Authors: Faye Kellerman
Blindman's Bluff (34 page)
“Not all wineries lose money.” Rina spread her arm about. “To wit.”
“I will amend my statement. Small wineries rarely make money. You’ve got to know what you’re doing.”
“That’s true.” Rina finished her pinot. “Actually, I like that theory.”
Decker brightened. “Thank you.”
Rina raised her goblet. “Well, here’s to you and a job well done. You deserve a good meal, and I promise I won’t drive your Porsche.”
“You can drive my Porsche. Just not after you’ve had a couple glasses of wine.”
Rina giggled. “That’s probably a good idea. Cheers.”
Decker smiled and clinked glasses. “Cheers.”
THE TRANSFORMATION WAS
magical. The once hard-packed grounds had been covered by a green blanket as far as the eye could see. There were thousands of rows of netted, seedling grape vines. Replacing the guardhouses and paddocks was a spanking new industrial building that held hundreds of oak and steel barrels, several labs for the enologists and wine mixers, and a tasting room. When the place was up and operable, it would be quite a draw for the area.
The sun was trying to break through the marine layer common in L.A. springs. The sky was cloudy, but the air was clean. Decker took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Hardscrabble turned into vibrant, verdant farmland.
Guy’s dream.
“This is unbelievable.” Decker zipped up his jacket. “Thanks for the invitation.”
“Long overdue,” Gil Kaffey said, “but I wanted it to be just right.”
They walked on the tilled earth between the rows of grapevines: Gil Kaffey, Grant Kaffey, Antoine Resseur, Decker, and the well-dressed man on his right who held his arm. He could afford nice clothing with a reward of twenty thousand dollars sitting in his bank account. Harriman couldn’t see any of it, but he sure could smell it.
“Cabernet grapes on the left and chardonnay on the right,” he told Gil.
Gil smiled. “What a nose. Are your taste buds as sensitive?”
“Give me a taste test and then we can both know for sure.”
“It’ll be a long, long time before I can use any of my own grapes. I have been talking to some appellations up north. I think it might be wise to start small with premium grapes and then gradually use that experience on my own crops.”
“How long do you think that will take?” Harriman asked.
“At least another couple of years,” Gil said. “In the meantime, I’ve got plenty to keep me busy. People ask if I miss the business…if I’m sorry I sold out my share to Grant. And I say, what is there to miss?”
Grant said, “Well, we miss you.”
Gil said, “You’d never know it by your profits, bro.”
Grant said, “That’s because we’ve laid off over five hundred people and shut down East Coast operations. You streamline anything, your revenues will go up.”
“Dad should have streamlined the business a long time ago,” Gil said.
“Dad should have done this a long time ago.” Grant swiped an extended arm over the fields—like Moses splitting the Red Sea.
Gil blew out air. “The man could be impossible. He had his fingers in every aspect of the business and was a control freak. He could emasculate you with a few choice words or even one word. Uncle Mace deserves to rot in jail, he deserves to rot in hell. But there’s this little, teeny part of me that understands him.”
“I hear you, bro,” Grant said.
“Dad was a force of nature.” Gil surveyed the ranchland. “But he was also a visionary.”
Resseur patted his boyfriend’s hand. “Should I check in on lunch, Gil? I’m starving.”
“We’ll all head back,” Gil said.
“No, no,” Antoine said. “You stay here and I’ll call you when everything’s ready. I just want to get a head start.” He kissed Gil on the cheek. “Enjoy.”
The men walked along for another minute before Decker spoke. “How many people do you employ?”
“For the fields, it’s mostly Paco Albanez and his family,” Gil said. “When the vines start to mature, I’ll bring in the experts.”
“Seems reasonable.”
“You know I kept on Rondo Martin, Ana Mendez, and Riley Karns even though we sold the horses.”
Grant smiled. “Better to keep them under our employ than to deal with lawsuits.”
Gil laughed. “Paco knows what he’s doing.” No one spoke. “Thank you both for coming down.”
“Yes, really,” Grant said. “Thank you both for everything.”
“No thanks necessary,” Decker said. “I just did my job. If you want to thank Brett, that’s another thing.”
“Not really,” Harriman said. “I wouldn’t have a job if people didn’t testify. Still…” He laughed. “If I had known, maybe I wouldn’t have been such a good citizen.”
“We appreciate what you did,” Decker said.
“We both appreciate what both of you did,” Grant said. “My brother and I.”
