Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 17

by The Mercedes Coffin

  “Do you remember why?”

  “His alibi checked out as I recall. I remember him only because someone from South Central contacted me about five years after Little’s murder. Leroy was in the wrong area at the wrong time and caught a big one right through the neck that damn near decapitated him.” Lamar shook his head. “He was all of twenty-one.”

  Decker was scribbling notes. “When you worked Juvenile, did you ever pull in a kid named Rudy Banks?”

  “Rudy Banks?” A big grin opened up Arnie’s face. “Now if there was ever a pisshead, that would be Rudy. Foulmouthed little turd.”

  Decker was trying to hide his excitement. “Want to tell me about him?”

  “The kid had a voice of an angel. He had the face of an angel. But his soul…” A chuckle along with a shake of the head. “I tell you, he was one with Satan.”

  “Where’d you hear him sing?”

  “In the school choir. In church. He was a tenor…a voice that was clear and beautiful. And with those big blue eyes…looked like an English altar boy. He cussed like a sailor.”

  “What did you haul him in for?”

  “Stealing. All kinds of stealing. Purse snatching, breaking and entering, shoplifting. I think he even stole from the church. And all this before he reached high school. I heard he became a rock star in one of those punk bands that spit and curse at the audience.”

  “I don’t know if you’d call him a star. He was in a punk band called the Doodoo Sluts.”

  Lamar smiled. “That seems consistent with Rudy’s style.”

  “He doesn’t have much of a record as an adult unless it’s the recording kind of record.” Decker brought Lamar up to date with Rudy’s current occupation and his numerous lawsuits. “So you remember Rudy very well.”

  Lamar shrugged. “Yes, I do.”

  “Would Cal Vitton have known and remembered him as well?”

  “Oh yeah. Matter of fact…it’s coming back to me. Cal had a real hard-on for Rudy.”

  “Like a personal vendetta?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but he detested the boy. He was a real wiseass.”

  Decker tried to stay focused. “A wiseass and maybe a bully?”

  Lamar took in Decker’s eyes. “Are you asking me if Rudy bullied Cal J?”

  “I believe I am.”

  “I don’t know. Cal J didn’t talk about his problems with me, or with his dad for that matter. But now that you mention it, Rudy was in school the same time as the Vitton boys. If anyone would be bullying Cal J, it would be Rudy Banks.”

  “So maybe that’s why Vitton hated Rudy.”

  “Pete, it’s safe to say that everyone hated Rudy…except for maybe a few stupid girls who liked a pretty face. What was so ironic was the kid had talent. He probably could have made a lot of money by singing if he was just an itty-bitty bit nicer, but it wasn’t in his makeup. That kid was a bad egg.”

  “And you’re pretty sure that Cal J and Rudy attended high school at the same time.”

  “No, I’m not positive, but that wouldn’t be hard to verify.” Lamar got up and wiped his face with a cloth. “Man, it’s a scorcher. Want another beer?”

  “Water would be great.”

  “All I have is lukewarm tap.”

  “Bud it is.”

  Lamar returned a few minutes later with a couple of cold ones. “So you’re gonna talk to Rudy?”

  “If I can find him.” Decker popped the top and drank with gusto. “He seems to be avoiding me. I only talked to him once over the phone, and as you said, he was foulmouthed.”

  “Primo Ekerling was also found in a car trunk like Ben Little?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want to talk to Rudy about the Ekerling murder since Primo and Rudy were in a long-standing lawsuit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though Hollywood already has a couple of carjackers in custody. They don’t mind you nosing around the case?”

  “They’re not happy about it, but we’ve reached a cold war understanding.”

  Lamar looked at his watch. “I’d like to catch a little more sunlight out there. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Keep me posted, Decker, and I’ll do the same for you. My memory isn’t too good, but if you jog it here and there, it just might get up and take a nice long run.”

