Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 17

by The Mercedes Coffin

  “Gerry calls up a whoadie of his and tells him we’ll buy some pancakes if he come pick us up. And his whoadie sez okay but he’s with a bro so we has to buy him some pancakes, too. So Gerry sez okay, he’ll buy everyone pancakes. So we wait for ’round an hour and then Gerry’s buds come in Mel’s and I buy everyone pancakes with the money that Rudy gave me. I bought everyone pancakes and eggs and bacon and shit. It comes to like a hundred dollars. But that’s okay cuz I still had about two hundred left over even with buyin’ everyone breakfast. So we all ate pancakes and eggs and shit and then we went home.”

  Martel shrugged.

  “That’s it.”

  The cell was silent.

  Decker said, “Let me recap this very briefly. Rudy told you that he went to Ekerling’s office to get your CDs back.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Rudy said there was a problem. That he and Ekerling argued.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That Ekerling came at Rudy with a knife and Rudy shot Ekerling and stuffed him in the trunk of the Mercedes.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you knew about the body in the trunk, Travis.”

  “He was dead. I checked it out with my own eyes. He was already dead.”

  “I understand that.”

  “I didn’t do no murder.”

  “I know,” Decker soothed. “Rudy said he needed you to get rid of the body. He gave you the keys to the Mercedes and told you to dump it in the hood.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You picked up Geraldo Perry and went to Jonas Park to get rid of the car. But then you realized that you had no one to pick you up from the park. So you took the car all the way back into Hollywood to dump it.”

  “Yeah. Like I tole you, Gerry wanted to go to the Bitty Bit party, anyway. And I figure why not cuz Ekerling be already dead.”

  “Got it,” Decker said. “So you drove the car back to Hollywood, to the Bitty Bit party, but by that time, the party was over and Gerry was hungry. He wanted pancakes.”

  “Yeah, that’s why we dumped the Benzene where we did. We saw Mel’s and figured we’d get some pancakes. We bought everyone pancakes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us all of this in the first place?” Diaz asked.

  “’Cause Rudy tole me that if somethin’ happens, that I shouldn’t talk. That he’d get me a white-assed lawyer and everything would be fine.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “He’s a white boy,” Travis said. “He sez he’s a lawyer.”

  “That much is true,” Decker said.

  “He knows the system. Besides, I knew that he weren’t goin’ be producin’ my shit if I ratted him out.”

  Garrett pushed over a yellow legal pad. “You want to write your story down for us? Then maybe we can talk to the district attorney and help you out.”

  Martel regarded the paper and pen and then Garrett’s face. “All this talk about food…it’s way past lunch. I’m starvin’. I need something to eat.”

  “Start writing and I’ll order in some food,” Diaz said.

  “I don’t want jail shit,” Martel insisted. “I be heppin’ you out, I deserve a good lunch.”

  “What do you want?” Garrett asked.

  “All this talk about pancakes…” Martel shrugged. “How ’bout some pancakes?”

  CHAPTER 36

  DECKER HAD BEEN operating on casino time—protracted periods under artificial lighting without any sense of the passage of hours. He had arrived at County Jail at nine in the morning. By the time he was back in the West Valley, it was almost six, the sun still in the sky but the shadows long. His cell’s voice-mail box was full, and there was a stack of telephone pink message slips in his in-box.

  After parking in the lot at the station house, he had entered through the back door, winding his way through the halls to get to his private space. The door to his office was open, the light was on, and a wonderful aroma was wafting into the squad room. His desk had been covered with a red-checkered tablecloth and set with paper plates and plastic utensils. Rina was sitting in his chair, absorbed in a novel.

  “Good book?” he said.

  She looked up. “Very good.” She stood up and kissed his cheek. “I was in the mood for a picnic.”

  “We’re indoors.”

  “We can open a window and pretend.”

  Decker smiled and drew his wife into his arms. “You don’t know how wonderful this is. I’m starved.”

  “Then shall we dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business?”

