“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 properties, but there are a couple of staff bungalows with empty beds if one of them is too tired to go home or comes in early.”
“How many bungalows?”
“Two each with four cots and a TV for the staff, plus a separate bungalow for Neptune Brady. Both Kotsky and Brady told me it’s not unusual to have a couple of men resting while waiting for their shift to start.”
“Do the guards have keys to get into the property?”
“Gate keys but not house keys. There’s a house keycard check system that Brady has in place.”
“How does that work?”
“Each incoming guard is required to check out the keycard from an outgoing guard. There’s a sign-in sheet and a sign-out sheet that includes time and date. The sheet for the night of the murder is missing, but that doesn’t mean too much. Brady had the schedule for who was supposed to be on.
We know who was murdered and we know who is missing.”
“That’s not much of a system-a sign-up sheet.”
“You said it. Ripe for abuse, but it worked well for a number of years. Brady told me he was very diligent in counting the keycards, and they are next to impossible to duplicate. None were missing from the lockbox, but of course two keycards are gone, probably taken by the two missing guards.”
“What a way to live,” Decker said. “Rarified to be sure, but that comes with a price.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Oliver said. “Coyote Ranch is kind of the California version of Versailles. And we all know what happened to Marie Antoinette.”
THE SECOND DAY of testimony was more of the same.
More forgetful people with Smiling Sunglasses Tom doing a bang-up acting job in the translation department. While the deputy D.A. gave off the professional look-navy pin-striped suit, white blouse, sensible pumps-the defense attorney was a schlub-stooped shoulders and a comb-over of unruly gray hair. His suit was too short in the sleeves, but too big on his bony frame. The crux of his case was that the arresting officers couldn’t really see who punched whom and therefore his client should be exonerated.
The P.D. called up the young officer for the cross, and although the uniform wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, he seemed credible. The officer saw the defendant punch the plaintiff in the face. It was as simple as that. To Rina, the trial wasn’t a total waste of the jurors’ time, but it was proving to be not an efficient use of time. No one complained when the panel was dismissed for the lunch break.
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.”
EIGHT
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.