Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 17 Page 2

  The department had detectives who worked cold cases routinely, and why they didn’t pick this one up was anyone’s guess. Decker suspected that if West Valley got the solve, a substantial slab of the coveted cash would be directed to Strapp. Also, it was logical that the local detectives might have better luck concluding a case that happened in their own backyard.

  By the time Decker could actually turn his attention to the six boxes that had been checked out from storage, it was after six in the evening. Too many miscreants had occupied the day, and if he was to get anywhere, he needed solitude to read and think. He decided to work from his home office, and though it wasn’t proper procedure to carry out official material, it happened all the time.

  The drive to his house took less than fifteen minutes, down Devonshire Boulevard to his ranch-style wood-sided house. Decker’s property was over a third of an acre, not nearly as big as the ranch he had owned when the Little case broke through to the media, but the space was large enough for him to spread out his workbench on a lovely spring day and play with his tools. The grounds had become a feast for the eyes since Rina had taken up gardening about two years ago. She had turned what had been a boring sheet of green lawn into lush gardens with riotous colors. Last spring, it had made the L.A. Garden list of places to visit. One entire Sunday had been taken up by troupes of gardening aficionados traipsing through his property oohing and aahing and congratulating Rina on a job well done.

  Upon arriving home, Decker could smell garlic coming from the kitchen. His wife’s cooking skills even surpassed her eminent prowess as a landscaper. Balancing three of the boxes while fiddling with the front door key, he managed to make an entrance, place the boxes on his dining room table, and not fall on his ass. It was a good sign.

  Rina emerged from the kitchen, her hair maddeningly black without a hint of gray even though the woman was in her forties. Her lack of aging never ceased to painfully remind Decker that he was in his fifties and had a head streaked with silver. The follicles that retained the most of Decker’s original carrot red coloring were embedded in his mustache. The facial hair was maybe a bit out of style, but Rina claimed it made him look very masculine and handsome, and she was the only one he was still trying to impress.

  Rina wiped her hands on a dish towel. She pointed to the boxes. “What’s all that about?”

  “I got saddled with another cold case, only this one needs a quick solve.”

  “See what happens when you’re too successful?”

  Decker smiled. “Aren’t you my good friend. What smells so good?”

  “Chicken cacciatore over pasta. I’ve loaded it with garlic trying to stave off the current flu bug. My plan is to make it uncomfortable for anyone to get too close to us. But we’ll be okay with each other because we’ll both eat the same entrée.”

  “What about our progeny? Will she be able to come close?”

  “Hannah is irrelevant since I basically haven’t seen her in three days—the consequence of a driver’s license. She’s at Lilly’s studying for a chemistry test.”

  Decker brightened. “So we’re all alone?”

  “Yes. How about if you clear off the table and I’ll open the wine. I’ve picked out a Sangiovese that I found on KosherWine.com.”

  “Sounds wonderful but just a single glass for me, darlin’. I’ve got to work.”

  “Hence the boxes.”

  “There are still three more in the car.”

  “Yikes. Can I help?”

  “No, just leave these on the table for a moment, and I’ll drag everything into the office. Then we can have dinner before I plow my way into ancient history. How’s your day been?”

  Rina’s eyes twinkled flashes of blue. “The same as always. I try to teach resentful kids something that they have no interest in learning.”

  “Charming. For what they pay you, you can walk away.”

  “I could…” Again she smiled. “But then life wouldn’t hold any challenges. As much as I love gardening, a plant is no substitute for a surly teenager. And honestly, I really do like the kids.”

  “The cold case I’m working on was a teacher.”

  Rina turned serious. “Who?”

  “It happened fifteen years ago. A history teacher at North Valley.”

  “Bennett Little. Found in the trunk of his Mercedes, shot execution style.”

  “What a memory.”

  “It was a big case. You were still at Foothill and we were living at your old ranch.” She smiled. “I miss the ranch sometimes, even though it was a two-and-a-half-mile walk to shul.”

  “I miss the ranch, too, although I do not miss cleaning horse stables. My hands are dirty enough as is. I’m really impressed with your memory, although it makes sense. At your age, I had a pretty good memory as well.”

  “I know, Peter, you’re ready for the glue factory.”

  “What else do you recall about the Little case?”

  “In the end, the ruling was that it was probably a carjacking.” She frowned. “Am I wrong or isn’t there a current Hollywood case similar to Little that actually is a carjacking?”

  “Indeed there is. Two sixteen-year-old punks have been arrested.”

  “Are the two related?”

  “Fifteen years apart?” Decker shrugged. “Doubt it, but without knowing the specifics of either case, I can’t say.”

  “Did they open the Little case because of the Hollywood case?”

  “Indirectly, yes.” Decker blew out air. “I’ll explain it over dinner. Let me get those other boxes inside. Then I’ll clear the table and we can eat. I’m starving.”

  “Are you sure I can’t do anything else for you, Peter?”

  “You can bring out the candles. As far as I know, a little atmosphere and romance never hindered anyone’s investigation. And I suppose you can make a strong pot of coffee. I’m going to need it tonight.”

