Marge said, “Can we go back to Brett Harriman for a moment? He didn’t give you any name for el patrón?”
“Nope,” Decker said. “One of the men just said that he was worse than Martin—who was a very bad man.”
Shouts from inside the hole announced that the corpse was fully contained in the body bag. The trick now was how to hoist out the bag. The pit was around four-plus feet in depth. It was possible to scale in and out of the cavity by foot, but it was much harder to surface while holding a corpse.
Decker squatted at the edge of the hole. From this vantage point, the stench was considerably stronger. “If the three of you can get the bag above your heads, our people here can grab the bag and place it on the gurney.”
The HAZMAT crew considered the suggestion and deemed it possible. It took some careful maneuvering but when they finally managed to do it, the gang above was ready. Six men snatched the edges of body bag and put it on the gurney. Yakamoto unzipped the sack. “What do you think?”
Marge stared at the discolored and disfigured face. Worms were crawling in and out of the apertures of his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Some of the flesh had fallen off; some of it had been eaten. “It’s hard to say for sure, but with a little imagination it could be Denny Orlando.” She looked over at Oliver.
“I think it’s Orlando, but maybe it’s because I’m fixated on him.”
“We’ve got DNA now.” Yakamoto zipped him back up. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
THE SUN HAD crested over the horizon just as the last bits of all the biological material were removed from the grave. One body was disinterred. Rondo Martin was still missing. It was 5:26 in the morning. If Decker left within the hour, he could make it home in time to eat breakfast, shower, dress, and go to shul. He’d probably be the first one there.
Or he could go home and collapse.
Though his body screamed exhaustion, there are some days where spiritual nourishment takes precedent over sleep. Today just felt like that kind of a day.
“We’re done,” Marge finally told him. “I’m gone.”
“If you’re gone, I’m gone,” Oliver told her. “We came together, remember?”
“I’m not leaving without you, Scotty.”
“Wanna grab some breakfast? I have nothing in my refrigerator. I’m thinking IHOP. I’m in the mood for pancakes and cholesterol.”
“That’ll work.” Marge turned to Wynona. “You want to meet us?”
“Might as well chow down and coffee up. I have to be back here at nine.”
Decker waved them all good-bye. It took him another twenty minutes to finish up with his paperwork. By 6:15, he was in his car and alone with his thoughts. He started the ignition and as the car warmed up, he checked his messages on his cell.
There were three.
The first was from Rina at 7:02. She was just about to light candles and wanted to wish him a good Shabbos. She loved him and hoped to see him soon. Her voice immediately put a smile on his face.
The second call was at 8:26 last night.
“Hi, Lieutenant Decker, it’s Brett Harriman. I don’t know why I didn’t mention this before…maybe I was too overwhelmed with everything to remember correctly. Anyway, I of course couldn’t see the men talking beside me, but I did ask a woman next to me to describe them as discreetly as possible. She kept asking me why and I didn’t want to tell her. I felt a little foolish, so I told her to forget about it. So she may have seen them and could give you a description.
“The problem is I don’t know her name, but I recognized her voice from the voir dire and I know she was impaneled on one of my cases.
“I don’t know if you can get the list of jurors from that case, but it’s worth a try. I’m sure she’ll remember me because we didn’t have a typical conversation. We can talk more about this if you want. Give me a call. Bye.”
Decker saved the call in the archives. Harriman was sounding a little like an attention seeker, feeding him information bit by bit. Or maybe he was after the reward. Before Decker returned the phone call, he’d check out Harriman’s credentials to ensure the man didn’t have a truth problem.
The last call came in at 10:38 last night.
“It’s Brett Harriman again. The woman that I told you about. I just remember that in the voir dire, she told the judge that she was married to a police lieutenant. Maybe she was trying to get out of jury duty, but they still impaneled her. I don’t think she mentioned LAPD, it could have been some other city, but how many wives of police lieutenants could there be who served on a jury panel in the last week? Could be you even know her. That’s it. Bye.”
The line disconnected.
Time passed in very slow increments.
Did she see them?
Did they see her?
It took a long time for Decker to throw the gear in drive and when he did, he noticed his hands were shaking.
THIRTEEN
HE CURSED BRETT Harriman the entire ride home.
You couldn’t have asked someone else for a description? It had to be my wife?
Hypocritical of him because if it had been anyone else but Rina, he would have been making phone calls, trying to get that damn jury list.
Did he really think she was in danger? Be logical, he told himself.
First, the men couldn’t have been too concerned if they’d been talking about the Kaffey case openly. Second, maybe Rina didn’t give them anything beyond a quick glance. Third, even if they had been aware of her at the time, they’d probably forgotten about her since.
Damn it, Harriman.
As he rounded the corner, he saw his wife picking up the morning papers. She was wearing a robe and slippers and was holding a mug of coffee. Her hair was loose and flowed down her back, and his heart stopped in his chest.
Don’t say anything.
Her lips formed an open smile when he pulled in the driveway next to the house.
Take a deep breath.
As he got out of the car, he tried to smile back. He feared that it came out forced, like a smile after a Lidocaine shot from the dentist.
