Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 17

by The Mercedes Coffin

  “Who would he be selling to?” Decker asked. “I’m sure Little was smart enough not to foul his own nest.”

  “Maybe Little got drugs from Darnell and sold them to Banks and his punk musician crowd. That’s why when Darnell was busted, Ben Little went to bat for him.”

  Decker began to draw some diagrams. “Okay. This is what we have. We have a clear connection between Arlington and Little. And it feels like there’s some kind of connection between Arlington and Banks.”

  “We also have a link between Arlington and Cal Vitton. Cal interviewed him.”

  “Yeah, Arlington does seem to have a few fingers pointing at him.” Decker drew arrows. “We have Arlington and Little, Arlington and Banks maybe—and Arlington and Cal Vitton. Nothing so far between Arlington and Primo Ekerling.”

  “We have Banks and Ekerling, Banks and Little, and maybe Banks and Arlington. But not Banks and Vitton.” Marge thought a moment. “And let me add something more to the mix. When Darnell was in high school, he hung out with a bum crowd. He gave me a list of his old peeps. His two best friends had hopes of becoming rappers.” She consulted her notes. “Jervis Wenderhole, who went by the name of A-Tack, and Leroy Josephson, who became Jo-King. I found out that Josephson died. I don’t know where Wenderhole is, but I do know that he cut a couple of demos. He wasn’t very successful, but Rudy wasn’t a very successful music producer.”

  “I’ll look into it.” Decker shrugged. “I think we need to explore this Banks and Arlington link. At least those two are still alive. Now Banks isn’t returning my phone calls. I’ve got one more secret weapon. If that fails, I’ll start hitting the streets.”

  CHAPTER 18

  ALTHOUGH DECKER HAD never met Rip Garrett, he recognized him by the look: overworked, underpaid, and pissed off. Physically the detective appeared to be in his thirties, medium height, medium weight, with a full head of dark hair and light brown eyes. He wore a tan suit, a white shirt with a wrinkled collar, and a red tie. Decker introduced himself, and the two shook hands. As soon as both men were seated at a corner booth and the waitress had taken their orders, Decker explained the situation and began in earnest to eat a few bites of crow.

  “I should have called in the beginning. I wanted to see what I could find on my own before I bothered you.”

  Rip Garrett looked him over. There was still anger in his voice. “Doesn’t look like you’re any farther along than when you started.”

  “No, I’m farther along. I’ve now got a dead cop to contend with.” Decker gave a shrug. “He took a lethal dose of sleeping medication and had powder burns on his right hand. But I’m waiting for the official report. The fact that it’s taking a while makes me suspicious…that someone could have done it for him postmortem.”

  “And why would you think that?”

  “The timing. It gives me a bad feeling when I call up and arrange an appointment to talk to the guy about a fifteen-year-old case and he turns up dead.”

  Garrett said, “Must be your karma.”

  Decker was tiring of his persnickety attitude. “And how long have you worked Homicide?” When Garrett didn’t answer, he glared at the young man. “You agreed to meet with me because (a) I outrank you and you don’t say no to a detective lieutenant with over thirty years of experience because someday you may be working under me, (b) you’re curious to see what the hell I’m up to, and (c) if you’ve got a modicum of intuition about homicide cases, deep down inside those arrests don’t sit right with you; two stupid punks jacking and offing Ekerling, stuffing him in the trunk, then joyriding around in a flashy Mercedes.”

  “Stupid is the operative word,” Garrett shot back.

  “It’s bullshit. Something’s off but you don’t know what it is. Right now you know you’ve got a sure solve with the two lowlifes holed up in the cage, each of them with sheets longer than a roll of toilet paper. Even if they didn’t do Ekerling, you’re not too concerned with a miscarriage of justice. Sooner or later, both of them would have ended up doing hard time.”

  Garrett started to speak but thought better of it.

  Decker pulled back. “Normally, I’m not such a rude motherfucker, but I’m getting a lot of pressure from the brass. In the end, Garrett, I’ll do you way more good than harm. I have a very long memory, and that works both ways.”

