The sour taste turned bitter. What choice did he have? “All right. I”ll set something up. When do you think you”ll be home?”
“If you wouldn”t mind, let”s go out for dinner. Hannah is at Aviva”s studying for finals so she won”t be home. Let”s take advantage.”
“Great. How about if you go visit your parents and I”ll come into the city. I have to meet someone at eight anyway.”
“Great idea. Where should we go?”
“As long as I can get a steak, I”ll be happy.”
“I can arrange that.”
“You can even invite your parents. It”s been a while.”
“That”s nice of you.”
“I like your parents.”He really did. After all these years, he felt there was mutual respect. “And tell your dad that I insist on paying this time.”
Rina laughed. “You know he won”t let you do that.”
“Ah, gee, then,”Decker said. “If it makes him happy, I”ll let him pick up the check. And if it makes him deliriously joyful, he can even leave the tip.”
THE APARTMENT WAS on the border between Hollywood and West Hollywood in a beige French Regency-styled apartment building with blue-patina mansard eaves. The lobby gleamed with mirrors and marble decorated with new brown velvet furniture and black coffee tables. The uniformed doorman directed Decker to a set of brass art deco elevator doors and told him to take it to the seventh floor.
Antoine Resseur had a Christmas lights southern view of L.A. from two picture windows, giving punch to the boxy living room. Red leather sofas complemented bird”s-eye maple tables and shelving units. The black granite floors melded into a fireplace hearth. The recess lighting was dim and soft, and there was classical music on the stereo.
Dressed in jeans, a blue oxford button-down shirt, and boat shoes, Resseur was holding a glass of red wine. He was short and slight, with propositional features, dark hair, and hazel eyes that looked like agate marbles. “Can I get you something, Lieutenant?”
“I”m fine, but thanks. I appreciate your talking to me.”
Resseur”s voice was low and soft. He sat down and pointed for Decker to do the same. “This has been a nightmare.”
“You”re still close to Gil?”
“We”re the best of friends.”He took a sip of wine.
“It was very nice of you to offer to look after him.”
Resseur looked down. “I”m the only one who Gil trusts right now.”
“Not his brother?”
“Grant wasn”t shot, was he?”Resseur sighed. “That sounds horrible. Gil”s being a little paranoid, I think.”
“Once you”re shot, there”s no such thing as paranoia. Is that what Gil told you? He doesn”t trust Grant?”
“What he told me is that he doesn”t trust anyone except me.”
Decker took out a pen and a notepad. In the back of his mind, he never trusted the hero of the story and that”s how Resseur was presenting himself. “How long were you and Gil an item?”
“About six years.”
“That”s a long time. What broke you two up?”
Resseur swirled the wine in his glass. “Gil was a very busy man. His dad made sure of that. He didn”t have a lot of time for personal relationships.”
Decker nodded.
“Always busy, busy, busy.”Another swirl, then Resseur took a sip. “But things got frenetic once Guy and Mace started suing each other. I thought things would quiet down once the lawsuit was resolved, but it just got crazier.”
“How so?”
“Mace was shipped back east, and a huge truckload of work was dumped on Gil. It was terrible for him.”
“Could we talk a little about that? Like why Mace was kept in the company when he was caught embezzling funds?”
Resseur rolled his tongue inside his cheek. “How should I say this? There isn”t anything about Kaffey Industries that Guy didn”t know about.”
“Guy knew that Mace was embezzling?”
“It”s not embezzling if the boss knows about it, is it.”A shrug. “That”s what rich people do for pocket change…dip into the slush fund and why not. It”s their money.”
“Okay,”Decker said. “So why the lawsuit?”
“Kaffey got into trouble with the IRS. Mace took the brunt of the fall. On the surface, it looked like Mace got hammered, but actually he was rewarded by Greenridge.”Resseur took a sip of his wine. “I talk too much when I drink.”
Decker assured him that the information wouldn”t be used against him, but it got him thinking in another direction. Though still high on the list of suspects, Mace dropped from the top spot. “How did Mace and Guy get along?”
