The Mercedes Coffin (11 page)

Decker barely glanced up, but his eyes had enough time to take in Scott’s jaunty outfit, a glen plaid jacket over olive pants. “You’re looking very English today.”

“Fifty bucks for the jacket.” Oliver smoothed the lapel. “Brand new. I found out about Ben and Melinda Little’s finances. They were in good shape.”

The way Oliver spoke made Decker wonder. “Do you mean good shape or
very
good shape?”

“I mean outstanding shape.”

“As in way too good for a teacher?”

“As in skirting the boundaries of what would be logical,” Oliver told him. “And that got me thinking. How did a guy on a teacher’s salary without a working wife afford such a nice house and an expensive car?”

“I thought he was also a vice principal… which probably meant he had a little more lunch money.”

“At the time, he was making forty-one thou a year plus health and benefits, which was pretty good back then, but it doesn’t explain how he amassed personal savings
and
the Mercedes
and
the kids’ college funds,
and,
I found out, he was also making payments on a motorboat. Not a big one, but still.
And
he also had a trailer and a camper to tow it.”

“Nice stash. Did you ask Melinda Little about it?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Melinda told me that Ben loved to camp and spend weekends at Lake Mead. She stopped paying for the boat after he died, and the company repossessed it. The trailer she sold for a discount — they’re worth next to nothing on the resale market — and basically broke even. If I was looking for an infusion of cash from the sales of the vehicles to fund her burgeoning gambling habit, I didn’t find it.”

Decker nodded. “But the question you asked is a good one. Where did he get all the money?”

“Melinda claimed that Ben took care of the finances, and she never questioned where the money came from. She was provided for, the kids were provided for, and that was good enough for her.”

“Do we know if Ben had other jobs?”

“Like what?”

“My kids go to religious day school. Their Hebrew studies are in the morning and the English studies are in the afternoon. A few of their secular studies teachers are public school instructors who moonlight for a little extra spending cash.”

“That might explain the car
or
the boat
or
the camper, but not the car
and
the boat
and
the camper.”

“What did his bank deposits look like?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Most of the money was direct deposit from work.”

“If he owned the camper and the trailer, how did he pay for them?”

“My next step.”

“And what about the Mercedes? Was he making payments on that as well?”

“Melinda was pretty sure that the Benz was paid off.”

“And she wasn’t suspicious of where the money was coming from?” Decker asked him.

“I don’t think she cared. When I hinted that Ben might have been involved in illegal activities, she thought the suggestion was ludicrous.”

“How vigorously did she defend her late husband’s honor?”

“Not as adamantly as one might have expected, but maybe she’s just tired. She
was
quick to point out that no one has ever had a bad word to say about Ben.”

“Maybe we haven’t talked to the right people.”

“Anyone in mind?”

“We’ve only talked to ‘Fans of Ben.’ We haven’t delved into the bad kids at North Valley during Little’s reign. Maybe Marge’s interview with Darnell Arlington can shed some light on the kids that Ben didn’t reach.”

“If she ever gets to Ohio.”

“Yeah, with the way current airline travel is going, someone should bring back the Pony Express.”

DECKER WAS SURPRISED
to find a live voice on the line. “You’re
still
in LAX?”

“I’m on board and they’re about to close the cabin doors,” Marge told him. “That means I should land about fifteen minutes before the appointed interview time. I already told Arlington I’ll be late. He was cool with that.”

“I have a few questions I want you to ask him.” He quickly recapped his conversation with Oliver. “Maybe Little and Arlington were doing something on the side and Ben nudged Arlington out.”

“But Arlington was thousands of miles away the night of the murder.”

“He didn’t kill him — that we know — but maybe he has an idea who did. How’s it going with the Doodoo Sluts?”

“I was going to write all my notes up on the plane and e-mail them to you when I land, but as long as you called, I’ll give you a quick recap.

“Primo Ekerling started the group with a guy named Rudy Banks. Ekerling and Banks are both music producers, and they were involved in a number of lawsuits regarding royalties and back payments.”

“I know that. What about the other members?”

