The Mercedes Coffin (20 page)

“How about…” Oliver looked at his watch. It was a five-thirty. “Do you still live in La Jolla?”

“Yes.”

“I could drive down tonight. I could probably be there by eight, eight-thirty.”

“Tonight is my night out with my wife. I won’t be back until about ten. It’s going to be late to drive back to L.A. for you.”

“I’m fine with driving back. Let me give you my phone number. I’ll probably be in La Jolla around dinnertime. When you get home, give me a ring and I’ll come over.”

“That’s a good idea. I wouldn’t want you showing up, flashing the badge and putting Grandma in a panic.”

“Grandma? Your mother is babysitting?”

“Hardly.” A chuckle. “
My
grandparents. They’re the resident babysitters. They love their great-grandson. It’s a sweet deal all around.”

“Your mother’s parents?”

“Yes. My father’s parents passed on a long time ago.”

“You know, I’d love to talk to your grandparents. Would that be possible?”

The line fell silent. “I can call them and ask.”

“It would be very helpful. I know that you remember a lot about that period, but you were only thirteen. Adults would have a different perspective.” A long pause. “Your brother mentioned a falling-out between your mother and them.”

“He oversimplified the situation,” Jared told him. “It’s more like: we all love Mom but she’s difficult. Are you going to ask me prying questions about Mom?”

“I think prying is too strong a word.” Even though it wasn’t. “It’s hard to talk about your dad without talking about your mom. I know she had problems with gambling in the past. I’ve heard she conquered her demons.”

Another protracted silence. “More like a cold war. Anyway, I’ll ask my grandparents and give you a call back.”

“Thanks for being so helpful, Jared. It’ll really help move the investigation along.”

“No problem.” A sigh. “I know you tend to idolize the dead, but my father was really a good guy. Nelson, my son, looks a lot like him. He’s got the same winning personality, the same sparkle in his eyes, the same ability to command respect. I know that seems weird for me to be saying, but it’s not just a proud parent talking. We just put him in pre-school and the teacher said he’s a natural-born leader.”

“I’m sure she’s right.”

“It’s uncanny, you know. The bastard took my dad away, but his genes live on.”

MARGE KNOCKED ON
Decker’s door frame and without waiting for a response, stepped into the office. “You wouldn’t think a guy with the name of Jervis Wenderhole would be that hard to track down.”

Decker pointed to a chair. “Remind me again… who is Jervis Wenderhole?”

“One of Darnell’s ex-peeps.”

“Right. A-Tack the rapper.”

“Wenderhole holds a unique spot on Arlington’s list,” Marge said. “He’s the only person who isn’t in jail or isn’t dead.”

“But since you can’t locate him, that’s still an open question.”

“I’ve run him through NCIC. He’s got a record but hasn’t been naughty for a long time. No death certificate found, so there’s hope.”

“He’s not in the phone book?”

“Not in L.A. I’ve got a reverse directory for the Valley, but I’m looking for one in South Central. I found out that although Arlington went to North Valley, Darnell, Josephson, and Wenderhole were bused in from L.A. — a twenty-five-mile trip one way. I though mandatory busing was declared unconstitutional.”

“Fifteen years ago, the program was voluntary. Lots of parents chose it because they thought their kids would get a better education at a whiter school.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Any other ideas on how you might track him down?”

“Didn’t you say Wenderhole was a rapper?”

“Yes, I did. However, I haven’t found any actual CD.”

“So where’d you hear that from?”

“From one of the old buddies who is now in prison. Maybe Banks was his producer. Wouldn’t that be convenient?”

“Banks’s whereabouts would be convenient.”

“He didn’t leave any forwarding address?”

“No, but he did leave human blood behind in his apartment. We’ve got a positive on that.”

“Oh my…” Marge sat down. “A lot of it?”

Decker said, “I found blood behind the shoe molding that dripped down to the baseboard and floor.”

“Do we have any way to match it to Rudy Banks?”

“We’re working on it, but I don’t see how it could belong to Rudy. The paint job is new, but not that new. I talked to Rudy on Friday.”

“It could be someone claiming to be Rudy,” Marge said.

“I thought about that,” Decker said. “Rudy mentioned to me over the phone that he’d been on jury duty. I checked it out and it was true. Banks had been impaneled at the L.A. courthouse as recently as Friday.”

