Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 17

by The Mercedes Coffin

  “Banks randomly offered Martel money to whack Ekerling, and Martel accepted?”

  “Maybe there’s a little history,” Decker said. “Maybe Martel thought that Ekerling was going to offer him a contract. After all, the note does say, here’s more, when is it happening? But a contract never comes through, and Martel moves on to Banks. While he’s with Banks, he complains about Ekerling. Finally Rudy sees an opportunity.”

  “I know what he’s saying,” Marge told Oliver. “If we could establish murder for hire between Banks and Travis Martel, it would help us establish a history for a grand jury to charge Banks with murder for hire of Bennett Little using Josephson.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Marge, but didn’t you just tell us that Josephson is dead?”

  “Josephson is dead, but Wenderhole is very much alive. And so is Darnell Arlington. I think it’s possible that Rudy hired Darnell to whack Little and since Darnell was out of town, he hired Leroy as the hit man.”

  “But Wenderhole is saying that Darnell didn’t kill Little. He isn’t even saying that Josephson killed Little.”

  “That’s why I need to go back and talk to Darnell Arlington. I think I can shake things up now that I’ve spoken with Wenderhole.” She turned to Decker. “Can you get me the funds to fly back to Ohio?”

  “If you get Wenderhole to write an official statement, I could justify another trip.”

  “Wenderhole is willing to state that he picked up Leroy from Clearwater Park, that Leroy had a lot of money, and that Leroy was very upset. And then around six months later, Ekerling came to him to record some demos.”

  “Exactly. Ekerling came to him to do some demos. Ekerling, not Banks,” Oliver said. “The whole tie-in with Rudy is nonexistent.”

  Decker said, “Scott, it’s just a theory. But the blood in Banks’s apartment isn’t a theory. It’s fact. That’s why I want to talk to Martel: to see if he knows Rudy. If he does, I’ll tell him that Rudy is blaming Ekerling’s murder exclusively on Martel and Perry. Maybe that’ll offend Martel and he’ll say something dumb.”

  “He’d have to be real dumb to start admitting he knew Ekerling,” Oliver responded.

  “And he’d also have to be real dumb to ride around in a car with a body in the trunk and leave his prints all over the place.”

  Oliver said, “And what if Martel shoots back that he’s never heard of Banks?”

  Decker shrugged. “Then you’re right. We’ve helped Hollywood buttress their cases against Travis Martel by establishing a connection between Martel and Ekerling. But we’ll be no further along in the Little case.”

  “Maybe I can drag something out of Arlington,” Marge said. “Especially if Darnell thinks that Wenderhole knows way more than he does.”

  “Or maybe he’ll be smart and keep his mouth shut,” Oliver told him. “Or maybe he’s totally innocent.”

  “Correct on both possibilities.” Marge smiled. “This is where my superior interviewing techniques might come in handy.”

  Decker laughed. “Did you get a chance to speak with Banks’s lawyer and find out if she’s heard from Banks this past week?”

  Marge said, “She wasn’t in yesterday. I left my card and she called me back last night. I’ll call her in about…” She checked her watch. It was close to nine. “Maybe in fifteen minutes and try to set up an appointment today.” She addressed Oliver. “Your turn. What happened with Shriner yesterday?”

  Oliver straightened up his shoulders and knotted his tie closer to his neck. “What I have is good because it actually has something to do with the Little case. Last I heard, we were working on that and not on Ekerling.”

  “You’re annoying me,” Decker said. “Go ahead.”

  “Rudy Banks was having an affair with Melinda Little.”

  “Wow!” Marge was impressed. “That’s good.”

  “Damn right,” Oliver said.

  “The affair happened before or after Ben’s murder?” Decker asked.

  “Before.”

  “Man, Banks has had his dirty little fingers in just about everything,” Marge said. “How’d he manage to bag Little’s wife?”

  Oliver said, “Well, we know Melinda was gambling behind her husband’s back. She probably needed money. Why not get it from Rudy?”

  “Where’d Rudy get expendable money? Were the Doodoo Sluts that big?”

