Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 17

by The Mercedes Coffin

  Oliver said, “Do you think it’s possible that she had something to do with her husband’s murder?”

  “Anything’s possible, but I’d say no.”

  Oliver said, “Why?”

  “I could just tell that the woman was in pain.”

  “She may have felt bad about his death, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t cause it, especially if she had a habit to support.”

  “It was my understanding that she started gambling after the murder. At least, I don’t remember seeing her until after it happened.”

  “She could have gambled elsewhere.”

  Shriner said, “Look. I’m not saying that she didn’t have the urge. I’m not saying that she didn’t indulge from time to time. But it was my understanding from being in the group with her that the problems started on a large scale after her husband was murdered. The woman appeared despondent. She was lonely, she was ashamed, and she was in an altered state of mind. Unless you’ve been there, it’s hard to imagine how quickly you can go from ‘I’m okay, I can handle it’ to ‘I’m totally out of control.’”

  “So you think she hid her compulsion until after he died?” Oliver was skeptical.

  “I betcha that her husband knew about her tendencies. He probably was able to rein her in. Once he was gone, and she had this sudden windfall of cash…that’s a deadly combination. The whole point of my confession is that I don’t want you to see me as incompetent. I was a very good private investigator, and I did what I could for Melinda, but I wasn’t going to go the full nine yards for her because I had my own troubles.”

  “So we’re back to my first question, what do you remember about the case?”

  “Little seemed to be well liked and admired. The way it laid out, it seemed like a professional hit, but I couldn’t find a reason why someone would have wanted to off him.”

  Oliver said, “That brings us back to his wife…”

  Shriner said, “If she was in deep, deep trouble, she had resources other than murder.”

  “Did you know if she owed anyone cash?”

  Shriner said, “Not to my knowledge.”

  “What did you investigate?” Marge asked.

  “The usual. His friends, his relatives, his colleagues, some of his students.”

  “Does the name Darnell Arlington mean anything to you?”

  “The black kid who was kicked out of school. Yeah, I talked to him over the phone. By the time Little was murdered, he’d moved away. I remember that he seemed broken up about Little. Why? Does the kid have a record?”

  “He teaches physical education at a high school in Ohio.”

  “Good to hear that he straightened himself out.”

  “So you never suspected him?” Oliver asked.

  “Of course I suspected him. I ruled him out early on because he had a good alibi, although it skips my mind at the moment.”

  “Supposedly he was playing sports in front of an audience.”

  “Yeah, that was it. Hard to be in two places at one time, and he didn’t seem angry enough to hire a hit six months later. But check him out. Like I said, I didn’t spend an abundance of time on the case.”

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Primo Ekerling?” Marge asked him.

  For the first time, the private detective gave the question some thought. “He sounds vaguely familiar.”

  “He was a music producer,” Marge said. “A few weeks ago, he was murdered, stuffed into the trunk of his Mercedes-Benz. Hollywood has a couple of cholos in custody, although they’re denying the charge. They admitted to boosting the car, but not to the murder.”

  “Could be I read about him in the papers…”

  “You don’t recall Ekerling’s name in your mini-investigation of Little?”

  “Mini-investigation…” Shriner smiled. “That’s a good term for it. I might have heard the name. If he turns out to be a lead, let me know. In the meantime, I’ve got a date with my golf clubs. It’s not as exciting as PI work, but it keeps me out of trouble.”

  DECKER HAD JUST finished eating his bag lunch when Marge called, recapping the interview with Phil Shriner. When she was done, he said, “Exactly how bad of a gambling problem?”

  Marge said, “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. I’m sure that Melinda Little is expecting your call any minute. I think you should pounce on it, Pete, before she starts thinking of some very clever excuses.”

  “I’m still in Simi Valley.” Decker shifted the phone to his other ear. “Besides, I’ve got the interview with Arnie Lamar in fifteen minutes at the police station. What’s your afternoon like?”

  “I have some free time.”

  “Oliver and you need to pay her a visit.”

  “What if she lawyers up?” Marge asked.

  “Then that’ll tell us something.” Another call was coming through the line. A private number. “Someone’s breaking in, Marge. Set something up with Melinda and let me know, okay?”

  “Will do. Good luck.”

  Decker hung up and took the private call. “Decker.”

  “What do you want?”

  The low, smooth voice was instantly recognizable and made Decker sit up in the cruiser and grab his pencil and notepad. Normally, he would have thanked Donatti for calling back, but there was no such thing as chitchat with Chris. “What do you know about the Bennett Little murder?”

  A long silence over the line. “You suspect me?”

  “So far as I can tell, you were fifteen and in New York when it happened. Am I wrong?”

  “Then why are you calling?”

  “You were in L.A. when the murder was still fresh. You’re a good listener. Maybe you heard something.”

  Another pause. “It was a long time ago, and I have a substance abuse problem. If I ever had any long-term memory, it’s gone by now.”

  “But you remember the case.”

  “A guy gets hit, you’re wondering who’s working the territory.”

  “You think it was a hit?”

  A small laugh came over the line. “Uh, yeah.”

  “But no idea who?”

