Cold Case. Faye Kellerman

of the CD—at least temporarily—and so far, no one has made a penny except Rudy.”

      “So what would happen if all three members died? Would Rudy get all the profits, or would it go to the estates of the members?”

      “I have no idea.” She paused and smoked her cigarette. “Rudy is always suing someone or someone is suing him. It's a way of life for him. Still, I don't see him as having anything to do with Primo's death.”

      Another pause.

      “Although I'm not quite sure that I buy the carjacking gone wrong thing.” She shook her head and regarded Decker's eyes. “You don't buy it, either. That's why you're here.”

      “I'm just gathering information. Why don't you buy it?”

      “The death seemed calculated. I saw the interview tape of the punk … I guess he's one of the punks. The kid sounded as if he couldn't plan a fart after eating beans.”

      “Do you remember the name of the interviewee you saw?”

      “No. He was black.”

      “Travis Martel.”

      “Yeah, that's it.” Marilyn finished her cigarette and lit another. “But what do I know? In the meantime, I'm careful. If it wasn't those jackasses, then maybe it was something more personal. So then maybe I should be looking over my shoulder.”

      “Anyone specifically in mind?”

      “No, and that's why I'm nervous. The recording business attracts a whole lot of psychos. Some even have talent. It's all marketing these days. What you sound like is irrelevant. It's how you present.”

      “I'm sure that's true. How did Rudy meet Primo?”

      “I don't really know. I came into Primo's life long after the split of the Doodoo Sluts. We met at AA. I've been sober for over five years. Primo, so far as I know, had been sober for a little longer, but who knows?”

      “You think that Primo might have slipped up?”

      She blew out smoke. “When I heard that this punk carjacked the Mercedes from Jonas Park, my first thought was: what the hell was Primo doing in a park in southeast L.A. alone at night. Almost immediately I answered my own question. He was probably sucking on a bottle or getting high.”

      “Did you ask the coroner if he had alcohol or drugs in his blood?”

      “Why would I bother doing that?” She stared at him. “It wasn't what killed him … directly.”

      “It would be interesting to know.”

      “Yeah, it would explain why he gave up without a fight. If he was drunk or stoned, he probably didn't know what was flying. As a sober guy, he could take care of himself.”

      Decker wondered if a comprehensive toxic screen had been ordered at autopsy. He made a note to check it out.

      “He was a really good producer. Not that anyone cared. The entire industry is in the throes of a shakeup. The CD is a dinosaur. Everything is downloaded from song-sharing sites. And lots of new groups are bypassing traditional producers and selling their own shit on the Internet. Primo's jobs were fewer and fewer. If he had succumbed to drinking, I wouldn't have been surprised.”

      “And you said he would have probably resisted if he wasn't drunk?”

      “I didn't know Primo when he drank. I don't know if he was a mean drunk or not. As a man, I can tell you he was a good guy.” She blinked back tears. “If you find anything new, let me know.”

      “I will. And I'd appreciate your keeping the conversation quiet. The detectives assigned to Primo's murder wouldn't like me butting my nose into their business.” He paused. “You wouldn't happen to have Rudy Banks's phone number.”

      “Do I have it?” She laughed derisively. “I must have called it a thousand times. Sometimes he even answers.”

      “Thanks. That would save me some work. And just so I don't over-focus on Rudy Banks, is there anyone else who might have had a stake in hurting Primo?”

      She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “Who knows? In this business, you make enemies without even knowing it.”

       CHAPTER 14

      THE MESSAGE POPPED onto the machine after ten rings, giving the caller adequate time to hang up. If the male voice was that of Rudy Banks, his tonal quality was raspy, as if he had a chronic case of laryngitis. Decker left his name, rank, and phone number. From past history, intuition, and experience, he was going to have to chase the sucker down. He hung up and began to sort through a falling tower of pink message slips when Oliver came into the office and sat down.

      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