Faye Kellerman - Blindman’s Bluff

They ate tuna sandwiches on the way, arriving in the Bay Area with a little over an hour to call up Porter Brady and arrange an interview with him. The detectives figured that after bypass surgery the man would stick close to home, so they weren’t surprised when he answered on the third ring.

“Why do you want to talk to me?” Porter sounded annoyed. “I already told the police that Neptune was with me. We have phone records to prove it.”

Marge said, “It would be helpful if we could talk to you in person.”

“Why’s that? I never had an ounce of trouble with the boy.” A pause. “Does my son know you’re coming here?”

“No, he doesn’t.” Marge was matter-of-fact.

“I don’t have much to say to you about Neptune. He’s a good boy.” Another pause. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind some company.”

“Then we’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Porter lived in an apartment not far from Jack London Square-a waterfront tourist attraction made up of old warehouses converted to shopping malls. Brady’s unit was two bedrooms and two baths and was furnished with original 1950s furniture. It hadn’t been pricey at the time but the color of the maple had mellowed to a fine tawny port, and the clean lines transferred nicely into the twenty-first century.

The old man had greeted them in pajamas, bathrobe, and slippers. He was stick thin with an unhealthy-looking gray pallor. He had a long face topped with white kinky hair, brown eyes, and thick lips. At present, his skin color could have belonged to any race, but his hair pointed to black.

What was even more surprising was his age. Neptune was in his thirties, and the old man appeared to be in his seventies. The mystery was cleared up within a matter of seconds.

“I’m his grandfather but I raised him. That makes me his father.”

Marge sipped a mug filled with sweet tea. “This is good. Thank you.”

“My own brew.”

“Delicious.” She took out a notepad. “Are you Neptune’s maternal grandfather?”

“Paternal,” Porter told her. “His daddy, my son, was murdered before Neptune was born. Eighteen years old. He ran with the wrong crowd.”

“What about Neptune’s mother?” Oliver asked.

The old man sat back on his divan, his robe falling open to reveal a sunken chest. He closed it back up. “She’s from a white family across the bay. She worked as a teacher’s pet…no, not pet.” He laughed. “What do they call those helpers?”

“Teacher’s aide?” Marge said.

“Yeah, an aide. That’s right.” He nodded. “That’s right. She wasn’t but a year older than the students. Erstin-that was my boy-was in her class. He was a good-looking boy. Tall and strapping and a charmer. My wife died when he was five. I tried, but I couldn’t be both a daddy and a mommy. I had to work.”

“What work did you do?” Marge asked him.

“Longshoreman. I spent my life loading and unloading docks. Good pay, but long hours and backbreaking work. Still, I paid all my bills and never owed anyone a red cent.” He sipped tea. “You want some more brew, missy?”

“No, thank you.”

Porter looked at Oliver. “What about you, sir?”

“I’m fine, sir,” Oliver said. “So your son didn’t have your work ethic?”

“Pshaw.” Porter waved his hand in the air. “Erstin had a work ethic for one thing only. He made himself a daddy when he was fifteen, then again at sixteen. By the time he got around to Wendy, Erstin was an old pro.”

“That’s a lot of babies,” Marge said. “Do you keep in contact with your grandsons?”

“One of ’em is in prison.” Porter rolled his eyes. “The other one loved cars from the get-go. He moved to St. Louis and sells Porsches. He’s a good kid.”

Another sip of tea.

“Erstin was shot about two months before Neptune was born. The girl’s parents wanted to put the baby up for adoption, of course. But when I got wind of it, I put up a fight. I wanted the boy especially since I lost my own son…” His eyes got pensive. “A judge saw it my way. The girl relinquished claim on him.”

Oliver said, “Do you have the girl’s full name?”

“Wendy Anderson…” He held up his hands and let them drop into his lap. “She called me out of the blue one day…just like you did. She wanted to visit the boy and I said fine. Neptune was a good-looking boy-tall like his daddy but he looked like his mommy. He was a charmer like his daddy.”

The detectives waited.

“The next day, Wendy and her parents show up at my door, all sweetness and light. One minute they want nothin’ to do with the boy, the next minute they’re trying to play with my sympathies.

Wendy…she’s crying and crying. I believed that she really cared. But the parents. Hah! The boy could pass…that’s all they cared about.”

Marge nodded.

“They had no legal grounds to get the boy back. But then there are moral grounds. I felt for that little girl. I lost my son and she had feeling for her little boy. I wouldn’t give up custody-no sirreebob-but I did tell the judge that maybe we could work something out.”

He finished his tea and smiled with yellow teeth. “And we did. She wound up taking him alternative weekends and every Wednesday night. When he had to go to school and couldn’t sleep over in the city no more, she’d drive all the way out here, take him for dinner, and then drive all the way back.

Tell you the truth, as he grew up, he became a handful. I didn’t mind the relief. When the boy was eight, she married, became a lawyer, and had kids of her own. But she still kept it up with Neptune.

Every other weekend and every Wednesday, that girl was there like clockwork. I was the boy’s daddy, but she molded herself into one fine mommy.”

“Where does she live now?” Oliver asked.

“When Neptune was eighteen, she and her husband moved back east. I get a Christmas card every year from her. She calls me on my birthday. She’s a real good woman.” His eyes were misty. “You never know about people. That’s why there’s something called a second chance.”

Marge flipped a page on her notepad. “What did Neptune do after he graduated from high school?”

“I thought he had a chance at college. Instead he became a cop for the Oakland Police Department.”

“So that was right out of high school?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Do you know how he got his job with Mr. Kaffey?” Oliver asked.

“No idea. He never said nothing to me, but I suspect that he moved to L.A. because he wanted to be an actor. He certainly had the looks for it.”

Marge and Oliver nodded.

Porter said, “Neptune was happy with the position. He made money. Bought himself a little house and a new Porsche-from his half-brother in St. Louis.” A smile. “He’s living the good life.” The old man shook his head. “I feel for my boy. He’s a bundle of nerves, although he tries to hide it from me.”

“Has he spoken to you about the murders?” Oliver asked.

“Nothing much. Something about an insider messed him up.”

Marge tried to hide her excitement. “Did he mention a name?”

“Martin something…”

“Rondo Martin?” When Porter nodded, Marge said, “What did he say about him?”

“Lemme think.” Porter was quiet as he drank tea. “Just that Martin messed him up and that he was missing. He said once the cops found him, they’d know who did this.”

“When did Neptune tell you this?”

“I don’t know…maybe right after it happened.” Porter slowly started to rise from the couch. When it was clear he was having trouble, Marge stood and lent him a hand.

“What can I get for you?”

“Well, if you’re asking, you could get me more tea with a little milk.”