Читать книгу Cold Case - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 13

WHAT?” MARGE SHRIEKED. “You heard right.” Decker was sitting in the cruiser, parked two blocks away from the crime/suicide scene. The air-conditioning was going full blast, but because the car wasn't in motion, it wasn't as cool as it could be. He was sweating under the collar. Talking to Marge over the line, he was trying to keep his voice even, cop style, and then he wondered why. The tragedy of the situation demanded emotion, yet after all these years on the job, it was somehow respectable to be blunted.

“Oh my!” Marge was still registering shock. “And it looks like suicide to you?”

“The gun was fired at close range. He dulled his senses with drugs and booze. The big question is how and if it's related to the Bennett Little case. I'm meeting with Arnie Lamar at Simi Valley headquarters this afternoon to get a better feel for Vitton.”

“Well, this certainly changes the complexion of the investigation.”

“It adds another layer. What's on your agenda?”

“Oliver and I have arranged a lunchtime meeting with Phil Shriner. That way it doesn't take too much out of our working day.”

“Was he cooperative?”

“Not bad. We'll know more once we talk to him. I do have a question for you. I've located the correct Darnell Arlington and he's willing to talk to me about his high school experiences and Bennett Little. Now I can do a phone interview, but it would probably be better to do it in person. Since I'm not supposed to officially be working on the case, is there a way that you can get funding for the trip?”

Decker said, “Set it up, Marge, and I'll figure something out.”

“You're sure?”

“Not a problem. One of Rina's inherited paintings recently sold at auction for big bucks. We're feeling flush.”

“You shouldn't be spending your good luck on departmental obligations.”

“I have no intention of doing that. I'm just saying having the extra money has made us feel a little cockier. Rina teaches because she wants to, and I work because I want to. If Strapp starts to protest too much, I'm outta here. That's what money does. It allows me to pass the buck and let some other schmuck squirm in front of the brass.”

PHIL SHRINER LIVED with his wife of fifty years in a retirement home called Golden Estates, not too far from where Calvin Vitton blew his head off. The acreage was beautifully planted, with living quarters consisting of an apartment complex and public areas. There were also small, detached bungalows set around winding walkways.

The community had an onsite cafeteria, two restaurants, a recreation room, a gym, and a movie theater. The grounds included two swimming pools with accompanying Jacuzzis, two tennis courts, a nine-hole golf course, and a massage room. It could have been a resort, but most hotels didn't include a wing of hospital rooms as well as an emergency facility that was manned 24/7 by a rotating team of doctors, EMTs, and nurses.

Shriner and his wife lived in bungalow 58 off the putting green. His wife had gone to her daily exercise class, Phil explained to Marge and Oliver, so he could spare them around an hour. The house's interior was light and airy with hardwood floors and a fireplace. It was also crammed with furniture.

“We just moved in a few months ago,” Shriner explained. “We've downsized our living space and we didn't have time to sell all of our furniture. Sit anywhere you like.”

Their options were three couches, four big stuffed armchairs, or two ottomans. Marge chose a chair while Oliver opted for one of the sofas. Shriner was of average size and weight, and had thinning silver hair, a liver-spotted complexion, and dark eyes. He wore a blue polo shirt and brown slacks, his wiry arms still sculpted with defined musculature. Orthopedic sandals were on his feet.

He folded his arms in front of his chest, his butt just barely touching the edge of the seat. “So what's going on?”

Defensive posture, Marge noted. “LAPD is reopening the Bennett Little case. The cops never got too far, and we understand that Melinda Little hired you to look into what happened to her husband. We're wondering what you remember about it?”

The arms folded tighter across his chest. “Melinda called me, said you might be coming down.”

Marge glanced at Oliver and tried to hide her surprise. “I didn't know the two of you were still in contact.”

“Haven't spoken to her for nearly fourteen years.”

“Why did she call you?” Oliver asked.

“She wanted me to lie.” His jaw tightened. “I'm older, I have enough retirement money, I'm sick of games. But mainly, I told her I wasn't going to do it because it was going to come out sooner or later.”

“You two had an affair,” Oliver suggested.

“I wish.” He sank back into the chair. “The story was she hired me to look into her husband's death. I didn't work too hard on it because she was barely paying me. I suppose you want an explanation for that.”

“It would be nice,” Marge told him.

“I'm a compulsive gambler. Nothing that I thought I couldn't handle until that fateful day when it hit me that I was over my head and if I didn't get out of debt real soon, I was going to lose everything. So I turned to GA.”

