Faye Kellerman: Blindman’s Bluff

He had a gift.

Like a composer with perfect pitch, he had what he called perfect sound. Not only could he translate words and decipher speech-the minimum requirements for his job-but equally as important, he could code nuances and know everything about that person’s background, often after just a few sentences. He could tell where the person grew up, where the person’s parents grew up, and where the person was currently residing.

Of course, he could discern simple things like race and ethnicity, but who among the living could also zero in on social class and educational level in a single breath? How many fellow human beings could detect whether the person was happy or sad-no biggie there-but also whether he or she was angry, peeved, jealous, annoyed, wistful, sentimental, considerate, empathetic, industrious, and lazy? And not by what they said, but how they said it. He could distinguish between nearly identical regional American accents, and he had a magic ear for international accents, too.

In his world, there was no need for visuals. The eye was a deceptive thing. He’d been given an otherworldly gift, not to be squandered on trivial things like a parlor game.

Name that accent.

People were such assholes.

His PDA buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket and pushed a well-worn button. The machine read the text message aloud in a staccato electronic voice: “See U for usual lunch.” He turned off the handy-dandy portable and stowed it back in his pocket. The time was twelve-thirty, the place was a sushi bar in Little Tokyo, and the date was Dana.

The day was shaping up to be a good one. Taking his seat on the bench, he adjusted his designer sunglasses, turned his head in the direction of the jury box, and flashed the good citizens of Los Angeles a blinding smile of perfectly straight white teeth.

Showtime!

AFTER RECEIVING INSTRUCTIONS from the judge not to talk about the case, the jury filed out of the courtroom.

The woman in front was named Kate and that’s all that Rina knew about her. She looked to be in her thirties with pinched features, clipped blond hair, and hoop earrings dangling from her earlobes.

She turned to Rina and said, “Ally, Ryan, and Joy are going to the mall. You want to join us for lunch?”

“I brought a sack lunch, but I’d love to sit with you. Anything to get out of this building.”

“Yeah, who’s really in jail?” Kate smiled. “I’m going to use the little girls’ room, and Ryan and Ally have to make a couple of phone calls. We’re all meeting outside in about ten minutes.”

“Sounds good.” As Rina pushed open one of the double glass doors of the criminal courthouse, a blast of furnace air hit her face, and the roar of traffic filled her ears. The asphalt seemed to be melting with heat waves shimmering in the smog. The only shade in the area was provided by the multistory buildings-not much shadow in the noonday sun-and a row of hardy trees that seemed pollution resistant.

She dialed Peter’s cell expecting to leave a message. She was delightfully surprised when he picked up.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“I’m still alive.”

“That’s a good thing. Where are you?”

“I’m with Sergeant Dunn and we’re headed for St. Joseph’s hospital intensive care unit. Gil Kaffey is out of surgery.”

“That’s good news. I read the story this morning, although I’m sure it’s out of date already. You’ve got your hands full.”

“As always.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Am I going to see you anytime soon?”

“Eventually I’ll have to sleep.”

“Do you think you’ll make it to Hannah’s choir recital?”

A pause. “When is it again? Tomorrow at eight?”

“It’s actually tonight at eight. The choir teacher changed the date and Hannah forgot to tell me.”

“Oh boy.” Another pause. “Yes, I will make it; however, I will not vouch for my appearance or my hygiene.”

Rina felt relieved. “I’m sure that all Hannah wants is to see your face.”

“That will happen. Just do me a favor. Poke me in the ribs if you see my eyes start to close. How’s it going over there in beautiful downtown L.A.?”

“Summer is upon us.” She wiped sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “I shouldn’t have worn my sheytl today. It’s too hot for a wig.”

“Take it off. I won’t tell.”

Rina smiled. “So I’ll meet you at school?”

“That would make sense.”

“Should I bring you dinner?”

“That would also make sense. Gotta run. The sterile hallways and the antiseptic smells of St. Joe beckon, but don’t be jealous of my good time. I’m sure you have your own party planned within the vaunted walls of justice.”

“Actually, we’ve got some camaraderie going on. A group of us are going to the food mall for lunch across the street from the courthouse.”

“Well, aren’t you the fortunate daughter.”

“We’re doing our civic duty for fifteen dollars a day. Even LAPD pays more than that.”

“Want to switch places?”

“Not on your life. I prefer the living to the dead.”

IT TOOK MARGE and Decker nearly forty-five minutes to make it to the hospital in light traffic. Had Gil Kaffey been conscious during the ambulance ride, he would have had a lot of thinking time. What would he remember? Sometimes in traumatic incidents, retrograde amnesia set in: nature’s inoculation against further pain.

St. Joe’s medical complex consisted of the medium-sized hospital in four wings and an equal number of professional office buildings. It took a few passes to find an open parking space, and it was a tight squeeze at that. Marge maneuvered the Crown Vic with aplomb, and within a few minutes they were showing their badges at the nurses’ station that manned the glassed-in intensive care unit.

Before they were permitted inside, they needed to get Kaffey’s doctors to sign them in. It took about twenty minutes to locate one of Kaffey’s surgeons.

The doctor in charge, named Brandon Rain, was a beefy man in his thirties with broad shoulders and ham-hock forearms. He gave them an update. “Kaffey is heavily sedated. His body has gone through a terrible ordeal, so not more than a few minutes.”

“How bad is it?” Decker wanted to know.

“The bullet cracked through a couple of floating ribs and caused some bleeding. It took him a while to get here and that area is very vascular. A little more central and the slug would have hit the spleen. He would have bled out.” The surgeon’s pager sprang to life. He checked the window on his cell. “I’ve got to run. Not more than a few minutes.”

“Got it,” Decker said.

“Have you heard from the family?” Marge asked.

“Not yet, but I’m sure I will,” Rain told her. “Did you happen to notice the Kaffey building when you came in?”

“I did,” Decker said. “I take it the family holds some sway?”

“Let me put it this way,” Rain said. “They’re charitable people. They’re also moneyed people. In this economy, that’s a winning combination.”

GIL KAFFEY HAD tubes in his nose, tubes in his arms, and tubes in his stomach. His face was bruised and swollen, his eyes were bloodshot, and his lips dry and cracked. Marge had pulled up his picture on her laptop and the man in front of them bore no resemblance to the good-looking, self-confident guy on the computer screen. Kaffey’s heart rate was steady, and an arm cuff inflated every ten minutes to get a BP reading. Gil was conscious but was very groggy. Decker wasn’t looking for a lengthy interview. All he wanted was a name. It was the first question he asked.

Do you know who shot you?