Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 18

by Blindman's Bluff

  “Amen to that.” Decker’s cell phone beeped for a call waiting. “You put the dinner with Montenegro on your personal credit card, right?”

  “Of course. I didn’t want it getting back that Carmen did anything improper.”

  “Exactly. Is Marge with you?”

  “She’s meeting Carmen and me at the high school. Carmen took her own car.”

  Decker’s phone beeped in a second time from call waiting. He looked at the window. Restricted number. If you aren’t gonna trust me with your number, you can leave a message, bozo. “Call me when you have the fingerprint cards.”

  “I will,” Oliver said. “Where are you now?”

  “Just outside the hospital. Willy Brubeck is watching Rondo Martin, but reinforcements are coming up soon. Did either you or Marge find out anything else about the owner of Ernie’s El Matador and Baker Corporation?”

  “Marge sent a team out to the bar, to press Sam Truillo for the name of El Patrón. I think it was Wanda Bontemps and Lee Wang.”

  “Is Truillo tending bar there now?”

  “I don’t know, but whoever is pouring tap should know the boss’s name.”

  “If Wanda gets any kind of resistance, tell her to haul the son of a bitch in.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better.”

  HARRIMAN PUSHED THE end call button on his phone and plugged it into the cord for recharging. Lying in his bed in cotton pajamas that were too heavy for the weather, he felt sweat trickle down his neck and onto his back. The days were getting hotter and his air-conditioning didn’t seem to be working too well. He had cranked up the fly fan to max whirl, but he was still hot. It could be a psychological heat. Who didn’t sweat when nervous?

  For the last ten minutes, his ears had perked up…heightened to every little nuance of sound. Foreign sounds. Sounds he shouldn’t have been hearing at eleven at night. The noises lasted about ten minutes, and then seemed to fade.

  Precisely why he didn’t leave a message. He felt silly.

  Take a chill pill. Relax and read a book. He had four of them piled up on his nightstand. What the hell was he waiting for? Because the noises were probably nothing more than his overactive imagination. If it hadn’t been for that car across the street from Mrs. Decker’s house, he wouldn’t have given the scratches a thought.

  You’re safe.

  He was more than safe. For Chrissakes, there was a cruiser outside his town house watching his front door. How much more security could a person ask for?

  But the sounds weren’t coming from the front of his unit. His place was on ground level, and there was a back entrance. That’s where he heard the scratching. True, that entrance had three locks on it, but still…

  It wasn’t just that he heard things. He smelled things, like the odor of male sweat. And then there was that kid in the parked car across from the Decker house. Nowadays, it seemed that everything was making him nervous.

  So why hadn’t he bothered to leave the lieutenant a message?

  That was an easy one to answer. He felt uneasy about being anxious. It reminded him of his childhood, his feelings of being a ’fraidy cat. It took him years to get over his fear of darkness, and damn if he was going to let it get to him again.

  Thinking back over his youth, he recalled how terrified he had felt every time his mother dropped his hand. He was little—five or six or seven—but too old for boys to cry. His father castigating his tears; the old man believed in him, though. He had psychologically and physically pushed him to his upper limits. By the time he was twelve, he could use a cane to expertly navigate his way around anywhere.

  His mind jumped from topic to topic.

  How many times had he tripped and fallen as a youngster?

  How many things had he bumped into?

  How many times had he felt like an imbecile or a clod?

  People treating him as if he was subhuman?

  Even now it was painful to think about it.

  The old man had been rough but only because he had known the world that his son had to face as a blind man. Harriman had been grateful to his father, but he had always sensed two primates on his back—the monkey of his sightlessness and the much bigger gorilla of his father.

  One of his proudest moments had been the day that he had reconciled with the old man, the two of them great friends in adulthood up until the old man’s heart exploded.

  Harriman thought of his father as his ears continued to listen for intrusion. Sometimes, he doubted his own sanity. He was glad he didn’t leave Decker a message. God only knew what the lieutenant really thought about him, but Harriman must have been believable enough for the lieutenant to send out a black-and-white to watch the front door.

  Finally, he was sufficiently calm to get comfortable in bed. He took off his pajamas and felt the cool air of the fan wash over his body. He had to go to work tomorrow—a carjacking/murder case—so he’d better get some shut-eye because he needed to be alert in the morning.

  He turned his iPod to his classical mix of symphonies. The grandiose nature of the music was usually enough to lull him to sleep. He positioned himself on his right side…his favorite side. Closing his eyes.

  No need to turn out the light.

  THE NEWS CAME into the station house just as the clock struck the witching hour.

  Cheers soon followed.

  After comparing the fingerprints from the cards located inside the high school files of Martin Cruces, José Pinon, Alejandro Brand, and Esteban Cruz against the unknowns taken from the murder scene, Oldham found a number of hits. Next came the painstaking process of evaluating whorls, swirls, and lines and he was magically rewarded when Cruces’s index finger and Pinon’s thumbprint proved to be a five-point match to two previously unidentified images lifted from a cabinet and a table.

  An eyewitness plus physical evidence: Decker was in seventh heaven.

  “Who’s picking Cruces up?”

