The Mercedes Coffin (17 page)

“Maybe Darnell knew Banks from just hanging around.”

“If that’s the case, why not just say, ‘Hey, I knew him from hanging around.’”

“Because people get nervous and are afraid to say things because they don’t know how their words will be twisted around.”

“I take offense. I do not twist people’s words.”

“Okay, not twist. Misunderstood.”

Decker gave her a sour look. “All I’m saying is that there’s a definite connection between Arlington and Little, and a
possible
connection between Banks and Arlington. Furthermore, there’s a connection between Arlington and Cal Vitton.”

Cindy perked up. “Really?”

“Vitton interviewed Arlington over the phone. That’s right there in the charts. But Darnell claims he doesn’t remember the interview or the cop who talked to him.”

“That’s a bunch of bullsh… malarkey. You don’t forget those kinds of incidences or names.”

“Do you have any thoughts?”

“I still think there’s a good chance that Ekerling and Little are unrelated, unless…” Abruptly, Cindy flushed with excitement. “What about Banks and Vitton, Daddy? Cal Vitton was still an active detective when Banks was in high school, right? Rudy didn’t become a bad boy overnight. I bet he had run-ins with the police when he was in his teens. Maybe even with Vitton.”

Mentally, Decker hit his forehead. He leaned over and kissed his daughter’s cheek. “Good call, Cin; hold that thought. I may need you to retrieve it for me as soon as Shabbos is over.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t it be great if you found out that Vitton arrested Banks for possession or—” Cindy stopped abruptly. “If Banks was arrested in high school, wouldn’t his juvenile records be sealed?”

“Not always. Sometimes they’re not.”

“Or maybe he got arrested as an adult.”

“That I have checked out. Banks was hauled in for disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly, and a DUI when he was in the Doodoo Sluts. The incidents took place in West Hollywood and out of town. Nothing he did went down in our district, so Vitton wouldn’t have dealt with Banks on those charges.”

“Too bad.”

“I’m still thinking about what Banks could have done as a teenager…” Decker drummed his fingers on the kitchen table. “It’s true that Banks’s juvenile records might be sealed. But even if the records are sealed, memories aren’t. Vitton’s partner, Arnie Lamar, is still alive — at least for the time being.”

Cindy made a face.

“I meant it as a joke, but maybe I’m a little worried about him. Anyway, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to pay Lamar a visit on Sunday and tell him my concerns. And while I’m there, I’ll ask if a guy named Rudy Banks ever showed up on their radar.”

THE SHELL OF
a 240Z took up valuable driveway space. It had no tires, no seats, and no interior to speak of except for the dash and steering wheel — both original and in surprisingly good shape. The chassis had been lifted upward and was resting on a set of bricks. The Datsun had several generous dents, and the silver paint job was faded and pocked with orange rust stains. But even so, it was a good-looking car — streamlined and way ahead of its time. There was a tool-box nearby, but no feet were sticking out from underneath the car’s carriage. The doors to the four-car garage were closed.

Decker scanned the yard for signs of Arnie Lamar, but came up empty. The ground had been baked from the recent heat wave, turning stone hard with sizable cracks. Red ants were scampering in and out of the fissures. The metal scrap strewn and spangled across the front area reflected blinding sunlight.

Walking up to the front door, Decker got a hinky twinge when he saw that it was wide open, although the screen was closed and locked. He knocked on the doorjamb, gently at first, then louder when he didn’t get a response.

This was not promising.

Looking through the mesh, Decker could make out Arnie’s tidy but dimly lit living room. He could hear a whirring fan and feel a tepid draft blowing out the door.

What to do?

The day was hot enough to burn away the smog, leaving behind a languid blue sky shimmering in the heavens. The ground was smoking, waves undulating off the black asphalt. Dark funnels of gnats swirled around a vortex in hurricane fashion. Flies dive-bombed his face. Sweat had darkened circles under Decker’s armpits and had drenched his back. He had the complexion of a typical redhead and couldn’t walk for more than a hundred feet in full sunlight without his skin beginning to burn. The whine of a mosquito pierced his ear and he slapped at his cheek.

Torpor began to set in, a sodden blanket draping over his shoulders. His head began to pound and his eyes felt itchy.