For a moment, the air was devoid of man’s intrusion—just the sounds of crows expressing displeasure. Gil broke the silence. “When the place is operable, please come down again. I’ll make it worth your while by giving you each a couple dozen cases.”
“That’s my brother,” Grant said. “Giving away the profits.”
“If I can break even, I’ll be happy.” Gil took in another whiff of air and let it out. “Although I can’t be any happier than I am right now. I just wish Dad and Mom were here to share the dream.”
Grant linked his arm with Gil, and the group started back toward the main house. Decker with Harriman; Grant with Gil.
In the Bible, there was Cain and Abel. But there was also Moses and Aaron—two siblings who respected and loved each other until the day Aaron died. Decker figured Gil and Grant were probably somewhere in between the extremes. Just a year ago, Gil had tearfully admitted to Grant that he had escaped with Antoine Resseur
the day Grant was shot at because he really didn’t trust anyone in his family, including his own brother. Grant had been shocked and angry, but eventually the two men reconciled and became closer than ever.
Brother plus brother didn’t always total to brotherhood. But when it did, Decker thought, it was really nice.
As he inspected the work, holding it up to a bare bulb, he was blinded by the array of brilliants hues in every color of the rainbow. The opalescent glass was lovely, but it was the hand blown clear glass in the emerald greens, the ruby reds and the sapphire blues that gave the piece its pop, casting tinted rays of spectacular light onto his walls and furniture.
The stained glass was first-rate: the execution of the piece. . .not so much. The copper between the shards wasn’t as crisp as it should have been and the little painting that was on the glass was one step above Art 101. Not that anyone would notice the difference between the genuine and its imposter in its current dark and dank location. Certainly the morons who worked there weren’t much of a challenge. It meant making the switch a walk in the park. This particular case was especially easy because the work was of smaller size and could be concealed in a briefcase. His tool box was bigger and bulkier. But he’d done it before. He could do it again.
He checked his watch. The bells were tolling two in the morning and as much as he hated to leave the warmth of the motel room, it was time. With a make-up sponge, he painted his face brown, waiting a minute of two for it to dry. Then he called Angeline on a throwaway cell and told her to wait outside and that he’d be over in five. Carefully, he swathed the piece in bubble wrap and then slid it into his leather briefcase. His tools were already in the car.
He checked his watch again. The he slipped on his black gloves and pushed his braid underneath a black ski cap. Next came the black scarf around his neck: good camouflage but he used it because it was cold outside. A last minute check in the mirror and what he saw looked perfect. He was nothing more than an inky shadow floating through the night.
Just the way he wanted it.
Be careful what you wish for.
After three decades of police, Decker had always imagined a quieter existence in his sixties, something in between retirement and an eighty hour work week that had been his former life as a detective lieutenant for the LAPD. He knew that with his active mind and his penchant for restlessness that he wasn’t ready to hang up his shield just yet. In his brain, the ideal job was something with a regular schedule — nights and weekends off.
The good news was that he did get his manageable work week, sitting at a desk, fielding calls that centered on senior citizens with chest pains, missing pets and drunken teenagers after Saturday night benders. In the last six months, the closest he had come to real crime was scattered calls concerning pilfered electronics — cell phones, laptops and tablets — and several house break-ins where the burglars took cell phones, laptops and tablets. None of the thefts were surprising because Greenbury was a town that swelled with students in September and then cleared them out by mid-June.
The Five Colleges of Upstate New York was a consortium of liberal arts schools with each institution sporting its own identity. One specialized in math and science, another in business and econ. A third was a girls’ school and the fourth focused in on fine arts, theater and languages. The fifth college — Duxbury — was ranked as an elite academy founded in 1859 just a few years before the Civil war. The sprawling combined campuses sat on hundreds of acres of dense, bucolic landscapes that included parks, natural springs, forest and lots of brick and stone, ivy covered buildings. It was a world onto itself with its own police force. That made Decker’s job as a cop and detective even more limited.
There were very few issues of town and gown because Greenbury’s population consisted of retirees and working-class families that owned a lot of the independent stores and restaurants. The students, by and large, were from swanky homes and were pretty, well-behaved. Sure, they partied, but most of the residents didn’t mind because the schools fueled the economy.
