Cold Case

He looked at the gray cement driveway. Although it wasn't pristine, it wasn't spotted with oil stains or fluid leaks.

Again he glanced around, biding his time while his brain fired ideas.

Someone could have come by and picked up the old man.

Cal could have gone out for a walk.

But Decker was bothered. Cal was first and foremost a cop. Career detectives didn't miss appointments without explanations. If Vitton hadn't wanted him to come, he would have phoned Decker and told him so. And if there had been an emergency, Cal would have left a note or a message on Decker's cell. No-shows were irresponsible. More than that, they were cowardly, and Calvin Vitton didn't impress Decker as a coward.

There was a six-foot wooden gate that separated the front and back yards. Decker peered over the top and noticed that the gate was secured by a bolt lock. He called out and when nothing answered him back, Decker decided to jump the fence. He found a purchase for his foot on a low cinder-block wall, but his hands still had to do the majority of hoisting up his big frame.

Up and over.

He landed awkwardly on his right foot, but shook it off with a couple of steps.

Vitton's backyard was small and dry and backed up against a spillway that was fenced off by cyclone wires. As Decker peered through the metal, he noticed a few shallow pools of stagnant water basking in the heat of the spring. They were green with algae and white with mosquito larvae. He made a note to himself to call County Pest Control or the area was going to have an infestation.

The back door to the house was also locked. Decker knocked hard, but the noise elicited no response. He checked the windows. The shades were down. Nothing seemed awry: no broken glass, no locks that seemed jimmied, and no signs of forced entry.

He gave himself a moment to think.

The sun was climbing higher. Decker could feel the heat on the back of his neck. Competing with the ravens' calls was the buzzing of insects: the hum of dozens of gnats, the drone of bees foraging for pollen, the high-pitched whine of mosquitoes. And the flies … lots of flies.

He swatted the pests away from his face and regarded his surroundings. A splintered chaise longue with a faded cushion sat on a patch of crabgrass. A few small trees languished around the fence of Vitton's property. There was a Weber barbecue that looked in pretty good shape. A white plastic table and chairs were off to one side. The top of the table was thick with dirt and bird droppings.

When Decker returned his attention to the house, he noticed that a heavy funnel of flies had congregated near one of the back windows.

That was not a good sign. Investigating further, Decker was hit with a strong whiff of decay, violently sparking his olfactory nerve.

He exhaled forcibly while holding back a gag.

He knew why Cal hadn't answered the door.

He called 911.

THE RULE WAS by no means foolproof, but generally women took pills and men ate the gun.

Calvin Vitton had done both.

The shot had, among other things, taken out the old cop's eye. His mouth was agape, and his other eye was wide open. An open vial of oxycodone was spilling its contents onto the blue bedroom carpet. Near the pills lay a half-dozen empty beer bottles. His right hand had been singed with powder burns and blood spatter. The .32-caliber Smith & Wesson handgun was lodged between the bed frame and the wall and had landed about two inches from Cal's knee. Blood had turned the white sheets red and was still dripping crimson onto the carpet.

The old man had thin gray hair with blue eyes, although the remaining one looked black because the pupil was dilated and fixed. He had been wearing a white shirt and a pair of jeans. His feet were bare. Rigor had set in; lividity was pronounced. Although a warm temperature could speed up the biological processes—and it had been sweltering inside when the Simi Valley cops had busted inside—Decker had a sense that the deed had been done shortly after the phone call.

Two coroner's office investigators—a woman and a man—were about ready to wrap the stiff body in plastic. The crime scene photographer had done his job. A tech was dusting for fingerprints, but almost everyone agreed that it looked like suicide. Cal had taken booze and pills to self-anesthetize. Before Cal totally passed out, he put a gun to his head … more to his face. Or maybe his hands slipped and that's how he took out his eye. There were powder burns around the affected area, but there was also powder scatter. The investigators thought that the nose of the gun had been fired from about a half foot away.

Simi Valley was an incorporated city of Ventura County, and although it contracted out to the county for fire, the city was patrolled by its own police department. The detective assigned to the case, named Shirley Redkin, was a pixieish woman in her fifties with short black hair and round dark eyes. Suicide was worked under a homicide detail until the coroner made his ruling. She flipped over the cover on her notebook, and then pointed to the open vial. “First the pills, and when that didn't happen, he went for the gun.”

Decker said, “It looks kind of staged.”

“Yeah, there is something a little overly dramatic about it with the pills and the booze and the gun. But killing yourself is a very dramatic act.”

“Of course.”

“Can we go over the phone call one more time?” she asked Decker. “I keep feeling I'm missing something.”

“Join the club,” Decker told her. “I never got a sense that the guy was ready to pop himself. More angry than upset.”

“Angry about what?”

“That I wanted to go over the Bennett Little case with him.” He explained the details to her. “It had been cold for a number of years. I think it was a personal affront to the man.”

“But every homicide cop has a number of cold cases.”

“This one was very public … played out in the papers. To a guy like Vitton, maybe it represented failure.”

“Why would he shoot himself now?”

“Maybe he didn't want to feel humiliated if the case got solved.”

“Was he obstructionistic?” Shirley asked.

“He clearly wasn't interested in digging up bones. Maybe he was more involved than he was letting on.”

“Meaning?”

Decker threw up his hands. “Cal was known as a guy who played it close to the vest. His own partner said it was hard to tell what he was thinking. Maybe someone paid him off not to look too carefully into the homicide. If his dirt got exposed … that might drive a lonely man to pull the trigger.”

“Anyone specific in mind for the payoff—if there was a payoff?”

“No, just talking in generalities. I'll look a little deeper into Cal's life, starting with his ex-partner, Arnold Lamar.”

“He sounds like someone I should talk to.”

Decker gave Shirley Redkin his phone number. She said, “How close are the two of them?”

“I think they were very close once, but they each went their separate ways. But he needs to be told. I'd like to call him up after you're done with me. Do you mind if I break the news to him?”

“Go ahead. What I'd like is for him to come down to the station for a chat.”

“I'll set it up. This afternoon sound okay, Detective?”

“That sounds fine, Lieutenant.”

“Mind if I sit in?”

“Fine with me. Maybe we'll both learn something.” Shirley closed her notebook. “The cold case must be very important for a detective lieutenant to devote so much time to it.”

Decker smiled enigmatically. “I do my job; I've got no complaints. Life is good for some of us. Then there are guys like Cal Vitton who harbor different opinions.”

CHAPTER 9

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.”

CHAPTER 10

MELINDA LITTLE WARREN was not surprised by the detectives at her door. “You should have called first. I'm about to go out.”

As the inscrutable Colonel Dunn would have said: the woman was a cool cookie. Even her blond hair was more ice than amber. She wore a kelly green silk blouse and a pair of chino pants. Her feet were housed in rhinestone sandals. Marge said, “How about giving us a few minutes?”