Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 17

by The Mercedes Coffin

  CHAPTER 23

  IMRY KERIC WAS a spectral figure. Decker could see veins through his translucent skin. Thick and blue, they coursed through his hands and sinewy arms and ran up his neck into his head. He looked as if he’d been wired for electricity.

  Rudolph Banks had moved out three months shy of his lease, but he had left cash for the remaining sum in Keric’s mailbox. As far as the building manager was concerned, Banks had been a model tenant because he paid on time and never had any wild parties.

  “Neighbors say he used to scream a lot,” Decker pointed out.

  “Ech…” Keric waved his hand in the air. “Who doesn’t scream?” He inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. “He didn’t do damage. He left the place cleaner that my crew does. I don’t do anything. You see for yourself.”

  Decker stepped inside and, indeed, the space was bare and had been scrubbed down: bad odds for pulling up anything significant.

  Bummer.

  He started with the kitchen: Banks had been thorough. There wasn’t anything in the cabinets, cupboards, or refrigerator. The shelves had been wiped down and were crumb free. The stove looked relatively hygienic. The walls had been coated with off-white semigloss enamel paint. In general, the hue yellowed as it aged, especially in the kitchen, where heat and fumes wreak havoc. But except for dings, the paint job appeared recent because the color was still fresh.

  The living room had been done in a sage green, the paint as new as the kitchen judging by the amount of nicks and scratches. The nude pictures were gone, the nails the only indication that the walls had once been adorned. The wood flooring appeared recently refinished. Decker asked Keric about it.

  “If he did it, he didn’t ask my permission.”

  “So he didn’t refinish the floors?”

  “No, I say he did.” Keric shrugged. “I don’t complain, though. It looks nice.” The manager pointed to an area in the corner. “There are some scratches.”

  “The movers probably did that.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Any idea why he’d refinish the floors?”

  “No. He had good taste. Very…elegant.”

  “He wasn’t a very elegant guy.”

  Keric shrugged. “He was always okay with me. Anything else?”

  “Did Mr. Banks leave a forwarding address?”

  “Maybe with post office, not with me.”

  Then there was no forwarding address. Decker had already called the local mail station while he was waiting for the manager to show up. “I’ll just take a quick peek around the rest of the apartment.”

  “It will take long?”

  “Not too long.” He checked out the bathrooms: the counters and cabinets were empty. The bedrooms had been painted beige and brown, respectively. Tidy except for nail holes in the walls. “Are you going to repaint these rooms?”

  “They look nice and clean to me. If no one complains, I just leave it as it is.” Keric jingled the keys. “We go now?”

  Decker eyed the wood in the bedrooms. Whereas the planks in the living room floor had been done in a central diamond pattern, these strips of oak had been arranged running board style. More important, the flooring was obviously original to the building and hadn’t been touched in a number of years: dull finish and dirt in the open cracks. Not that it looked bad. It acquired a patina of its own, but if Rudy was going to do the floors in one room, why not just do the entire apartment?

  “You are done, no?” Keric asked again.

  “In a minute.” Decker walked back into the living room, his eyes immediately focusing in on the baseboard and shoe molding. It was also semigloss and white in color. The electricity had been turned off. Although the room had some natural light, it wasn’t enough illumination for details.

  Decker took out a penlight. He squatted down at a corner and shined it in the area between the shoe molding and the floor. Carefully he went around the room, inspecting each millimeter of the crack. When he was finished scrutinizing the room, he stood up and repeated the process in the kitchen. It took up more time than Keric would have liked.

  “Now we are done?”

  There was a faint thread of hope in Keric’s voice. Decker hated to dash it asunder, but it was what it was. “Not quite yet. If you can bear with me a little longer, I think we can wrap this up one way or the other.”

  “Wrap up…what is to wrap up?”

  “I can tell you that just as soon as I do a small test with my kit.”

  “What is kit? You make powder on the walls.”

  “No, no.” Decker had left the apartment and was bounding down the stairs. “I’m just going to swab a few areas with a Q-tip.”

