Cold Case. Faye Kellerman

She was lonely, she was ashamed, and she was in an altered state of mind. Unless you've been there, it's hard to imagine how quickly you can go from ‘I'm okay, I can handle it’ to ‘I'm totally out of control.’”

      “So you think she hid her compulsion until after he died?” Oliver was skeptical.

      “I betcha that her husband knew about her tendencies. He probably was able to rein her in. Once he was gone, and she had this sudden windfall of cash … that's a deadly combination. The whole point of my confession is that I don't want you to see me as incompetent. I was a very good private investigator, and I did what I could for Melinda, but I wasn't going to go the full nine yards for her because I had my own troubles.”

      “So we're back to my first question, what do you remember about the case?”

      “Little seemed to be well liked and admired. The way it laid out, it seemed like a professional hit, but I couldn't find a reason why someone would have wanted to off him.”

      Oliver said, “That brings us back to his wife …”

      Shriner said, “If she was in deep, deep trouble, she had resources other than murder.”

      “Did you know if she owed anyone cash?”

      Shriner said, “Not to my knowledge.”

      “What did you investigate?” Marge asked.

      “The usual. His friends, his relatives, his colleagues, some of his students.”

      “Does the name Darnell Arlington mean anything to you?”

      “The black kid who was kicked out of school. Yeah, I talked to him over the phone. By the time Little was murdered, he'd moved away. I remember that he seemed broken up about Little. Why? Does the kid have a record?”

      “He teaches physical education at a high school in Ohio.”

      “Good to hear that he straightened himself out.”

      “So you never suspected him?” Oliver asked.

      “Of course I suspected him. I ruled him out early on because he had a good alibi, although it skips my mind at the moment.”

      “Supposedly he was playing sports in front of an audience.”

      “Yeah, that was it. Hard to be in two places at one time, and he didn't seem angry enough to hire a hit six months later. But check him out. Like I said, I didn't spend an abundance of time on the case.”

      “Have you ever heard of a man named Primo Ekerling?” Marge asked him.

      For the first time, the private detective gave the question some thought. “He sounds vaguely familiar.”

      “He was a music producer,” Marge said. “A few weeks ago, he was murdered, stuffed into the trunk of his Mercedes-Benz. Hollywood has a couple of cholos in custody, although they're denying the charge. They admitted to boosting the car, but not to the murder.”

      “Could be I read about him in the papers …”

      “You don't recall Ekerling's name in your mini-investigation of Little?”

      “Mini-investigation …” Shriner smiled. “That's a good term for it. I might have heard the name. If he turns out to be a lead, let me know. In the meantime, I've got a date with my golf clubs. It's not as exciting as PI work, but it keeps me out of trouble.”

      DECKER HAD JUST finished eating his bag lunch when Marge called, recapping the interview with Phil Shriner. When she was done, he said, “Exactly how bad of a gambling problem?”

      Marge said, “That's what we're trying to figure out. I'm sure that Melinda Little is expecting your call any minute. I think you should pounce on it, Pete, before she starts thinking of some very clever excuses.”

      “I'm still in Simi Valley.” Decker shifted the phone to his other ear. “Besides, I've got the interview with Arnie Lamar in fifteen minutes at the police station. What's your afternoon like?”

      “I have some free time.”

      “Oliver and you need to pay her a visit.”

      “What if she lawyers up?” Marge asked.

      “Then that'll tell us something.” Another call was coming through the line. A private number. “Someone's breaking in, Marge. Set something up with Melinda and let me know, okay?”

      “Will do. Good luck.”

      Decker hung up and took the private call. “Decker.”

      “What do you want?”

      The low, smooth voice was instantly recognizable and made Decker sit up in the cruiser and grab his pencil and note pad. Normally, he would have thanked Donatti for calling back, but there was no such thing as chitchat with Chris. “What do you know about the Bennett Little murder?”

      A long silence over the line. “You suspect me?”

      “So far as I can tell, you were fifteen and in New York when it happened. Am I wrong?”

      “Then why are you calling?”

      “You were in L.A. when the murder was still fresh. You're a good listener. Maybe you heard something.”

      Another pause. “It was a long time ago, and I have a substance abuse problem. If I ever had any long-term memory, it's gone by now.”

      “But you remember the case.”

      “A guy gets hit, you're wondering who's working the territory.”

      “You think it was a hit?”

      A small laugh came over the line. “Uh, yeah.”

      “But no idea who?”

      “Before my time. Is that all?”

      “Speaking of abuse problems, I heard that Little's wife had a secret of her own.”

      Another pause. “She gambled. What was her name? Rhoda, Melinda?”

      “Melinda. Where'd you know her from?”

      “My uncle was a silent partner in several card houses in Gardenia.” A beat. “This was a long time ago. Joey let go of the casinos ten years ago. He's dead, you know.”

      “I do know.”

      “Good riddance.”

      “What can you tell me about Melinda Little.”

      “I was sixteen. The woman was a MILF.”

      “A MILF?”

      “Mother I'd Like to Fuck. Red hot. What does she look like now?”

      “She's still hot. Did her hotness get her into trouble back then?”

      “Not with me, unfortunately.”

      “Could there have been someone else?”

      “There always could be someone else, but nothing I remember.”

      “Did she owe your uncle money?”

      “Decker, I didn't keep track of her. I had just moved out to L.A. and had my own problems. If she was in hock big-time, I never knew about it.”

      “How about a cop named Calvin Vitton?”

      A pause. “Vaguely familiar.”

      “He worked the Little case. He just blew his head off this morning.”

      “If I were you, I'd look into that.”

      Decker made a face, although Donatti couldn't see it. “Thanks for the advice. Can you tell me anything about Vitton?”

      “I recall that he was an old guy …” Another pause. “Let me think about him.”

      “Fair enough. How about