  “Absolutely.” Decker drew up a chair on the opposite side of the desk. “What have we?”

  Rina opened a picnic basket. “Corned beef on rye or chicken salad on whole grain?”

  “One of each.”

  She handed him two wrapped sandwiches. “I have cucumber salad, Waldorf salad—”

  “Just set them on the desk and stick a fork in it.”

  “Will do.”

  Decker wolfed down the corned beef, then helped himself to the salads. “Where’s Hannah?”

  “In a study group. She told me that she spoke to you last night.”

  “I did.”

  “She said you two had a nice discussion.”

  “Interesting. It’s hard to tell if she enjoys my company or finds me annoying.” He looked up from his sandwich. “I feel like I’m a litmus test. Depending what kind of mood she’s in, I’m either way too acidic or way too basic.”

  Rina laughed. “How was your day?”

  “Really long but very profitable.” He gave her a brief recap of his eight hours in a cell with Travis Martel. “So now that Banks seems to be involved, Hollywood can justify even more manpower to hunt him down.”

  “Even more manpower? They were looking for him previously?”

  “Yes, they were, but not with this newfound intensity.” He explained to her about the blood splotches he had discovered behind the newly painted baseboard in Rudy’s apartment. “The blood’s not Primo Ekerling’s.”

  “So whose blood is it?”

  “A very good question. We got the DNA back. We know it was a woman. Once we locate Banks, maybe we can even get an answer. The good part is that with Hollywood looking for him, I don’t have to concentrate my efforts toward finding him. Plus, I got them to post a couple of guys to look for Ryan Goldberg.”

  “The missing Doodoo Slut.”

  “Exactly.” He put down his sandwich and picked up a pile of message slips. “Sorry. I just want to see if any of my messages are from Liam O’Dell.”

  “Take your time. I’ll just eat my sandwich and read my book.”

  “What are you reading?” he asked absently.

  “A biography of Eric Clapton.”

  “I didn’t know you like that kind of thing.”

  “It has its moments. All celebrities are a might off, but rock stars are uniquely nuts.”

  “You’re telling me?” Decker continued to sort through the messages. “Just the little acquaintances I’ve made with D-list people have made me realize that. And yet the wannabes keep on coming like locusts during the dry season. Doesn’t matter who steps on them, who squashes them and mashes them under their heels, there’s always more. Travis Martel was willing to sit in jail and risk a life sentence in prison for a crime he probably didn’t commit, just on the off chance that if he ever came out of the pen, Rudy Banks would get him a recording contract. Now how crazy is that…ah, here we go.” Decker picked up the phone and dialed Liam’s cell. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  O’Dell answered on the third ring.

  “It’s Lieutenant Decker. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” His voice was tense.

  “I’ve managed to secure a couple of Hollywood police officers to look for Ryan.”

  “Bully for you.”

  Decker ignored his anger, knowing where it was coming from. “I spent the entire day at County Jail talking to Travis Martel. He had some interesting things to say.”
He summarized eight hours of master interrogation for Mad Irish. “It seems Rudy promised Martel a record contract if he’d either murder Primo or just get rid of the car.”

  “And you believe him? Martel?”

  “I believe that he was involved, and I believe that Rudy was involved.”

  “Nice to have Rudy’s neck in a noose, but right now I’m thinking about Mudd. If the police crap out, we’re thinking about a private eye. Know anyone?”

  Certainly not Phil Shriner, Decker thought. “I know some Valley people…not so many city people.” A beat. “I’ve heard good things about a West L.A. PI named Aaron Fox. He used to be with LAPD but we never crossed paths. I’ll get you a number. Again, let me know if you hear from Ryan.”

  “Ditto.” Liam cut the line.

  “Everything okay?” Rina asked.

  “One step at a time,” Decker opened his chicken salad sandwich. “Wow, this is just terrific. Thanks again.”

  Rina opened another box. “Hannah baked cookies for the squad room. You can have one. They’re pareve.”

  “Tell her thank you. To what do we owe such benevolence?”