  “What swab?” Keric was having trouble keeping up with him, so Decker slowed. “What do you mean, swab?”

  Decker reached the lobby and went out to his car. From the glove compartment he retrieved a small cellophane package. “I found a few small stains between the shoe moldings and the floor in the living room and kitchen. This little packet is a presumptive blood test kit. It’ll tell me whether the stains are blood or not.”

  Keric’s ashen face turned grayer. “Why would there be blood?”

  “I’m not saying there is.” Keric was panting, and since Decker’s CPR skills hadn’t been tested for a long time, he walked at a more leisurely pace. The two men made it back up the stairs. By that time, Baker Culbertson had emerged from his warren and was lurking in the hallway.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Decker smiled and nodded. “I’m just about done.”

  “He tests for blood,” Keric told the artist.

  “Blood?” Culbertson was aghast. “Why would there be blood?”

  “I’m not saying there is. Let’s not draw any conclusions.” Decker paused. “You didn’t hear anything funny coming from Banks’s apartment Friday night, did you?”

  “No, everything was quiet,” Culbertson insisted. “Not that I was home all of Friday evening. I have a life.”

  Decker gave him a hard smile. “It’s probably best if you keep quiet about this. I wouldn’t want to start a panic in the building.” He turned to Keric. “That wouldn’t be good for you.”

  “You here isn’t good for me.”

  Decker kept his face flat. “Excuse me…” He went into Banks’s place, squatted and swabbed a small blotch on the baseboard of the kitchen. The Q-tip turned blue.

  “What is that?” Keric asked.

  “It means that it’s likely that the sample I took is blood.” He stood up. “It could be human blood, but it also could be from raw chicken or a piece of meat. Or it could be horseradish or potatoes. They’ll change the color as well.”

  “So why you do it?”

  “Because the kitchen and living room paint jobs are new, but the entire apartment wasn’t repainted. I’m wondering why.” Decker went into the living room, found a few faded spots that he had spied earlier, and repeated the process. Again, the Q-tip turned blue on each trial.

  “More blood?” Keric asked.

  “Looks that way.”

  “Or potato?”

  “Not so likely in a living room.” Decker took out his cell phone. “I’m sorry to do this to you, Mr. Keric, but I’m going to call down some experts from the Crime Lab. They’ll be able to tell me if it’s horseradish or human blood.”

  “Why you look for human blood here? I get complaints that Rudy screams but none last weekend.”

  “Mr. Keric, that’s what concerns me.” Decker went through his cell directory and punched in the number for the Crime Lab. “That Rudy moved out and no one heard a peep.”

  THE TROUBLE WITH calling after hours was voice mail. Oliver resisted the urge to slam down the phone and tried to adopt a zen/yoga/pilates/tai chi kinda what-me-worry attitude as an anonymous voice said:

  If you would like to be connected to Richard Poulson, press 1.

  If you would like to be connected to Annette Delain, press 2.

  If you would like to b
e connected to Cyril Bach, press 3.

  If you would like to be connected to Jared Little, press 4.

  Oliver pressed four.

  The extension started to ring, and when a human voice answered, Oliver was momentarily thrown off.

  “Mr. Little?”

  “This is Jared Little. Who is this?”

  “I’m Detective Scott Oliver from LAPD—”

  “Yes, the detective. My brother said you’d be calling. He told me that you’ve reopened Dad’s case.”

  “Actually, we’ve got several people on your father’s case. Could I meet with you to talk about it?”

  “Of course. I’d do anything for Dad.”

  “When would be a good time?”

  “Name it.”

  “How about…” Oliver looked at his watch. It was a five-thirty. “Do you still live in La Jolla?”

  “Yes.”

  “I could drive down tonight. I could probably be there by eight, eight-thirty.”

  “Tonight is my night out with my wife. I won’t be back until about ten. It’s going to be late to drive back to L.A. for you.”