  “We’ve got a group from CRASH on its way to Cruces’s apartment. Messing and Pratt are going to the scene as well. Oliver and I are sticking close to home. As soon as they nab him, we’ll go in for the kill. I’m doing the interview. You want to talk strategy?”

  “Sure. Get a confession.”

  “Thanks, boss, I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

  “Find out who ordered the hits.”

  Marge said, “You know, Pete, I figured out that one as well.”

  “Find out where Joe Pine is.”

  “We’re three for three, Rabbi. Mi strategy es tu strategy.”

  Decker smiled. “It would also help if Cruces implicated Alejandro Brand and Esteban Cruz in something bad. I’d love to get those psychos off the streets. How’re my wife and kid doing?”

  “Haven’t heard of any problems. Anything else?”

  “Actually, yes there is. How much time do you think you’ll have between now and the Cruces interview?”

  “How much time?”

  “Yeah…like supposing all goes smoothly and they pick him up. How much time between now and before he’s ready to be interviewed?”

  “They have to pick him up and process him…” She did mental calculations. “He should be ready for interviewing in about an hour.”

  “Then do me a favor, Margie. I got a missed call the last time I spoke to you. It was from a restricted number and no one left a message. It could be a number of people, but I know Harriman has a restricted number. Could you swing by his place?”

  “Isn’t there a cruiser outside his unit?”

  “So swing by and talk to the officers on watch.”

  “Why don’t you call up the officers? Better yet, why don’t you call up Harriman?”

  “I don’t have his number on me, and besides it’s close to midnight.”

  “I can swing by, no problem.” She paused. “Are you worried about something?”

  “Not worried. I just want to make sure everything’s okay.” Decker switched ears. “Even if we nail Cruces tonight, I don’t know
where Joe Pine or Esteban Cruz is. Harriman is vulnerable. Just drive by, okay?”

  Marge stood up and slung her sweater over her shoulder. “Okay, I’m on my way. I’ll call you if anything’s up. Will I be able to reach you?”

  “Call the hospital because my cell won’t be working. While Brubeck’s babysitting Rondo Martin, I’m going to try to grab some shut-eye. I’m sure there’s an empty bed somewhere in these corridors. If not, there’s always a slab in the morgue.”

  IF THE COPS out in front of the place weren’t bad enough, the gringo had three locks on the door. But that was rich dudes for you. Thinking that a single piece of metal could prevent a pro from coming in and stealing the gold. The facts were that anything you owned could be taken if the stakes were high enough.

  The first barrier was a piece of shit that could be flipped with a flick of a credit card. The second was a dead bolt, a little more challenging but nothing that couldn’t be taken care of with a good set of lock picks. The last obstacle was a chain—a snap once he finished off the dead bolt. He could have cracked the locks sooner except that the policia had nothing better to do than to search the rear area, shining their flashlights over the backyard. On a brick patio was a barbecue and a set of patio furniture—table and stackable chairs. If he had more time and a bigger truck, he would have helped himself to the set, but he had a job to do.

  The first time the policia had come in the back, he’d been caught off guard. Didn’t even hear them until they were almost on top of him. He’d been one kissed cholo because he’d been kneeling, rifling through his bags to get his tools. He was dressed in black, too, making him hard to see. And he’d been extra lucky because he had just taken out the lightbulb over the back door. Even the cops said something about it, that the light must have gone out. But the two fat asses had been too lazy to investigate. They looked around for a minute and then went back to their cruiser, sitting on their butts, probably stuffing their ugly faces with coffee and doughnuts.

  He had to work quickly in case they returned a second time. His only illumination came from a penlight. Couldn’t see too well, but that was okay. Most of the work was done by feel. The scratching of the tools seemed to make more noise than usual, and he was a little worried about that because the neighborhood was quiet. Maybe the dude heard something. But now, the apartment seemed dark and still. All was right.

  As he worked, he thought about how far he had come. He was a fucking pro now, not some shitty, dime-bag drug runner for some other little fuck who was a step higher on the ladder. No more of that shit: he was one of the big boys. And like all pros, he had done his homework, scoping the layout of the place and checking the mark. The gringo was protected and that was a pain in the ass, but he had taken down bigger marks. Being closer to the top meant he had to deliver. The fuck if he was gonna let a few dumb cops stop him.

  So far, he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  When he was sure that all was clear, he tiptoed into his spot at the back door and pulled out his lock picks: a set of sixteen manufactured in the highest quality of stainless steel. He liked the feel of the sharp points and the heft of the handles.

  He sandwiched the penlight between his chin and his chest, trying to aim the beam at the keyhole. There was enough light for him to see the sweet spot and with a single swoop, he inserted two picks inside the keyhole. Jiggling them around, he tried to feel the click of the tumblers.

  He jiggled and jiggled and jiggled. But nothing happened.

  Huh!

  Well, maybe it was going to be a little harder than he thought.

  He let the picks dangle from the keyhole and shut off the penlight. Then he worked by his sense of touch only. It was smart to be in darkness anyway. With the sky being black with no moon out tonight, a penlight could give him away as easily as a spotlight. After a few minutes, he decided that he needed a different set of picks. He carefully chose another set of steel points and put the first two picks in the leather holder.

