“Precisely why he’s so right-wing.”
“We’ll know more once you’ve spoken to Wenderhole,” Decker said. “Arlington had a known beef against Little. Let’s see if we can explore that a little further. When you interview Wenderhole, make sure he doesn’t feel threatened. Put the blame on Arlington if you have to.”
“Agreed.” She turned to Oliver. “Want to come with me?”
“Funny, I was going to ask you if you wanted to come with me this afternoon to interview Phil Shriner.”
“Can’t do it. We’ll meet up later and exchange notes.”
“Good idea,” Decker added. “Maybe by that time I will have talked to Cal J.”
Marge sighed. “So many suspects, so little time.”
PEOPLE NEVER FAIL to surprise. Once there had been three teenaged thugs. Although it was true that Leroy Josephson had died from gunshot fire, the two remaining boys had turned the corner from back alley to upright. Darnell Arlington was a high school athletic coach, and Jervis Wenderhole was now on the government payroll as a gang counselor at a youth center in South Central. When Bennett Little was murdered, Wenderhole would have been around seventeen. That meant Wenderhole should be about thirty-two—a young man at the height of his strength.
If someone had told Marge that Jervis Wenderhole was fifty, she would have had no trouble believing it.
It could have been the wheelchair. Psychologically, people associated the apparatus with the aged. But it was more than just the confines of the steel chair. Wenderhole’s bald crown was ringed with white, kinky curls. His deep-set eyes were dark and wary. His lips were pale; his mocha skin was blotched with white colorless patches. When Marge knocked on his open office door, he looked up, noticing her badge around her neck, and held up an index finger. He was talking to a tall teen who was clutching a basketball.
“I’ll just wait outside until you’re done.” Marge slipped into the hallway and leaned against a faded yellow wall festooned with children’s art. Somewhere there was an indoor gym reverberating with the sound of bouncing rubber, and mixed with the din was the pulsating thump of rap music. Marge had passed a TV room and a crafts room on the way in. Not a computer in sight.
The teen soon emerged, dribbling down the hallway. He turned left and disappeared. Marge showed her face in the door opening. Wenderhole was at his desk, writing some notes. Without looking up, he said, “Come in, Sergeant.”
His wheelchair took up most of the space and also served as his desk chair. No place for her to park her butt. She leaned against the wall. “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Wenderhole.”
“Jervis.” He spun around and faced her. “Did you have a chance to look around?”
“Not much. Didn’t want to disturb anyone.”
“With all that racket going on I don’t think anyone would notice.” Wenderhole smiled. “What’d you think about what you saw?”
“I think that you’re doing very well with limited resources.”
The man nodded. “Very limited resources.”
“My daughter goes to Cal Tech. She belongs to a group that reconditions old computers and gives them away to worthy organizations. Most of the time, we’ve been the recipients. LAPD is pretty bare-bones. But I can pass the word to her if you want.”
“Thank you, Sergeant, but it won’t do us much good. Anything we can’t affix to the wall or floor winds up getting stolen. However, I wouldn’t mind a laptop.”
Marge smiled. “I’ll let her know.”
“Cal Tech…” Wenderhole shook his head. “She must be a genius.”
“She is, but not thanks to me. She’s adopted.”
“Is she Asian?”
Marge paused before answering. “You assumed she’s Asian because she goes to Cal Tech?”
Wenderhole smiled. “Racist, isn’t it. Well?”
“Chinese. She was orphaned while a teen and I got lucky.”
“Stereotypes come from somewhere.” Wenderhole leaned back, his shoulders folding into his body. “Geographically, I haven’t strayed too far from home. I was born about a half mile south of here. When I was a teen, the Los Angeles United School District had optional busing. The lottery put me at North Valley with Darnell Arlington and Leroy Josephson. We were a trio in misery—misplaced, mismanaged, and mistreated. After Darnell was relocated, Leroy and I didn’t last too long. We both dropped out in tenth grade, but neither of us told our mothers because we knew a good deal when we saw one. Working in that white area, it was a whole lot easier to sell shit. We were the only show in town for a while.”