“The group went through a lot of changes, but the final incarnation included Ekerling, Banks, Liam ‘Mad Irish’ O’Dell, and Ryan ‘Mudderfudder’ Goldberg. They had several albums that sold decently. Their biggest hit was a lofty aria entitled ‘Bang Me.’ Banks distributed a ‘best of’ CD two years ago, apparently without sharing any of the profits with the band. Ekerling, O’Dell, and Goldberg had the CD stopped and are currently in litigation to get what was rightfully theirs. Banks is also involved in a lot of lawsuits.”

“I’ve left Rudy Banks a few messages, but he hasn’t called back. If I have to, I’ll hunt him down.”

“And when you do, ask Banks about his high school experiences. Although Ekerling when to school in Baltimore, Banks is a local boy — North Valley, to be exact.”

Decker sat up. “When did he graduate?”

“I’ve got your attention, I can hear it in your voice. He dropped out when he was seventeen — a good four to five years before Ben Little was murdered — but it does open up all sorts of possibilities. Hold on…” Muddled noise in the background. “We’re pushing back, Pete, I’ve got to turn off the cell.”

Decker dialed Banks again, and when he got the same message, he gently placed the phone back in the cradle. He pulled out a phone book and found what he was looking for in a matter of minutes. Rudy Banks had an address in the phone book. It could have been a residence or an office. It was time to do some legwork.

IF RUDY WAS
making money from his litigious adventures, he wasn’t spending it on the outer trappings of success. His place was in old Hollywood about thirty blocks from downtown. The apartment was on the fourth floor of a French Normandy–style building that had probably reached its glory days ninety years ago. Since then it had gone through some serious decay, including peeling plaster on the outside and an interior smell of mold. There was a small, stuffy red lobby with terrazzo floors and no attendant. An ancient nonoperative elevator was on the right and appeared as if it hadn’t been working for a very long time. The staircase was to the left of the entrance, and Decker trekked up the four flights. The building had no air-conditioning, and by the time he reached Banks’s door, he was sweating.

He rang the bell several times, then loudly knocked on the door, but there was no response. Decker fished around in his billfold for his official card, hearing the
clop, clop, clop
of some other soul traipsing up the steps. The sound stopped at the fourth floor, and when Decker looked up, a man was approaching. He seemed to be in his late thirties or early forties, tall and thin. He wore tight jeans and a black short-sleeved T-shirt, his arms festooned with tattoos of all shapes and colors. Pointed lizard-skin cowboy boots projected from the hem of his denim. His face was clenched and he kept pounding a fist into an open palm. He stopped in front of Banks’s apartment.

“Bastard’s not in?”

“Looks that way.”

“Did you bang hard?”

“I did.” Decker sized up the man. “You look like you’re out to settle a score.”

The eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

Decker showed the man his badge and gave him his card. “And you are?”

“I’ve been called all sorts of names, so take your pick.” The man had hazel eyes haloed by red rims, but there was intelligence behind the windows to his soul. He focused on Decker’s face and then pocketed the card. “My mum still calls me Liam.”

His voice sang with a slight brogue. Decker said, “As in Liam ‘Mad Irish’ O’Dell.”

Liam smiled, showing a mouth of brown teeth. “You’re a fan, eh?” Decker smiled enigmatically. “Let me tell you something, mate. Rudy is not only a prick and an asshole, but a sellout as well. Have you heard the shit he’s been producing?”

“Pretty bad, huh?”

“That’s the master of the understatement. Luckily the fans have spoken. His new CD tanked.” O’Dell shrugged. “I was in the area. Thought I’d give it a go before lunch. You know even if he was there, he wouldn’t answer. He knows the wolves are after him. How much does he owe you, mate?”

Decker said, “Actually nothing…”

“How’d you manage that?” The hazel eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you’re here to arrest him? A fuckin’ all right! Can I watch?”

“I’m sorry to dash your hopes, sir, but I just came to talk.”

His face fell. “Not as sorry as I am. I’ll make a bet with you. I bet you won’t be able to talk to Rudy more than five minutes without wanting to murder the son of a bitch.”

“I’ve heard similar sentiments,” Decker said. “I’ve also heard that he’s making money doing the ‘best of’ albums.” He looked pointedly at O’Dell. “Including the
Best of the Doodoo Sluts.
”

“I’m dealing with it legally.”

“Then this visit was for
what
purpose?”

“The bastard was trying to nick us blind,” Liam said. “Just a friendly talk before lunch.”