  The waitress appeared at the table, serving Garrett a club and placing a cottage cheese and fruit plate in front of Decker. The watermelon was fresh, but the rest had come from a fruit cocktail can. Decker stabbed a wedge of pineapple but didn’t put it in his mouth. “It’s more than just a cold case now. I’ve got a dead cop on my conscience. I pressed Cal Vitton for an interview about Little and Vitton balked. Flash-forward twelve hours, the man is dead.”

  “You still haven’t told me what Cal Vitton has to do with Primo Ekerling?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “And what’s the connection between Ben Little and Primo Ekerling other than a similar MO?”

  For the first time since meeting him, Decker saw true curiosity in Garrett’s eyes. “I don’t know that, either.” He made a swirl in his cottage cheese. “What do you know about Martel and Perry?”

  “Long sheets—DUIs, drug possession, shoplifting, illegal possession of firearms, burglary, car theft—”

  “Assaults?”

  “Don’t recall right away.”

  “Batteries?”

  “Don’t recall that, either.”

  “So you don’t remember anything violent.”

  “You carry a firearm, you’ve got the potential for violence.”

  “No argument there.” Decker put down his fork and leaned over the table. “I am looking into a guy who knew Ekerling very well and might have known Little. He’s a music producer with a Hollywood address. His name is Rudy Banks.”

  Garrett thought a moment, then shook his head no.

  “Twenty years ago, Banks and Ekerling were in a punk band called the Doodoo Sluts. More recently, Banks and Ekerling have been clashing legally. Also, Banks went to North Valley High where Ben Little taught. So far he’s my only common denominator.”

  “Kinda weak.”

  “I’ve got to start somewhere, and Rudy’s a good place. Ekerling’s girlfriend thinks he’s a total scumbag. Everyone I’ve talked to seems to have the same sentiment. I’d like to form my own opinions except Rudy’s not returning my phone calls.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Indeed you are right, Detective, ignoring me is a good plan on his part. Because normally I’d be swamped and disinclined to pursue weak links. But a lot of money is riding on this solve, and the potential donor has been making calls to my captain. I left Rudy an urgent message. If he doesn’t call back, I’m going to start being concerned.”

  “Want me to ask around about Banks?”

  “If you don’t mind, you can ask about Banks, Ekerling, Little, as well as the two thugs you have locked up. Any information you give me would be appreciated.”

  “All you had to do was call me up, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s Decker, and I should have called personally. Sometimes I get busy and forget my manners. And while I’m thinking about it, I’d love to have a copy of the Ekerling file.”

  “You don’t have it?”

  “No, I don’t have it,” Decker lied smoothly, hoping the fib would extract Cindy from the mess he created. “Would I have asked if I had it?”

  Garrett sized him up. “I can get you a copy of the file.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Rudy Banks…what kind of music does he produce?”

  “From what I can tell, he mostly does old compilations of has-been groups like his own. From what I could glean on the Web, he’s also tried contemporary groups—lots of hip-hop and rap.”

  Garrett said, “Martel listed his occupation as an aspiring rapper. That’s not unusual. The cage is full of rappers in the making.”

  “Good call, Garrett, it’s worth checking out,” Decke
r told him. “FYI, Ekerling was also a music producer. Matter of fact, he had a scheduled dinner with an up-and-coming hip-hop, R & B group. He was hoping to produce their album.”

  “Yeah, I know. How’d you find that out if you didn’t have the file?”

  “I interviewed Ekerling’s girlfriend, Marilyn Eustis, the one who called you up and got you in an uproar when she asked about my poking around. Not that I would have reacted differently. I don’t like my feet stepped on, either. If Travis Martel was an aspiring rapper and Ekerling turned him down, it could be a working motive for Martel whacking Ekerling.”

  “How would that connect to your Little case?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just blurting out ideas as I think of them. I’m giving you the benefit of my years of experience.”

  Garrett smiled and finished his sandwich. “You don’t look happy with your lunch, Decker. You on a diet or something?”

