in Kaffey Industries.”
Decker gasped. Guy and his younger brother, Mace, were responsible for most of the shopping malls in Southern California. “Where?”
“Coyote Ranch.”
“Someone broke into the ranch?” He tucked the phone underneath his chin and talked as he slipped on his pants. “I thought the place was a fortress.”
“I don’t know about that, but it’s gigantic—seventy acres abutting the foothills. Not to mention the mansion. It’s its own city.”
Decker remembered a magazine feature someone had done on the ranch a while ago. It was a series of compounds, although the main quarters were big enough to house a convention. Along with the numerous other buildings on the ranch, there were the requisite swimming pool, hot tub, and tennis court. It also had a kennel, a riding corral big enough for Olympic equestrian courses, a ten-stall stable for the wife’s show horses, an airstrip long enough for any prop plane, and its own freeway exit. About a year ago, Guy Kaffey made a bid to purchase the L.A. Galaxy after the team had secured David Beckham, but the deal fell through.
As Decker recalled, there were two sons and he wondered which one had been shot. “What about all the bodyguards?”
“Two in the guardhouse at the front and both of them dead,” Marge answered. “We’re still searching. There’s something like ten different structures on the property. So there may be more bodies. What’s your ETA?”
“Maybe ten minutes. Who’s down there now?”
“About a half-dozen squad cars. Oliver called in Strapp. Only a matter of time before the press gets wind.”
“Secure the property. I don’t want the press messing up the crime scene.”
“Will do. See you soon.”
Decker hung up and made a mental checklist of what he’d need—a notepad and pens, gloves, evidence bags, face masks, magnifying glass, metal detector, Vaseline, and Advil, the last item not for forensic use but because he had a pounding headache, the result of being awakened from a deep sleep.
Rina said, “What’s going on?”
“Multiple homicide at Coyote Ranch.”
She sat up straight. “The Kaffey place?”
“Yes, ma’am. No doubt, it’s going to be a circus by the time I arrive.”
“That’s horrible!”
“It’s going to be a nightmare in logistics. The place is around seventy acres—absolutely no way to totally wall off the area.”
“I know, it’s tremendous. About a year ago, they did a showcase home there for some kind of charity. I heard the gardens were absolutely magnificent. I wanted to go but something came up.”
“Doesn’t look like you’ll get a second chance.” Decker opened the gun safe, took out his Beretta, and slipped it into his shoulder harness. “That’s a terrible thing to say but I make no excuses. Dealing with the press in high-profile cases brings out the bastard in me.”
“They’ve called the press at three-fifteen in the morning?”
“Can’t stop death and taxes—and you can’t stop the news.” He gave her a peck on the top of her head. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.” Rina sighed. “That’s really sad. All that money is a deadly magnet for leeches, con artists, and just plain evil people.” She shook her head. “I don’t know about being too thin, but you certainly can be too rich.”
THE ONLY GOOD thing about being called in the early hours of the morning was ripping through the city sans traffic. Decker zipped through empty streets, dark and misty and occasionally haloed by streetlamps. The freeway was an eerie, endless black road fading into fog. In 1994, the Southland had been pummeled by the Northridge earthquake, a terrifying ninety seconds of doomsday that had brought down buildings and had collapsed the concrete bridges of the freeways. Had the temblor occurred just a few hours later during the morning commute, the casualties would have been tens of thousands instead of under a hundred.
The Coyote Road off-ramp was blocked by two black-and-whites, nose to nose. Decker displayed the badge around his neck to the police officers, and it took a few minutes for the cars to part to allow him forward. One of the cops directed him to the ranch. It was a straight shot—no turnoffs anywhere—and the packed dirt road seemed to go on for about a mile before the main house came into view. Once it did, it grew like a sea monster surfacing for air. The outdoor lights had been turned on to the max with almost every crevice and crack illuminated, giving the place a theme park appearance.
The mansion was Spanish villa in style and, in its own blown-up way, harmonious with the surroundings. The final height was three stories of adobe-colored stucco with wood-railed balconies, stained-glass windows, and a red Spanish tiled roof. The structure sat on the rise of a man-made knoll. Beyond the mansion were vast, empty acres and the shadows of the foothills.
About two hundred yards into the drive, Decker saw a parking lot filled with a half-dozen squad cars, the coroner’s van, a half-dozen TV vans with satellites and antennas, several forensic vans, and another eight unmarked cars, and there was still room to spare. The media had set up shop, with enough artificial illumination to do microsurgery because each network and cable TV station had its own lighting, its own camera and sound people, its own producers, and its own perky reporter waiting for the story. The mob longed to be closer to the hot spot, but a barrier of yellow crime scene tape, cones, and uniformed officers kept them corralled.
After showing his badge, Decker ducked under the tape and walked the distance to the entrance on foot, passing meticulously barbered mazes of boxwood elms outlining the formal gardens. Inside the shrubbery were different groupings of spring flowers, including but not limited to roses, irises, daffodils, lilies, anemones, dahlias, zinnias, cosmos, and dozens of other types of flora he didn’t recognize. Somewhere close by were gardenias and night-blooming jasmine, infusing death with a sickly sweet fragrance. The flagstone walkway cut through several rows of blooming citrus. Lemon trees, if Decker had to make a guess.
Two officers were guarding the front door. They recognized Decker and waved him through. The interior lights were also on full blast. The entry hall could have been a ballroom in a Spanish castle. The floor was composed of heavy planks of old, hardened wood—irregular with a patina that no contrived distressing could manufacture. The ceiling soared and was lined with massive beams that had been carved and embellished with petroglyphs, the cave figures looking like something found in the Southwest. The walls were festooned with layers of gilt paneling and held museum-sized tapestries. Decker would have probably kept gawking, enraptured by the sheer size of the place, had he not caught the eye of a uniform who motioned him forward.
Proceeding down a half-dozen steps, he walked into a living room with double-height ceilings and more painted beams. Same hardwood on the floor, only most of it was covered with dozens of authentic-looking Navajo rugs. More gilt paneling, more tapestries along with enormous art canvases of bloody battles. The room was furnished with mammoth-sized couches, chairs, and tables. Decker was a big guy—six four, 220-plus pounds—but the scale of his surroundings made him feel positively diminutive.
Someone was talking to him. “This place is bigger than the college I attended.”
Decker regarded Scott Oliver, one of his crack Homicide detectives. He was in his late fifties and carried his age very well, thanks to good skin and repeated rounds of black hair dye. It was almost four in the morning, yet Oliver had dressed like a CEO at a board meeting: black pin-striped suit, red tie, and a starched and pressed white shirt.
“It was only community college, but the campus was still pretty big.”
“Do you know the square footage?”
“A hundred thousand, give or take.”
“Man oh man, that is…” Decker stopped talking because