  Scratching and scratching inside the keyhole, trying to feel the tumblers. Yeah, this time, things were working better. He heard the first click of a tumbler falling into place, then the second, and finally the third. As the dead bolt gave, he slowly opened the door.

  The chain was connected, but getting that puppy off was no big deal. You insert the tool, move the door until it was just about closed, then slide the lock over the…

  His ears perked up.

  Someone was talking…a woman with a couple of guys.

  He heard the beep of a walkie-talkie.

  It was cop talk.

  He didn’t like that at all.

  Hurry up, hurry up.

  For the first time tonight, he began to sweat. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He always had a plan, and he usually had time.

  His hands began to shake.

  Concentrate, motherfucker, concentrate!

  Sliding the lock past…hearing the chain drop. Not the most elegant of jobs but it was over. Within seconds, he had slipped inside.

  He flipped the dead bolt back into place and replaced the chain.

  The cops could talk as much as they wanted now. He was safe inside—exactly where he wanted to be.

  THIS WASN’T A dream.

  The scratching sounds were real. The smell was real—sweat and fear from a man.

  Harriman knew he was in trouble.

  As perspiration poured down his face and back, he sat up, his hands shaking as he reached over to his nightstand and groped for his cell phone. In the process, he knocked over the remote control to the TV. It fell to the ground with a muffled thud.

  Did he hear it? Hopefully not. Thank God for carpets.

  More fumbling until there it was in his hot, wet hands, the metal feeling cool and sleek. Depressing the button to turn it on. The man was getting bolder, walking around, not even bothering to tiptoe, his footsteps easily perceived.

  He heard the phone’s jingle as he turned it on. It seemed to take forever. He spoke into the autodial.

  911.

  A moment later, the voice on the telephone.

  911, what’s your emergency?

  Talking as calmly and clearly as he could, but his voice sounded foreign to his ears.

  Someone’s broken into my condo.

  What is the address, sir?

  His mind went momentarily blank.

  What was his address?

  One breath, two breaths…ah, yes.

  He told the lovely 911 lady his address.

  Someone will be out right away.

  Hurry, please! I’m blind!

  When he hung up, he remembered the cops in front of his unit. Then how did this happen? Were they asleep? Did Decker lie and pull them off the job without telling him?

  How the fuck did this break-in happen?

  Do something, you wimp!

  Think, think!

  He kept his phone in his hand and silently eased himself out of bed, dropping to the floor and sliding under his bed. He was naked and shivering, but it wasn’t from cold. He was sandwiched between the carpet and the mattress so he was warm enough, but he couldn’t get rid of the internal chill of dread. He tried to concentrate on what was happening inside his condo, but his breathing was so loud it was as if he was listening with cotton in his ears.

  Steady, steady.

  Concentrate.

  The enemy was in the kitchen. Harriman could hear him clicking the light switch on and off. The bastard wouldn’t get any help there. Harriman never bothered to put any bulbs in the ceiling fixtures.

  Why pay for electricity that you’re never going to use?

  THE BEAMS FROM the flashlights crisscrossed the yard.

  “I still don’t understand why you had to come down.” It was Bud Rangler talking. “Why not just call us up?”

  He was clearly miffed, but so was Marge. The man was giving her attitude that she didn’t need at 12:30 in the night. Rangler was a punching bag on legs—a big barrel chest with short, muscular lim
bs. In his late twenties, he’d been on the force for five years. He seemed to regard Marge’s personal appearance as an affront to his competence.

  “When the boss says go, I go.” Marge added, “Not a bad thing to remember, Officer.”

  The second uniform on watch, Mark Breslau, was the older of the two and more seasoned. He was an eleven-year vet, and time had mellowed his machismo. “You’re the boss, Sergeant. I think Bud just wanted you to know that we’re doing our job. We’ve been checking out the back every couple of hours.”

  “You can see for yourself, Sergeant,” Rangler said. “Nothing’s been disturbed.”

  “Dark back here.” Marge followed the ray of light with her eyes. “How well could you see if something was disturbed?”

  “The lightbulb over the porch just burned out,” Rangler said. “Before that, the place was pretty well lit up.”

  “Burned out?” Marge turned around and faced him. “Why didn’t you replace it?”

  Rangler said, “I didn’t think replacing lightbulbs was part of the job description.”

  “If it helps you see what’s going on, it sure as hell is.” She turned to Breslau. “Do you have a lightbulb in the car?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “There’s a twenty-four-hour place just around the corner.” She tossed him the keys to her car. “Go down and get one. I’ll stay with Officer Rangler until you get back.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Marge could hear the young cop chuckle. “Something funny, Rangler?”

  “Not at all, Sergeant.”

  “I thought I heard laughter. Must be imagining things, huh?”

  Rangler was silent. Marge walked over to the back door and focused the flashlight on the socket over the entrance. “C’mere, Officer.”

  Rangler complied, stopping about a foot away from Marge.

  “Take a look up there.” She shone her beam on the light fixture. “How could a bulb burn out…when there’s no bulb in the socket? Want to explain that to me?”

  Rangler started to speak, but then wisely stopped himself.