  “I’m fine with driving back. Let me give you my phone number. I’ll probably be in La Jolla around dinnertime. When you get home, give me a ring and I’ll come over.”

  “That’s a good idea. I wouldn’t want you showing up, flashing the badge and putting Grandma in a panic.”

  “Grandma? Your mother is babysitting?”

  “Hardly.” A chuckle. “My grandparents. They’re the resident babysitters. They love their great-grandson. It’s a sweet deal all around.”

  “Your mother’s parents?”

  “Yes. My father’s parents passed on a long time ago.”

  “You know, I’d love to talk to your grandparents. Would that be possible?”

  The line fell silent. “I can call them and ask.”

  “It would be very helpful. I know that you remember a lot about that period, but you were only thirteen. Adults would have a different perspective.” A long pause. “Your brother mentioned a falling-out between your mother and them.”

  “He oversimplified the situation,” Jared told him. “It’s more like: we all love Mom but she’s difficult. Are you going to ask me prying questions about Mom?”

  “I think prying is too strong a word.” Even though it wasn’t. “It’s hard to talk about your dad without talking about your mom. I know she had problems with gambling in the past. I’ve heard she conquered her demons.”

  Another protracted silence. “More like a cold war. Anyway, I’ll ask my grandparents and give you a call back.”

  “Thanks for being so helpful, Jared. It’ll really help move the investigation along.”

  “No problem.” A sigh. “I know you tend to idolize the dead, but my father was really a good guy. Nelson, my son, looks a lot like him. He’s got the same winning personality, the same sparkle in his eyes, the same ability to command respect. I know that seems weird for me to be saying, but it’s not just a proud parent talking. We just put him in pre-school and the teacher said he’s a natural-born leader.”

  “I’m sure she’s right.”

  “It’s uncanny, you know. The bastard took my dad away, but his genes live on.”

  MARGE KNOCKED ON Decker’s door frame and without waiting for a response, stepped into the office. “You wouldn’t think a guy with the name of Jervis Wenderhole would be that hard to track down.”

  Decker pointed to a chair. “Remind me again…who is Jervis Wenderhole?”

  “One of Darnell’s ex-peeps.”

  “Right. A-Tack the rapper.”

  “Wenderhole holds a unique spot on Arlington’s list,” Marge said. “He’s the only person who isn’t in jail or isn’t dead.”

  “But since you can’t locate him, that’s still an open question.”

  “I’ve run him through NCIC. He’s got a record but hasn’t been naughty for a long time. No death certificate found, so there’s hope.”

  “He’s not in the phone book?”

  “Not in L.A. I’ve got a reverse directory for the Valley, but I’m looking for one in South Central. I found out that although Arlington went to North Valley, Darnell, Josephson, and Wenderhole were bused in from L.A.—a twenty-five-mile trip one way. I though mandatory busing was declared unconstitutional.”

  “Fifteen years ago, the program was voluntary. Lots of parents chose it because they thought their kids would get a better education at a whiter school.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Any other ideas on how you might track him down?”

  “Didn’t you say Wenderhole was a rapper?”

  “Yes, I did. However, I haven’t found any actual CD.”

  “So where’d you hear that from?”

  “From one of the old buddies who is now in prison. Maybe Banks was his producer. Wouldn’t that be convenient?”

  “Banks’s whereabouts would be convenient.”

  “He didn’t leave any forwarding address?”

  “No, but he did leave human blood behind in his apartment. We’ve got a positive on that.”

  “Oh my…” Marge sat down. “A lot of it?”

  Decker said, “I found blood behind the shoe molding that dripped down to the baseboard and floor.”

  “Do we have any way to match it to Rudy Banks?”

  “We’re working on it, but I don’t see how it could belong to Rudy. The paint job is new, but not that new. I talked to Rudy on Friday.”

  “It could be someone claiming to be Rudy,” Marge said.

  “I thought about that,” Decker said. “Rudy mentioned to me over the phone that he’d been on jury duty. I checked it out and it was true. Banks had been impaneled at the L.A. courthouse as recently as Friday.”