  CHAPTER 22

  BANKS’S CELL HAD gone immediately to voice mail. It was probably a waste of time and police resources to trek over the hill for the appointment, but Decker made the plunge, sitting in wall-to-wall traffic for over an hour. It didn’t surprise him that his peevish knock went unanswered. This time Banks didn’t bother to leave a note, so Decker left a note of his own.

  He was about to leave when he saw the door to the stairwell open. A neatly dressed man in his twenties emerged. He had a trimmed goatee, and his dark hair was buzzed short. He wore a white T-shirt, cutoff jean shorts, and sandals and carried a bag from L.A. Art Supplies. He was attempting to act disinterested in Decker’s six-foot-four, 220-pounds-of-muscle frame, but his eyes flitted like a hummingbird. He stopped across from Banks’s door and when he took out a set of keys, Decker saw his hand tremble.

  “Excuse me, sir.” The man looked up. “I’m Lieutenant Decker from Los Angeles Police. Can I talk to you for a second?”

  The man paused. “What about?”

  “Your neighbor, Rudolph Banks.” Decker took out his badge.

  The man said nothing, but his eyes fell upon the open billfold. Decker said, “I had an appointment with Mr. Banks this afternoon. He doesn’t seem to be home now and from my dealings with him, he isn’t home a lot.”

  “I didn’t have much to do with him. He wasn’t very friendly.”

  “I’ve heard he’s a bastard.”

  “Yeah…I’d agree with that.” The man put down the bag of art supplies. “He moved out over the weekend.”

  Decker felt his jaw clench. “When?”

  “On Saturday.”

  Decker exhaled. “I don’t suppose you’d know his forwarding address.”

  The man shook his head. “You’re right. He wasn’t home a lot. But you could always tell when he was home. This is an old building with old, thick walls, but even with the insulation, I could always hear him screaming and swearing. No one on the floor liked him.”

  “Did you see Mr. Banks on Saturday?”

  The young man pressed his thin lips together. “Actually, I didn’t. But I talked to the movers.” He gave a fleeting smile. “I remember telling one of them that I hoped Rudy was moving far away.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “That he was only hired help. But now that you mention it, it was odd that Rudy wasn’t around directing things.”

  Decker smoothed his mustache. “Could he have been around when you weren’t home?”

  “I was home most of Saturday. I did go out for brunch for a few hours. It’s possible I missed him.”

  The notebook came out of Decker’s pocket. “Do you remember the name of the moving company?”

  The man faltered. “No…no, I don’t remember.”

  “Were the movers dressed in any kind of a uniform?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You know, usually movers wear shirts with the name of the company embroidered over the pockets.”

  He thought about the question. “I don’t remember the name of the company, but they were dressed in a single color—matching shirts and pants in dark gray. Three of them. One big guy with tattoos, another was a little guy with like…geez, sort of a mullet, Hispanic or Italian looking; the third was also darker complexioned…buzz cut. Tough-looking dudes.”

  “Do you recall any names?”

  “Sorry, no. I’m good with images, not words.”

  “You’re helping me a great deal. Do you remember what time it was when you spoke to Mr. Banks’s mover?”

  “About one in the afternoon…what’s going on?”

  “Mr. Banks and I arran
ged an appointment for this Monday. He never mentioned anything about moving, and I can’t reach him on his cell. Could I get your name, sir?”

  “Baker Culbertson. Do you think something happened to Rudy?”

  “I don’t know. Does the apartment complex have a manager?”

  “Not in the building, no.”

  “So who do you call when there’s a problem?”

  “Imry Keric. If you hold on a minute, I’ll give you his number.” Culbertson opened the door just wide enough for him to fit through and closed it in Decker’s face. The gesture probably came more out of suspiciousness than rudeness. Decker was filling in his notes when Baker returned with a slip of paper. “This is his work number and this is his cell.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Culbertson. I’d also like to get your phone number if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Why do you need my number?”

  “In case I think of additional questions for you.”