  “She was baking cookies for her friends, and I said as long as she had the bowls and cookie sheets out, she should bake for you guys.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “She said okay, but clearly wasn’t keen on the idea. Then I told her you’d write her a note and the school would probably give her credit for community service. That brightened her outlook considerably. It means she won’t have to do her after-school hours this week.”

  Decker popped a cookie in his mouth. “Delicious. I should be offended by my own daughter’s tepid response to baking for me and the crew, but I’m not.” He took another and made short work of it. “Let’s face it. No one works for free.”

  THE MORNING WAS clear and bright, the sunlight tumbling out from the cloudless, blue ether. The drive to the Palisades was free moving. Decker was behind the wheel with Marge sitting shotgun drinking a mocha latte and Oliver in the back mocking her coffee choice, railing on about suckers who paid three dollars for something that probably cost twenty-five cents to make.

  Marge broke into his rant. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to pour this over your head.”

  “Let me just ask you a question,” Oliver said. “Does Will drink any of that shit?”

  “Will’s a coffee drinker.”

  “I’m a coffee drinker, but that’s not what I asked you. I want to know if Will drinks any of that mocha, chocolate, whipped, foamed, soy, nonfat—”

  “Occasionally he does, for your information. Now if you’d kindly save your obnoxious aggressive streak for Melinda Little, I’d be much obliged.”

  “I bet she drinks mocha, whipped, foamed—”

  “Can I kill him?” Marge asked Decker. She turned around to the back. “You know, if you would have ordered a plain coffee and gotten some caffeine in your system, you wouldn’t be bitching at me.”

  “I don’t pay two bucks for something I can make for ten cents.”

  “Scott, you don’t own a coffeemaker. You don’t even own a jar of instant. That’s your problem. You show up in the morning and wait for someone in the squad room to make coffee, then you mooch off the common pot. This morning, no one bothered to make coffee. Now you have a friggin’ headache and we have to put up with your chemical withdrawal. It’s not fair.” She rummaged around in her purse. “Here. Take a Motrin. Maybe it’ll take the snarl off your face.”

  Oliver wanted to sneer, but the pain got the better of him. “Do you have something to wash it down with?” Marge handed him the last of her mocha latte. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” She looked out the window, at the billows of white foam barreling across the cobalt marine expanse. “Sure is pretty around here…especially without the excess noise.”

  Oliver held his head and grumbled from the backseat.

  Decker said, “How the other half lives.”

  Marge said, “I wonder how Melinda—with two kids and probably a lot of debt—managed to snag a multirich guy like Michael Warren.”

  “She’s a beautiful woman,” Decker said.

  Marge said, “There are lots of beautiful women in L.A.”

  “My guess is that she’s hot in the sack,” Oliver said.

  “There are a lot of women who are also hot in the sack,” Marge said.

  “But probably not many who’ll do whatever the guy wants.”

  “What makes you say that Melinda’s that kind of gal?”

  “She had a gambling problem. She fucked the Doodoo Sluts for money. When you whore, you do whatever the client desires, and in the punk scene, I bet they desired some pretty strange stuff.”

  CHAPTER 37

  THE WOMAN LOOKED as if she had just stepped off a yacht. The reality was that Melinda Little Warren was just about to step onto one. She wore a blue-and-white-striped top, white capri pants, and white wedge sandals. Gold bangles along with a diamond watch encircled her wrists, and pearl drops hung from her earlobes. Her blond tresses were loose and wild.

  She made a point of looking at her watch. “I don’t have time for this. I have to be at the marina in an hour or else I hold everyone up. What do you want from me?”

  “I want to find out why you lied,” Decker said.

  She blinked her eyes several times. “I’ve already told you. I lied about Phil Shriner because I was embarrassed about my gambling problem. I didn’t see the point of bringing up my past issues when I don’t have them anymore.”

  “Not that lie,” Decker said. “I’m talking about the lie about not knowing Primo Ekerling. The record producer who was murdered in a manner similar to your husband. I asked you if you knew him. You told me the name didn’t sound at all familiar.”