Resseur rubbed his chin. “As well as can be expected. Guy had a temper. And Grant”s not far behind in that department.”
“Have you experienced Grant”s temper?”
“Not directly, but I”ve seen it. Gil is much more even tempered—like Mace. That”s why it was hard on him after Mace left. It was just Gil and his father without an intermediary.”
“I heard that the two of them were very close.”
“If you call working twenty-four/seven with a person close, then the two of were very close.”
“Weren”t they planning on turning Coyote Ranch into a winery?”
“They were?”Resseur seemed genuinely surprised. “That”s a new one, but I”ve been out of the loop. Good idea though. Gil had a fabulous wine palate. It”s certainly a good use of that monstrous place.”
“Monstrous?”
“That”s not a home. That”s a national park.”
“You seem to have a lot of insights into the family.”Decker put down his notebook. “What do you think happened, Mr. Resseur?”
“Me?”He pointed to his chest. “I don”t know.”
“But you”ve thought about it.”
“Of course.”He went over to his picture window and studied the view. Then he turned and faced Decker. “Nothing too profound. To get through all that security, it must have been an inside job. Isn”t one of the security guards missing?”
“Yep. But do you see just one person pulling this off by himself?”
“No, but that”s not how it happened. Someone hired thugs to do the murders. Gil remembers seeing people with tattoos before he crumpled and blacked out.”
“Any candidates for the mastermind besides Rondo Martin?”
“I”d check out the head of security: Neptune…something.”
“Neptune Brady. Why do you suspect him?”
“He was supposed to keep Guy and Gilliam safe. And now they”re dead.”
“Grant is keeping Brady on as a security guard. What do you think about that?”
“That speaks to Grant”s stupidity or Gil”s paranoia about Grant.”
“He really thinks his brother was in on the murders?”
“Gil has said a lot of things. But he”s delirious and doped up. His brain is scrambled right now.”
“Have you arranged for any type of security once Gil leaves the hospital?”
Resseur tapped a nearby end table. “I”ve broached the subject. Gil is disinclined to talk about it. He keeps harping on being released because he thinks the doctors are trying to poison him. That”s why I can”t take his talking against Grant too seriously.”
“For the record, Grant told me he thought you were a good guy.”
“He said that?”Resseur finished his wine. “That”s good to hear. There was always…tension whenever I was around Gil”s family. Whenever there was a big public party, I always asked my very attractive sister to come along. Not that we were fooling anyone. Gil”s mother was always cordial to me, but his father was…let”s just say uncomfortable.”
“Did Guy ever say anything to you about your relationship with Gil?”
“No.”Resseur got up and poured himself another glass of wine. “Gil was always very protective. He took care of me, and I was happy to go along with whatever he wanted.”
“You didn”t f
eel resentful?”
A forced laugh. “Resentful? Not at all.”He attacked his wine again. “What care I if we vacation in Monaco or the Spanish Riviera?”
Decker smiled. “I see your point.”
“That”s the way it went. Gil told me where we were going so I could either pack my tux or my Speedos. I didn”t see the point of making a fuss, especially because my time with Gil was so limited.”He studied his wineglass as if reading tea leaves. “Now it looks like we”re going to have lots of time to catch up.”
“It sounds like that”s okay with you.”
Resseur”s eyes got teary. “I love Gil. I always have. I”ll take what I can get.”
TWENTY
IT”S HIM.”RINA pointed to the mug shot of Alejandro Brand. “This guy is definitely the shorter one who the man called Alex. I recognize the face, but also the tattoos—the snake and the tiger—and the scar. This is definitely the man I saw Harriman with this afternoon.”
“Okay.”Decker checked his watch. It was almost eleven in the evening and he was tired. But he soldiered on, inspired by Rina”s enthusiasm. “Let”s see what we”re dealing with.”He typed the name into his computer, but the machine froze. “The computer”s down. It”ll keep until morning. Let”s go home.”
