ALTHOUGH DECKER HAD never met Rip Garrett, he recognized him by the look: overworked, underpaid, and pissed off. Physically the detective appeared to be in his thirties, medium height, medium weight, with a full head of dark hair and light brown eyes. He wore a tan suit, a white shirt with a wrinkled collar, and a red tie. Decker introduced himself, and the two shook hands. As soon as both men were seated at a corner booth and the waitress had taken their orders, Decker explained the situation and began in earnest to eat a few bites of crow.
“I should have called in the beginning. I wanted to see what I could find on my own before I bothered you.”
Rip Garrett looked him over. There was still anger in his voice. “Doesn’t look like you’re any farther along than when you started.”
“No, I’m farther along. I’ve now got a dead cop to contend with.” Decker gave a shrug. “He took a lethal dose of sleeping medication and had powder burns on his right hand. But I’m waiting for the official report. The fact that it’s taking a while makes me suspicious…that someone could have done it for him postmortem.”
“And why would you think that?”
“The timing. It gives me a bad feeling when I call up and arrange an appointment to talk to the guy about a fifteen-year-old case and he turns up dead.”
Garrett said, “Must be your karma.”
Decker was tiring of his persnickety attitude. “And how long have you worked Homicide?” When Garrett didn’t answer, he glared at the young man. “You agreed to meet with me because (a) I outrank you and you don’t say no to a detective lieutenant with over thirty years of experience because someday you may be working under me, (b) you’re curious to see what the hell I’m up to, and (c) if you’ve got a modicum of intuition about homicide cases, deep down inside those arrests don’t sit right with you; two stupid punks jacking and offing Ekerling, stuffing him in the trunk, then joyriding around in a flashy Mercedes.”
“Stupid is the operative word,” Garrett shot back.
“It’s bullshit. Something’s off but you don’t know what it is. Right now you know you’ve got a sure solve with the two lowlifes holed up in the cage, each of them with sheets longer than a roll of toilet paper. Even if they didn’t do Ekerling, you’re not too concerned with a miscarriage of justice. Sooner or later, both of them would have ended up doing hard time.”
Garrett started to speak but thought better of it.
Decker pulled back. “Normally, I’m not such a rude motherfucker, but I’m getting a lot of pressure from the brass. In the end, Garrett, I’ll do you way more good than harm. I have a very long memory, and that works both ways.”
The waitress appeared at the table, serving Garrett a club and placing a cottage cheese and fruit plate in front of Decker. The watermelon was fresh, but the rest had come from a fruit cocktail can. Decker stabbed a wedge of pineapple but didn’t put it in his mouth. “It’s more than just a cold case now. I’ve got a dead cop on my conscience. I pressed Cal Vitton for an interview about Little and Vitton balked. Flash-forward twelve hours, the man is dead.”
“You still haven’t told me what Cal Vitton has to do with Primo Ekerling?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“And what’s the connection between Ben Little and Primo Ekerling other than a similar MO?”
For the first time since meeting him, Decker saw true curiosity in Garrett’s eyes. “I don’t know that, either.” He made a swirl in his cottage cheese. “What do you know about Martel and Perry?”
“Long sheets—DUIs, drug possession, shoplifting, illegal possession of firearms, burglary, car theft—”
“Assaults?”
“Don’t recall right away.”
“Batteries?”
“Don’t recall that, either.”
“So you don’t remember anything violent.”
“You carry a firearm, you’ve got the potential for violence.”
“No argument there.” Decker put down his fork and leaned over the table. “I am looking into a guy who knew Ekerling very well and might have known Little. He’s a music producer with a Hollywood address. His name is Rudy Banks.”
Garrett thought a moment, then shook his head no.
“Twenty years ago, Banks and Ekerling were in a punk band called the Doodoo Sluts. More recently, Banks and Ekerling have been clashing legally. Also, Banks went to North Valley High where Ben Little taught. So far he’s my only common denominator.”
“Kinda weak.”
“I’ve got to start somewhere, and Rudy’s a good place. Ekerling’s girlfriend thinks he’s a total scumbag. Everyone I’ve talked to seems to have the same sentiment. I’d like to form my own opinions except Rudy’s not returning my phone calls.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Indeed you are right, Detective, ignoring me is a good plan on his part. Because normally I’d be swamped and disinclined to pursue weak links. But a lot of money is riding on this solve, and the potential donor has been making calls to my captain. I left Rudy an urgent message. If he doesn’t call back, I’m going to start being concerned.”
“Want me to ask around about Banks?”
“If you don’t mind, you can ask about Banks, Ekerling, Little, as well as the two thugs you have locked up. Any information you give me would be appreciated.”
“All you had to do was call me up, Lieutenant.”
“It’s Decker, and I should have called personally. Sometimes I get busy and forget my manners. And while I’m thinking about it, I’d love to have a copy of the Ekerling file.”
“You don’t have it?”
“No, I don’t have it,” Decker lied smoothly, hoping the fib would extract Cindy from the mess he created. “Would I have asked if I had it?”
Garrett sized him up. “I can get you a copy of the file.”
“Thank you.”
“Rudy Banks…what kind of music does he produce?”
“From what I can tell, he mostly does old compilations of has-been groups like his own. From what I could glean on the Web, he’s also tried contemporary groups—lots of hip-hop and rap.”
