The Mercedes Coffin (31 page)

Marge said, “Or maybe Rudy wanted Melinda and ordered a hit out on Little.”

Decker said, “First we need a way to verify an affair between Rudy and Melinda. Scott, you need to lean on either Shriner or Melinda Little.”

“Shriner’s an immovable object,” Oliver said. “He’s out for now. I could go to Melinda Little, but I’d like more ammo before I shoot.”

A thought hit Decker’s brain. “Maybe we don’t need Shriner to verify the affair. Give me a few minutes and I might even have an idea.”

VENICE BEACH SPANNED
the socioeconomic spectrum in a ten-block radius: from the multimillion-dollar architectural homes on the canals to the gang-riddled roads of the Oakwood area. In between were a number of California ranches, Pasadena-style Greene and Greene houses with wraparound porches and wood-sided shingles, and old Victorians, some restored, some not.

The beach part in Venice usually referred to the “walk streets” — little alleyways that connected Ocean Park Boulevard to the sand and grit deposited by the blue Pacific. These lanes were lined with the gamut — from shacks to three-story statements — with the main draw being the proximity to the ocean. Decker didn’t know if O’Dell owned or leased, but if he had been bright enough to purchase, the ex-Slut was living the good life in an appreciating asset.

The address corresponded with a one-story, side-by-side Cape Cod duplex painted bright blue with white trim. O’Dell’s unit was the left side and the door was open, the smell of grease wafting clear down to the sidewalk. Decker knocked on the screen door frame, then stepped inside a stuffy, dark room with worn, planked floors and cracked plaster walls. The ceiling beams were half-painted, half-exposed wood and sported a mounted fan on full blast. The artwork consisted of Doodoo Slut posters, lots of framed pictures with babes in bikinis, and a gold record in a shadow box. The furniture was mismatched and looked to be secondhand stuff. The window curtains had been drawn, blocking out most of the natural light.

Decker was sweating under his jacket. He loosened his tie and called out to O’Dell. When he didn’t get a response, he drew back the curtains and the beams streamed in, highlighting the dust and the must. “Liam, are you home?”

“In a minute. Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” Decker took off his jacket and draped it over the sofa. He opened one of the windows and a saline breeze sifted through the screen. O’Dell emerged as a surfer dude in a Hawaiian shirt, cutoff shorts, and sandals. An apron fell down to his knees. His eyes were squinting.

“Did you find Rudy?”

“Not yet.”

“Balls. What the hell is taking so long?”

“I don’t know where he is. Do you?”

“No, but it’s not my job to look for the bastard. That’s what I’m paying me taxes for.” He was still squinting when he noticed the open window. “Who the hell pulled the curtains?”

“Mea culpa,” Decker said. “Is it a problem?”

“Bloody hell, yes, it’s a problem. What time is it?”

“Around twelve.” Decker started to close the curtains, but O’Dell stopped him. “S’right. Just leave it. I’m frying clams. Want some breakfast?”

“No thanks, I’m good.” A pause. “I thought you were a vegan.”

“Clams don’t count.”

Decker could hear a sizzling pan in the background. “Why don’t you finish up your cooking and then we can talk.”

“That’ll work. Want a beer?”

“No thanks.”

“Something stronger?”

“How about a bottle of water?”

“I’ve got tap or a diet 7UP.”

“Diet 7UP is fine. I can drink it out of the can.”

“That’s good because the glasses aren’t clean. You can take off your tie. It’s like a bloody sauna in here.”

“Might cool things off if we opened all the windows.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

After getting some decent ventilation, Decker sat down on the sofa. O’Dell came in with a plate of clams drenched in malt vinegar and tartar sauce. He tossed Decker a can of 7UP and then took a swig from a bottle of Heineken. He ate sans utensils, popping clams into his mouth and licking his fingers afterward. “Delicious. Sure you’re not interested?”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.”

Another healthy gulp of beer. “So you haven’t found Rudy. You think he might be dead?”

“Don’t know,” Decker said. “I’m interested in the time you got along with him.”

“That would be never.”

“You were in a band with him for years. You must have gotten along a little bit.”

“Nope, never.” He ate another clam. “If we didn’t break into fistfights, it’s only because we were too blasted to care. Whenever I was sober, which wasn’t too often, I never liked the son of a bitch.”

“But you two weren’t overtly at war
all
the time.”

He thought about that. “I suppose there were a few times that I could be in the same room with him.”