Gamblers Anonymous. “Good call,” Oliver told him.

“It was my only call. The first thing they taught me to do was to admit to my family that I fucked up. Once I did that, my mom, God bless her, bailed me out. It took me time to pay her back, but eight years later, I was all caught up and then some. I had a lot of business. I took on a few employees to help me out.”

“Melinda Little?” Oliver asked.

“No, I met Melinda way before,” Shriner said. “We used to frequent the same casinos.”

“She had a gambling problem.” Marge tried to keep her voice even.

“She did. I was the one who talked her into going to GA before she hit the skids. She was reluctant to admit it, but once she did, she went with the program. The hardest part was confession. She just couldn't bring herself to admit to her folks that she'd been gambling away her dead husband's insurance money. We worked out a plan. She'd say that she spent the money on hiring a private investigator—the reason why she was low on funds. Her parents bought the story and helped her out. She was ashamed, but swore she'd never go near a table again.”

“I was told that she had money in the bank when Ben died,” Marge said. “When did she start gambling?”

Shriner shrugged. “I met her about six months after the tragedy. She was hitting the tables pretty often: her game was blackjack. I do know that some of her husband's insurance went to the boys for an educational fund that she couldn't touch. That was probably a very good thing. We compulsive gamblers don't have a good stop mechanism.”

“She was very forthright giving us your name,” Oliver told him.

“She didn't know I was going to blow her cover. Otherwise she might not have.”

“How'd she react to that?”

“She wasn't pleased, but she didn't try to talk me out of it. Part of the GA philosophy is to come clean with your lies and excuses. I thought it would be therapeutic for us if we told the truth. She's not ready for confession, but she had no right to tell me how to run my own life. She knows that you'll be contacting her again.”

Oliver said, “Do you think it's possible that she had something to do with her husband's murder?”

“Anything's possible, but I'd say no.”

Oliver said, “Why?”

“I could just tell that the woman was in pain.”

“She may have felt bad about his death, but that doesn't mean she didn't cause it, especially if she had a habit to support.”

“It was my understanding that she started gambling after the murder. At least, I don't remember seeing her until after it happened.”

“She could have gambled elsewhere.”

Shriner said, “Look. I'm not saying that she didn't have the urge. I'm not saying that she didn't indulge from time to time. But it was my understanding from being in the group with her that the problems started on a large scale after her husband was murdered. The woman appeared despondent. She was lonely, she was ashamed, and she was in an altered state of mind. Unless you've been there, it's hard to imagine how quickly you can go from ‘I'm okay, I can handle it’ to ‘I'm totally out of control.’”

“So you think she hid her compulsion until after he died?” Oliver was skeptical.

“I betcha that her husband knew about her tendencies. He probably was able to rein her in. Once he was gone, and she had this sudden windfall of cash … that's a deadly combination. The whole point of my confession is that I don't want you to see me as incompetent. I was a very good private investigator, and I did what I could for Melinda, but I wasn't going to go the full nine yards for her because I had my own troubles.”

“So we're back to my first question, what do you remember about the case?”

“Little seemed to be well liked and admired. The way it laid out, it seemed like a professional hit, but I couldn't find a reason why someone would have wanted to off him.”

Oliver said, “That brings us back to his wife …”

Shriner said, “If she was in deep, deep trouble, she had resources other than murder.”

“Did you know if she owed anyone cash?”

Shriner said, “Not to my knowledge.”

“What did you investigate?” Marge asked.

“The usual. His friends, his relatives, his colleagues, some of his students.”

“Does the name Darnell Arlington mean anything to you?”

“The black kid who was kicked out of school. Yeah, I talked to him over the phone. By the time Little was murdered, he'd moved away. I remember that he seemed broken up about Little. Why? Does the kid have a record?”

“He teaches physical education at a high school in Ohio.”

“Good to hear that he straightened himself out.”

“So you never suspected him?” Oliver asked.

“Of course I suspected him. I ruled him out early on because he had a good alibi, although it skips my mind at the moment.”

“Supposedly he was playing sports in front of an audience.”

“Yeah, that was it. Hard to be in two places at one time, and he didn't seem angry enough to hire a hit six months later. But check him out. Like I said, I didn't spend an abundance of time on the case.”

“Have you ever heard of a man named Primo Ekerling?” Marge asked him.

For the first time, the private detective gave the question some thought. “He sounds vaguely familiar.”

