grant asked. “That’s why we employ foremen.”

ONCE BEHIND THE wheel, Marge got comfortable in her seat and spoke while adjusting the mirrors.

“I’d love to see the company’s financials on Greenridge, especially in this current climate. Sounds like something that was born in real estate boomland and is currently moribund in bustville.”

“Maybe they already had the financing for the project.”

“Something that big, including a hotel? That’s a cool billion, right?”

“Too many zeroes and I get confused.” Decker opened a bottle of water and chugged half of it.

“Even if I had the financials, I wouldn’t even begin to know how to interpret something that complicated.”

Marge started the motor and drove out of the underground lot. “Do you think that the project might have something to do with the murders?”

“It’s worth checking out, but I don’t expect anything.” Decker closed the cap. “Let’s concentrate on what we do know.”

“We have murdered guards and we have missing guards. Sounds like an inside job.”

“Two things come to mind,” Decker said. “An inside robbery job that was botched or an inside job where the guards were used in a murder for hire.”

“In which case, we need to look deeper into the family.”

Decker said, “What did you think of Grant?”

“Intense. He did most of the talking for his uncle.”

“What do you think about Mace?”

“Not as much intense. We didn’t know Guy Kaffey, but from today’s conversation snippets, I’d say that younger brother Mace grew up under the shadow of Guy.”

Decker said, “Grant’s also the younger brother and you just described him as intense.”

“Yeah, he’s aggressive. But maybe Gil is even more aggressive. All I’m saying is that if Guy and Mace clashed, we both know who’d come out ahead. I wonder if Guy Kaffey was as enthusiastic on the Greenridge Project as Mace and Grant are.”

“Guy was about to pull the plug and the two New Yorkers weren’t happy with his decision?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Marge said. “But even if that were the case, would that generate enough anger and hostility in Grant for him to kill his parents?”

Decker said, “We don’t really know how Grant feels about his parents. There could have been a lot of playacting going on.”

“True that,” Marge said. “Interesting that you didn’t ask if there was enough anger and hostility for Mace to kill a brother.”

“Cain and Abel,” Decker said. “The very first chapter. There are four recorded people on the newly minted universe and bam, one brother shoots the other because of jealousy. What does that say about the human race?”

“Doesn’t say too much for us or for the Big Cheese in the sky,” Marge noted. “Any police chief who ran a major city with a 25 percent homicide rate would get his ass canned in an eye blink.”

THE MAN CALLED into the witness box was Hispanic.

No surprise there.

The entire afternoon had been a parade of Hispanics from the plaintiff-a beefy guy with tattoos-to the defendant-another beefy guy with tattoos. Rina could sum up the assortment of alleged assaults and batteries in one word.

Alcohol.

All the participants had been drunk at the time, both the ladies as well as the gents. Normally the melee would have been forgotten about the next day, but the police happened to be cruising by when the slugfest had been in full force. The cops managed to arrest whoever didn’t scatter fast with the unlucky remaining souls blaming each one for starting the incident. Witnesses had suddenly come down with bad memories caused by cold feet.

The current participant in the witness box proved to be no exception.

At least, the jury finally figured out who Smiling Tom Cruise was.

When the first witness was called to the stand-a Hispanic woman in her fifties wearing a red miniskirt and with permanently inked eyebrows and a mane of long black hair-Smiling Tom, who had been sitting in the gallery, whipped out an electronic device. Walking slowing toward his destination, Tom held a small PDA in his hand, listening intently to something through an ear pod.

When he reached the witness box, Tom turned off the radio and pulled out the earphone, stowing both in his front pocket.

The group exchanged glances and shrugged.

He sat himself directly behind the witness, his head leaning over the hoochie mama’s shoulder. The witness seemed to enjoy his presence, turning to him and gracing Mr. Sunglasses with a wide, white smile. For once, Tom didn’t smile back.

The case continued and Tom’s purpose became clear.

He was a translator.

To call him a translator was an understatement.

What Tom did was act out the testimony. He was a one-man stage show, his voice rising and falling, imparting each phrase with the exact amount of emotion required. If there was an Oscar for translators, Sunglasses Tom would have won it hands down.

As the afternoon hours passed, the witnesses’ recollections got more faint and indistinct and Arturo Gutierrez, now being grilled mercilessly by a hard-driving prosecutor in a red power suit, was more of the same. Although he did remember punches being thrown, he couldn’t tell who threw the punches. Maybe the plaintiff hit the defendant, but maybe the defendant hit the plaintiff. The witnesses were tentative on the stand, and the only one having a good time seemed to be Tom.

By the time the prosecution rested and the defense was due up, it was time to go home. After receiving their orders not to talk or discuss the case with anyone, the jury slowly and silently filed out of the courtroom as the bailiff looked them over one by one by one. Rina was reminded of the metaphor used on the holiday of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year’s. God judges all his people as they pass under him one by one-as if he were counting a flock of sheep.

Once in the hallway, the group made a break for the elevators.

Joy turned to Rina. “We’re going out for drinks. Wanna come?”

“My daughter has a choir recital.”

“When?” Kate asked.