He checked his watch: 2:10.

The appointment had been set for two. He longed to slide back into his Porsche, crank up the AC, and drive away. He was hot and grumpy, but maybe it was because of his reticence to stumble upon another body. He swore to himself, glanced longingly at his car, but pressed on.

The garage had sealed off the backyard from the front yard on the left side, but there was a gate adjacent to the right of the house. It was six feet high and secured with a padlock. Since he cleared the height by four inches, he peered over and looked around. The backyard was just as brown and vegetation free as the front, but there was no sign of Arnie anywhere.

“Lamar?” He jumped up to get a better view. “Arnie, are you there? It’s Pete Decker.”

Nothing.

A distant dog was barking so hard, it wheezed. Birds chattered from a neighboring fifty-foot magnolia studded with white flowers as big as dinner plates. He went back to the front and knocked his knuckles sore. He mashed his nose to the screen and yelled out, “Yo, Arnie, it’s Pete Decker.” He checked his watch. “It’s a quarter after two…” A hard knock. “Lamar, are you there?”

He exhaled forcibly and yelled out, “I don’t like the looks of this, Lamar, especially after Cal. I’m coming in.”

It didn’t take more than a single pop with a credit card to open the screen. The living room validated his first impression; it seemed unbothered by its lack of occupants and there was nothing to suggest nefarious activities. An industrial-sized fan blasted g-force wind onto his face, a bit annoying with his hair blowing around, but it felt good.

The living room led into a dining area and then the kitchen — around ten feet by ten feet and as dark as a bunker with the blinds drawn. Scratched laminate cabinets lined the walls and the old linoleum flooring had buckled in several spots. The fridge was newer, as was the stove. There were no dishes in the sink. On impulse, he opened the refrigerator. There wasn’t anything rotten inside — several six-packs of beer and a fresh salad. A steak was defrosting on the countertop.

“Lamar?” Decker called out.

He went on to check the bedrooms. In the master — if you could call it that — the bed had been made. Lamar had used redwood burl tree stumps for nightstands. Opposite the bed was a homemade pine armoire with an old-fashioned TV on the top shelf. No cable box or DVD player in sight. Then Decker remembered that there was an antenna on the roof.

Free TV: now there was an old-fashioned concept.

“Arnie?”

Silence.

Down the hallway was the spare bedroom, its door shut tight. Decker became aware of his racing heart and his overactive sweat glands. No bad odor coming from the room, no telltale blackflies buzzing around the door. There was that one obnoxious horsefly relentlessly attacking his face, but that pesky critter had followed him from the outside. He swatted the air and pressed his ear to the door and heard electronic noise… a radio or a television that was suffering from lots of interference.

He gripped the knob and rotated it slowly. The door swung open, revealing a room that was dark and sweltering, without an ounce of circulation.

Decker choked back a cough, his eyes focused on Arnie Lamar slumped in a recliner chair, his bare feet propped up and crossed at the ankles. His head tilted back, his mouth wide open, drool was dripping down from the corners of his cracked lips. His face was bathed in moisture, his eyes shut tightly, and his arms drooped lifelessly at his sides.

He was snoring logs.

There was an empty can of beer on the table next to the chair, and a radio was playing fifties music over the constant crackle of static.

Decker went over to the retired detective and laid a solid hand squarely on his shoulder, a gesture that didn’t register in Lamar’s consciousness. An earthquake wouldn’t have aroused the man.

“Hey, Arnie.” Decker shook him forcefully and did it several times. Lamar began to stir. “Wake up!”

One eye popped open and immediately Lamar recognized the face. He bolted out of the chair, wiping his wet mouth on his forearm. “Lordy Lord, what time is it?”

“Twenty-five after two.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Sorry.” He made a grab for the beer can and brought it to his mouth. When nothing came out, he crumpled it in his hand. “Man, it’s hot in here.”

“No shit.”

“You want a beer?”

“You bet. Frankly, I’d rather pour it over my head, but if you insist on manners, I’ll drink it instead.”

“Come into the living room. I’ve got the fan going in there.”

“Sounds good.” Decker sat on the couch, in the indirect path of the turbo engine wind that was rustling the blinds. Lamar brought out two cold Buds and Decker downed half in an intake of breath and forced himself not to chug the other. “Cold… good.”

