Читать книгу Cold Case - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 10

CALVIN VITTON AND Arnie Lamar had turned in their guns and shields shortly after the Little murder, but neither had left town. Silent Cal—as he was known—had an address in Simi Valley, a mountainous community northwest of L.A. The area had wide streets, big skies, and lots of undeveloped land that sat atop granite and bedrock. Many working cops called Simi home, and an equal amount of vets retired to small ranches carved from the hillsides. When Vitton didn't pick up the house phone, Decker left a message on his machine, asking him to please call back at his convenience.

Arnie Lamar lived in Sylmar northeast of L.A. The neighborhood was noted more for its honor farms and detention centers than it was for its natural scenery. It was rugged country: some mountains but also dusty flat areas that were perfect for Lamar's passions of auto building and racing, and climbing up hillsides in one of his ATVs. When Decker phoned, Arnie was just about to go to the track, testing one of his newest vehicles, something that he had cobbled together using parts from a Viper, a Lamborghini, an old Jag XKE, and a small engine jet. They decided to meet at three in the afternoon.

Decker showed up on time. Upon arrival, he took note of Arnie's four-car garage, the door to one of its stalls yawning wide open. A chimerical, cherry red vehicle was parked in the driveway with a pair of denim legs sticking out from the undercarriage.

“Hello,” Decker called out.

“In a minute” was the response.

The lieutenant used the downtime to look around. Lamar seemed to have a nice-sized spread, similar to Decker's old homestead except there weren't any stables. The front yard was bereft of green, a brown square of hardscrabble dirt spotted with shreds of rubber, discarded chrome, and rusting steel. The house was one story and wood sided and if it had any style, Decker would call it California ranch. It wasn't exactly dilapidated, but upkeep wasn't Lamar's forte.

The body slid out from underneath the red hunk of metal. Lamar was on his back, resting on a block of oak on wheels. He had on oil-stained overalls and a gray T-shirt. His feet were housed in sneakers. He rolled over to his side and hoisted his frame up until he was erect. Lamar was a short man and slight in build, bald with a white mustache, dark coffee eyes, and knobby fingers that clutched a wrench. “Three o'clock already?”

“By my watch, it is.”

“Sheez, I get under there, I forget about everything.” His face was streaked with dirt and grease. He wiped his hands on an oil-stained rag. “I'd like to clean up. It won't take longer than ten minutes. You want something to drink. It's hot today.”

“Water would be nice.”

“How 'bout a beer?”

“I'm working.”

Lamar smiled with yellowed teeth. “I won't tell.”

Decker smiled. “Water is fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” The retired detective opened the door and led Decker inside.

The interior was surprisingly clean: floors swept, shelves dusted, and the furnishings simple and old. The dining table and chairs looked handmade, the work good but not professional. Pictures adorned the walls and tabletops: one special woman and children at various ages until they were grown with children of their own. At present, there was no sign of the special woman anywhere.

The house was on the dark side even with the blinds open. Decker sat down on a faded floral sofa. The only other seating was a cracked leather lounge chair that had a bird's-eye view of the television—no doubt Lamar's special seat. His makom hakevuah, Rina would have called it, using the Hebrew term for an honored place. At home, Decker had a blue leather armchair and ottoman.

Ten minutes later, Lamar made his appearance, pink cheeked and wearing clean denims and a black T-shirt. He was carrying a plastic cup of water and a can of Coors Light. After giving the cup to Decker, he pop-topped the beer and took a long swig.

“That's good drinks.” Lamar plopped down in his chair. “I used to hate diet beer. Now I've gotten so used to the light taste that the dark brew seems way too strong.”

“It's amazing how we adjust our attitudes to rationalize things.”

Lamar said, “So who decided to reopen the Ben Little homicide?”

“It seems one of his fans from his teaching days struck it big in technology up in Silicon Valley. There's a hefty endowment riding on the success of the case.”

Lamar nodded. “Good luck to you, then.”

“You don't harbor much hope?”

“Nothing would make me happier than a solve. The damn thing was always a thorn in my side. There seemed to be no reason for it other than bad luck. You know as well as I do … you see homicides and each one of them is ugly. But some … drug dealers, hookers, thieves, gang-bangers … now no one deserves to die by violence. But if you're gonna put yourself in harm's way, shit happens. But this guy … nothing I dug up indicated that he was anything else except Joe Model Citizen.”

