The Mercedes Coffin (9 page)

“It’s the one thing that Koby insisted that we leave untouched and how right he was.”

“The remodel is just perfect, princess. I know it was a hassle but it couldn’t have turned out better.”

“Thanks for all your help, Daddy. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You’re welcome, although I didn’t do much.”

“First of all, you put us in contact with Mike Hollander. That was ninety percent of it. Second, you did most of the finished tile work. It came out beautifully.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He finished his espresso. “So now we’re even. I tiled the backsplash in your kitchen, you got me the Ekerling file.”

“It’s not quid pro quo, Dad.”

“Yeah, you had the harder job.”

“That might be true.” Cindy smiled. “Luckily I inherited your ability to lie glibly and seamlessly.”

He didn’t deny the obvious. “What lie did you tell them?”

“It really wasn’t a stretch. Being as I was the initial detective on the scene, I just told them that I needed a copy for my records. They weren’t even a tad suspicious.”

“Who’re the detectives on the case?”

“Rip Garrett and Tito Diaz. Diaz gave me the file. It took me over a half hour to copy it, and the pictures didn’t come out so great, but I did the best I could. Anyway, the original file is back where it belongs and you have your copy.”

“I’m grateful to you, Detective Kutiel. It wouldn’t be cool to inject myself into their case without a reason.” Decker picked up his coffee to drink and remembered he finished it.

“Would you like another?” Cindy offered.

“Actually, I don’t have intentions of sleeping, so why not?”

“Come inside and I’ll hand over the file. You can also watch me use my new nifty espresso machine.”

He followed her inside to a petite kitchen, which included a farm sink and an old-fashioned stove. “Wow, this came out great.”

“You say that every time.”

“At least I’m consistent. And it’s true. This is simply charming. Unfortunately for me, Rina’s getting ideas.”

“Uh-oh.” Cindy put the coffee into the machine.

“Although she has a point. The kitchen is a little dated.”

“It wouldn’t take much.”

“Not to you.”

Cindy smiled. “Just tell her it doesn’t matter about the shape of the kitchen, what matters is the cook, and in that regard, she has me beat by a mile.”

“You’re a good cook.”

“No one is like Rina.”

Decker didn’t have a comeback to that. “Would you like to come over Friday night for Shabbos?”

“Uh, what day is it? Tuesday?”

“Yep.”

“I think it would work for me. Let me ask Koby and I’ll get back to you.” The coffee started to brew, the steam roaring as it forced the water through the grounds. “Did you clear this with Rina?”

“You’ve got an open invitation, but I’ll clear it with her.”

Cindy handed her father another shot of espresso. “I love this machine. I can even steam milk. It saves a bundle on my outside coffee bills.”

“Yeah, what do they charge now for designer coffee? Something like five dollars for an amount the size of a thimble?” Decker held up the file. “Thanks so much for this. It really, really helps.”

Cindy sized up her father. “I keep waiting for you to lose passion about your cases. It never happens.”

“Some cases get more attention than others. This one has a lot of money riding on a solve.”

“And you think Ekerling has something to do with a fifteen-year-old murder case?”

Decker simply shrugged. He finished his espresso and wiped his mouth on a napkin. “I can’t put it off much longer. Traffic’s going to be horrible, so I might as well bite the bullet.”

“I’d ask you to stay for dinner, but I think we’re meeting some friends tonight.”

“No, I have to get back to my wife and your sister, although Hannah’s never around anymore. But Rina still loves me.”

“I’m sure Hannah loves you as well.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she does, but at her age, she has a funny way of showing it.”

AFTER WRITING COPIOUS
notes on two packs’ worth of index cards, Decker had a neat summary of the Primo Ekerling case. He had come away with the following account.

At five-thirty in the afternoon, Ekerling and his brand-new silver 550S Mercedes sedan left his office on San Vicente Boulevard and disappeared into the ether. His initial absence from the world was noticed by his girlfriend, Marilyn Eustis, when she failed to reach Ekerling by phone. She left messages but wasn’t particularly wary when he didn’t return the calls. He had an eight o’clock dinner meeting that night, and Marilyn figured that they’d meet up at the designated restaurant. Primo could be lax with phone calls, but he was always punctual with his fellow associates and this evening mixed business with pleasure.