Lamar took a sip from the bottle. “I’ve got plenty in the fridge.”

“I noticed.”

“You noticed?”

“I checked out the fridge before I went looking for you in the bedrooms. Just to see if the stuff in there was fresh.”

“Thought I might be missing?”

“Missing or moldering in some hidden spot. After my experience with your partner, I was a little nervous.”

“Well, I’m not missing or moldering, just plain hot and sweaty. I was working on the Z out there in the heat. All of a sudden, summer’s here and I’m sweating and heaving and I just wanted to do one last little repair. I think I pushed myself.”

“Not a good idea.”

“No, but after thirty years of being a detective, you learn to do that. Just try one more thing, just check out that one last lead. I started feeling a little faint and decided to take a break. I guess I was way more tired than I thought.”

Decker smiled. “Well, Arnie, it’s good to see you alive.”

Lamar smiled back, took another swig, and leaned back in the chair. “Cal’s gonna have a memorial next week. Did anyone call you?”

“No, but give me the time and place. I’ll be there.”

“I’m not telling you this to make you feel obligated. But Cal’s sons… you mentioned something about wanting an interview. They’ll both be there.”

“And willing to speak with me?”

“I think so.”

“How are they doing?”

“Well, they’re both a bit shook up. I think it’s harder on Cal. Maybe he thinks it’s his fault that Big Cal ate his gun.”

“And that’s the official ruling?” Decker asked him. “That Cal ate his gun?”

“I just assumed…” Lamar leaned forward. “It isn’t?”

“I don’t know. Last I heard, the toxicologist report hadn’t come in, so the pathologist hadn’t come back with an official ruling. Let me ask you something, Arnie. Was Cal suffering from major pain — like back pain or neck pain or…”

“He was old like I am. I’m sure he had some kind of pain somewhere.”

“He had an open bottle of oxycodone at his bedside. It was his name on the prescription, but it had expired over a year ago. Any reason why he’d have it in the first place?”

He thought for a while. “When we were partners, Cal had kidney stones. Maybe he had one recently.”

“Oh, okay. That explains the oxycodone. But you don’t know if Cal took pain medication regularly?”

“I suppose if the bottle was over a year old, it wouldn’t look like he did. What are you driving at, Decker?”

“I don’t know, Arnie.” He tried to organize his thoughts. “The medicine was over a year old and the bottle was almost full. I would think that Cal might have forgotten about it. I just don’t see him medicating himself before he took the gun. But you would know better than I would. What do you think?”

Lamar stared but didn’t speak.

Decker said, “You know what I’m getting at. I want to make sure that Cal didn’t get help in killing himself.”

Lamar nodded. “And who might have helped him?”

“I was going to ask you that.”

“I don’t have a clue. I don’t think Cal had much in the way of friends. But I don’t think he had anything in the way of enemies. He kept to himself.”

Decker took out a notepad. “When the Little murder happened, was it a particularly hard time in Cal’s life? Is there something associated with the case that would have set Cal off?”

Lamar thought about it. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. A lot of water under the bridge.”

“You said that Cal J might have felt guilty about the death.”

“Just speculating.”

“Where did the Vitton boys go to high school?”

“North Valley, but both of them had graduated before the Little murder.”

“How long before?”

“Four, five years.”

“Did they know Dr. Little?”

“Yes, they did. We talked to the boys about Dr. Little, and like the rest of the community, both had positive things to say about him. Cal J was especially fond of Little. Cal J was having problems with some boys at school and I think Little intervened and diffused the situation.”

“What kind of problems? Bullying?”

“What else?”

“Cal J was the target of homosexual bashers?”

“That was the rumor.”

“So his classmates probably knew he was gay,” Decker said. “What about Big Cal? Did he know?”

“If he knew, he wasn’t admitting it.”

“Who was responsible for the bullying?”

“I don’t have any idea, but I think Cal J is comfortable enough that if you ask him about it, he’d tell you.”

“When did Cal J come out?”

“Way after the murder. About ten years ago.”

“So he was about in his late twenties?”

“About. Him being gay had nothing to do with Little. Like I said, Cal J was fond of Dr. Ben… that’s what he called him. Dr. Ben.”