  Decker said, “Marilyn Eustis told me they had cash, most of it spent on drugs.” He turned to Oliver. “How’d you find out about the affair?”

  “Phil Shriner implied it.”

  Marge stared at him. “What do you mean, implied it?”

  Oliver shrunk back a tad. “He couldn’t actually tell me yes, because it was said to him in confidence, but—”

  “So you don’t know if it’s true?”

  “It’s true, Marge, he just won’t admit it because Melinda confessed her sins at one of those GA meetings where everything is confidential.”

  “So how did you get it out of him?” Decker asked.

  “I just made the leap and he didn’t tell me no.”

  Decker said, “Scott, go over to Melinda Little and lie to her. Tell her that Shriner told you about the affair and what does she have to say for herself.”

  Oliver shrank back again. “Uh, I’d like to get some independent corroboration first. Shriner told me that if I approached Melinda Little and told her that he blabbed the affair, he’d sue me and the department. I can pump Melinda on it and try to get her to admit it, but we need to leave Shriner out of it.”

  “Back it up for a second,” Decker said. “Oliver, did Phil Shriner find out about the affair before or after the Little murder?”

  “Melinda was in GA after Little died, so he must have found out about it afterward.”

  Marge said, “If he’s to be believed.”

  Abruptly Oliver hit his forehead with his hand. “I’m going senile. Shriner told me that he passed Rudy Banks’s name to Cal Vitton as a possible suspect for the murder.”

  “He passed Banks’s name to Cal Vitton?” Decker was taken aback. “I didn’t see anything in Vitton’s note indicating that he interviewed Rudy.”

  Oliver said, “So maybe Cal checked Rudy out and he couldn’t hold him.”

  “Or maybe he didn’t even try to hold him,” Marge said. “I’m still thinking back to Pete’s conversation with Freddie Vitton, about Cal Senior not coming to his son’s rescue when he was being bullied.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know.”

  “I don’t believe that. Now Oliver says that Shriner passed Rudy’s name to Cal Vitton, giving Cal an opportunity to haul in Rudy’s ass. But he doesn’t do it.”

  Oliver said, “Rudy had something on Cal.”

  “I still think it had something to do with Cal J’s homosexuality,” Marge said.

  Oliver said, “Freddie V said that just about everyone knew that Cal J was gay.”

  Marge said, “But that doesn’t mean that Cal Senior would want it advertised. Maybe Cal didn’t have anything concrete on Rudy, so he decided not to look too hard if Rudy kept his mouth shut about Cal J’s sexuality.”

  “He might let some things slide,” Oliver said. “But not murder.”

  Marge looked at him. “But maybe Cal didn’t know that Rudy was a murderer. All I’m saying is that we’re familiar with a certain breed of cop who’d rather have their own sons conveniently disappear than to admit to the world that their offspring are homosexuals. They think it reflects on their machismo.”

  “Not just cops,” Decker said. “It’s a certain breed of man.”

  Oliver said, “Can we get back to Melinda Little for a moment? We have several reasons why she would want Little dead. The insurance money and maybe she was in love with Rudy and wanted to go off with him.”

  “There’s divorce for that,” Marge said.

  “But then she might lose her trust fund money.”

  Marge said, “Or maybe Rudy wanted Melinda and ordered a hit out on Little.”
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br />   Decker said, “First we need a way to verify an affair between Rudy and Melinda. Scott, you need to lean on either Shriner or Melinda Little.”

  “Shriner’s an immovable object,” Oliver said. “He’s out for now. I could go to Melinda Little, but I’d like more ammo before I shoot.”

  A thought hit Decker’s brain. “Maybe we don’t need Shriner to verify the affair. Give me a few minutes and I might even have an idea.”

  CHAPTER 33

  VENICE BEACH SPANNED the socioeconomic spectrum in a ten-block radius: from the multimillion-dollar architectural homes on the canals to the gang-riddled roads of the Oakwood area. In between were a number of California ranches, Pasadena-style Greene and Greene houses with wraparound porches and wood-sided shingles, and old Victorians, some restored, some not.