  “So the question is, whose blood?” Marge said. “Primo Ekerling?”

  “It’s a thought.”

  Oliver popped his face through the open door. “I’m off to La Jolla.” He looked at Marge. “You’re here. Wanna come?”

  “What’s in La Jolla?”

  “Jared Little and, as an added bonus, I’m interviewing Melinda Little’s parents—Delia and Mark Defoe, who by the way are estranged from their daughter.”

  “That should be interesting.” Marge stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder. “A lot more interesting than what I had planned. Sure I’ll come.”

  “What did you have planned, Margie?” Decker asked.

  “Absolutely nothing. Will’s on night shift, Vega’s doing community service, tutoring inner-city kids on computers, and I’m a blank slate. Do you need me to follow up on the forensics at Banks’s apartment?”

  “No, I’ll do it,” Decker told her. “But thanks.”

  “What forensics?” Oliver asked.

  “I’ll fill you in while we’re driving. I’m starving. Let’s grab some sushi to go. We’ll eat in the car.”

  Oliver shot her an incredulous look. “How am I going to eat sushi if I’m behind the wheel?”

  “I’ll feed you, Scotty.” Marge shook her head. “I’ll even wipe the soy sauce off your chin.”

  “You make me sound like a drooling, senile old fart.”

  She pinched his cheek. “Not at all. I’m just trying to help you…do you a service. Think of me as a geisha with a gun.”

  CHAPTER 24

  THE SUNSET WAS on the right, a fiery ball spewing golden rays on a smooth slate surface. They were about ten miles from their destination, and while the traffic had been gnarly, the view had been pretty and the sushi had gone down smoothly except for the thirst factor. Oliver was on his second Diet Coke when he saw the off-ramp for La Jolla Village Drive.

  “You turn right here,” Marge told him. “Melinda’s parents are Mark and Delia Defoe, correct?”

  “Correct. As in Treasure Island.”

  “That was Robert Louis Stevenson,” Marge said. “Defoe is Robinson Crusoe.”

  “Stop showing off.”

  “I’m not showing off, I’m
just saying…never mind.”

  “Aren’t you impressed that I even knew that Defoe wrote some South Sea shipwreck book?”

  “Very impressed. Your literary Q has gone up a notch. Can we talk about the case?”

  “Sure. Melinda’s parents are babysitting their great-grandson. They’re in their late seventies. Jared asked us to be gentle with them. What’s the name of the development?”

  “La Jolla Pines.”

  Oliver slowed the car. “What does that sign say?”

  “That’s La Jolla Woods.”

  He crept another mile. “How about that sign?”

  “La Jolla Hills. Your directions say to go straight for three miles. It hasn’t been three miles.”

  “What’s that?”

  “La Jolla Shores.”

  “They’re not very original over here.”

  “Keep going…” They rode a minute in silence. Marge squinted in the dusk. “There’s the turnoff to La Jolla Pines.”

  Oliver hung a left, which put them into a forested development of stucco and wood, two-story town houses, more or less Cape Cod in style. The homes were constructed almost identically but individualized by finishing material, plants, garden statues, fences, and gates. They drove through winding streets that gently rose and fell, the asphalt roads shadowed by mature eucalyptus and pines. Green lawns, lots of blooms, and a plethora of citrus trees. The air was wet and briny, the temperature around sixty-five degrees.

  They parked in front of a white and brick house that was bedecked with multicolored impatiens. As soon as they got out of the car, the front yard lights came on and the door opened. An elderly woman stepped out onto the front porch. She was meticulously coiffed and dressed: white slacks, a white shirt, and a red blazer. Her teased salon-style hair was blond, her nails were long and painted pearlescent white, and large diamond rings adorned her knobby fingers.

  Marge had her badge out as she introduced herself. “Mrs. Defoe?”

  “Delia…” She walked a couple of steps and put her finger to her lips. “The old man fell asleep right on the living room couch. We can talk in the den.”