“You sold drugs. So who was the supplier?”
“Darnell handled almost everything. Once he got caught—and moved away—Leroy and me were shipped back to the ’hood. Then Leroy was gunned down, and I was shot and paralyzed. I probably would have kept going if a bullet hadn’t stopped me. I probably would have ended up like Leroy.”
“How long did it take for you to make the transformation?”
“You mean from gangsta to solid citizen?” He thought a moment. “I’ve been doing this for seven years. Psychologically, it’s taken me longer to adjust, and that’s because I see myself in so many of the kids here.”
Marge took out her notepad. “You said you were misplaced, mistreated, and…”
“Mismanaged.”
“Yeah, mismanaged. No one tried to help you?”
“No one.”
“What about Bennett Little? He seemed to have an outstretched hand.”
Wenderhole stared at her. “Dr. Ben’s project was Darnell, not me. I suppose I was hopeless in his eyes. Or…maybe he did try to help, but I didn’t hear him—really hear him. His words were white noise.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I was pissed off and on drugs. I didn’t listen to my nana, my mother, my minister, my coach. I certainly wasn’t gonna listen to no pissy-ass white boy.” He smiled. “What a stupid jerk I was. Even with missing almost all of school, I scored almost 1100 on the SAT. If I’d been born a different color in a different area, I would have been a lawyer or a psychologist.”
“There’s still time,” Marge said.
Wenderhole was taken aback. “Yes, you’re right about that. I’m still making excuses. Patterns die hard.”
“So you didn’t have much to do with Dr. Ben?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with anyone in North Valley. I only stepped inside a classroom when it rained because it was too wet and cold to hang. You know how often it rains in L.A., so you now know how often I was physically in school.”
“What do you remember about Dr. Ben’s death?”
“I was wondering when I’d have this conversation. I thought he might come up as soon as I heard about Primo Ekerling.”
Stunned, Marge tried not to stare. “You know Primo Ekerling?”
Wenderhole scratched his stubble. “Close the door. I got a story to tell you.”
CHAPTER 29
DRESSED IN WHITE pants, a yellow polo shirt, and a brimmed cap, Phil Shriner had just finished with his power walk around the grounds of his retirement home when he found Oliver waiting for him in front of bungalow 58. Inside, the space was still claustrophobic with furniture, although some of the hardwood floor was peeking through. Shriner took a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator and poured two glasses’ worth. He opened the patio door, went outside, and leaned over the railing. Oliver stood next to him and Shriner handed him a glass. The retired detective’s backyard overlooked the number 6 fairway. He checked his watch. “I’m due to tee off in a half hour.”
Oliver sipped the lemonade. “But I told you this might take some time.”
“I don’t have anything to add beyond our first encounter. I don’t know why you bothered coming out at all.”
“Then I’ll make it quick,” Oliver said. “I think you’re lying to me about Melinda Little.”
Shriner’s head snapped back. “Well, that was blunt. So I’ll be blunt back. Frankly, I don’t care what yo
u think.”
“C’mon, Phil. You know how it works. You don’t want to make it hard on yourself. Just be straight and I’ll leave you alone.”
He stared at Oliver. “What’s your problem? You’re getting nowhere, so you’re bugging people to see what drops?”
“Okay. Let me get this out. I think that Melinda Little’s gambling problem predated her husband’s death. She was flushing money down the toilet way before the murder. We suspect that you knew that, too.”
“Maybe I suspected it, but I didn’t know it. And why would that matter?”
“Because, Phil, if she was heavily in debt before the murder, she might have viewed Bennett Little’s insurance policy as a ticket out.”
“I wouldn’t know. I told you I met her after her husband died.”
“We have witnesses that put you two together before Little was murdered,” Oliver fibbed.