  “Before my time. Is that all?”

  “Speaking of abuse problems, I heard that Little’s wife had a secret of her own.”

  Another pause. “She gambled. What was her name? Rhoda, Melinda?”

  “Melinda. Where’d you know her from?”

  “My uncle was a silent partner in several card houses in Gardenia.” A beat. “This was a long time ago. Joey let go of the casinos ten years ago. He’s dead, you know.”

  “I do know.”

  “Good riddance.”

  “What can you tell me about Melinda Little.”

  “I was sixteen. The woman was a MILF.”

  “A MILF?”

  “Mother I’d Like to Fuck. Red hot. What does she look like now?”

  “She’s still hot. Did her hotness get her into trouble back then?”

  “Not with me, unfortunately.”

  “Could there have been someone else?”

  “There always could be someone else, but nothing I remember.”

  “Did she owe your uncle money?”

  “Decker, I didn’t keep track of her. I had just moved out to L.A. and had my own problems. If she was in hock big-time, I never knew about it.”

  “How about a cop named Calvin Vitton?”

  A pause. “Vaguely familiar.”

  “He worked the Little case. He just blew his head off this morning.”

  “If I were you, I’d look into that.”

  Decker made a face, although Donatti couldn’t see it. “Thanks for the advice. Can you tell me anything about Vitton?”

  “I recall that he was an old guy…” Another pause. “Let me think about him.”

  “Fair enough. How about a guy named Primo Ekerling.”

  “He’s a music producer,” Donatti told him. “What’d he do?”

  “Someone whacked him and stuffed him into the trunk of his Mercedes in a manne
r reminiscent of Bennett Little’s murder.”

  “This happen recently?”

  “About two weeks ago.”

  “Hmmm…can’t keep up with everything. You might want to look into his case, too. Maybe Ekerling and the cop and Little share a common link.”

  “And what might that be?”

  Another small laugh. “You expect me to do your work for you?”

  “You owe me one for plugging me.”

  “No, no, no. I settled the score with that one, pal. If anyone owes, you owe me.”

  “Bullshit. That one doesn’t count.”

  “Ask your sons if it doesn’t count.”

  Silence. Then Decker said, “Call me if you think of something.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Just because you would.”

  “Why don’t you call me if you think of something? ’Cause from where I’m sitting you’re not only barking up the wrong tree, you don’t even have a stump to piss on.”

  CHAPTER 10

  MELINDA LITTLE WARREN was not surprised by the detectives at her door. “You should have called first. I’m about to go out.”

  As the inscrutable Colonel Dunn would have said: the woman was a cool cookie. Even her blond hair was more ice than amber. She wore a kelly green silk blouse and a pair of chino pants. Her feet were housed in rhinestone sandals. Marge said, “How about giving us a few minutes?”

  “If I thought this would only take a few minutes, I would let you come in. And if I thought it would help Ben’s case, I’d let you come in. But I know what it’s about because you’ve probably talked to the bastard.”

  “The bastard?” Oliver asked.

  “Don’t play coy with me!” She was red with anger. “That man is a liar!”

  “So tell us your side, because right now all we’ve heard is his story.”

  “Like you give a solitary damn…oh fuck!” She threw open the door and walked away. The detectives took it as a sign to continue the conversation indoors.

  The view from inside was lovely, but Melinda didn’t notice. She was too busy pacing back and forth. “The fact that I may have had a little problem a long time ago does not impact upon what I told that tall detective. And it has zero to do with my husband’s murder. But of course, you always have to look at the grieving widow, don’t you? I stood to gain the most from Ben’s death. No matter that I was total train wreck. No matter that I was suicidal. No, you have to look at the widow!”

  Marge said, “Why did you call Phil Shriner a bastard?”

  “Because that’s what he is! I hired him to keep confidences, not to break them!”

  “He claims you didn’t hire him at all. That he was your excuse for gambling away insurance money—”

  “That’s a lie!” Melinda pivoted around. “I had a problem, okay? I met Phil from those problem days. The one good thing he did was to get me into GA meetings, but he only did that because he wanted to get into my pants.”

  “Did he?” Oliver asked.

  “Don’t insult me!” Melinda hissed. “I was a compulsive gambler, not a drunk! I was clearheaded and Shriner was a pig.”

  Oliver held up the palms of his hands. “We’re trying to get a handle on your husband’s murder. We’re on the same side.”

  “That’s what the police told me fifteen years ago and I don’t believe you any more than I believed them.” Melinda melted into her white sofa. “Incompetent idiots!”

  Oliver had no answer for that. He looked to Marge for backup. She exhaled softly and sat next to Melinda on the sofa. “I’m sorry to be opening up old wounds, Mrs. Warren. It must be very painful for you.”

  Melinda glared at Marge with moist eyes. “Spare me the amateur psychobabble. I’ve been to enough therapists to know the empty words from the real thing, okay?”

  The room fell silent. Oliver busied himself by staring at the view. Melinda said, “I keep waiting…wondering…when can I move on?” Her eyes softened as tears spilled down her cheeks. “Aren’t I entitled to a little happiness?”