  Melinda was silent.

  “Mrs. Warren, you’re a very bright woman. You knew that we were assigned to investigate and we were going to investigate. You should have known that the lie was going to come back on you—”

  “Shriner told you!” Her face was purple with outrage. “That bastard broke confidence. I’m going to sue—”

  “It wasn’t Shriner, it was Liam O’Dell.” Melinda’s mouth opened and closed. “You should have known we’d speak to all of them because Ekerling’s murder was similar to Ben’s. Didn’t you think that there might be a connection?”

  “When I read about it in the papers, I thought it was odd, but…” She stopped and tears pooled in her dark eyes. “Am I going to need a lawyer?”

  Oliver said, “Why don’t we ask you a few questions and then you can decide that for yourself.”

  “I shouldn’t need a lawyer.” Her cheeks reddened with anger. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Decker said, “All we’re trying to do is get the truth. Maybe we should all sit down and start from the beginning.”

  Melinda glanced at her watch. A big dramatic sigh. “I guess a relaxing day on the ocean is not going to happen for me.” Another hostile glare. “I need to call up my husband and tell the group to go without me. You have to give me a moment to compose myself. If he hears tension in my voice, he’s going to come home and I don’t want him knowing about any of this.”

  “Fair enough.”

  After taking several deep breaths, she made the phone call. Her voice was smooth and her lies were silken. Something about meeting an old friend who’s in L.A. for only a day. When she hung up, her eyes were wet. “Happy?”

  “Your misery doesn’t make us happy, Mrs. Warren,” Decker said.

  “You could have fooled me.”

  SHE CHANGED FROM the sailor’s getup into jeans and a T-shirt. The bracelets had come off as well as the diamond watch. She had scrubbed down her face, and without any makeup, she looked like the fifties-plus woman she was. She made a pot of coffee and served it with some nuts and candy. She sat in an oversized chair with her legs tucked under her body, sipping coffee and letting the steam tickle her face.

&nbs
p; Oliver put his mug down on the coffee table and took out a small notepad. “When you read about Primo Ekerling’s death—and its similarity to your husband’s murder—what did you think?”

  She licked her lips. “It was odd, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with Bennett’s death. Fifteen years apart. Why would it have anything to do with Ben’s death?”

  “But why not?” Oliver said. “The similarities were right in front of your face. And if I may be blunt, Primo was one of your former lovers.”

  Her laugh was derisive. “When my husband was murdered, that psychotic episode of my life had been long over.”

  Decker said, “Let’s go back a little bit. How did that psychotic episode happen in the first place?”

  Her eyes moistened. She put down her coffee cup and kneaded her hands. “Do you know what it’s like to be married to Jesus?” When there was no response, she continued. “Bennett was a saint and everyone told me so…how lucky and fortunate I was to have bagged him. My parents preferred him to me. So much so, they gave him my money.”

  “Your trust fund?” Decker said. When Melinda gave him a quizzical look, he said, “We talked to your mother.”

  “She hates me.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. “The woman is so incredibly narcissistic that she was jealous of any attention not focused on her.”

  Marge said, “Must have been hard having to live up to your husband’s image and dealing with a hurtful mother. Then as a topper, Mom gave away your trust fund to your husband.”

  “Oh, you got that right, sister!” She got up and started to pace. “Can you imagine the betrayal? Trusting a stranger over her own daughter? I wanted to kill her!”

  “What about your husband?” Oliver asked.

  “What?” Face flushed with anger, she turned to him. “My husband? What about him? I’m talking about my mother!”

  Oliver pulled back the rhetoric. “I was just wondering if you were as angry at your husband as you were at your mother.”

  She stopped walking and let out an exasperated sigh. “Ben tried to be fair. He spent the money on things that he thought the whole family would enjoy. I wanted the Mercedes as much as he did. I don’t know. Maybe I was a little pissed at Ben for setting up the arrangement with Mom.”