“Then your witnesses are lying. I met her after her husband was already dead.” Shriner gave him a steely glare. “She had been gambling heavily, and I gave her a shoulder to cry on. She was desperate and I was rock bottom. I joined Gamblers Anonymous first and convinced her to come to a meeting. That’s the extent of our relationship. One forged in misery.”
“So tell me again about this scheme you cooked up because she spent the insurance money.”
“We’re mining old territory.”
“Indulge me.”
Shriner finished the lemonade and put the glass on a patio table. “Melinda had blown most of the insurance money from her husband at the casinos.”
“What was her choice of poison?”
“The card tables. She resisted joining GA because, like most addicts, she was convinced that she had it under control. It took a lot of prodding on my part, but she agreed to accompany me to a meeting. Then she went to another…and another. Soon she realized the extent of her problem. The money was almost gone and if she didn’t get it together, she’d be destitute. She needed to borrow money to tide her over until some bond interest came due, and her parents were the only ones who wouldn’t do a credit check.”
“But they knew she had the insurance money.”
“Exactly the point. She couldn’t tell them the truth about her gambling. She felt they wouldn’t understand her psychological state.”
“Or maybe they were tired of giving her their hard-earned money.”
“That’s why she was petrified to face them. She told me that if she admitted her gambling to her parents, they’d try to take away the kids. So she asked me if I could think of something to help her out.”
“So you lied for her.”
“Not completely. I said she could tell her parents that she spent the insurance money on a private detective. I’d back up her story.”
“Did they call?”
“Of course. I could tell that they liked Ben. Money spent for the case would be acceptable.”
“What did you say?”
“That I was looking into the case and was in contact with the detectives. They accepted that.”
Oliver said, “According to Melinda’s mom, she knew it was not.”
“Then she didn’t let on to me.”
“Which detective did you speak with?”
“Arnie Lamar. Both he and his partner thought it was a carjacking. He also told me they suspected Darnell Arlington but couldn’t pin it on him because he had an ironclad alibi. That’s why I called Darnell up. And like I told you the first time, he seemed broken up about Little’s death.”
“Why did Lamar suspect Arlington if the kid had an alibi?”
“Because Arlington was a black kid and had a beef against Little. For a while, he and his partner were working on the assumption that Arlington got one of his friends to do it, but that went nowhere. Arlington didn’t seem to have much contact with his friends once he moved, and he certainly didn’t have any hit money to do the payoff.”
“Maybe they did it as a favor.”
“Lamar said that according to the phone records, there wasn’t a lot of back and forth contact between Arlington and his old friends. Maybe Darnell kept in communication by carrier pigeon, but I didn’t have any way of exploring that option.” He checked his watch again. “Oliver, things were cold when I stepped in. And while I’m a good detective, I don’t like to work for pennies. I wrote up a report and covered her butt so that she could save face with her parents.”
“And you two were never sexually involved?”
“She wasn’t interested in me, and I didn’t want to push it. I was separated from my wife at the time, so it wasn’t a moral thing. I suppose I didn’t think it was a good idea for two gamblers to hook up even temporarily. Also, it would have destroyed any chance of reconciliation with my wife. For once, I was trying to act smart.”
He sighed and looked longingly at the golf course.
“I’d really like to catch that game.”
Oliver ignored him. “Let me ask you this, Shriner. If you knew that Melinda had been gambling all through her marriage and was in debt, do you think that she, in her darkest hour of despair, would kill for insurance money?”
“She didn’t kill him.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I know, Oliver. We were in GA together for over a year. You admit a lot of things to yourself and to the group. You get to know people pretty damn well.”
“She wouldn’t admit to murder.”
Shriner came in from the patio, went into the closet, and took out a bag of golf clubs. “I’m not saying she was an angel. She probably wasn’t a very good mother. She probably wasn’t a particularly good wife. She probably drank too much and maybe she ran around a little, but I don’t think she’s a murderer.”
