Blindman’s Bluff. Faye KellermanЧитать онлайн книгу.
years. I don’t need this shit!”
“Sir, anyone who has had anything to do with the Kaffeys is a potential suspect right now. That’s just the nature of the beast. If I didn’t have a suspicious mind, I’d be a very bad detective.”
Brady clenched his fists, and then slowly let his fingers relax. “I’m still in a state of shock.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“You have no idea…” His voice dropped a few notches. “I was in the middle of dealing with my own father’s heart attack. Now I have to deal with the remaining family members. Do you know how fucking dreadful it was to make that phone call to Grant Kaffey? To tell him that his parents and brother are dead?”
Decker regarded the man. “Gil Kaffey’s in the hospital, sir. He isn’t dead.”
“What?” Brady’s eyes got wide. “Riley Karns told me he was dead.” After an awkward pause, he muttered out loud, “Thank God for that.” A cynical laugh. “Now the family’s going to think that I’m a fucking moron!”
“Why don’t you let me deal with the family?”
“The family’s safety was my concern and I fucked up.” His eyes suddenly pooled with tears. “I didn’t have anything to do with this, but you’re right to suspect everyone. What do you want to know?”
“For starters, how does your security work?”
“It doesn’t, obviously.” Brady bit his lip hard. “This is going to take a while.”
“How about we find a private room and you can explain it to me.”
“I can manage a room,” Brady told him. “Lord knows there’re enough of them—and then some.”
THE SPOON WAS going around and around in the cereal bowl. Hannah was not interested in breakfast, nor was she interested in going to school. But while breakfast was somewhat optional, education was mandatory.
Rina said, “Why don’t I make you a bagel and you can eat it in the car?”
The teenager pushed red locks out of her blue eyes. “I’m not hungry.”
“You don’t have to eat it. Just take it.”
“Why?”
“Humor me, okay?” Rina picked up the cereal bowl and put an onion bagel in the toaster. “Get your stuff. We need to go.”
“What’s the hurry?”
“I have jury duty. I’m going to need at least an hour to make it there on time.”
“Poor Eema. Not only does she have to suffer the vicissitudes of her sullen daughter, she’s stuck with eleven other unlucky souls in smoggy downtown L.A.”
The bagel popped up. Rina gave it a schmear of cream cheese and wrapped it in foil. “I’m not complaining. Let’s go.”
Hannah hoisted up her two-ton backpack. “What case are you working on?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“C’mon. Who am I going to tell? Aviva Braverman?”
“You’re not going to tell anyone because I’m not going to tell you.” She checked her purse—more of a tote bag than a fashion statement. It contained a paperback book on Abigail Adams and today’s Los Angeles Times. The murders had made the headlines. She pulled out her keys, set the alarm, and locked the door behind them.
“It’s ridiculous that they didn’t throw you off,” Hannah told her. She put on her seat belt. “Abba’s not only a cop, but a lieutenant.”
Rina started the motor. “I have a mind of my own.”
“Still, he influences you. He’s your husband.” Hannah un wrapped her bagel and started nibbling away. “Mmm…good.” She adjusted the satellite radio until she found a station playing spine-jarring rock. “What’s for dinner?”
Rina smiled to herself. Hannah was on to another topic. Like all teens, she had the attention span of a gnat. “Probably chicken.”
“Probably?”
“Chicken or pasta.”
“Why not pasta with chicken?”
“I can make pasta with chicken.” Rina turned to her. “You can also make pasta with chicken.”
“You make it better.”
“That’s nonsense. You’re an excellent cook. You’re just shunting it to me.”
“Yes, I am. In a few years, I’ll be away at college and then you won’t have anyone to cook for anymore. You’ll miss these days.”
“I have your father.”
“He’s never home, and half the dinners you cook for him wind up in the warming drawer. Why do you bother?”
“Someone sounds resentful.”
“I’m not resentful, I’m just stating fact. I love Abba, but he just isn’t home very much.” She bit her thumbnail. “Is he going to make it to my choir performance tonight?”
“Your performance is tonight? I thought it was tomorrow.”
“Oh, Mrs. Kent changed it. I forgot to tell you.”
“If your performance is tonight, Hannah, are you even going to eat dinner at home?”
“No, I guess not,” Hannah said. “Is Abba going to make it?”
“He’s made it to your last two performances. I’m sure he’ll be there…” She thought about the morning news. “Unless something dire comes up.”
“Something dire like murder?”
“Murder is very dire.”
“It isn’t really. What difference does it make? The person’s already dead.”
It was clear that Hannah was in her own narcissistic world. There was no use in trying to reason with her. Instead, Rina changed the radio station to oldies. The Beatles were singing about eight days a week.
“I love this song!” Hannah turned up the volume knob and sat back contentedly, eating her bagel, humming along while tapping her toes.
All resentment toward her father seemed to have dissipated.
The attention span of a gnat was sometimes a good thing.
WALKING INTO THE courtroom, he was glad he’d taken extra time to make sure his tie was properly knotted and his shirt collar had the right amount of starch. With his shoulders erect and a jaunty stride, he owned the world.
He had a gift.
Like a composer with perfect pitch, he had what he called perfect sound. Not only could he translate words and decipher speech—the minimum requirements for his job—but equally as important, he could code nuances and know everything about that person’s background, often after just a few sentences. He could tell where the person grew up, where the person’s parents grew up, and where the person was currently residing.
Of course, he could discern simple things like race and ethnicity, but who among the living could also zero in on social class and educational level in a single breath? How many fellow human beings could detect whether the person was happy or sad—no biggie there—but also whether he or she was angry, peeved, jealous, annoyed, wistful, sentimental, considerate, empathetic, industrious, and lazy? And not by what they said, but how they said it. He could distinguish between nearly identical regional American accents, and he had a magic ear for international accents, too.
In his world, there was no need for visuals. The eye was a deceptive thing. He’d been given an otherworldly gift, not to be squandered on trivial