Decker didn’t answer.

O’Dell said, “It was actually Primo’s idea to fight back.” He paused. “Poor Primo. You must have heard about that one.”

“One of the reasons I’m here.”

“Why talk to Banks about Primo? They’re at war.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless you think that Banks…?” The idea of Rudy as a killer struck O’Dell as hilarious. His laughter sounded like dry hacking. “It’d be grand to pin Primo’s murder on Rudy, but I think you’re looking the wrong way. Banks doesn’t have the balls for it.” O’Dell’s eyes clouded. “Didn’t they arrest the fuckers who wiped Primo?”

Decker mopped up his brow. “It’s really hot here. You said you’re about to eat lunch. How about we do that and I’ll buy.”

O’Dell grinned. “You really are a fan, eh? Or maybe you’re one of those sneaky-arse reporters who’ll do anything to get the inside story of the Sluts.”

“No, I’m a cop. I saw a coffee shop down the street. How does that sound?”

“Bert’s? You ever eaten there, mate?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“The grease is so thick it drips off the ceiling.”

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll stay clear of Bert’s. Do you have a suggestion?”

“How about Millie’s?”

“Sure,” Decker said. “Where is it?”

“Three blocks away. We can walk it.”

“Great. What kind of a place does Millie run?”

“It’s vegan.”

Decker stifled a smile. “O’Dell, I’m a cop and a good detective, but I would have never figured you for a vegan.”

Mad Irish flashed another maniacal grin. “How d’ya think I keep my girlish figure?”

THE STOREFRONT WAS
old but spotless with Formica tubular tables and matching chairs that probably dated back to the fifties. The menu hosted a variety of entrées inspired by exotic regions of the globe, with tofu playacting in everything from shrimp cocktail to moo shoo pork. The server was a beefy fellow with a buzzed haircut, a neatly trimmed soul patch, and a diamond stud in one earlobe, a conservative boy by today’s standards. O’Dell ordered the usual. Decker decided on the Cobb salad, figuring there wasn’t much the kitchen could do to ruin raw vegetables.

O’Dell gulped tap water. He was an easy talker. “I did it for Mudd, you know.”

Mudd was Ryan “Mudderfudder” Goldberg, the lead guitarist of the group. “You sued Rudy for Mudd’s sake?”

“Right-o. Me? I’m doing fine. I get lots of me meals comped for performing acoustic versions of some of the Sluts’ big ones. I usually do Tuesday and Thursday here at Millie’s. The weekends I’m at a small place in Venice. I live right near the café two blocks from the beach. I don’t have much money, but I don’t need a lot.”

“You sound like a happy man.”

“I know luck when it bites you in the arse. And I still get the chicks. Young ones.” He sat up. “Still got the bike and the bad boy image. The simple ones really go for that.”

“So being a bad boy is an image?”

Mad Irish grinned. “Sometimes yes and sometimes no, and I’d be bloody daft to explain meself any further.” Meaning he still indulged in illegal substances. “I’m doing fine, Primo
was
doing fine, but it’s Rudy who’s livin’ the vida loca.” His eyes darkened. “Mudd wasn’t so lucky.”

“Why’s that?”

“Dunno. Maybe he started believing all that rot about us being with the devil. He was lead guitar: the most talented, the most sensitive, and the most gullible. I think the voices started before he joined us, but we all figured it was the drugs.”

Decker nodded.

“But it kept going… the voices. They got more evil, too, telling Mudd to do crazy things. He was always a bit crackers, but then he started cuttin’ himself — his arms, his legs, between his legs.” Mad Irish winced. “His mum had no choice but to get him committed.”

“When was he hospitalized?”

“Ten years ago. In the beginning, I visited. He was doped up with Thorazine twenty-four/seven. He couldn’t even talk, much less carry on a conversation. Then he began to get these weirdo tics and started drooling.” O’Dell shuddered. “I stopped going. It wasn’t very big of me, but he sure as bloody hell wasn’t the Mudd that I remembered. That Mudd was disappearing — bit by bit by bit by bit.”

“It’s hard to watch someone you care about deteriorate.”

“Bloody painful. I’d visit and then I’d be depressed for days. Me girl said to give it a rest and once I did, I never went back.”

“Like you said, he probably wouldn’t have known the difference, anyway.”