  The beach part in Venice usually referred to the “walk streets”—little alleyways that connected Ocean Park Boulevard to the sand and grit deposited by the blue Pacific. These lanes were lined with the gamut—from shacks to three-story statements—with the main draw being the proximity to the ocean. Decker didn’t know if O’Dell owned or leased, but if he had been bright enough to purchase, the ex-Slut was living the good life in an appreciating asset.

  The address corresponded with a one-story, side-by-side Cape Cod duplex painted bright blue with white trim. O’Dell’s unit was the left side and the door was open, the smell of grease wafting clear down to the sidewalk. Decker knocked on the screen door frame, then stepped inside a stuffy, dark room with worn, planked floors and cracked plaster walls. The ceiling beams were half-painted, half-exposed wood and sported a mounted fan on full blast. The artwork consisted of Doodoo Slut posters, lots of framed pictures with babes in bikinis, and a gold record in a shadow box. The furniture was mismatched and looked to be secondhand stuff. The window curtains had been drawn, blocking out most of the natural light.

  Decker was sweating under his jacket. He loosened his tie and called out to O’Dell. When he didn’t get a response, he drew back the curtains and the beams streamed in, highlighting the dust and the must. “Liam, are you home?”

  “In a minute. Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” Decker took off his jacket and draped it over the sofa. He opened one of the windows and a saline breeze sifted through the screen. O’Dell emerged as a surfer dude in a Hawaiian shirt, cutoff shorts, and sandals. An apron fell down to his knees. His eyes were squinting.

  “Did you find Rudy?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Balls. What the hell is taking so long?”

  “I don’t know where he is. Do you?”

  “No, but it’s not my job to look for the bastard. That’s what I’m paying me taxes for.” He was still squinting when he noticed the open window. “Who the hell pulled the curtains?”

  “Mea culpa,” Decker said. “Is it a problem?”

  “Bloody hell, yes, it’s a problem. What time is it?”

  “Around twelve.” Decker started to close the curtains, but O’Dell stopped him. “S’right. Just leave it. I’m frying clams. Want some breakfast?”

  “No thanks, I’m good.” A pause. “I thought you were a vegan.”

  “Clams don’t count.”

  Decker could hear a sizzling pan in the background. “Why don’t you finish up your cooking and then we can talk.”

  “That’ll work. Want a beer?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Something stronger?”

  “How about a bottle of water?”

  “I’ve got tap or a diet 7UP.”

  “Diet 7UP is fine. I can drink it out of the can.”

  “That’s good because the glasses aren’t clean. You can take off your tie. It’s like a bloody sauna in here.”

  “Might cool things off if we opened all the windows.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  After getting some decent ventilation, Decker sat down on the sofa. O’Dell came in with a plate of clams drenched in malt vinegar and tartar sauce. He tossed Decker a can of 7UP and then took a swig from a bottle of Heineken. He ate sans utensils, popping clams into his mouth and licking his fingers afterward. “Delicious. Sure you’re not interested?”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  Another healthy gulp of beer. “So you haven’t found Rudy. You think he might be dead?”

  “Don’t know,” Decker said. “I’m interested in the time you got along with him.”

  “That would be never.”

  “You were in a band with him for years. You must have gotten along a little bit.”

  “Nope, never.” He ate another clam. “If we didn’t break into fistfights, it’s only because we were too blasted to care. Whenever I was sober, which wasn’t too often, I never liked the son of a bitch.”

  “But you two weren’t overtly at war all the time.”

  He thought about that. “I suppose there were a few times that I could be in the same room with him.”

  “Rudy wrote most of the songs for the band?”

  “Yeah, like I told you before—Rudy and Primo. That’s why me and Ryan got the raw end of the stick, mate.” Another clam. “The band may fold but the songs live on. Just not for me.”

  “I know the band went through lots of women.” A smile on O’Dell’s face. “In addition to the groupies, did Rudy have a special girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know, mate, we wasn’t close. Is this going somewhere?”