At nine in the evening, Ekerling was still a no-show. His associates were miffed, and although Marilyn was concerned, she kept it to herself and made excuses. She knew that Primo must be very much indisposed because this gathering was important. Song-sharing sites had just about rendered multitrack CDs obsolete, and because of this, the state of the recording industry had turned dismal. Companies were loath to record more than a single song per artist, which greatly reduced time in the studio, which in turn greatly reduced the need for record producers. Among the few survivors, the competition was fierce. This particular group of people represented an up-and-coming hip-hop band, and they were reinterviewing Primo for the position of producer for their newest release. The money wasn’t terrific but the exposure was, and Marilyn Eustis felt that Ekerling would have prioritized this meeting. At the very least, had he not been able to make it, he would have called.

Still, the show went on. Marilyn mollified egos in the producer’s absence and treated the gang on her tab. The wine flowed, the food kept on coming, and when they emptied out of the restaurant at a little past eleven, she felt that a good time had been had by all.

For her part, Eustis hardly ate a thing.

She drove to Primo’s condo and let herself in with her key. As usual, the space was tidy with no signs of disturbance. Marilyn checked the development’s gated parking lot and was quick to note that Primo’s Mercedes wasn’t in its allotted slot.

Her initial calls were to the police and highway patrol inquiring about accidents. When that turned into a goose egg, thank God, she called the police a second time to report Ekerling as a missing person.

The police were unimpressed by the urgency in her voice. She’d have to wait until Primo was missing for a longer period before they’d send someone to look into the disappearance. When it became clear that Primo wasn’t going to show up on his own accord, the police sent a detective named Marsden Holly to talk to Marilyn.

Holly, upon hearing what Primo did for a living, offered alternative scenarios, most of them variations on his cutting town or being with another woman. Marilyn was insistent that neither was plausible. The detective took down the model, make, and license plate of the Mercedes and called it in. Ekerling remained a mystery until a cop noticed a ticketed Mercedes. When the vehicle turned up as hot, he reported the crime to GTA — grand theft auto.

Detective Cynthia Kutiel — Decker allowed himself a bit of pride here — noticed a sagging trunk. When the lid was popped, detectives discovered the partially decomposed body curled into the fetal position. The victim had been shot in the head execution style, his hands and feet bound tightly.

Homicide detectives were called in along with the coroner investigators.

They were followed by the techs and a police photographer.

Evidence was collected, pictures were taken, and fingerprints were lifted. The good news was that the fingerprints secured at the crime scene matched two low-life petty criminals named Geraldo Perry and Travis Martel. Both teens had priors, although up to now, they had managed to eschew violence. Detectives Rip Garrett and Tito Diaz pointed out a trend of escalating crime in the boys’ rap sheets and felt that they had finally crossed that line.

The teens were brought in and grilled in separate interview rooms. Both boys recited the same story and used the same defense. At around ten in the evening, the boys had wandered into Jonas Park — a known drug spot — looking to score weed. Instead they had found the lone Mercedes in an empty parking lot near the park. Both freely admitted to stealing the car, but neither confessed to killing Ekerling. They claimed they took the car joyriding: cruising Santa Monica Boulevard, then racing down Sunset at three in the morning, eventually abandoning the car in the Hollywood hills after the engine started to smoke.

Both were adamant about their innocence. They claimed they had no idea that Ekerling had been stuffed inside the trunk and was moldering in his own private coffin.

“Where’d you go after you abandoned the car?” Rip Garrett asked Travis Martel.

“We was hungry, man. We needed eats, nomasayin’? We went to Mel’s, had some waffles. They was good. Then we called up some buds and axed them to pick us up.”

“And why would your buds pick you up, forty miles away from your house?”

“
’Cause we told them we boosted a Benz and would give them the navigation system and the stereo for twenty bucks and a ride home. They said okay.”

“So then what happened?”