  “If I were in your shoes, I’d kick us out, saying talk to my lawyer.” Marge shrugged. “I hope you don’t do that, though. If we want to find Dr. Little’s murderer, we’ve got to talk to you about Phil Shriner and your gambling problem.”

  Oliver felt it was safe to chime in. “We’d like to hear what you have to say since you and Shriner seem to be at odds.”

  Marge treaded lightly. “Phil implied that you’d gambled away insurance money and you were too embarrassed to admit it to your folks. So instead you told them that you spent money on a private investigator. Shriner agreed to be your cover.”

  Oliver added, “He was quick to admit that he was also a compulsive gambler. And he also implied that it was probably your husband’s death that drove you to gambling.”

  “Of course his death drove me to gambling!” Melinda cried out. “It did all sorts of weird things to my psyche. Do you think I made it a habit to gamble when Ben was alive?”

  Marge said, “So when did gambling become a problem for you?”

  “About six months after…” Melinda pulled a box of tissues onto her lap and yanked one from the slot. She blotted her tears. “You have to remember that it wasn’t just loneliness, it was fear! The police had no idea who killed Ben, and I kept thinking that there was someone out there who wanted to finish the job by killing my boys and me. I was petrified. I sold the house and moved in with my parents, but that got old very soon. I started going to casinos just to get out. My dad taught me poker when I was five. I was good at it. At first I won money. That was my downfall. If I would have lost right away, I probably wouldn’t have returned.”

  “How long before you knew that your gambling was out of control?”

  “I don’t know what Phil told you, but I was never broke. I still had some savings.”

  She reached for her purse, pulled out a compact and began to reapply her makeup: powder, blush, lipstick. When she was done, the traces of her tears had vanished.

  “But it was embarrassing…throwing away money like that. Phil and I reached a mutually beneficial plan. He would cover for me but only if I threw some money his way to look into Ben’s murder. Phil jumped at the agreement. He was in hock up to his eyeballs and was grasping at anything green.”

  Marge said, “We’ll need to go over your bank records at the time of your husband’s murder. If we have your written permission, it’ll be easier.”

  She was quiet for a while. “If it’ll get you off my back, go ahead.”

  “To verify that you didn’t have gambling problems before your husband’s murder.”

  Melinda licked her lips. “Not problems. Ben and I went to Vegas, sure. We’d see the shows, we’d gamble…sometimes I’d win, sometime I’d lose. I always enjoyed it, but I didn’t feel any compulsion to keep doing it.”

  “And once again, you’re telling us that the problems happened after the murder.”

  “Absolutely. I was a psychological wreck and was given this sudden windfall. I wish insurance wouldn’t have been so forthcoming. Time might have helped me be more discerning.”

  “Why do you think Shriner suddenly decided to blow your cover?” Oliver asked her.

  “Because you’re reinvestigating the case and he didn’t want to look like a boob to the cops.”

  The stories jibed…maybe too well. Marge said, “You said that he agreed to cover to your folks, but only after you agreed to pay him some money. To me, that sounds like blackmail.”

  For the first time, Melinda smiled. “I wouldn’t go that far…I…he needed money and I was thoroughly disgusted with the police. It would have been nice if he had investigated Ben’s murder with a little more zeal, but…” A sigh. “I didn’t pay him much. Frankly, I don’t see why I should have had to pay him at all. The police should have done their job.”

  “How well did you know the primary investigators?” Oliver wanted to know.

  “I called a lot at the beginning. Less after P
hil started hunting around. In the end, they retired and the case went cold. By the time I recovered from my gambling and my fears and my infinite psychiatric bills, I just wanted to move on with my life.”

  “When you called up the investigators, who did you talk to?” Marge asked.

  The question momentarily stumped her. Then Melinda said, “Mostly Detective Lamar, I think. I found him more congenial than Detective Vitton.” She looked at her watch. “I’m late to a luncheon and the honoree is a very dear friend. I’d like to go.”

  Oliver said, “What would you say if I told you—”

  Marge said, “Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Warren.”

  “Not a problem. But please next time, do call.”

  Marge stood and signaled Oliver to the door. “We will. Good-bye now.”

  As soon as they were outside, Oliver turned on his partner. “Why’d you interrupt me midsentence?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to tell her about Vitton’s suicide until we know more.”

  “But I wanted to see how the Ice Queen would react! I haven’t ruled her out as a suspect. The murder looked like a hit, and she has a gambling problem. How do you know she didn’t whack him for insurance? Or maybe she hired Shriner for the hit—or Vitton and that’s why he killed himself.”

  “Exactly why I want to dig up more information on her and on Vitton before we drop the news. Things like: What kind of funds did she have before her husband was murdered? Did any money go out shortly after Little’s death? Did she know Cal Vitton before Ben died? Let’s say we find something on her. The suicide would be a perfect excuse to come back and talk to her. And if we don’t find anything on her, why put the woman through more pain by mentioning the suicide?”

  Oliver still looked miffed. “I don’t like being muscled out of my comfort zone even if you do outrank me.”

  “Would it help if I bought you some cookies?”

  “Fuck you,” Oliver snapped.