Peter Decker 2-Book Thriller Collection: Blindman’s Bluff, Hangman

He shrugged.

Decker said, “Would you care to explain to us what happened?”

“Simple. I got caught.” Connors shrugged again. “Some habits die hard.”

14 (#ulink_2ead8a0b-26fb-5511-a354-325320617f55)

Decker brought over a cappuccino and a croissant and placed it in front of Rina. He had set her up at his desk. “The croissant is from Coffee Bean. The cap’s from around the corner. Half caffeinated with whole milk.”

“Perfect.” Rina took a sip. “All I need is the Sunday paper.”

“You usually read the Sunday paper in bed wearing a robe.”

Rina had put on a soft, flannel top and a loose denim skirt and had on sneakers. “I’m very comfortable, and this is a lot more fun than reading an L.A. Times article about murder and mayhem.”

Decker placed three mug books in front of her. “Darlin’, it doesn’t get more murder and mayhem than this.”

“True, but in this case, at least I’m doing something.” She took a sip of the cappuccino. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

Decker rubbed his temples. He was dressed in a polo shirt and a pair of slacks. Right now he felt scrubbed clean, but that wouldn’t last long. The dust at the ranch was fierce. “When you’re done with these, I’ve got about another dozen books sitting on a table right outside my office. Go through as many as you want or as few as you want. When you get tired, quit. Eyestrain is the enemy.”

“Gotcha.”

“And don’t guess. I’d rather you say ‘I don’t know’ than to take a stab in the dark.”

“I understand. I don’t want to lead anyone on a wild-goose chase.” Rina flipped open the first page—six men in full face and profile, their vital statistics—height, weight, eye color, hair color, race, and distinguishing marks—underneath the photograph. “Hmmm … the men I saw had tattoos. I guess that’s standard nowadays.”

“All tattooed men aren’t cons, but all cons have tattoos. But ink work is almost as good as a fingerprint. No two tattoos are exactly alike. What kind of tattoos did you see?”

“One looked like a tiger or it could have been a leopard; the other guy … I think he had a snake. There were also letters.”

“Letters? You mean like ABC letters?”

“More like Xs. And some Ls, maybe.”

“Could they have been Roman numerals?”

“Good call, Peter. They probably were.”

“Do you remember seeing the Roman numbers XII?”

“Maybe. Why?”

Decker scooped up the mug books. “Let me start you off with some other books. It may be a more efficient use of your time.”

“Which books?”

“Members of the Bodega 12th Street gang. They’re often tattooed with BXII or just XII.”

“I’ve heard about Bodega Twelve. They mostly do drug running. Would it make sense for them to know about the Kaffey murders?”

“If they committed the murders, it would make total sense.”

“Why would they murder the Kaffeys?”

“Because Bodega 12th Street is filled with murderers. Plus, I found out that Guy Kaffey often hired rehabilitated gang members for security.”

“Oh, come on!”

“I’m not lyin’. Brady said that Guy wanted them out of ideology, but also because they worked cheap. Ordinarily, I would have thought he was feeding bull, but Grant confirmed that Guy actually did hire former gang members. Sometimes people—especially very rich people—don’t recognize their own mortality. Hold on, I’ll be right back.” He came back with two other mug books. “Start with these. Hopefully you won’t find anyone who looks familiar. And if you do recognize a face, don’t tell anyone except me about it.”

“This is a list of all the bullets, shells, and casings we found on the property.” Wynona Pratt was dressed in a short-sleeve cotton shirt and had on jeans and tennis shoes. “Almost all of the ammo was located in the northeast sector—number four—near and in four stacked bales of hay.”

“Sounds like a target practice area.”

“That would be my guess. We also found a rusty knife and some other sharp pieces of metal that might have been knives or shivs, but it appears that they haven’t been touched in a long time. I’ve sent them to forensics. I’ll be ripping through the bags of evidence this afternoon at the station house. It’s cooler there.”

“Good. Tell me about the exits and entrances.”

“The ranch is surrounded by a double layer of barbed wire and seven-foot cyclone fencing. Nothing is electrified so it is possible to cut through the metal if you have a good pair of wire clippers and you’re wearing thick, protective gloves. I found eight gates in and out of the property.” Wynona rummaged through her folder and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I even drew you a little map.”

Decker scanned the diagram.

She said, “The gates are solid metal except for the two back gates, which are made out of cyclone fencing and secured by padlocks. Wire cutters could take care of them.”

“Did either of the padlocks look breached?”

“No.”

“What about the fencing? Holes anywhere?”

“Nothing that’s obvious, but I haven’t gotten down and checked every inch of the perimeter.” Wynona adjusted her hat. “I have a set of knee pads at home. I’ll organize something tomorrow morning unless you want it done right now.”

“Tomorrow is fine.” Decker mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He could hear the dogs and the horses registering protest at the heat. “Who’s watching over the animals?”

“I assumed it was the groomsman—Riley Karns. He was here yesterday.”

“Is he here today?”

“Haven’t seen him.”

“Who let you inside the property?”

“Piet Kotsky. He said you told Neptune Brady that you don’t want any private guards around until you’ve cleared them.”

“I might have said that,” Decker told her. “Does that mean Riley Karns isn’t considered a guard? Because I certainly haven’t cleared him.”

Wynona shrugged. “Someone has to take care of the livestock.”