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

Ryan was meeting a friend for lunch, so this afternoon it was just the girls. In a hope to steer the conversation away from the Kaffey murders, Rina had made extra sandwiches on homemade challah bread and was spending most of her time giving the women the recipe.

“I thought challah had to be braided,” Joy said.

“Obviously not, since we’re eating square slices,” Kate said. “Wow, this is good. I love the olives and sun-dried tomatoes. It works really well with the salami.”

“Thank you,” Rina said. “In answer to your question, Joy, no, it doesn’t have to be braided, although the braid is traditional on Friday night. On the Jewish New Year’s through the holiday of Sukkoth, it’s round. There’s also something called a pull-apart challah that’s also round.”

“What’s that?” Kate was taking notes.

“You make individual balls of dough around the size of a lime and pack them tightly into a round pan.”

“Same recipe?”

“Same recipe. When it bakes, all the dough coalesces into one round loaf, but you can still see the individual sections. People use it because when you say the blessing over the bread, you pull apart the sections for your guests and it’s a nice presentation.”

Joy said, “Someone once told me that you burn part of the dough or something. Or did I get it wrong?”

“No, you didn’t. You do burn a small section of the dough. That’s the part called challah, actually. We do it to commemorate a different time when the Jews had the temple and burned flour sacrifices to God. But you can only do it if you’ve used a certain amount of flour. You don’t take challah on a single loaf unless it’s gigantic. Sometimes if I’m in the mood, I make a big, big batch and freeze some of the dough between the first and second rise so I can take challah, but that’s for another day.”

“Do you also bake?” Ally inquired.

“I do. I find it very good therapy.”

Joy said, “You must have a lot of time on your hands with your husband busy solving murders.”

“Less than you think,” Rina said. “Peter mostly works a desk job.”

“But not always, like right now.” Joy almost licked her lips. “So what’s going on with the Kaffey murder?”

“I know as much as you do,” Rina told her. “Peter doesn’t talk about his current cases. Sorry, but I don’t have the inside dope.”

“I think you’re just being coy.” Joy sat back in her chair and folded her arms.

“I’m not being coy. I just don’t know more than what I read.”

“How long do you think it’ll take to solve it?” Ally asked.

“I wouldn’t even hazard a guess,” Rina said. “Peter’s worked on cases that were solved within twenty-four hours, and the flip side is the cold cases that have been going on for years.”

“Anything good?” Joy asked.

“What kind of a question is that?” Kate said. “I’m sure it’s all very tragic.”

Rina smiled. “You know, Joy, when Peter and I first got married, I tried to pry stuff out of him because I was as curious as you are. Now, to me his job is just a job. It pays the bills, and sometimes it gets in the way of doing what we want to do. I mean, you’re married. What do you and your husband talk about?”

“My husband’s a CPA,” Joy said. “What are we going to talk about? Tax deductions?”

Rina paused, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “You know, I just inherited some paintings that might be of significant value. Do I have to pay a gift tax on them or only if I sell them?”

“I’m a respiratory therapist. Why would I know about that?”

“That’s the point, Joy,” Kate said. “She’s a teacher. What does she know about murder?”

“Yeah, but there’s a big difference,” Joy said. “When Albert starts talking about numbers, it puts me to sleep.”

Rina said, “I have the opposite problem. When Peter starts talking about the evils of mankind, it keeps me awake.”

8 (#ulink_33db3c2b-41f9-536d-a7f7-3241f989a9f7)

Leaning against the wall, he slowly unwrapped a peanut power bar, his brain absorbing the cacophony of clatter. It was nearing the time when the courts reconvened and that meant noise coming at him from all directions. Across the way, two women were discussing bread recipes. One was from the Michigan area. She was older, in her sixties judging by the rhythm and deliberation of her speech. The second was a young Valley girl with a cowboy twang, reminding him that once California was the Wild West.

The din increased as the crowd filed in.

To his right was a woman who was on the Fernandez trial. He had heard her voice as the jury panel left the room even though she had been whispering. As he overheard her speak into her cell, he knew instantly that she was talking to her husband or a boyfriend. Although her language was clean and innocuous, her tone was full of sexual innuendo. The way she laughed and riposted. He imagined her to be a map of sensual curves. She sounded like she was clearly born and bred in L.A.

He took a bite of his bar and waited for court to resume, the noise level growing exponentially as people congregated in the courthouse hallway, sound waves bouncing off the hard interior surfaces. The open space had cement floors and wooden walls without a stitch of carpeting or upholstered furniture to absorb the racket. The only things to sit on were butt-breaking benches. He didn’t feel like sitting. He sat around enough as it was.

If he paid attention, he could hear well.

To his left were two Hispanics: one from Mexico and the other from El Salvador. They were speaking in what they thought were hushed tones, but his ear was so attuned to the nuance of speech, they might as well have been shouting through a loudspeaker. They were jabbering on in rapid-fire Spanish about the news, specifically the horrendous murders in the West Valley. He had heard several different renditions of that story about the billionaire developer, his wife, and his son gunned down in their multiacre ranch.

How freakin’ ironic was that? All that money and the poor schmuck couldn’t buy himself some loyal security. But that was the problem with money. It attracted all sorts of misfits and cretins, but usually small-time con artists didn’t murder. In his limited experience, homicides of big shots were done by other big shots—respectable people in deep shit with something dear to lose.

He continued to eavesdrop on the Spanish conversation and chuckled to himself. The two bozos kept calling Guy Kaffey, the slain billionaire, Señor Café—which translated into English as Mr. Coffee. Like the guy was a small appliance. As the men continued to talk, their voices dropped a notch. To him, it was strange that the two men were attempting a private conversation, but they clearly needed to talk. He could hear the urgency in their voices. And they probably had to be in these hallowed hallways—as witnesses, defendants, or plaintiffs. People didn’t hang around for the commissary food.

There were strict rules for jurors on overhearing conversation revolving around current cases. That kind of eavesdropping could influence outcome. But he felt there was nothing wrong with listening in on casual conversation.

The woman on his right had hung up her cell phone. She sounded like she was now going through her purse. Her rifling was almost drowning out the Spanish conversation, which was becoming so inaudible that he was actually straining to make out the words. Not that their yapping was important to him, but now it was a point of pride.

Like the limbo song—how low can you go?

They were still talking about the Kaffey murder, and something about the intensity of the conversation drew his interest. Ever so slightly, he turned his head in the direction of the sound to absorb a couple more decibels. His ears perked up as it became clear that the men were speaking about the killings from personal knowledge.

The Mexican was talking about a man named José Pinon who had gone missing, and el patrón, the boss, was looking for him in Mexico.

“Because he fucked it up with the son,” the Mexican told the El Salvadorian.

“¿Qué pasa?” El Salvadorian asked. What happened?

The Mexican’s voice was full of contempt. “He ran out of bullets.”

“Ay … estúpido!” the El Salvadorian said. “So why didn’t somebody else finish him off?”

“’Cause José’s a retard. He says he asked Martin to do it, but me? I don’t hear nothing about that. I think he’s covering his own stupid ass and he can kiss that good-bye. Martin is really pissed.”

The El Salvadorian said. “Martin es malo.”

Martin is bad.