  “Not really, although I could take off a couple of pounds.” Decker drank up his coffee. “You know how it is, Rip. Sometimes it’s just not a cottage cheese kind of day.”

  THE CELL PHONE went off at five in the afternoon. The window told Decker that the number was private. The man on the line was screaming. “Who the fuck is this?”

  Decker took a few moments to gather his thoughts. “Lieutenant Detective Peter Decker of the LAPD. Who’s this?”

  “A lieutenant? Sal Crane’s got a lieutenant in his pocket? Well, I’ll be damned!”

  “I repeat. Who is this?”

  “Rudolph Banks. Did you know that on my phone plan I have to pay for incoming as well as outgoing calls?”

  Decker wanted to say: Then you could have saved a few bucks by answering my calls the first time, buddy. Instead he said, “First of all, I’m not in anyone’s pocket, let alone Sal Crane. I used the name to get your attention because you hadn’t returned any of my numerous calls.”

  “I haven’t returned anyone’s calls because I’ve been on fuckin’ jury duty for the last five days. As an alternate! Do you believe that shit! I have to sit through some bullshit trial that was a total waste of my taxpayer time and my taxpayer money and I can’t even be part of saying whether the son of a bitch is guilty or not guilty. No, no, no, I have to park my ass on a rock-hard bench outside the courtroom waiting for those twelve motherfuckers to render a verdict just in case one of them happens to keel over And for this privilege, I get paid fifteen big ones a day plus fifty-three cents a mile gas one way.”

  “You’re doing your civic duty.”

  “No, it’s them who did their doodie on me. Thank God it’s over. What do you want, Lieutenant?”

  “Thanks for asking. I’m currently working Homicide, Mr. Banks—”

  “So what do you want with me? Whoever got whacked, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Primo Ekerling—”

  “They caught the bastards. It was in all the papers, Lieutenant. If you give me your e-mail address, I’ll send over the articles.”

  “I have a few questions that you might be able to help me out with.”

  “So ask.”

  “These kinds of questions are better asked in person.”

  “I didn’t whack him. End of conversation.”

  “His murder was remarkably similar to another individual who died fifteen years ago. A teacher named Bennett Alston Little. I understand you went to North Valley High where Dr. Little taught history, civics, social studies…”

  The slight pause was very telling.

  “I went to North Valley. So did thousands of other teens. I dropped out in eleventh grade way before he died. What’s that gotta do with me?”

  “Mr. Banks, it’s really in both of our interests if we get together and talk. When can I meet you?”

  “Do you know how far behind I am on my work?”

  “Sir, this really is in your interest. And the sooner we talk, the sooner you’ll be rid of me.”

  Another slight pause. Decker heard the man take a breath. “I’ll call you in a week.”

  “No, that’s too long, Mr. Banks. I guarantee you, it won’t take more than an hour of your time. I can even meet you, tonight if you want—”

  “No, I don’t want, goddamnit. I know what you’re going to ask. You’re going to ask about Primo. Yes, I knew Primo. Yes, we were suing the shit out of each other. Yes, we’ve been going at it for a while. No, I did not murder him.

  “As far as your victim, I don’t remember him, but I vaguely remember the murder. I was living in L.A. when it happened. That’s all I can tell you. At the time, I was not only fucking every girl I could get my hands on, I was perpetually stoned. Jesus, I could use a good doobie now.”

  “How about if we meet some time tomorrow?”

  “Why are you putting the screws on my balls?”

  “Just a few simple questions, Mr. Banks. I can come to your place in Hollywood. I’ve already been there. I left you my card—”

  “All right already. Fine. Come tomorrow at three. If I’m in, I’ll talk to you. Don’t bother ringing the bell, it’s broken. And if you knock, no guarantees that I’ll answer. Three in the afternoon is my low period. Sometimes I doze off, and when I do, I’m a sound sleeper. You come at your own risk.”

  “I’ll expect you to be in, sir.”