“Would you like me to look for the bigger one? If you give me a little time, I could pick him out.”
“Let”s call it a night.”
Rina”s eyes swept the empty station house and landed on her husband”s face. Although it had been a long day for her, it had been an even longer day for Peter. She had been caught up in the excitement of discovery. “You”re right. I would probably do better anyway if I had some rest.”
Decker shut the mug book and helped her on with her sweater. The two of them left the station house, zooming out of the police parking lot in Decker”s Porsche. “After you”re done trying to ID man number two, your involvement in the case will be over.”
“Don”t worry. I”ll be happy to bow out. I won”t have anything more to add.”
“Having just said that…” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “I”m going to be a total hypocrite and ask you another question.”
“You”re not being a hypocrite. You”re just wavering between wanting to know versus thinking about my safety. Stop worrying. They didn”t see me. I was very careful. The men had already left for the courtroom by the time I got to Harriman.”
“What if they had spies?”
“They didn”t have spies, Peter.”Rina softened her voice. “I know that the Bodega 12th Street gang is filled with bad guys, but they”re not the CIA. Now what did you want to ask me?”
Decker had lost his train of thought. “Oh yeah. You”re sure that Harriman didn”t tell you anything about the words he exchanged with Alex.”
“He didn”t say anything about the conversation. He did say that we should talk.”
“That”s not going to happen. Not only do you two have nothing to talk about, if you two did powwow, a clever lawyer could say that you two colluded against the client.”
“Good point, Counselor; your law degree did not go to waste.”Rina sat back in the seat. “I told him I didn”t have anything to say to him. I said if you needed to talk to him, you”d call him.”
“Good answer. He doesn”t have your phone number, does he?”
“No.”
“That”s good. The man twangs my antennas.”
“Harriman? Why? You can”t think he”s making it up?”
“No, he”s on to something, but why is he putting himself in harm”s way by eavesdropping on dangerous guys?”
Rina thought a moment. “Sometimes people jump into situations without realizing the consequences. Harriman has worked for the court system for a while so he”s probably been around lots of unsavory people without any problems. Also, he”s blind, so he can”t pick up on nonverbal cues. And you know the lure of fame. Maybe this is Harriman”s one chance to be a star witness instead of a drone translator.”
MAKING FREQUENT TRIPS from L.A. to Santa Barbara, Marge often passed through miles of rural farms in Oxnard and Ventura, endless acreage of green grids featuring just about everything in the salad alphabet, from artichoke to zucchini. Along the roadways were fruit and vegetable stands advertising recently picked organic produce and locally grown flowers. Many times, Marge would arrive at her boyfriend”s place with bags of heirloom tomatoes, red carrots, candy stripe beets, red onion scallions, and a sack of microgreens.
But within a few minutes of driving the rental car from the airport parking lot into the town, Marge realized that Ponceville didn”t grow for the “farmers”market”clientele. This place was stone-cold agribusiness with acres upon acres of commercial plots fenced and confined with NO TRESPASSING signs. No cute roadside stands here. Instead she and Oliver traversed fields and groves of crops and cultivation. There were canopies of avocado shading unripe citrus, the silver-green leaves of olive trees, rows of stone fruit trees—apricots, peaches, plums, and nectarines. The area had patchwork quilts of vegetables, and with each one she passed, a different sensation would tickle her nose: cilantro, jalapeños, onions, green peppers.
Street signs were next to impossible to find, and there were no distinguishing landmarks other than a barn here and a plow there. She and Oliver rode on two-lane asphalt streets surrounded by the breadbasket of America, trying to follow Willy Brubeck”s arcane directions to his father-in-law”s farm. The rental had come with a broken GPS and after a half hour, it was clear that they were lost.
“We could call up and ask for help,”Marge suggested.
“We could,”Oliver answered, “but I have no idea where we are.”
Marge pulled the car onto the shoulder of the street. “Call him up and tell him we”re at the corner of cantaloupes and habañeros.”
