“Impossible to understand, but that was Guy. One minute he was totally cavalier about his personal safety, then he’d suddenly become totally paranoid. I could understand the paranoia. What I didn’t get was the laissez-faire attitude. You’re a target. Why skimp on your own safety?”
A thought came into Decker’s head. “Was he on any psychiatric medication?”
Brady said, “Talk to his doctor.”
“He was manic-depressive?”
“It’s called bipolar disorder.” Brady tapped his toe. “This could get me fired …” Then he laughed. “Like I’m not in deep shit already?”
Decker waited.
Brady said, “It’s like this. When Guy was in one of his … expansive moods, he’d talk about his condition to anyone who’d listen. About how his wife wanted him to take his lithium and he didn’t want to do it.”
“Why not?”
“Guy claimed that when he was on lithium, it did stabilize him. It lifted him out of his lows. The problem was it also sliced the tops off his highs. He said he couldn’t afford to have his highs chopped off. His highs allowed him to take chances. His highs were what made him a billionaire.”
The press debriefing had gone well, although Strapp had little time to spend basking in his close-up. He came into Decker’s office without knocking and shut the door with more force than needed. Decker looked up from his desk while Strapp kicked out a chair and sat down.
“Upstairs has decided that this is too big for a single Homicide unit.”
“I agree.”
Strapp narrowed his eyes. “You agree?”
“We need a task force.” Decker regarded Strapp in his navy suit, light blue oxford shirt, and red tie. The man’s face was all angles, his body language tense—a cork waiting to pop. “What’s the problem? They want to kick this downtown and have one of their own guys lead it?”
“That was the idea. I fought for you. I thought you’d want it that way.”
Meaning Strapp wanted it that way. The station house had received a great deal of attention a few months ago when Decker and his Homicide detectives had solved a cold case reopened by a billionaire’s promise of funds. Strapp was smelling money again from the remaining Kaffeys if his Homicide unit came up with the solve.
“I appreciate it, Captain, and I’d be happy to lead a full-time team.”
“What’s the minimum you can work with and still keep the department running?”
“Something this scope and size, I’d say eight people. Big enough to work the angles, but not too big to control.”
“Start with six. If you need more, come to me.” Strapp drummed Decker’s desktop. “I got the commander to agree to have the case worked from West Valley. But you’ll need to report daily to me so I can report back to the commander. How many detectives do we have on Homicide detail?”
“Seven full-time Homicide detectives, including Marge Dunn and Scott Oliver who are already involved. If I could have Marge, Oliver, and Lee Wang on it full-time, that would be a good start.”
“Lee for the computer work?”
“For the computer work and for the financials. He’s the only one patient enough to go through columns of numbers. That’ll leave four Homicide detectives for the community.” Decker shuffled through his roster of detectives. “From CAPS, I’d like Brubeck, Messing … and Pratt. They’ve all worked Homicide before. That’s my six.”
“That’s seven counting you.”
Decker said, “Also if you want me on this mostly full-time, somebody needs to help me with my own paperwork and the scheduling issues that come up.”
“We can get a secretary for that.”
“It’s not just paperwork, it’s psychology. I need someone familiar with the guys. How about Wanda Bontemps? She’s worked with me before, she’s computer savvy, and she can do the minutes of the task force meetings.”
“That makes eight.”
“Which is how many I said I needed,” Decker answered with a smile.
Strapp got up. “Eight for now, Decker. We’ll see about the future. I want a list of everyone chosen and their assignments. I also want a summary of the decisions made written up in triplicate—a copy for you, me, and the commander. You can fudge on your own paperwork, but I’m going to need something in writing for downtown.”
“I understand, sir.” Decker smiled. “You’re only as good as your last report.”
It took longer than expected to assemble the crew because Brubeck was out in the field and Pratt had an emergency dental appointment. When Decker finally got them all together, he had seven eager detectives. Marge had prepared a summary of the case, bringing the others up to speed. As she spoke, the newly assigned detectives wrote frantically with pens in their notepads, except for Lee Wang and Wanda Bontemps who took notes on their laptops.
Wynona Pratt appeared to be jotting down every word. A ten-year vet, she was in her forties, five feet ten with a thin and wiry frame. Her face was long and her straw-colored hair was cut shorter than Decker’s. She had worked Homicide in the Pacific Division, and the feedback on her had been good. She had transferred to West Valley a couple of years ago and wound up in Crimes Against Persons—CAPS—while waiting for something to open up in Homicide. Until that happened, she did her job well and with efficiency.
In his early sixties, Willy Brubeck had talked about retirement for the last ten years. But when the time came to turn in his badge, he decided to give it one more year. Decker was glad to have him onboard. A thirty-five-year vet, Brubeck had worked Homicide in South Central for twenty years. When the last of five kids was finally out of the house, Willy and his wife, Daisy, opted for a smaller home in a less trafficked area in the San Fernando Valley.
Brubeck had a round face, sharp eyes, and mocha-colored skin that was often grizzled with white stubble by five in the afternoon. He had an easy laugh, and eating was one of his favorite pastimes: five ten and 250—with high blood pressure. But Brubeck was philosophical. Life was for living, not for starving.
Andrew Messing had joined LAPD five years ago, moving out from Mississippi where he had worked Homicide for five years. Drew had a boyish face with a hand-in-the-cookie-jar grin. The man was twice divorced, and Decker thought he’d be a good fit because he lacked personal obligations. Oliver liked him. Of late, the two of them had taken to bar hopping with Scott using Drew as bait. Didn’t hurt that Messing had the curly hair, a wide smile, and an “ah shucks” southern accent.
Lee Wang had infinite patience to sort through trivia and columns of numbers. The man was a third-generation cop as well as a third-generation American. He didn’t speak a word of Chinese, although he spoke fluent Spanish: handy with the growing Latino community in the West Valley.
Decker knew Wanda Bontemps from her uniform days. He suspected that she’d rather be investigating than taking minutes, but she was pleased that he had chosen her to sub for him, putting her in a position of authority. Decker knew she wouldn’t abuse it. She was now in her fifties, a stout black woman with short blond hair and penetrating eyes. Like Wang, she was a computer person, and among her many virtues was her ability to troubleshoot operating systems.
After Marge’s summary, there were lots of questions, stretching the meeting time past the two-hour mark. Decker called for a ten-minute coffee break and when the group reconvened, he was standing in front of the whiteboard on which he had written a list of assignments