“Rudy wrote most of the songs for the band?”

“Yeah, like I told you before — Rudy and Primo. That’s why me and Ryan got the raw end of the stick, mate.” Another clam. “The band may fold but the songs live on. Just not for me.”

“I know the band went through lots of women.” A smile on O’Dell’s face. “In addition to the groupies, did Rudy have a special girlfriend?”

“I don’t know, mate, we wasn’t close. Is this going somewhere?”

“Does the name Melinda Little sound familiar to you?”

O’Dell thought a moment. “Melinda… Melinda… Melinda was mine, til the time…” Recognition in his eyes. “There was a Melinda.”

Decker perked up. “Melinda Little?”

“Melinda something.” Decker described her and O’Dell said, “Could be.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Not much. It was a fog. She was around thirty?”

“More like thirty-five.”

O’Dell slowly nodded. “If me memory is intact, I think she was one of ’em who made the rounds.”

“Meaning?”

“What do you think?” O’Dell finished his clams and put the plate down on the coffee table. “Something’s clicking in the airspace.” He pointed to his brain. “I remember something about her being married. She liked to fuck. I don’t think she was getting too much at home.”

Decker nodded.

“For some reason, I remember…” He picked up the plate and took it into the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding another bottle of beer. “I remember that Mudd fell in love with her.” He looked at Decker. “Ryan used to fall in love with whoever he fucked. He was a sucker.” Another pause. “She liked money.”

Decker took out his notepad. “Melinda liked money.”

“I mean, who doesn’t like money, but most of the girls we screwed did it to say they screwed us, or for the party scene or for the drugs. Melinda liked money. I remember talking to Mudd about it. Ryan used to give her money. It’s all coming back.”

“Take your time.” Decker wrote as he collected his thoughts. “So Ryan gave Melinda money? How much?”

“Too much.” Liam took another swig of beer. “I used to tell him, ‘Mudd, you can’t be fallin’ in love with every bird you screw. It’s just ass, mate. You can’t be givin’ it all away for ass. You gotta use your head.’ I musta told him that twenty times a day; the idiot kept fallin’ for one bird after another.”

“Ryan was in love with Melinda?”

O’Dell sipped beer. “Ryan couldn’t… it wasn’t like a mature love. More like a teenage crush. Melinda was squeezing the bloke dry. I forgot who told him. Maybe me, maybe Primo. We finally told Mudd she was married. I think she even had kids.”

“She did… she does.”

“Yeah, she had kids. It was clear to us that she was just foolin’ around. We told Mudd she was married, that she wasn’t gonna leave her husband, that she wasn’t gonna leave her kids. That she was only interested in a good screw and money and that he should forget about her.”

“Did he?”

“He had no choice. We all saw what was happening. We took control of Ryan’s spending cash. When he ran out, she stopped coming around.”

“That doesn’t mean he forgot her.”

“Mudd moved on to the next bird, probably a normal one who liked drugs.”

“Do you remember when Melinda started coming around?”

“Like a date?”

“Even a year.”

“Between the time we formed the band and before we broke up. That was a three-year period.”

Decker mentally noted it was the three-year period in which Little was murdered. “And you don’t remember Melinda’s last name?”

“I don’t remember it as Little… why does that sound familiar?”

“Because Melinda Little’s husband, Bennett Little, was murdered during that three-year period.”

O’Dell looked confused. “Murdered?”

“You don’t remember it? It made big news, Liam. That’s why I’m looking for Rudy. He went to the high school where Little worked.”

“I thought you suspected Banks in Primo’s murder… which is ridiculous.”

“Why? I’ve heard stories about Banks trying to throw acid on someone’s balls.”

O’Dell scratched his cheek. “Yeah, I could see Rudy doing that. But not killing someone. He didn’t like blood.”

“Could he have hired someone to kill Primo?”

“Kill Primo or kill this Little guy?”

“Either.”

O’Dell threw up his hands. “I dunno.”

“And if Banks didn’t like blood, why is there unexplained blood around the baseboard in his apartment?”

“Dunno.” A shrug.

Decker said. “What about Mudd? Could you see him murdering Bennett Little, hoping to snag his wife?”

The suggestion made O’Dell laugh. “Mudd? No way, no how. Not Mudd. He was as soft as soapsuds.”

“You guys were flying most of the time. Your judgment gets whacked.”