  “Expect? Just because you expect, I have to jump? Let me tell you something, Lieutenant, I expect lots of things. But I don’t always get what I expect. Instead what I get is a lot of fuckin’ a-holes breathing down my neck. What I get is ingrates suing me for no goddamn reason other than greed. What I get is jury duty as a fucking alternate. What I get, Lieutenant, is a bagful of disappointments because the hard truth is people are liars, hypocrites, and thieves. I know damn well that life is basically a tall mound of shit, but I’ll be a cocksucker before you or anyone else is gonna make me step in it!”

  CHAPTER 19

  THE ELEVATOR STILL wasn’t working, and the stairwell hadn’t gotten any cooler. Decker was steaming, but not from the heat and the humidity in Banks’s hallway. Ten minutes of red-knuckle knocking passed without a response. Decker’s impulse was to kick in the door, but instead, he took a deep breath and tried to figure out his next move. Normally he’d wait around, but it was Friday and his religious observance prevented him from doing evening surveillance.

  Maybe Marge or Oliver would be willing…

  There were footsteps in the stairwell. The door opened, and Liam O’Dell ambled toward Decker as casual as denim. “Hey, mate.”

  Decker was nonplussed but tried to hide it. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Just come back from Millie’s. You should try the enchilada special. It’s tasty.”

  “What are you doing here, Liam?”

  “Same thing as you, mate, and that would be lookin’ for Rudy.” He reached in his pocket and handed Decker a crumpled piece of paper. “You must rate. The bugger took the time to write.”

  Smoothing out the paper, Decker read:

  Emergency situation. Monday, same time, same place.

  Don’t bother to call, I won’t call back.

  “Bastard!” Decker whispered.

  “You’re first discoverin’ it?”

  “He could have called.” Decker shoved the note back into his pocket. “Now I’ve got to deal with rush-hour traffic back to the Valley.”

  “If that’s the only way he’s screwed you, consider yourself lucky, mate.”

  Decker regarded O’Dell. Today he chose to wear cutoff shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. Tattoos had been inked on every limb. “Do you stop by every day, O’Dell?”

  “I thought I’d try one more time before heading back to Venice.” He smiled at Decker with stained teeth. “’Fraid I did the bastard in? You can kick in the friggin’ door and we can both see what’s going on.”

  “I can’t kick in the door unless there’s suspicion that harm has come to Mr. Banks.” He gave O’Dell a meaningful look. “Is there a reason why you th
ink Mr. Banks has met with harm?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but eventually some harm is comin’ his way. You can’t be a bastard for that long to that many people and not suffer consequences.” He stared back at Decker. “If you’re concerned, kick in the door.”

  “No need.” He took a pick from his key ring and played with the tumblers until the lock popped open.

  O’Dell was round eyed with surprise. “You’re a handy gent.”

  Decker said, “Stay back. If you step inside, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

  “You call the shots, mate, I’m just a bystander.”

  “I’m serious, O’Dell.” Decker stepped over the threshold and was immediately blasted with a waft of heat. The place had no air-conditioning. “Mr. Banks?”

  No response.

  The living room was blanketed in shade because the drapes were drawn. The area was nicely decorated, deco in style. There were oil paintings on the walls, and most of them were nudes.

  “Mr. Banks?”

  Quickly, he moved through the unit: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and a laundry room with a trash chute.

  “Mr. Banks?”

  Decker opened and shut closet doors. He lifted the trapdoor to the rubbish shaft and looked inside. It smelled of ripe garbage but nothing more sinister.

  “Mr. Banks?”

  Though the place wasn’t compulsively clean, it was orderly. Satisfied that nothing was awry, Decker shut the self-locking door. O’Dell was sitting in the hallway, listening to an iPod, his eyes closed, his body swaying to an unheard beat. Decker walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. O’Dell’s eyes flipped open and he bounded to his feet. “All clear, mate?”

  “All clear.” Decker regarded him. “Why’d you take my note, Liam?”

  “I was a bad boy.” O’Dell wiped sweaty hands on his shorts. “I thought I might stick around and see who it was for. Then I saw you…” He smiled. “I coulda kept it.”