Old town was a typical college burg with streets named Harvard, Yale and Princeton. There were blocks of franchise stores: Outsider Sportswear, Yogurtville, Rentaday Car Service, Quikburger. It had a triplex movie theater, a half-dozen cheap dress boutiques, several nail salons, bike rentals, a health food store and lots and lots and lots of bars, grills and restaurants. Every popular cuisine was represented including a kosher eat-in or take-out store front café that Rina frequented almost daily.
Decker thought about his wife.
If anyone would have adjustment problems, he thought it would be Rina. Instead, she had adapted far quicker and easier than he had. Immediately, she threw herself into the local Hillel that serviced all five colleges. She offered to host Friday night dinners in her house for any student that was interested. When too many students became interested, the dinners were moved to a catering hall at the Hillel. The meals were prepared by the local students, but Rina was there almost every Thursday and Friday coordinating and pitching in with the cooking and baking. When that still didn’t fill up enough of her time, she volunteered her services as a Chumash teacher if Hillel would provide a room. She posted a sign-up sheet. She expected five kids if she was lucky.
She got seven.
Word got around and a month later, she had eighteen kids. They asked her if she was willing to teach a class in elementary Hebrew. They would even pay her although it couldn’t be much. She agreed. Most of the times, her evenings were busier than his. She seemed satisfied with the outcome of the move — much more so than he was.
Decker hated to admit it but he was bored. It was bad enough that his days were stultifying but then the captain, Mike Radar, asked him if he would be willing to be paired up with the
kid
— take him into the field whenever he got a call. What could he say except yes. Decker was low man on a very short totem pole.
Tyler McAdams, aged twenty-six and Harvard educated, was five-ten, one fifty, hazel eyes and dark brown hair. His aquiline features included a Roman nose. He wasn’t slight, but he wasn’t muscular, either. He looked like what he was — an Ivy League kid from an upper crust family.
Within a very short period of time, McAdams had managed to alienate almost everyone in the department with his endless carping that he was smarter, better looking and better educated than anyone around. There was truth in his complaints - he was smart and good-looking — but his constant whining whittled away any of his discernable assets. McAdams claimed that he had originally taken up the job because he claimed he was curious about police work even though he had been accepted to Harvard Law. He decided to defer the acceptance for a couple of years, figuring the Job would give him a leg up from any of the other wonks and dorks.
Or so was his story.
Decker didn’t press him because he wasn’t interested.
His hiring had been nepotism. His father was an alum and a major contributor to Duxbury College. The dean had called in a favor from the mayor. The mayor, in turn, called in a favor from Radar. McAdams had no experience in law enforcement, but he didn’t need it because nothing much happened that required extensive know-how.
So Decker agreed to let the kid ride with him, listening to him bitch and moan. This time it was a senior with chest pains. The fire department was having its monthly drill so the call came into the police. Patrol could have handled it, but Decker volunteered his services. He didn’t mention the call to McAdams, but as he was leaving the kid jumped up and grabbed his coat to come with. He always did that. Maybe it was because Decker let McAdams bend his ear.
Lucy Jamison was eighty-six, a widow who was thin and pale. When Decker offered to take her to the hospital, she demurred. She was feeling better. Decker got her a glass of water, making she drank it all. Wintertime was deceptive and seniors easily became dehydrated because of the dryness indoors and outdoors. Because it was cold, the elderly didn’t often notice until they were weak.
Lucy talked about her life as a young girl in Michigan. She showed Decker and Tyler pictures of herself, her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren. Decker turned the heat from 80 to 74. When she said she was fine, Decker left his card. She opened the front door and waved good-bye as the two of them walked back to the car, their boots crunching the snow.
Heading back to the station, Decker cranked up the heat as McAdams rubbed his hands under the warm air. The kid was wearing a coat and gloves, but his head was bare. Not that he needed a hat. It was in the mid-thirties with a full sun and an iridescent blue sky, the scent of pines and burning wood wafting through the town. White covered hills undulated in the distance. The Hudson wasn’t too far away but the area was miles from the nearest coastline, something that Decker had yet to get used to.
“How’d you do this for thirty years, Old Man?” Tyler asked him.
Decker hated when the kid called him Old Man. He wasn’t young but he wasn’t ready for the glue factory, either. He still had a head of thick, gray hair, a full mustache with traces of its former red color and a mind that was quick and perceptive. So instead of answering the rhetorical question, he said, “That was the third chest pain case in a month. You really need to learn CPR.”
“I’m not putting my mouth on that old crone. Her breath was rank.”
“Acetone,” Decker said. “She probably has diabetes is not very well controlled.”