“Yeah, but not whacked enough for Mudd to kill someone.”

“Lots of bad things can happen on drugs, Liam.”

“You know, you tell me that you think Rudy’s a killer, now you think Mudd’s a killer. Make up your mind.”

“I’m handling
an investigation,
O’Dell. That means I’m
investigating.
Like you said, it’s your tax dollars at work.”

“And you still can’t find Rudy. The only thing you do is ask a lot of questions.” He pointed to his chest. “Am I next in your line of killers?”

“Why would I think that, Liam?”

“You seem to be thinking a lot of strange things. Like Mudd doing murder. He would never kill someone. Rudy yes, maybe even Primo. Maybe even me. Not Mudd.”

“So let’s do him a favor,” Decker said. “Why don’t we both go over to his place and ask him about Melinda Little?”

“He’s not gonna remember her.”

“Indulge me.”

O’Dell looked as if he’d swallowed vinegar. “I need another beer.”

“Take a whole keg, if you want,” Decker said. “I’ll drive.”

THE DRIVE TO
Goldberg’s place was an hour of crosstown hell. First it was a bumper-to-bumper freeway crawl because some semi had jackknifed, blocking three lanes of the 405 West. Decker got off at Bundy and tried Olympic, which was moving but at a tortoise’s pace. By the time he weaved over to Sunset, the air had turned filmy, the temperature had risen, and the sun was piercing his windshield like a bullet. It was almost one-thirty and Decker was sporting an ogre headache.

The Hollywood Terrace was still ugly and depressing and maybe it was Decker’s mood, but the entire day seemed to have dissolved into a muck pile of smog and heat. Decker parked and they both got out of the car without speaking. O’Dell pushed the button to Goldberg’s apartment, and when he didn’t get a response, he pushed it again.

“Does he go out a lot?” Decker asked.

“No!” O’Dell spit at the ground. “Fuck!”

Liam was concerned. Decker said, “Last time I was here, his TV was playing at top volume. Maybe he just didn’t hear the buzzer.” Decker pushed the bell to a random apartment. He kept doing this until someone opened the glass door to the lobby.

They entered and hurried to Goldberg’s apartment. O’Dell tried the handle but it was locked. He jiggled it several times hoping to prod it open, and when it didn’t budge, he said, “You still got those picks?”

“A good detective comes prepared.” Decker took out a credit card and snapped the lock. “Always go simple first.”

They went inside. The place appeared undisturbed and as tidy as Decker remembered. The flat-screen TV was still there, as was Goldberg’s Dreadnought Martin. Liam picked it up and strummed a few chords.

Decker gave the one room a once-over and shrugged. “Everything looks okay.”

O’Dell was visibly relieved. “I’m gonna stick around until Mudd gets back.”

“I’m going to go grab a bite to eat,” Decker said. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Can I bring you back something?”

“Nah.” He started picking some licks. “This baby is beautiful. He shouldn’t keep it here. He’s gonna get ripped off and then what? Maybe I’ll buy him a repro and put this in a vault or something.”

Mad Irish seemed lost in thought. Decker took the moment as an exit cue. He found a vegan storefront about two blocks down. It was relatively clean and had received an A rating. He took a chance, filling his stomach with a burrito of beans, rice, and tofu cheese. As promised he was back at the apartment in twenty minutes.

Still no Mudd.

O’Dell was still playing the Martin.

Decker said, “How long are you going to wait?”

“I’ve got a TV and a guitar. I’m a happy man.”

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“Am I alive in the twenty-first century?” O’Dell gave Decker his number. “You go and I’ll wait. It’s fine.”

“Call me when he comes back.”

O’Dell nodded and stopped playing. His face was etched with worry. “What if he doesn’t?”

“Then especially call me.”

THE HOLLYWOOD SUBSTATION
of the LAPD was a cinder-block bunker about two blocks from Ryan Goldberg’s freestanding prison cell. Luck was in the air, and Cindy was back from the field at her desk, filling out paperwork, when Decker called and set up the desired meeting. He waited for her at the same A-rated, storefront vegan restaurant where he had eaten a burrito that had gone down fairly well. He marked time by sipping a soy chai tea and listening to the black-haired Goth waitress with multiple pierces argue over the cell phone. The heated conversation was still going when Cindy came in twenty minutes later wearing dark slacks, a green short-sleeved blouse, and rubber-soled flat shoes. Her hair was tied in a ponytail.