“Mrs. Kent is Hannah’s biggest fan.”
“So why doesn’t she ever have a solo?”
“I don’t think she wants one. She likes to see her father in the audience. It makes her feel like you care.”
Decker shrugged. “I keep wondering with the kids, including Cindy who is in her midthirties, how long will I have to jump through hoops just to prove I love them?”
“Oh, I don’t know …” Rina shrugged. “Probably the rest of our lives.”
Decker was dead to the world from twelve midnight until six-thirty the next morning when the alarm rang out. The bed was empty, but he heard noises coming from the kitchen. He showered and shaved and dressed and walked into the breakfast room at seven where coffee was already brewing.
“Good morning,” Rina said. “How do you feel?”
“Not too bad.” He poured a cup of java from the drip machine and took a sip. “Wow, that’s good. Do you want me to wake up the princess?”
“I’ve already done that. She’s in a good mood.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“You. She told me—and I quote—‘It was really nice for Abba to show up. I know he must be swamped at work.’”
“That’s lovely.” A pause. “How long do you think her appreciation will last?”
“In the short run, it won’t last very long at all. But in reality, it’ll last a lifetime.” Rina kissed his cheek. “I’ll take her to school on my way to court.”
“That would be great.” He checked his watch. “I need to go. I’ll stick my head in the lion’s den and say good-bye.”
“This morning, you’ll probably have more of a lamb than a lion.”
“Whatever I get is fine.” He put down his mug. “She’s a good girl. She’s my baby and I love her dearly. If I’m a safe target for some of her frustration, so be it. If God’ll just keep her safe, I’ll take all those slings and arrows.”
Oliver knocked on the doorjamb and without waiting for an invitation, he walked into Decker’s office. He had a mug of coffee in one hand and was holding a sheet of paper in the other. The man looked positively drained.
“Get any sleep last night, Oliver?”
“A couple of hours, but I’ll be all right.” He handed Decker a neatly typed up paper that resembled a family tree. “I’ve outlined Kaffey Security 101. If you look at the top of the sheet, I have Neptune Brady in the starring position because he’s the head honcho. Then I branch off.”
“Well done,” Decker said.
“Not too bad for a zombie.” Oliver smiled. “I divided it into two categories—guards at the ranch and personal bodyguards. Personal bodyguards—which I’ve abbreviated as PBG—are or were used mainly when Guy and Gilliam went out in public—restaurants, charity functions, business functions, parties. At least one PBG was with them at all times.”
“What about if they went out individually?”
“Don’t know about Gilliam, but there was definitely one on Guy. When no one was home, the security guards, or SG, watched the properties. So far I got fourteen names, but you can see there’s overlap. Rondo Martin, Joe Pine, Francisco Cortez, Terry Wexford, Martin Cruces, Denny Orlando, Javier Beltran, and Piet Kotsky worked as personal bodyguards and security guards.”
Decker regarded the paper. “You’ve crossed off Alfonso Lanz and Evan Teasdale. Those are the dead guards, right?”
“Yep.”
“And these circled names—Rondo Martin and Denny Orlando—they’re the missing guards?”
“Right again. No luck locating them yet, but we’ve been doing some hunting. When we went to pay a visit to Denny Orlando’s apartment, his entire family was there, waiting for Denny to come home. Marge and I talked to the wife for a while. She described Denny as a good husband, a good father—they have two kids—and said it’s not like Denny to up and disappear.”
“That means nothing.”
“I agree. He still needs to be probed, but you get that initial feeling about a person. Sometimes it’s wrong but more often than not, it’s right. We didn’t find anything that points Denny in the direction of hit man. When we asked Brady about him, he seemed stunned. Denny always impressed Brady as a straight shooter. He’s a deacon in his church.”
“So was BTK.”
“Yeah, I know, but I think we all agree that this probably isn’t the work of a serial killer.”
“What about the other one—Rondo Martin?”
“Brady was equally shocked, but of course, he has to be. He can’t admit to us that he hired a psycho.”
“You think he’s a psycho?”
“He’s a former deputy sheriff from Ponceville—a small farm community in central California. Brady wasn’t sure how Rondo heard about the position for the Kaffeys, but he called Brady and told him he was interested in private security work. The pay was better and he was looking for something different. He was interviewed, went through a probationary period, and then was hired full-time. Moved down to L.A. with no strings attached.”
“Hmmm …”
“Exactly. He lives in an apartment in the North Valley. When we went to his place, no one was home, but we got the keys from his landlord. His place, while not exactly stripped cleaned, was pretty damn bare. His car was also gone—an ’02 Toyota Corolla—metallic blue. We’ve got an APB out on it.”
“What about Orlando’s car?”
“His wife took him to work. Martin was supposed to take him back home.”
“So what are your thoughts?”
Scott ticked off his fingers. “Orlando and Martin were both involved. Martin was involved and shot Orlando. Orlando was involved and shot Martin. Neither was involved and both bolted because they were scared.”
“What about prints? You pulled up a lot of them.”
“We’re checking them out.”
“You have prints for Martin and Orlando?”
“Orlando, I don’t know. We’ve put in a request at Ponceville for Martin’s prints. He must have had a set to work in law enforcement.”
“What about the other guards?” Decker asked.
“We’re running through them one by one. We made phone contact with Terry Wexford, Martin Cruces, and Javier Beltran so we’re on our way to eliminating them. Let me recap the way the system works.”
Decker sipped coffee at his desk. “Shoot.”
“There are always four security guards working at the ranch when Gilliam and Guy are in residence—two at the guardhouse and two inside the house. The men work twenty-four-hour shifts and are relieved by a new set of guards the next day. Sometimes individuals from the next group might come in a little early. So theoretically, it’s possible to have as many as eight guards on the property at any one time.”
“All right.” Decker did some instant calculations. “That means—on average—a security guard works every third day.”
“Around that.” Oliver finished his lukewarm coffee. “The security guards don’t live on the