  He paused a long time, but in the end he recited a string of digits. “I don’t know why you’d want to talk to me again. I told you everything I know.”

  “Just in case something comes to mind.” Decker flipped the cover of his notepad and tucked it into his pocket. He handed Culbertson a card. “And here’s my number if you feel the need to call.”

  “I don’t know why I would. I barely knew the man.”

  “You knew him enough not to like him.”

  Another hint of a smile. “True. It was hate at first sight.”

  THE BARTENDER POURED another shot, and Oliver pushed it in front of Nick Little. They were drinking at a bar—not some gussied-up, pussied-up travesty of a saloon that peddled apple martinis and frozen strawberry daiquiris, but a bar’s bar. Dark inside with an old-fashioned box TV playing sports. Sawdust on the floor, barstools with red Naugahyde seats, and a polished wood bar top that had heard secrets as old as the Bible.

  The neon in the window called the establishment Jackson’s Hole, and Nick Little was a well-known patron. He was slugging back booze almost as fast as the barkeep could pour. It loosened his tongue. Within fifteen minutes, Oliver found out that Nick had been married and divorced twice, one kid with the first and one with the second. His ex-wives were bitches and whores and marriage was a cruel joke perpetrated on men by conniving women in order to screw their husbands out of their paychecks.

  It didn’t take much acting for Oliver to agree with him, although he and his ex could now be in the same room without fireworks discharging. He didn’t actively hate his ex, but she did bring out the dyspeptic side of his personality.

  Nick Little had manly features—a roman nose veined from alcohol and a big chin with a heavy shadow of stubble that darkened his face. His eyes were Christmas colored—kelly green and red-rimmed. Metal studs pierced his earlobes and climbed all the way up to the cartilage. He was big across the shoulders but thin at the hips. His arms were muscled and festooned with ink. By trade, he worked in a pit crew. When he wasn’t servicing cars, he was racing them. He liked who he was and how he lived, and if anyone had a problem with that, they could eat his shit. He had packed a lot of living into his thirty years and intended to stuff even more life into his next thirty big ones if the guy upstairs permitted.

  Oliver was trying to persuade him to talk about his mother, but Nick was too busy ragging on his exes to make the switch. He’d just have to wait Mr. Macho out. Eventually—and probably when Nick was drunk enough—he’d get around to talking about Melinda.

  That happened about an hour later, although the man could sure hold his liquor. When he talked, he made eye contact and his hands were steady. “She tried the best she could.” He licked his lips. “It sucked all the way around.”

  “How much do you remember?”

  “I was fifteen, I remember everything. I liked my dad. He was a good guy. He might not have approved of how I live, but he would have supported my decisions. I’m financially independent and he would have liked that.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Yes, there’s Mom.” His blinked several times. “Mom fell apart. When her world crashed, she couldn’t handle her own shit, let alone ours.”

  “She was absent a lot?”

  “A lot—as in all the time. I hated her for it, but now I understand it. Sometimes life turns you into this person that you don’t want to be.”

  “She’s doing okay now.”

  “Yeah, she married well. Good for her.”

  No bitterness there, Oliver thought. “How’d she meet her current husband?”

  “Some kind of charity…at least, that’s the cover story.”

  “And the real story is…”

  “Probably in Vegas over one of the card tables.”

  “Yeah, I heard she had a problem.”

  “Had?” He smiled. “Had would imply that she no longer deals with the issue.”

  “She still gambles?”

  “Does a bear still shit in the woods?”

  “Where does she get the money?”

  “I don’t know, Detective; I don’t follow the vices of my mother. We’re not close. She doesn’t approve of me—my externals. Still, I wish her well.” He downed another shot. “No one’s perfect.”

  “I could understand how she gets spending money now…Warren’s a very wealthy man—”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Little raised his shot glass.

  “Where’d she get the money to indulge her hobby when she was married to your dad?”