  CHAPTER 3

  THE DRY FACTS of the homicide played out like this. After a full day of work, Little left his office and headed to the school parking lot. Before he reached his three-year-old silver 350SL Mercedes-Benz, he was cornered by a group of six students. The pupils described the interchange as jocular. They chatted with Dr. Ben until Little checked his watch and excused himself, saying he was late for a meeting. According to the kids, Little left the parking lot around four-thirty.

  The meeting consisted of a local group of residents and Connie Kritz, a member of the L.A. Board of Supervisors. They were talking about community shelters for the homeless—a hot-button issue in the nineties.

  Not that the homeless weren’t just as needy today. But having gone through years of dealing with civic issues, Decker knew that there was only so much room for star status. The unwashed schizophrenics seemed to have been supplanted by global warming.

  According to records, Dr. Ben had called his home number from his car phone at 4:52 P.M. Melinda Little, Ben’s wife of fifteen years, said that the conversation was brief because the car phone’s reception was full of static. Ben stated that he expected to be home around seven.

  When the clock struck eight, Melinda started to grow concerned. She called his car phone but no one answered. She paged him on his beeper but he didn’t call back. Still, she wasn’t really worried, figuring that Little had turned off his beeper and was deep in debate. Passions ran high when dealing with the homeless. When her cuckoo clock struck nine and there was still no word from Ben, Melinda told her sons that she was going out for a few minutes.

  Melinda drove to Civic Auditorium only to find it empty. With shaking hands, she drove back home, locked herself in the bedroom, and started going through a roster of community numbers until she managed to secure the home phone listing for Connie Kritz. The supervisor was surprised that Melinda hadn’t heard from Ben. Connie told her that the homeless meeting had finished up around seven-thirty. She thought that Ben had left with the rest of the group.

  It was now close to ten.

  Melinda called the polic
e, only to be told that an adult isn’t considered officially missing until he or she has been gone for at least forty-eight hours. She told them how unusual it was for Ben to be late, but the sergeant wasn’t interested. He suggested some other possibilities.

  Maybe he was with a friend.

  Maybe he was with a girlfriend.

  Maybe he stopped off to get some dinner.

  Maybe he stopped off at a bar.

  Maybe he took a drive.

  Maybe he was having a midlife crisis and needed some time to think.

  Whatever the situation was, the sergeant suggested that she go to bed and the situation would probably resolve itself by morning.

  Melinda would have none of that. She knew that if Ben had gotten waylaid, he would have called on the car phone. That’s what the damn thing was for. Emergencies.

  At eleven-thirty that evening, the boys knocked on the bedroom door and asked why their mother had been locked in her bedroom for the past hour and a half. Not wanting to alarm them, Melinda said she was helping a friend in crisis.

  “Where’s Dad?” asked the youngest.

  “Out helping someone else.”

  The sons had no problem believing the story. Ben was always helping someone.

  Melinda told her sons to go to bed and began making more phone calls. An hour later, when Melinda still hadn’t heard from Ben, her closest friends came over to stay with her until this ordeal resolved. Their corresponding husbands had been sent out to look for Ben and/or his car.

  The dreaded call came in at three-thirty in the morning. Ben Little’s Mercedes had been spotted—the sole vehicle in a paved lot at Clearwater Park. The police had been called. Two squad cars eventually arrived at the location.

  The interior of the Mercedes was empty and there was no sign of Ben anywhere. As the group decided on their next move, a particularly alert officer noticed that the back of the Benz was sagging, and something was dripping from the rear of the car. Gloving up, one of the uniforms fiddled with the lock until the trunk popped open.

  Bennett Alston Little was fully clothed. His hands and feet had been tightly bound by generic shoelaces, and a blindfold had been placed over his eyes. He had been shot three times in the back of the head.

  Again Melinda found herself talking to the police.

  This time they had taken her very seriously.

  THE FIRST THING Decker did was sort through photographs. In cases where he wasn’t the original primary detective, he liked to have clear mental images. The premortem snapshots showed that Ben Little had been a very handsome man: sharp light eyes, a wide, bright smile, a strong chin, and an athletic build. The file contained two head shots and one with Ben and his family.

  In contrast, the postmortem shots showed the hapless teacher in the fetal position with his knees bent and touching his forehead—an odd position to take after death. Ben’s head was resting in a big pool of blood. Decker continued to read the crime scene report until he found what he was looking for. Several bullet shells had been found inside the trunk, which probably meant that the trunk was the original crime scene. Ben had been living when he had been placed inside and had instinctively curled up in a defensive position. Then he had been executed.

  There was something otherworldly about reading original case notes. It transformed a corpse into a living, breathing human being. The two original homicide investigators—Arnold Lamar and Calvin Vitton—seemed to have worked hard, and the file was complete. The resurrection of Ben Little would demand that Decker have a long chat with Lamar and Vitton, but he wanted to form his own opinions first.