“He was a music producer,” Marge said. “A few weeks ago, he was murdered, stuffed into the trunk of his Mercedes-Benz. Hollywood has a couple of cholos in custody, although they're denying the charge. They admitted to boosting the car, but not to the murder.”

“Could be I read about him in the papers …”

“You don't recall Ekerling's name in your mini-investigation of Little?”

“Mini-investigation …” Shriner smiled. “That's a good term for it. I might have heard the name. If he turns out to be a lead, let me know. In the meantime, I've got a date with my golf clubs. It's not as exciting as PI work, but it keeps me out of trouble.”

DECKER HAD JUST finished eating his bag lunch when Marge called, recapping the interview with Phil Shriner. When she was done, he said, “Exactly how bad of a gambling problem?”

Marge said, “That's what we're trying to figure out. I'm sure that Melinda Little is expecting your call any minute. I think you should pounce on it, Pete, before she starts thinking of some very clever excuses.”

“I'm still in Simi Valley.” Decker shifted the phone to his other ear. “Besides, I've got the interview with Arnie Lamar in fifteen minutes at the police station. What's your afternoon like?”

“I have some free time.”

“Oliver and you need to pay her a visit.”

“What if she lawyers up?” Marge asked.

“Then that'll tell us something.” Another call was coming through the line. A private number. “Someone's breaking in, Marge. Set something up with Melinda and let me know, okay?”

“Will do. Good luck.”

Decker hung up and took the private call. “Decker.”

“What do you want?”

The low, smooth voice was instantly recognizable and made Decker sit up in the cruiser and grab his pencil and note pad. Normally, he would have thanked Donatti for calling back, but there was no such thing as chitchat with Chris. “What do you know about the Bennett Little murder?”

A long silence over the line. “You suspect me?”

“So far as I can tell, you were fifteen and in New York when it happened. Am I wrong?”

“Then why are you calling?”

“You were in L.A. when the murder was still fresh. You're a good listener. Maybe you heard something.”

Another pause. “It was a long time ago, and I have a substance abuse problem. If I ever had any long-term memory, it's gone by now.”

“But you remember the case.”

“A guy gets hit, you're wondering who's working the territory.”

“You think it was a hit?”

A small laugh came over the line. “Uh, yeah.”

“But no idea who?”

“Before my time. Is that all?”

“Speaking of abuse problems, I heard that Little's wife had a secret of her own.”

Another pause. “She gambled. What was her name? Rhoda, Melinda?”

“Melinda. Where'd you know her from?”

“My uncle was a silent partner in several card houses in Gardenia.” A beat. “This was a long time ago. Joey let go of the casinos ten years ago. He's dead, you know.”

“I do know.”

“Good riddance.”

“What can you tell me about Melinda Little.”

“I was sixteen. The woman was a MILF.”

“A MILF?”

“Mother I'd Like to Fuck. Red hot. What does she look like now?”

“She's still hot. Did her hotness get her into trouble back then?”

“Not with me, unfortunately.”

“Could there have been someone else?”

“There always could be someone else, but nothing I remember.”

“Did she owe your uncle money?”

“Decker, I didn't keep track of her. I had just moved out to L.A. and had my own problems. If she was in hock big-time, I never knew about it.”

“How about a cop named Calvin Vitton?”

A pause. “Vaguely familiar.”

“He worked the Little case. He just blew his head off this morning.”

“If I were you, I'd look into that.”

Decker made a face, although Donatti couldn't see it. “Thanks for the advice. Can you tell me anything about Vitton?”

“I recall that he was an old guy …” Another pause. “Let me think about him.”

“Fair enough. How about a guy named Primo Ekerling.”

“He's a music producer,” Donatti told him. “What'd he do?”

“Someone whacked him and stuffed him into the trunk of his Mercedes in a manner reminiscent of Bennett Little's murder.”

“This happen recently?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“Hmmm … can't keep up with everything. You might want to look into his case, too. Maybe Ekerling and the cop and Little share a common link.”

“And what might that be?”

Another small laugh. “You expect me to do your work for you?”

“You owe me one for plugging me.”

“No, no, no. I settled the score with that one, pal. If anyone owes, you owe me.”

“Bullshit. That one doesn't count.”

“Ask your sons if it doesn't count.”

Silence. Then Decker said, “Call me if you think of something.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Just because you would.”

“Why don't you call me if you think of something? 'Cause from where I'm sitting you're not only barking up the wrong tree, you don't even have a stump to piss on.”