“So the question is, whose blood?” Marge said. “Primo Ekerling?”

“It’s a thought.”

Oliver popped his face through the open door. “I’m off to La Jolla.” He looked at Marge. “You’re here. Wanna come?”

“What’s in La Jolla?”

“Jared Little and, as an added bonus, I’m interviewing Melinda Little’s parents — Delia and Mark Defoe, who by the way are estranged from their daughter.”

“That should be interesting.” Marge stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder. “A lot more interesting than what I had planned. Sure I’ll come.”

“What did you have planned, Margie?” Decker asked.

“Absolutely nothing. Will’s on night shift, Vega’s doing community service, tutoring inner-city kids on computers, and I’m a blank slate. Do you need me to follow up on the forensics at Banks’s apartment?”

“No, I’ll do it,” Decker told her. “But thanks.”

“What forensics?” Oliver asked.

“I’ll fill you in while we’re driving. I’m starving. Let’s grab some sushi to go. We’ll eat in the car.”

Oliver shot her an incredulous look. “How am I going to eat sushi if I’m behind the wheel?”

“I’ll feed you, Scotty.” Marge shook her head. “I’ll even wipe the soy sauce off your chin.”

“You make me sound like a drooling, senile old fart.”

She pinched his cheek. “Not at all. I’m just trying to help you… do you a service. Think of me as a geisha with a gun.”

THE SUNSET WAS
on the right, a fiery ball spewing golden rays on a smooth slate surface. They were about ten miles from their destination, and while the traffic had been gnarly, the view had been pretty and the sushi had gone down smoothly except for the thirst factor. Oliver was on his second Diet Coke when he saw the off-ramp for La Jolla Village Drive.

“You turn right here,” Marge told him. “Melinda’s parents are Mark and Delia Defoe, correct?”

“Correct. As in
Treasure Island.
”

“That was Robert Louis Stevenson,” Marge said. “Defoe is
Robinson Crusoe.
”

“Stop showing off.”

“I’m not showing off, I’m just saying… never mind.”

“Aren’t you impressed that I even knew that Defoe wrote some South Sea shipwreck book?”

“Very impressed. Your literary Q has gone up a notch. Can we talk about the case?”

“Sure. Melinda’s parents are babysitting their great-grandson. They’re in their late seventies. Jared asked us to be gentle with them. What’s the name of the development?”

“La Jolla Pines.”

Oliver slowed the car. “What does that sign say?”

“That’s La Jolla Woods.”

He crept another mile. “How about that sign?”

“La Jolla Hills. Your directions say to go straight for three miles. It hasn’t been three miles.”

“What’s that?”

“La Jolla Shores.”

“They’re not very original over here.”

“Keep going…” They rode a minute in silence. Marge squinted in the dusk. “There’s the turnoff to La Jolla Pines.”

Oliver hung a left, which put them into a forested development of stucco and wood, two-story town houses, more or less Cape Cod in style. The homes were constructed almost identically but individualized by finishing material, plants, garden statues, fences, and gates. They drove through winding streets that gently rose and fell, the asphalt roads shadowed by mature eucalyptus and pines. Green lawns, lots of blooms, and a plethora of citrus trees. The air was wet and briny, the temperature around sixty-five degrees.

They parked in front of a white and brick house that was bedecked with multicolored impatiens. As soon as they got out of the car, the front yard lights came on and the door opened. An elderly woman stepped out onto the front porch. She was meticulously coiffed and dressed: white slacks, a white shirt, and a red blazer. Her teased salon-style hair was blond, her nails were long and painted pearlescent white, and large diamond rings adorned her knobby fingers.

Marge had her badge out as she introduced herself. “Mrs. Defoe?”

“Delia…” She walked a couple of steps and put her finger to her lips. “The old man fell asleep right on the living room couch. We can talk in the den.”

The entrance hall was dark, but the living room had the lights on. The ceiling soared upward of fourteen feet, and a picture window provided a sparkling view of the illuminated hills of La Jolla. Beyond the lights was the afterglow of sun shimmering on the surface of the sea.

“This way,” Delia whispered.

The den was dominated by a sixty-inch flat screen mounted on the wall. There were shelves of DVDs, CDs, and a few paperback books. The furniture was straight lines but comfortable and beige in color — as was the carpet. A corner chest was open and overflowed with toys.