  Slowly, Little emerged as a complete and complex person. He had his idiosyncrasies—knuckle cracking, a braying laugh, and compulsive list making—but he didn’t seem to have any overt or dangerous vices. According to Melinda Little, her husband was a man of boundless energy, involved with the school, with the faculty, with the troubled students, with the honor students, with community clubs and civic duties, and—not to be neglected—with his family. Once in a blue moon, he’d wear out and come down with a cold or flu, and when this happened, Ben reverted, “as most men do, to a complete baby.”

  Melinda claimed that she was more than happy to wait on him hand and foot, to give back because he was always giving to others. As far as she knew, there were no other women.

  “When would he have time?”

  He was always leaving her schedules, addresses, and phone numbers of his meetings in case of an emergency. And the few times she had to locate him, he was always where he said he would be.

  He didn’t drink, and he didn’t take drugs. They had money in the bank, a retirement plan, life insurance, and college plans for both the boys. If Ben was spending money on a vice, he wasn’t taking anything out of their savings account. The house didn’t have a secret second mortgage, the car payments were timely, there was always money for birthday and Christmas presents, and he and Melinda always made a point to get away alone at least once a year. Ben was kind and thoughtful, and if he had one fault, it was his overextension. A few times, he had missed the boys’ play-off games and a couple of their school plays, but wasn’t that the case with most working husbands?

  When pressed, Melinda admitted that Ben had occasional down periods. There had been a student who had died in a car accident, another who died in an overdose. A promising girl had gotten pregnant. Those kinds of things made him blue, but his favored way of coping was to throw himself into another project. He didn’t dwell on what was out of his control.

  At the time of Ben’s death, his sons, Nicolas Frank and Jared Eliot, had been fifteen and thirteen, respectively. They’d be thirty and twenty-eight by now. Decker wondered about the boys’ perceptions now that they were adults. They needed to be interviewed.

  By the time Decker was done with the file, it was three in the morning. His eyes were shot, his back hurt, and his shoulders felt the crushing weight of obligation. He tiptoed into his bedroom and slipped under the covers of his bed, taking precautions not to wake up his wife. As soon as Rina felt the shifting of the mattress, she nestled closer to her husband.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” Decker was exhausted, but even so it took him a little time to fall asleep. His dreams were disturbing, but when he woke up the next morning, he couldn’t remember them, only a hollowness somewhere in the recesses of his heart.

  CHAPTER 4

  TOOLING THROUGH THE Santa Monica canyons with the windows opened provided Decker with a blast of misty brine in his face, a welcome change from the hotter and drier climate of his work and residence. Here in the Palisades was the California dream: multimillion-dollar houses cut into rocky hillsides with landscaping that was far too green to thrive without the help of additional irrigation. Towering eucalyptus and ficus stood like sentries on either side of the asphalt. The sun was breaking through the fog, patches of cobalt peeking through the gray clouds. The temperature was mild, and at ten in the morning, the day was shaping up to be a good one.

  Decker pushed his hunk of junk Crown Vic upward, straining with each twist and turn of the road. The address put him on the top ledge of a prominence where parking was limited but at least the street was flat. The house that corresponded to the numbers was modern, fashioned from wood, glass, and concrete.

  Melinda Little Warren answered the door before he even rang the bell. She invited him in and offered him a seat on a white sailcloth sofa. No small talk; the woman was all business.

  “After all these years…why now?” Melinda wanted to know.

  Decker gave the question some thought while looking out the window at a commanding view of the Pacific blue. “I could tell you it’s because your late husband, Ben, was a good man and the open case has always bothered a lot of people. And that would be true. But the real reason is someone offered LAPD a big endowment if the case gets solved.”

  The woman must have been in her m
idfifties, but she looked younger with her dark flashing eyes, a mane of blond hair, and legs that wouldn’t quit. She wore olive drab capri pants and a white linen blouse and had sandals on her feet.

  “It’s always about money, isn’t it?” She raked long fingernails through miles of ash-colored tresses. “I suppose I should have thought about that myself. Of course, I did hire a private detective after the case went cold. It cost me a lot of money and a lot of heartache.”

  Taking out a notepad and a pencil, Decker said, “Did he have any success?”

  “Certainly nothing that cracked the case.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “Phil Shriner. I haven’t talked to him in years.”

  “I’ll check him out.”

  “Fine if you do, fine if you don’t.” She shook her head. “When I think about what Mike took on when he married me…my rock-bottom finances, and my needy boys…admiration for the man just grows logarithmically.”

  Mike was Michael K. Warren of Warren Communications. His techno specialty was voice activation. He and Melinda had lived in this piece of paradise for ten years. The interior had natural wood floors, a two-story fireplace, and walls of glass. The furnishings were white and spare, but the place didn’t blow a frosty attitude. Maybe it was all the knickknacks—the tchotchkes, as Rina would say.

  “Logarithmically,” Decker said. “You must have been a math teacher?”

  She smiled. “And you must be a detective.”

  “That’s how Ben and you met.”

  “Right again.” Her eyes misted. “I’ve had so much misfortune in my life, but I’ve also been overly fortunate in the relationship department. I guess you can’t have it all.”