  “I don’t know how much gambling she did when Dad was alive. He probably kept her in check. Why don’t you ask her about it?”

  “I did, and you nailed it. She said it wasn’t a problem when your dad was alive…not much more than an occasional jaunt to Vegas.”

  Little appeared thoughtful. “I’m sure his death unleashed all sorts of hidden demons.”

  “Your father was well loved by everyone who knew him. Everyone said he was a straight shooter.”

  “That was the rumor.” Little shot him a sneer. “What are you getting at?”

  “He made a teacher’s salary, Nick. Your mother didn’t work. Your parents owned a lot of toys.”

  Little licked his lips but said nothing.

  “I’m just wondering if you had any idea where the extra cash may have come from.”

  “I was fifteen.”

  “I’m betting that nothing got past you.”

  “I don’t know anything about my father’s extracurricular activities—or even if there were any extracurricular activities. Could he have been a hit man for the mob?” He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “I was thinking much more low level, Nick.”

  Again the sneer. “What? Like he was stealing the kids’ lunch money?”

  “Drug pushing.”

  Nick laughed. “It sure wouldn’t have fit my image of Dad. All I know is that he was always there when I needed him. For a kid, that’s all that counts.”

  “What happened to the toys—the boat, the trailer, the camper?”

  Little furrowed his brow. “Good question. They just disappeared from my life, same as my father. My mom probably sold everything to make ends meet. It was a good thing that she couldn’t touch our education fund, otherwise I could have never gone to an elite university and become the worthwhile citizen I am today.” He smiled with dark-stained teeth. “Can’t you tell?”

  “I can actually,” Oliver told him.

  Little took in the words and scratched his cheek. “I thought I’d love college. Living away from home and away from the townspeople with their pitying looks. More than anything, I just wanted to get out.” He nodded to the bartender, who poured another round. “Then I discovered that I liked chaos. It was fun…a real rush. Once I settled into the routine, I participated in every kind of protest known to mankind. Didn’t matter what the cause was as long as I could yell about something. Duke sure as hell taught me how to drink.”

  “You went to Duke? That’s pretty impressive.”

&
nbsp; Little belted back the shot. “I got in everywhere I applied: Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Dartmouth…all of them. My grades were okay, but I tested high. The key to my success was a murdered father. You write an essay on that and on your mother’s downhill spiral and how you hope for a second chance, blah, blah, blah. It’s the type of shit that those bastions of bleeding hearts eat up. Plus, I wasn’t a scholarship case thanks to my dad’s foresight.”

  “The educational funds for your brother and you. Not to belabor the point, but where did that money come from?”

  “I don’t know.” He took sip. “I always thought it was my dad who put away the money for the funds. But I’m now thinking that it could have been my grandparents—my mother’s parents.”

  “Are you in contact with them?”

  “I used to get birthday and Christmas presents. After my father died…I don’t know exactly what happened. There was a falling-out between my mother and them. It was probably over her gambling.”

  “What about your father’s parents?”

  “They were much older. They died when I was very young.”

  “And you’re not the least bit curious about your living grandparents?”

  “Not because I’m angry at them. I invited them to my wedding—the first one. They didn’t come, but they did send a check, which was honestly way more appreciated than their presence.” His eyes went to a faraway place. “The last time I remember seeing them was at Jared’s graduation from Columbia—or maybe it was at his wedding. Call Jared. He keeps in contact with them. He’s a good guy. He came out much better than I did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He made something of himself.”

  “What’s wrong with working in a pit crew?”

  Nick smiled. “Nothing. What I mean is that Jared’s more conventionally successful. He’s a real estate lawyer down in La Jolla.”

  “Lawyers get into trouble, too.”

  Nick laughed. “As far as I know, Jared’s managed to avoid the pitfalls, but I don’t know everything. He could be selling swamp land to little old ladies, but it wouldn’t matter to me. He’s my brother. I love him. End of story.”