Oliver smiled. “Give me the number.”
Marge recited the digits and Oliver punched them in. “In case his wife answers, her name is Gladys.”
“Got it…Yes, hello, I”m Detective Scott Oliver from the Los Angeles Police Department and I”m calling for Marcus Merry…Yes, exactly. How are you, ma”am? Your husband was gracious enough to see us today and…Yes, we are lost. We”re at the corner of two fields. One has cantaloupes and the other has habañeros if that helps…Oh, it does…He doesn”t have to do that…Yes, it probably would be very helpful. Yes, thank you. Bye.”He turned to Marge. “The old man”s coming down to fetch us. She”s got a little something for us to eat when we get there.”
“That probably means a big spread in farmer language.”
“That”s all right by me. I didn”t eat any breakfast. Man, I didn”t even get my coffee this morning.”
“Yeah, the airline was pretty skimpy with the food and drink.”
“What food and drink? By the time the beverage cart came to us, all they had left were water and peanuts. I felt like a damn blue jay. Man, even prison does a better job of feeding its people.”
“If you like starch and sugar.”
“Those penitentiary wardens ain”t no dummies. All that starch and sugar puts their charges in diabetic comas. They, unlike the airlines, know how to keep the masses happy.”
THEY SAT IN the living room on chintz-covered chairs, the area painted a cheery lemon yellow. The floors were knotted pine, and the walls held dozens of family photos—black and white as well as color—along with a good-sized canvas of dripping abstract art that looked completely out of place.
A little something to eat included ham, cheese, fresh fruit, sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, avocados, and a variety of dark and whole wheat breads. Mustard was served in a yellow crockery dish.
At first, Oliver tried to be polite, but when Marcus Merry made himself one honking sandwich, Scott let his stomach do the talking. Willy Brubeck”s father-in-law could have been anywhere between midseventies and midnineties. He was stout with white kinky hair and pale mocha skin. He had on a denim work shirt, overalls, and rubber-soled boot
s. His hands and nails had been scrubbed clean.
Gladys seemed pleased by everyone”s appetite. “I have some cake.”
Marcus”s wife was petite with gray kinky hair cut close to her scalp. She had round brown eyes and a round face. Gamine-like, she could have been a tanned older version of Audrey Hepburn. She wore jeans with a white shirt tucked into her pants and white tennis shoes, and there were small diamond studs twinkling from her earlobes.
Marge said, “Honestly, Mrs. Merry, this is just terrific.”
“So cake will make it even more terrific. You two go ahead and do your talking with Marcus. I”ll get the cake.”
“I don”t need cake,”Marcus complained. “I”m fat enough as it is.”
“Then don”t eat it.”
Discussion over.
Marge said, “Have you always been a farmer, Mr. Merry?”
“It”s Marcus, and the answer is yes. I can trace my relatives way, way back.”He spoke with a combination of southern drawl and black patois. “The name Merry comes from my great-granddaddy”s owner. After he was emancipated, Colonel Merry gave him fifty dollars and his name.”Merry took another bite of his sandwich. “I think the colonel must have been my great-great-granddaddy. You see how light we are.”
Marge nodded.
“Comes from both sides. My daughter…Willy”s wife…everyone wanted to marry her. She was a real beauty…like my wife. Damn, I miss that girl. Willy ain”t so bad, either. Don”t tell him I said that.”
He laughed.
“It was my grandfather who picked up stakes and decided to come to California from Georgia. Back then, the state was filled with all different kinds of people: Mexicans, Chinese, Japanese, Indians…a couple of extra black men didn”t bother no one too much. Later on when Dr. King started talking about a dream…that”s when the tension started.”
“Is there still tension around here?”Oliver asked.
“No, sir. We do our job and mind our own business. Now we even got a black man in the White House.”He waved his hand dismissively. “Why am I telling you this? You see tension all the time.”A pause. “Willy tells me his area don”t have much crime.”
Marge said, “Not too bad.”
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