“Sit anywhere you’d like. May I get you something to drink from the bar?”

Oliver looked around and saw a small closet with a half door. “I’d love a beer.”

“Soda water for me, if you have it,” Marge said.

“Coming right up!” She went into the closet/bar and opened a small refrigerator. She worked quickly and efficiently. The beer had frosted the glass, and the soda water bubbled in a crystal tumbler. “Here we go.”

“Thanks so much,” Marge said.

Oliver took a sip and sighed. Man, it was good. “So your grandson wore out your husband.”

“Great-grandson,” Delia corrected. “He’s such a love. Most of the time we’re here, he’s asleep. Today Nelson got the wild notion to play hide-and-seek right before bedtime. It hyped up the little one and pooped out the big one. I had to read the little guy four books. The big guy didn’t need any coaxing to sleep.”

“Babysitting is fine as long as it’s not your full-time job,” Oliver said. “That’s what I love about my grandchildren. Kiss them, spoil them, and then when they’re all hyped up, you go home and sleep.”

“How many grandchildren do you have, Detective Oliver?”

“Five… four boys and a little newborn girl. She’s an oddball. I have three sons. We’re overloaded in the Y chromosome department.”

“That’s not too bad. I think boys are much easier than girls. At least that’s been my experience. And you, Sergeant?”

“A daughter. She’s in college.”

Delia nodded and turned back to Oliver. “How old are your grandsons?”

“The oldest is going into high school. I don’t know where the time has gone.”

“It only gets worse the older you get. Time doesn’t march, it does a steeplechase. I look in the mirror and I hardly recognize the face staring back at me.”

It was a pleasant face, Marge thought. Kind brown eyes surrounded by skin that was a little smoother than it should have been. The plastic surgeon hadn’t overdone it. “Thanks again for talking to us,” Marge iterated. “We’re trying to jump-start your late son-in-law’s case.”

“Poor Ben… what a gem he was. There wasn’t anything that boy couldn’t do. He was just so full of energy. We were all so…” A big sigh. “I was devastated. My husband was devastated. The kids were destroyed.”

“And Melinda?” Marge asked.

The old woman’s eyes were still far away. “Melinda?” They pulled back and focused in on Marge’s face. “She fell apart, although she didn’t need much of an excuse to do that. Melinda was always a delicate child. She was a beautiful little girl and because of that, she was indulged, mostly by her father. He just adored her. We’ve been estranged for a while. It’s killing him.”

“I’m sure it’s hard on you as well,” Marge said.

“I’m tougher than my husband.” Her pained expression belied her bravado. “I understand her point of view, but she refuses to see our point of view. And no matter what we try to do or say, we’re just mud in her eyes.” The old woman was shaking her head. “But we just couldn’t continue to fund her addiction.”

“Were you aware of her gambling problem before Ben was murdered?”

“As soon as she turned twenty-one, we were both highly aware of it. So was Ben.”

Marge said, “He married her even though he knew?”

“Melinda was very persistent. She chased him. Ben was very handsome and very charismatic. Why else would she go for a teacher? Melinda always wanted to marry money.” A forced sigh. “Well, she got her wish with her second husband. I hope they’re very happy.”

“Do you like your current son-in-law?”

“I hardly know him!” Delia exclaimed. “It’s all good and well. I adore Jared and Amy. We’ve very close.”

“What about Nick?”

“I have nothing against Nick, but he’s a little different. I’ve tried to get closer, but Nick has had his own problems. I send the children gifts at Christmas, and they write thank-you cards, but he doesn’t call and I have to respect his privacy.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “We wouldn’t have much in common, anyway, I don’t think.”

“I understand,” Marge said, returning her whisper. “So Ben married your daughter even though she had a gambling problem.”

“Yes.”

“How’d he keep it in check?”

“With the purse strings. He watched her very carefully, and she didn’t dare defy him. And he took her to Vegas every once in a while. It blew off a little bit of her steam.”

“It didn’t feed the addiction?”

“I suppose it did, but he was trying to be as kind as he could. As long as she couldn’t touch the money, they were okay.”

“What money? His?” Oliver asked.

“No, the money we put aside for Melinda. She had a trust fund. We had put in over a half-million dollars for her. It was for big things — a house, education, savings. Money that she might need as an adult, not money for the tables in Vegas.”