  “Does the name Melinda Little sound familiar to you?”

  O’Dell thought a moment. “Melinda…Melinda…Melinda was mine, til the time…” Recognition in his eyes. “There was a Melinda.”

  Decker perked up. “Melinda Little?”

  “Melinda something.” Decker described her and O’Dell said, “Could be.”

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  “Not much. It was a fog. She was around thirty?”

  “More like thirty-five.”

  O’Dell slowly nodded. “If me memory is intact, I think she was one of ’em who made the rounds.”

  “Meaning?”

  “What do you think?” O’Dell finished his clams and put the plate down on the coffee table. “Something’s clicking in the airspace.” He pointed to his brain. “I remember something about her being married. She liked to fuck. I don’t think she was getting too much at home.”

  Decker nodded.

  “For some reason, I remember…” He picked up the plate and took it into the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding another bottle of beer. “I remember that Mudd fell in love with her.” He looked at Decker. “Ryan used to fall in love with whoever he fucked. He was a sucker.” Another pause. “She liked money.”

  Decker took out his notepad. “Melinda liked money.”

  “I mean, who doesn’t like money, but most of the girls we screwed did it to say they screwed us, or for the party scene or for the drugs. Melinda liked money. I remember talking to Mudd about it. Ryan used to give her money. It’s all coming back.”

  “Take your time.” Decker wrote as he collected his thoughts. “So Ryan gave Melinda money? How much?”

  “Too much.” Liam took another swig of beer. “I used to tell him, ‘Mudd, you can’t be fallin’ in love with every bird you screw. It’s just ass, mate. You can’t be givin’ it all away for ass. You gotta use your head.’ I musta told him that twenty times a day; the idiot kept fallin’ for one bird after another.”

  “Ryan was in love with Melinda?”

  O’Dell sipped beer. “Ryan couldn’t…it wasn’t like a mature love. More like a teenage crush. Melinda was squeezing the bloke dry. I forgot who told him. Maybe me, maybe Primo. We finally told Mudd she was married. I think she even had kids.”

  “She did…she does.”

  “Yeah, she had kids. It was clear to us that she was just foolin’ around. We told Mudd she was married, that she wasn’t gonna leave her husband, that she wasn’t gonna leave her kids. That she was only interested in a good
screw and money and that he should forget about her.”

  “Did he?”

  “He had no choice. We all saw what was happening. We took control of Ryan’s spending cash. When he ran out, she stopped coming around.”

  “That doesn’t mean he forgot her.”

  “Mudd moved on to the next bird, probably a normal one who liked drugs.”

  “Do you remember when Melinda started coming around?”

  “Like a date?”

  “Even a year.”

  “Between the time we formed the band and before we broke up. That was a three-year period.”

  Decker mentally noted it was the three-year period in which Little was murdered. “And you don’t remember Melinda’s last name?”

  “I don’t remember it as Little…why does that sound familiar?”

  “Because Melinda Little’s husband, Bennett Little, was murdered during that three-year period.”

  O’Dell looked confused. “Murdered?”

  “You don’t remember it? It made big news, Liam. That’s why I’m looking for Rudy. He went to the high school where Little worked.”

  “I thought you suspected Banks in Primo’s murder…which is ridiculous.”

  “Why? I’ve heard stories about Banks trying to throw acid on someone’s balls.”

  O’Dell scratched his cheek. “Yeah, I could see Rudy doing that. But not killing someone. He didn’t like blood.”

  “Could he have hired someone to kill Primo?”

  “Kill Primo or kill this Little guy?”

  “Either.”

  O’Dell threw up his hands. “I dunno.”

  “And if Banks didn’t like blood, why is there unexplained blood around the baseboard in his apartment?”

  “Dunno.” A shrug.

  Decker said. “What about Mudd? Could you see him murdering Bennett Little, hoping to snag his wife?”

  The suggestion made O’Dell laugh. “Mudd? No way, no how. Not Mudd. He was as soft as soapsuds.”

  “You guys were flying most of the time. Your judgment gets whacked.”