“Ran around a little?” Oliver let go of a smile. “Why would you think she was loose if you two didn’t fuck?”
Shriner’s face grew pink. “She wasn’t loose. I don’t know why I said it.”
“What is it? Did she come on to you?”
“You think I’d turn her down?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you would.”
“I gotta go.”
Then it dawned on Oliver. “She admitted things in Gamblers Anonymous. That’s part of the program, to admit your past mistakes. Things like having an affair. So if she didn’t fuck you, who’d she fuck?”
“You know I can’t divulge confidences.”
“Shriner, I’m trying to solve a murder.”
“I can’t divulge confidences!”
“Okay, don’t tell me who she fucked. Just give me a list of possible names.”
“No—”
“Just a first name. How about that?”
“Oliver, give me a break. I can’t divulge confidences. And if you go to her and tell her that I told you about an affair, I’ll sue your ass off.”
“Did she have an affair with one of Little’s students? Sometimes women get a kick out of that. Sticking one to the old man who had time for everyone except the wife. Did she have an affair with Darnell Arlington?”
“Oh, Christ, Oliver, the kid was seventeen when he left.”
“And a seventeen-year-old can’t get a hard-on? There are teachers getting it on with twelve-year-olds. Seventeen is practically legal. And probably a lot better than her old man, right? Maybe that’s why Little had him expelled.”
“You have an evil mind. She didn’t fuck Arlington. I’ll tell you that much.”
“How about a former North Valley student. He would have been about twenty-one or twenty-two at the time of Little’s death. Does the name Rudy Banks ring a bell?” And there it was…that millisecond pause. Oliver clapped his hands. “Holy shit, it was Rudy.”
“I’m leaving now.”
“He’s missing by the way—Rudy is.”
That stopped Shriner for a moment. “What do you mean?”
“He moved out of his apartment last Saturday.”
“So he moved. That doesn’t mean he’s missing.”
“
We can’t find him, there’s no forwarding address, and the neighbors never saw him with the movers. Plus we found blood in his apartment.”
Shriner grimaced slightly. “I can’t help you there. I haven’t thought about Banks in years.”
“But you thought about him at one time. Did you ever consider him a suspect in Little’s murder?”
“I can’t say anything.”
“We’re not talking about Melinda Little, we’re talking about Rudy Banks. Did you ever consider him a suspect in Bennett Little’s murder?”
He sighed. “His name came up.”
“And?”
“That’s it. I mentioned him to the police. I’m not in the business of solving murders. I’m in the business of passing along information to cops who are supposed to be solving murders. If they don’t choose to act on it, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Why did you mention him to the police? What made you consider him a suspect?”
“I can’t get into that without breaking confidences.”
“Do you know what Banks had against Little?”
“Banks felt Little had disrespected him, but Rudy felt everyone disrespected him.”
“You told your suspicions to Arnie Lamar?”
“No, Lamar wasn’t in. It was the other one.”
“Calvin Vitton?”
“That’s the one.”
“And you never followed up on it?”
“No, I never followed up on it. I am not in a position to arrest anyone. If the police didn’t think he was worth looking into, who am I to step on toes.”
“All right,” Oliver tried to contain his anger. “You can’t solve everyone’s problems. But why didn’t you tell me that you suspected Rudy Banks?”
“You never asked.”
THE TRAVEL BROCHURE featured an inland cruise to Alaska: seven days of sailing and port stops leaving from Vancouver, British Columbia, and ending up in Anchorage. Cindy said, “The best part is that it goes from Sunday to Sunday so Shabbat isn’t a problem.”
Decker skimmed the information.
It was Cindy’s day off, and when she called to get together, it came at an opportune time. Cal Junior had canceled their appointment, deciding that Los Angeles was too much for him and he was too emotional to talk, anyway. If Decker wanted to talk to him next week, he’d probably be calm enough for a conversation. And while what Cal J said was probably true, Decker suspected that Freddie Vitton had had a long talk with his brother, steering him away from the interview.
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