“Welcome.” Rina handed him the coffee mug. “It’s got cream in it. You want me to give you a fresh black cup?”
Decker took a sip. “No, this is great, thank you.” He brushed his lips against hers. “How was dinner?”
“Everyone says hello. I saved you some rack of lamb.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of cottage cheese and fruit, but lamb doesn’t sound half bad. Do you have the hot plate on?”
“I do. Want me to warm it up for you?”
Decker put his arm around his wife as they walked to the front door. “Sure. Live dangerously, I say.”
“With or without home fries?”
“The works.” They went inside the house, Decker following Rina into the kitchen. “You know when Randy and I were in high school, Mom always made us eggs, potatoes, and sausage for breakfast. As long as I drink orange juice, I’ll just say it’s a variation of what I used to eat as a kid.”
“There you go.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to shower first. I smell like I’ve been around dead bodies.”
“Dead bodies—as in more than one?”
“Just one.”
“One is enough.” She took the lamb out of the refrigerator and put it on the hot plate. “One is too much. Did you have an identity?”
“We think it’s Denny Orlando, one of the two missing guards.”
“Oh my. That’s so sad.” She searched in the fridge to find the home fries among the containers of leftover food. “What about the other one?”
“Rondo Martin. He’s still missing. We checked every inch down there and didn’t find any sign of him. Let me clean up and get dressed. We’ll have breakfast together, and then we’ll go to shul.”
Rina turned to him, perplexed. “You want to go to shul?”
“I need some godliness in my life right now.”
“Then I’ll go with you. I’ll wa
ke up Hannah and see if she wants to come with us. It’s still pretty early. I’ll give her a little more time.”
“Let her sleep. She doesn’t have to go just because we’re going.”
“Ordinarily she probably wouldn’t, but she’s meeting Aviva for lunch. Are you sure you don’t want to sleep, Peter?”
“Absolutely. Isn’t there a guest rabbi this week?”
“There is.” Rina lifted her dark eyebrows. “I’ve heard he’s kind of long-winded.”
“The longer the better. As soon as he opens his mouth, I’ll be asleep.”
ABSENCE MAKES THE heart grow fonder…or at least more talkative. On the mile walk to synagogue, Hannah informed her father of every single detail of her life for the past week. This friend and that friend and after a while, Decker’s mind went to autopilot with well-placed uh-huhs whenever his daughter took a breath. Although the content was inane, her voice was music. He didn’t care what she talked about as long as she was talking to him. When they approached the storefront house of worship, she gave Decker a quick peck on the cheek, then ran off with her friend before he could say an official good-bye. He watched the two girls embrace as if they were long-lost relatives. He was more than a little jealous.
Rina said, “It’s amazing.”
“What is?” Decker said.
“At no point during the diatribe did she realize that you were sleeping with your eyes open.”
“I heard every word.”
“You heard it like you heard the birds chirping.” Rina kissed his cheek. “You’re a wonderful father. Don’t snore. I’ll see you later.”
The speech lasted for nearly an hour, allowing Decker a terrific catnap. When he was nudged in the ribs by Barry Gold after the sermon was over, he was actually able to stand up and concentrate on the Mussaf prayers. In honor of the guest rabbi, there was a kid-dush. Most of the parishioners were grumbling about the length of the address, but not Decker.
“Best sermon I ever slept to,” he told Rina as he ate a small Styrofoam cup’s worth of chulent—the traditional meat and bean stew provided gratis after services.
“Lucky you.” Rina popped a grape into her mouth. “The Millers just extended a last-minute invitation for lunch. I excused us on the grounds of your exhaustion.”
“That’s a fact. You ready to go?”
“I am.”
As soon as they left the synagogue, Decker felt his heart race, his thoughts interlaced with anxiety. The two of them walked home hand in hand. He knew he should be making small talk, but his mind was elsewhere.
How do I bring this up? Before or after lunch? Before I sleep or after I sleep?
When they reached home, Decker had yet to figure out a game plan. He supposed the best way to approach the subject was with honesty. “Can I help you set up for lunch?”
“Are you hungry after eating all that lamb and chulent?”
“Not really, but you may be hungry.”
“I’m still dairy. I’d be fine with a yogurt and a cup of coffee.” She patted his hand. “Should I tuck you in?”
Decker plunked himself down on the couch. “I need to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Nothing bad.” He patted the cushion next to him for her to take a seat. “Just a few minutes.”
“Sure.” She snuggled next to him. “What’s up?”
Decker took in a deep breath, then exhaled. “Okay…here’s the deal. Yesterday around three in the afternoon, I got a visitor at the station house. He said he might have some relevant information about the Kaffey murders. Every time we get a tip, we have to take it seriously—even if it’s from Aunt Edna who channeled the information from Mars. Sometimes substance is buried in the lunacy.”
“I understand. What are you getting at, sweetie?”
“The tipster said he overheard a conversation between two men speaking in Spanish. He related this conversation to me and in it were some names that no outsider should have been aware of. So I’m listening pretty carefully.”
“Okay.”
“So he’s telling me about this conversation between two Hispanic men, but there’s a problem. The tipster can only hear them. He can’t describe the men to me because he’s blind.”