“Whatever,” McAdams said. “Anyway, if it was between you and me performing CPR, you’d do it anyway.”
“That’s not the point. It’s a skill you should have. Everyone expects a cop to know CPR just like everyone expects a cop to know how to shoot a gun.”
“We don’t carry guns.”
“We don’t carry them, but we have them if we need them. You do know how to shoot a gun. . .or did they let you slide with that one as well.”
“If we’re playing one-upmanship, you’re going to lose.”
“You have youth and education on your side. I have real experience. That must be worth a few brownie points.”
“No one said brownie points anymore and no need to be snide, especially because I’m out here in the trenches with you.”
“Trenches?”
“Stop pulling rank. I have seniority.”
Decker smiled. “So how about if I call you Old Man?”
McAdams looked out the side window. “I’m not putting you down, Decker, but if I were actually insane enough to want to do this as a
career
, I’d probably be upper brass in NYPD within. . .say four to six years?”
“You think so?”
“I know so. It’s not about experience or passing tests or paying your dues. It’s all about how to work the system which is something I excel at. I learn exactly what I need to get the job done. Stuffing my brain with useless knowledge is inefficient. Like learning CPR. We get called out, I know you’re going to handle. You or Roiters or Mann or Milkweed-”
“Nickweed.”
“Whatever. We get called out and CPR needs to be done, I’m not the go-to guy. Why should I waste my time learning something that I’ll never do?”
“Because it is possible that we won’t be around and then you’ll look like a jackass. If I were your superior, I’d insist on it.”
“But you’re not, so fuck off.”
Decker stifled a smile. He was riling up the kid on purpose and enjoying it. “You have a short fuse. You should work on that as well.”
“Remind me why I volunteered to ride with you.”
“Let me guess,” Decker said. “I think you’re one of those dudes hoping to glean something from my vast repertoire of police work. I think you’re figuring that just maybe I’ll tell you something truly original and fascinating. And then maybe you’ll right a screen play about it. I can see you living in Hollywood. You’d fit in nicely.”
“You’re being condescending. That’s fine. It must be hard to be the junior partner and intellectually inferior to someone as young as I am.”
“Nah, I’m used to that. You’ve never met my kids.”
“But you don’t work with your kids, do you.”
“Nope. I don’t. And I really don’t work with you, McAdams. We just kind of ride around together. Not much in the way of meaningful conversation going on.”
“You want to talk Proust, I’m in.”
“Sure, talk to me about Proust. I like Madeleines. My wife bakes them sometimes.”
“He was boring and I hate philosophy. It’s very mathematical and that’s never been my strong suit. I mean I got a 720 on the SAT but that’s about average for Harvard.” When Decker said nothing, the kid squirmed and said, “So what was your favorite case as a detective?”
“Look, Harvard, you’re just going to have to use your own experience for movie material. Although God help us both if we ever caught a real case together and you were the lead. Not a plain homicide. . .a whodunit.”
“A whodunit? That’s what you call homicides?”
“Not all homicides, just whodunits. Do you have even the slightest idea how to begin an investigation?”
“Just from TV. . .is it that different?”
“You are joking, right?” When McAdams had no comeback, Decker felt a little bad. Why was he even bothering? The kid remained blissfully silent for the rest of the ride back, sulking and moping around until he clocked out at five
If he wasn’t such a twit, Decker might have felt sorry for him. The kid didn’t fit in at work: he really didn’t fit in anywhere. He wasn’t a student anymore and he was way, way too young for the average resident living in Greenbury. So where did that leave his social life. Had he shown any genuine curiosity about police work, Decker would have invited him over for dinner. But Decker wasn’t in the charity business. It’s just a fact—reap what you sow.
Living in a small town had its perks, particularly when selling in LA and buying in Greenbury. He and Rina had walked away with a nice nest egg in their pockets. Their new house on Minnow Lane was smaller, but it was only the two of them and the house had character. Built at the turn of the 20th century, it was bungalow style with three bedrooms, two and a half baths, a wood burning fireplace and radiator heating that was often so hot that the two of them had to open windows. The selling point was the previous owner’s remodel. He had opened up the ceiling and exposed the beams. It was not only aesthetically pleasing, it allowed Decker and his six-four frame to move about the house without bumping into door headers. The yard was now brown and lifeless but they had bought the house in the fall when autumn leaves were ablaze with color and the weather had been brisk and beautiful. Spring was going to be a true spring, not an LA spring with fog and smog.