his brother most everything. You know what they say about ‘assume,’ don’t you?”
“Yes. It makes an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me.’”
“Exactly.”
“So what happens if Grant is wrong about the will?”
“I think he’ll be sorely disappointed.”
“That could get interesting.”
“Interesting is good. Lots of things happen when the case gets that kind of interesting.”
Decker brought in two platters of home-baked cookies. Oliver complemented the sugar rush with two dozen doughnuts. Messing and Brubeck toted in two bags filled with fresh bagels and cream cheese, and Wynona Pratt graced the table with an assorted fruit platter. Lee Wang’s addition was orange juice with plastic cups, and Marge and Wanda were responsible for the paper products and the coffee. By the time the table was set, it looked like breakfast for a corporate retreat.
The spontaneous potluck had been the collective brainwork of Marge, Wynona, and Wanda. They made the assignments and the phone calls because they knew that no guy would ever organize something so froufrou. Their idea of participating would be to eat. But the women were insistent.
“Camaraderie,” Marge told Oliver as they set their goodies on the paper-cloth-covered table.
“I had to go ten blocks out of my way to find a doughnut shop.”
“There’s a doughnut shop three blocks from here. Next time use the Internet.”
“There’s something wrong with my computer. It keeps freezing.”
“I have no answer. Ask Lee.”
Wang was busy compulsively arranging the forks, knives, and spoons. Every time something got a millimeter out of alignment, he went back to the beginning.
Oliver said, “Why is my computer freezing all the time?”
“Because it’s probably a piece of shit or it’s old or maybe both.”
Wynona said, “Your utensil design, Lee, although breathtaking in its compulsivity, is taking up too much room.” She scooped up the spoons and put them into a cup, repeated it for the forks and knives.
Wang was perturbed. “Anything else that doesn’t meet your standards?”
“No. And don’t look so pissed. Now you have room for your origami napkin folding.”
“First of all, that’s Japanese and I’m from Hong Kong. Second, being compulsive is an excellent trait in our line of business.”
“If I’ve offended, I apologize. Just trying to fit everything on a card table.”
Brubeck dumped the bagels on a plastic platter. “Coulda fit easily if we didn’t buy so much. We got enough for the entire squad room.”
“That was the idea,” Wynona answered. “To include everyone.”
“Can’t be looking too elitist,” Wanda added.
Marge brought over an urn of coffee and made the announcement to everyone’s delight. “Breakfast is served.”
Thirty detectives crowded around the table and began to pile food on thin paper plates that began to sag under the weight. At eight-thirty Decker came out of his office, cup of coffee in hand. He said, “Kaffey task force meeting in ten minutes, interview room number three.” He met Marge’s eye and beckoned her over with a wiggling index finger. This morning she wore a blue sweater set and navy pants with flat rubber-soled shoes on her feet. “How’s it going, Rabbi?” she asked him.
“I need to talk about something personal. You have a minute?”
“Yeah, sure.” After Decker closed his office door, she said, “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” He smiled at Marge to prove it. “Remember Brett Harriman—the blind guy who overheard two men talking about the Kaffey murders?”
“It was three days ago, Pete. I’m not senile yet. What’s going on?”
“After I spoke to him on Friday, he called me late in the evening to tell me he remembered something.” Decker tried not to pucker his lips. “He recalled speaking to a woman next to him, asking her to describe the men to him.”
“Really?”
“It gets better. The woman didn’t want to do that until she found out why he wanted to know. The upshot was that he felt silly and told her to forget about it. When I asked Harriman the woman’s name, he said he didn’t know it.”
“So he has no idea who he talked to?”
“Not quite. He recognized the woman’s voice from a voir dire on one of the cases he’d been working on.”
“Did he tell you the case?”
“No, but he didn’t have to.” Decker finished his coffee. “At a voir dire, one of the standard questions asks the prospective juror if any member of the juror’s family is involved in law enforcement. Harriman remembers this woman saying that she was married to a police lieutenant.”
Marge’s eyes got wide. “Wasn’t Rina on jury duty last week?”
Decker nodded.
Marge looked at the ceiling. “Did you talk to her?”
“I did. I tried to convince her that she had nothing to offer me, but she insisted on coming down and looking through some mug books. Since she seems to recall an XII or a BXII as one of the tattoos these men were sporting, I gave her a book of the Bodega 12th Street gang.”
“Oh my goodness. That is serious.” Marge licked her lips. “It’s also consistent with what Gil thought he saw.”
“I realize that.” Decker grimaced. “She picked out a couple of individuals. If you have a free moment, maybe Oliver and you can find these guys and see if you can nail their asses on something legit. Then I’ll ask Harriman to come down and see if their voices match the guys he heard in the courtroom.”
Marge rubbed her hands. “Can we arrest someone based on a voice identification?”
“I don’t know, but we can certainly ask about the crimes. If you pick either of them up for … let’s say drug dealing … maybe we can use those charges as leverage to find out what he knows about the Kaffey murders.”
“And are we sure that Harriman can pick out the correct individual just from hearing his voice again?”
“No, which is why I’m going to set him up with a couple of stooges. Harriman said the accents pointed to someone from Mexico and someone from El Salvador. I’ll voice print a couple of guys here who come from Mexico and El Salvador. If Harriman picks them out, then we’ll know he’s not reliable as a voice witness. That way, if you arrest either of Rina’s guys from the mug book, we’ll have a control group already in place.”
“I’ll talk to Oliver. We’ll work something out.”
“We’ve also got to find Joe Pine. He lives in Pacoima.”
“I know that. We can’t find him.”
“His family may be from Mexico so maybe he’s there. Try the name José Pinon. Work on this even if it means overtime. I’m sorry, but this case is just too important for a nine-to-five stint.”
“Don’t worry about it. Vega’s not home anymore, and Oliver isn’t the stud he used to be. We both have some empty slots on our calendars. You know how it is. Sometimes a night of surveillance is better than a night home alone with nothing but the idiot box for