“I could see where that would be a problem,” Rina said.
“But he’s aware that he might have overheard something important. So he asks a woman next to him to describe the men across the way. She asks him why and he won’t say. She persists and he feels a little foolish, so he drops the issue. But later, he can’t get the conversation out of his mind, so he comes to the station house.”
“This is sounding a little familiar.”
“A little?”
“More than a little.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Rina said, “I don’t know the guy’s name. He works as a translator for the courts. He’s in his thirties—curlyish hair, long face, dresses pretty sharp.”
“His name is Brett Harriman.”
“How did he find out my name?”
“He didn’t. He recognized your voice from the voir dire and said you were impaneled on one of his cases. He remembered you telling the judge that you were married to a police lieutenant. I filled in the blanks and hoped I was wrong.”
“You’re not.”
Decker leaned back and ran his hands down his face. “Did you get a peek at the men, Rina?”
“I looked at the two Hispanic men that I thought he was referring to.”
“A good look?”
“A decent look. He told me to be discreet.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he specifically told me not to stare, so I didn’t.”
Decker exhaled. “Thank you, Brett. Did they notice you?”
“Probably not. So these two men are involved?”
“It sounds like they had inside information. So you don’t think they noticed you?”
“I doubt it. It was right before the afternoon session began and there were lots of people milling around the hallways.” Rina paused. “Would you like a description of the men?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t matter?”
“Even if you could positively identify them from the mug books, I still wouldn’t have anything. He heard the conversation; you didn’t, right?”
“Right.”
“So…there we have it. You don’t need to be involved.”
“So why bring it up in the first place?” Rina asked him.
“I was just trying to get an idea whether or not this guy is legit.”
“He definitely works as a translator for the courts.”
“How reliable do you think Harriman is?”
“Me?” Rina pointed to her chest. “I couldn’t tell you. The guy seems to know his languages. And he’s very dramatic. We used to call him Smiling Tom—after Tom Cruise—because he wore sunglasses and was always flashing a big white grin. After hearing him translate, we all decided that he missed his calling as an actor.”
“So you think he might be exaggerating?”
“I can’t tell you that. Just that he plays his voice like an instrument. Some soloists are more subtle than others. Actually I didn’t even know he was blind until he talked to me. He uses some kind of electronic locator to move about. He walks like anyone else.”
Decker tried to look casual. “Okay. Thanks for helping out.”
“That’s it?”
“Just wanted to get a feel for the guy.”
“Peter, I’d be happy to look through the mug books.”
“What for? Even if you picked someone out, I couldn’t haul him in. Like I said, Harriman heard the conversation, not you.”
“You could ask them to come in voluntarily. If they didn’t, that would tell you something. And once you got them in, maybe Harriman could recognize the voices.”
“Harriman said he’d absolutely be able to recognize the voices. But I don’t know if that would hold up
in court.”
“You said that Harriman mentioned names that only an insider would know about. And you’re telling me that you’re not interested in talking to these guys?” When Decker didn’t answer, she said, “Let me look, Peter. Chances are I might not recognize anyone or they’re not in there.”
He remained silent.
Rina said, “Whoever did it shouldn’t be walking free and clear. If it was anyone else other than Cindy, Hannah, or me, you’d be hounding them.”
“That’s probably true.”
“All I’d be doing is looking at mug shots.”
“It’s not the looking at the mug shots I mind. It’s the recognizing part that makes me nervous.”
She laid her cheek on his arm. “Don’t worry. I have a big, strong man to protect me. He has a gun and he knows how to use it.”
HE AWOKE TO the sound of the phone ringing. When the door opened, letting in artificial light, he announced he was awake and sat up. Rina told him that Willy Brubeck was on the line and it sounded important.
Decker said, “What’s up, Willy?”
“I just got off the phone with Milfred Connors. He’s willing to talk to us.”
“Okay.” Decker turned on the nightstand lamp. “When?”
“Tonight. I told him we’d be there as soon as we could. He lives in Long Beach so we better get a move on it. Want me to pick you up?”
Decker’s brain was still in a fog. He checked the nightstand clock. It was quarter to eight. He’d slept for seven hours. “Uh, sure. That sounds fine.”
“That’s good ’cause I’m right outside your door.”
“You are?” Decker stood up and stretched. “I need about ten minutes to shower and dress. Come inside and wait.”
“Sounds good to me. Tell me, Rabbi. Does your wife still bake?”
Decker laughed. “We’ve got some leftover layer cake. I believe it’s chocolate. You can have as much as you want.”
“Just a slice if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I’ll ask her to put a pot of coffee on. We working dogs live on caffeine and sugar.”
UNLIKE MOST COASTAL regions, Long Beach never commanded the spectacular real estate prices common in other So Cal beach communities, probably because the city’s tenor was more industrial than resort. From the 405 south, Decker was offered a bird’s-eye view of the refineries belching out smoke followed by acres of car lots. That didn’t mean there weren’t some nice areas: certainly the old downtown area with its hotels and the famous aquarium had been revamped to attract the tourists. Still, most of the residential areas were made up of modest homes when compared with other shoreline districts.
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