Cold Case. Faye Kellerman

       CHAPTER 11

      ANUGGET POPPED INTO Decker's mind.

      When he had asked Arnie Lamar about Calvin Vitton's sons, the retired detective had responded: The Nashville son, Freddy, is a producer of country songs, what ever that means. Earlier in the day when he had talked to Donatti and asked him about Primo Ekerling, he had said, He's a music producer. What'd he do?

      There were tens of thousands of people in the recording industry. It wasn't much of a coincidence, but Decker was alone in an ocean, grabbing at any log that happened to be floating by. As soon as he got into his office, he phoned Lamar. “It's Pete Decker again.”

      “What's going on?”

      “A quick question about Cal's boys. How old would they be?”

      “Freddy's around thirty-five, Cal J's a few years younger. Why are you asking?”

      “I like to have a mental picture before I do interviews.”

      Lamar paused. “There's more to it than you're lettin' on.”

      “Then please tell me what I'm holding back. I can use all the help I can get.”

      “Say hello to the Vitton boys for me.”

      He cut the line before Decker had a chance to respond. Just as he set the phone down, Marge knocked on the doorjamb. She was with Oliver, and Decker motioned them in. Their mission was to bring him up to date on Melinda Little Warren.

      “We want to go over her finances at the time of the murder,” Oliver said. “See if there was any money coming in or out before Little died.”

      Marge added, “We know the original detectives went through her bank accounts, but we need to make sure that nothing was overlooked.”

      Decker said, “Sounds reasonable enough, but I don't know how much luck you'll have with fifteen-year-old records.”

      “We know where she banked,” Oliver said. “Everything was computerized fifteen years ago. I don't think we'll have any problem with it.”

      “Did you get her permission?”

      “She said she'd sign something.”

      “And you still suspect her?” Decker asked.

      Oliver said, “She's a compulsive gambler: Little had insurance. If she was in the hole …”

      Decker looked at Marge.

      “Haven't ruled her out,” she told him.

      “How did she react to Cal Vitton's suicide?” Decker asked.

      Oliver cocked a thumb in Marge's direction. “She cut me off. The sergeant wants to use the suicide as an excuse in case we want to come back and question her again.”

      “Oh …” Decker nodded. “That's good thinking.”

      Oliver snapped, “To me, it made more sense to lay it out and see how she reacted.”

      “A case could be made for that. But if you're looking through her financials and something comes up, it will be a convenient excuse to see her again. Then as long as you're there, you can ask her about any bank discrepancies.”

      Marge grinned. “Oliver, you're not only outranked, you're outvoted.”

      Decker said, “I want one of you to look into a couple of things.” He explained to his detectives the weak relationship between Primo Ekerling and Freddy Vitton. “It would be interesting if they knew each other.”

      “And what would that prove?” Oliver asked.

      “Two men dead within two weeks and both have some kind of tangential association to the Little case.”

      “Loo, we don't know that Ekerling has a connection to the Little case.”

      “I have to go with Oliver on this one,” Marge said. “I don't see it leading anywhere.”

      “At the moment, I'm just like a computer. I amass data and spit back facts, but I offer no opinion.” Decker shrugged. “Just peck around.”

      Oliver said, “Doesn't Hollywood have someone in custody on the carjacking?”

      “Yes, they do. Two people actually.”

      “So what justification do we have throwing in new theories and fucking up their solve?”

      “We don't have any justification and yet, I still want to look at the file.”

      “So call up your daughter and get it on the sly.”

      Decker rolled his eyes. “Good idea, Oliver, I wish I had thought of that.”

      THE HOUSE HAD turned into a jewel box: a perfect little bungalow. Converting eight hundred square feet into twelve hundred fifty had produced a two-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath house with a small nook off the living room that could be sleeping quarters or a TV watching area—its current use. The kids had gone with a Mission turn-of-the-century look that was in keeping with the geography of old L.A. The area was filled with hundred-year-old bungalows as well as a few Victorians. There were also remakes and redos: housing from the fifties to the present.

      The best part of the remodel was a new and improved patio overlooking the hillside chockablock with houses cut into the granite. On warm days, the landscape gave the feel of Southern Italy or Spain. It was on this very patio that Decker sat with Cindy, enjoying the spring weather, drinking espresso while taking in the view.

      Cindy stretched and looked outward. “It don't get much better than this.”

      “No, it does not.” He smiled at his daughter. Her wild red hair was tied back in a ponytail holder, and her skin was smooth and pale with just a hint of blush at the cheeks. She wore cutoff jeans and a baggy T-shirt with flip-flops on her feet. It was a pleasure to see his daughter so relaxed. He said, “The rose garden is spectacular.”

      “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