Garrett said, “Martel listed his occupation as an aspiring rapper. That’s not unusual. The cage is full of rappers in the making.”
“Good call, Garrett, it’s worth checking out,” Decker told him. “FYI, Ekerling was also a music producer. Matter of fact, he had a scheduled dinner with an up-and-coming hip-hop, R & B group. He was hoping to produce their album.”
“Yeah, I know. How’d you find that out if you didn’t have the file?”
“I interviewed Ekerling’s girlfriend, Marilyn Eustis, the one who called you up and got you in an uproar when she asked about my poking around. Not that I would have reacted differently. I don’t like my feet stepped on, either. If Travis Martel was an aspiring rapper and Ekerling turned him down, it could be a working motive for Martel whacking Ekerling.”
“How would that connect to your Little case?”
“I don’t know. I’m just blurting out ideas as I think of them. I’m giving you the benefit of my years of experience.”
Garrett smiled and finished his sandwich. “You don’t look happy with your lunch, Decker. You on a diet or something?”
“Not really, although I could take off a couple of pounds.” Decker drank up his coffee. “You know how it is, Rip. Sometimes it’s just not a cottage cheese kind of day.”
THE CELL PHONE went off at five in the afternoon. The window told Decker that the number was private. The man on the line was screaming. “Who the fuck is this?”
Decker took a few moments to gather his thoughts. “Lieutenant Detective Peter Decker of the LAPD. Who’s this?”
“A lieutenant? Sal Crane’s got a lieutenant in his pocket? Well, I’ll be damned!”
“I repeat. Who is this?”
“Rudolph Banks. Did you know that on my phone plan I have to pay for incoming as well as outgoing calls?”
Decker wanted to say: Then you could have saved a few bucks by answering my calls the first time, buddy. Instead he said, “First of all, I’m not in anyone’s pocket, let alone Sal Crane. I used the name to get your attention because you hadn’t returned any of my numerous calls.”
“I haven’t returned anyone’s calls because I’ve been on fuckin’ jury duty for the last five days. As an alternate! Do you believe that shit! I have to sit through some bullshit trial that was a total waste of my taxpayer time and my taxpayer money and I can’t even be part of saying whether the son of a bitch is guilty or not guilty. No, no, no, I have to park my ass on a rock-hard bench outside the courtroom waiting for those twelve motherfuckers to render a verdict just in case one of them happens to keel over And for this privilege, I get paid fifteen big ones a day plus fifty-three cents a mile gas one way.”
“You’re doing your civic duty.”
“No, it’s them who did their doodie on me. Thank God it’s over. What do you want, Lieutenant?”
“Thanks for asking. I’m currently working Homicide, Mr. Banks—”
“So what do you want with me? Whoever got whacked, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I’d like to talk to you about Primo Ekerling—”
“They caught the bastards. It was in all the papers, Lieutenant. If you give me your e-mail address, I’ll send over the articles.”
“I have a few questions that you might be able to help me out with.”
“So ask.”
“These kinds of questions are better asked in person.”
“I didn’t whack him. End of conversation.”
“His murder was remarkably similar to another individual who died fifteen years ago. A teacher named Bennett Alston Little. I understand you went to North Valley High where Dr. Little taught history, civics, social studies…”
The slight pause was very telling.
“I went to North Valley. So did thousands of other teens. I dropped out in eleventh grade way before he died. What’s that gotta do with me?”
“Mr. Banks, it’s really in both of our interests if we get together and talk. When can I meet you?”
“Do you know how far behind I am on my work?”
“Sir, this really is in your interest. And the sooner we talk, the sooner you’ll be rid of me.”
Another slight pause. Decker heard the man take a breath. “I’ll call you in a week.”
“No, that’s too long, Mr. Banks. I guarantee you, it won’t take more than an hour of your time. I can even meet you, tonight if you want—”
“No, I don’t want, goddamnit. I know what you’re going to ask. You’re going to ask about Primo. Yes, I knew Primo. Yes, we were suing the shit out of each other. Yes, we’ve been going at it for a while. No, I did not murder him.
“As far as your victim, I don’t remember him, but I vaguely remember the murder. I was living in L.A. when it happened. That’s all I can tell you. At the time, I was not only fucking every girl I could get my hands on, I was perpetually stoned. Jesus, I could use a good doobie now.”
“How about if we meet some time tomorrow?”
“Why are you putting the screws on my balls?”
“Just a few simple questions, Mr. Banks. I can come to your place in Hollywood. I’ve already been there. I left you my card—”
“All right already. Fine. Come tomorrow at three. If I’m in, I’ll talk to you. Don’t bother ringing the bell, it’s broken. And if you knock, no guarantees that I’ll answer. Three in the afternoon is my low period. Sometimes I doze off, and when I do, I’m a sound sleeper. You come at your own risk.”
“I’ll expect you to be in, sir.”
“Expect? Just because you expect, I have to jump? Let me tell you something, Lieutenant, I expect lots of things. But I don’t always get what I expect. Instead what I get is a lot of fuckin’ a-holes breathing down my neck. What I get is ingrates suing me for no goddamn reason other than greed. What I get is jury duty as a fucking alternate. What I get, Lieutenant, is a bagful of disappointments because the hard truth is people are liars, hypocrites, and thieves. I know damn well that life is basically a tall mound of shit, but I’ll be a cocksucker before you or anyone else is gonna make me step in it!”