“How deep did you manage to dig?”

“We didn't get any interference if that's what you mean.” Lamar thought about the question. “We started with the wife and when we hit a wall, we branched out to friends, coworkers, students, and community people. There was an insurance policy, but at that point, the widow hadn't bought herself a new car or a flashy diamond ring. There was money in a college fund for her boys. She also took a job.”

“What kind of work?”

“I think the school hired her as a secretary or a teacher and used his seniority so she could keep the benefits.” He finished off his beer. “We scoured through Little's desk, his files, his old floppy disks and the computer, his credit cards, his phone records, his bank account. When I tell you nothing was awry, I mean it.”

Decker nodded, although something struck him as odd. “I spoke to the widow. She married very well.”

Lamar took a moment to digest that. “Good for her.”

“She also told me that she had gone into debt, hiring a private detective named Phil Shriner, trying to get a lead on the case.”

“Hmm …” Lamar crushed his beer can. “Did she get anywhere?”

“Nothing that she wanted to tell me about. But when you checked out her account, she was solvent.”

“She must have gone into debt after I retired.”

“So you don't know anything about the private detective?”

“Didn't even know he had a name until you told it to me. Have you checked him out?”

“I have someone going down that avenue,” Decker told him. “Right after you retired and I came on, one of my first assignments was dealing with a murder of a coed at Central West Valley High.”

“Central West …” Lamar wiped his mouth on his hand. “Cheryl Diggs, was it?”

“Exactly. Her boyfriend at the time was a guy named Christopher Whitman. He's now Christopher Donatti.”

“Whitman …” He looked confused. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Because we originally brought him in for the Diggs murder. It turned out he was innocent, but as a side note, we discovered that the boy was totally mobbed up.”

Lamar frowned. “As in New York mob?”

Decker nodded. “He worked as a hit man for his uncle—a real goombah named Joey Donatti. After Joey died, Chris inherited his money as well as his enterprises. What Chris didn't inherit, he made on his own by running numbers, operating brothels, and peddling subscriptions to Internet porn sites. He took his unreported cash and now he owns a chunk of Manhattan real estate between Harlem and Washington Heights. His registration dates put him at Central West after Little was murdered, but he could have been here before the official date of enrollment. I just was wondering if you had any dealings with him before I came on.”

Lamar shook his head no. “I don't recall talking to him as part of the Little investigation. Look in the notes and see if I interviewed him.”

“I did and you didn't.”

Lamar shrugged as if to say, “So there you have it.”

“As far as I know, his name never came up. But neither Cal nor I bothered to look into people from Central West.”

“I have one more guy I want to run by you. A kid named Darnell Arlington.”

“Darnell Arlington …” Lamar scrunched his eyes. “I remember him … a black kid … troubled. I think we ruled him out. How 'bout refreshing my memory.”

“You're right. Darnell was a troubled kid. When he was threatened with expulsion, Ben went to bat for him and got him a second chance. Darnell blew that opportunity, and the boy was finally kicked out of North Valley for good. That happened about six months before Little was murdered. The second time, by the way, Ben sided with the school.”

Lamar didn't talk for a moment. “I never did talk to the boy, when his name came up. As I'm remembering it, he wasn't even in the state when Little was killed.”

“Little's widow told me that he was in Ohio, playing in a school basketball game.”

“Yeah, it's coming back.” Lamar nodded. “Cal was the one who interviewed Darnell. The kid was back east playing in a game, witnessed by about one hundred people. From what I recall, the kid was broken up about Little's death.” A pause. “You're looking at a revenge thing?”

“I'm considering everything.”

“Like I said, Cal checked him out. He could tell you more than I could about Darnell.”

“When I talk to Cal, I'll ask about Darnell. Do you still keep in contact with your old partner?”

“We see each other every now and then. For all that we went through together, once that whole thing ended, we found out that we didn't have too much in common. I'm a doer, Cal's a brooder. Sometimes it worries me, but I'm tired of mothering the man. Eventually he needs to figure it out on his own.”

“I've left a message. I trust he'll call me back.”

“Oh yeah, he'll do that. Little bothered him as much as the case bothered me. Let me know if you make any headway. Be nice to see someone in custody before I die. That's not too much to ask of the Good Lord, right?”

Decker agreed that it wasn't too much to ask. But when it came to results, the GL always seemed to have other ideas.