“They come to Mel’s and order some waffles, too. I was still hungry, so I ordered a club with extra bacon. Then when we all was finished we went by the Benz and drove it into the hills where it was real quiet. We left the nav, but we boosted the stereo. It had took about five minutes.”

“When did you leave Hollywood?”

“Like four o’clock. Me and Gerry was tired.”

Rip and Tito didn’t believe the jokers. They theorized that the bad boys were attempting to jack the Mercedes when Ekerling confronted them. Shots were fired, Primo was murdered. The kids stuffed the dead man into the trunk, drove the car forty miles away from the crime scene, and left the Mercedes in the Hollywood hills.

The buds of Travis and Geraldo — two dudes named Tyron and Leo — confirmed the teens’ stories. The waitress at Mel’s remembered all four boys. But the detectives remained unconvinced. So did the D.A. and a grand jury. Travis Martel and Geraldo Perry were arraigned for the crimes of carjacking and murder. Bail was denied. The teens were languishing in jail.

Decker regarded the photographs.

Geraldo Perry was five eight and 120 pounds, a thin teen with a scrawny mustache and a soul patch. His eyes were droopy and his shoulders were narrow. He looked like a hype.

Travis Martel was black but not the typical African American. He had wavy hair, mocha-colored skin, thick lips, an angular nose, and upward-slanted brown eyes. He was also five eight, thicker in build but not any sort of a muscleman. In his mug shot, the eyes engaged and challenged.

Primo Ekerling was six one, a solid two hundred pounds if Decker had to make a guess. He had a thick head of curly hair, dark brown eyes, and a jutting, cleft chin.

Decker was struck by some similarities between the Ekerling and Bennett Alston Little cases: same make of the cars, bodies stuffed in the trunk, public dump spots for the vehicles. But if Decker was to get anywhere, he needed to ramp up the connections. As it stood, there was nothing Decker could hang his hat on.

He put down the case file and googled Primo Ekerling; over a thousand references flashed across the monitor. The first few pages dealt with his shooting, but after those thinned, most of the articles had to do with his business as a producer and then his youthful stint as a punk rock star. It was interesting to note how a person could be almost a complete unknown and still have so many references.

Primo Ekerling had his backers. But he also had a number of detractors as evidenced by all of his lawsuits.

He was suing a band that he had produced for back payment.

He was suing a record company that had hired him for back payment.

He was suing a former member of his own defunct band — the Doodoo Sluts — for royalties from their “best of” CDs.

He was also suing a number of other record producers for back payment.

Decker read the articles carefully, trying to find Freddy Vitton’s name, but that came up empty. Decker did notice that one of the many producers whom Ekerling was suing had also been a band member of the former Doodoo Sluts — a guy named Rudy Banks.

He picked up the Ekerling file, looked for Rudy’s name but didn’t find it anywhere. Not surprising because Martel and Perry had been arrested almost immediately, so why bother? And it wasn’t a smart thing to start calling up Ekerling’s critics and asking pointed questions. Someone might get pissed. Someone might call up Detective Rip Garrett or Detective Tito Diaz and start complaining about a nosy lieutenant from West Valley. And if they mentioned the name Decker, not only would he be in a tight spot, that lieutenant would also put his daughter in an even tighter spot.

Especially because two suspects were currently in custody and those two suspects had been in diapers or nonexistent when Bennett Alston Little had been murdered.

No, no, no, it would be an unwise thing to talk to Ekerling’s adversaries. What Decker needed was one of Primo’s allies.

He wrote himself a reminder to call Marilyn Eustis tomorrow morning.

WHILE THE MORNING
coffee was brewing, Decker turned on the family laptop. It was clogged with a plethora of different sites and icons and was ancient in a rapidly moving techno world. However, it still worked.

The Doodoo Sluts had gone through several transformations, but in its heyday eighteen years ago, it consisted of a quartet: Elvis Costello look-alikes who were, in turn, Buddy Holly look-alikes — four white boys in black suits, white shirts, thin black ties, and big round black-rimmed glasses. Their most successful track was entitled “Bang Me” and climbed its way to number eight on the Top 100 hit list. The song wasn’t available in any routine download format.