Faye Kellerman: The Mercedes Coffin

Decker smiled enigmatically. “I do my job; I’ve got no complaints. Life is good for some of us. Then there are guys like Cal Vitton who harbor different opinions.”

WHAT?” MARGE SHRIEKED.

“You heard right.” Decker was sitting in the cruiser, parked two blocks away from the crime/suicide scene. The air-conditioning was going full blast, but because the car wasn’t in motion, it wasn’t as cool as it could be. He was sweating under the collar. Talking to Marge over the line, he was trying to keep his voice even, cop style, and then he wondered why. The tragedy of the situation demanded emotion, yet after all these years on the job, it was somehow respectable to be blunted.

“Oh my!” Marge was still registering shock. “And it looks like suicide to you?”

“The gun was fired at close range. He dulled his senses with drugs and booze. The big question is how and if it’s related to the Bennett Little case. I’m meeting with Arnie Lamar at Simi Valley headquarters this afternoon to get a better feel for Vitton.”

“Well, this certainly changes the complexion of the investigation.”

“It adds another layer. What’s on your agenda?”

“Oliver and I have arranged a lunchtime meeting with Phil Shriner. That way it doesn’t take too much out of our working day.”

“Was he cooperative?”

“Not bad. We’ll know more once we talk to him. I do have a question for you. I’ve located the correct Darnell Arlington and he’s willing to talk to me about his high school experiences and Bennett Little. Now I can do a phone interview, but it would probably be better to do it in person. Since I’m not supposed to officially be working on the case, is there a way that you can get funding for the trip?”

Decker said, “Set it up, Marge, and I’ll figure something out.”

“You’re sure?”

“Not a problem. One of Rina’s inherited paintings recently sold at auction for big bucks. We’re feeling flush.”

“You shouldn’t be spending your good luck on departmental obligations.”

“I have no intention of doing that. I’m just saying having the extra money has made us feel a little cockier. Rina teaches because she wants to, and I work because I want to. If Strapp starts to protest too much, I’m outta here. That’s what money does. It allows me to pass the buck and let some other schmuck squirm in front of the brass.”

PHIL SHRINER LIVED with his wife of fifty years in a retirement home called Golden Estates, not too far from where Calvin Vitton blew his head off. The acreage was beautifully planted, with living quarters consisting of an apartment complex and public areas. There were also small, detached bungalows set around winding walkways.

The community had an on-site cafeteria, two restaurants, a recreation room, a gym, and a movie theater. The grounds included two swimming pools with accompanying Jacuzzis, two tennis courts, a nine-hole golf course, and a massage room. It could have been a resort, but most hotels didn’t include a wing of hospital rooms as well as an emergency facility that was manned 24/7 by a rotating team of doctors, EMTs, and nurses.

Shriner and his wife lived in bungalow 58 off the putting green. His wife had gone to her daily exercise class, Phil explained to Marge and Oliver, so he could spare them around an hour. The house’s interior was light and airy with hardwood floors and a fireplace. It was also crammed with furniture.

“We just moved in a few months ago,” Shriner explained. “We’ve downsized our living space and we didn’t have time to sell all of our furniture. Sit anywhere you like.”

Their options were three couches, four big stuffed armchairs, or two ottomans. Marge chose a chair while Oliver opted for one of the sofas. Shriner was of average size and weight, and had thinning silver hair, a liver-spotted complexion, and dark eyes. He wore a blue polo shirt and brown slacks, his wiry arms still sculpted with defined musculature. Orthopedic sandals were on his feet.

He folded his arms in front of his chest, his butt just barely touching the edge of the seat. “So what’s going on?”

Defensive posture, Marge noted. “LAPD is reopening the Bennett Little case. The cops never got too far, and we understand that Melinda Little hired you to look into what happened to her husband. We’re wondering what you remember about it?”

The arms folded tighter across his chest. “Melinda called me, said you might be coming down.”

Marge glanced at Oliver and tried to hide her surprise. “I didn’t know the two of you were still in contact.”

“Haven’t spoken to her for nearly fourteen years.”

“Why did she call you?” Oliver asked.

“She wanted me to lie.” His jaw tightened. “I’m older, I have enough retirement money, I’m sick of games. But mainly, I told her I wasn’t going to do it because it was going to come out sooner or later.”

“You two had an affair,” Oliver suggested.

“I wish.” He sank back into the chair. “The story was she hired me to look into her husband’s death. I didn’t work too hard on it because she was barely paying me. I suppose you want an explanation for that.”

“It would be nice,” Marge told him.

“I’m a compulsive gambler. Nothing that I thought I couldn’t handle until that fateful day when it hit me that I was over my head and if I didn’t get out of debt real soon, I was going to lose everything. So I turned to GA.”

Gamblers Anonymous. “Good call,” Oliver told him.

“It was my only call. The first thing they taught me to do was to admit to my family that I fucked up. Once I did that, my mom, God bless her, bailed me out. It took me time to pay her back, but eight years later, I was all caught up and then some. I had a lot of business. I took on a few employees to help me out.”

“Melinda Little?” Oliver asked.

“No, I met Melinda way before,” Shriner said. “We used to frequent the same casinos.”

“She had a gambling problem.” Marge tried to keep her voice even.

“She did. I was the one who talked her into going to GA before she hit the skids. She was reluctant to admit it, but once she did, she went with the program. The hardest part was confession. She just couldn’t bring herself to admit to her folks that she’d been gambling away her dead husband’s insurance money. We worked out a plan. She’d say that she spent the money on hiring a private investigator-the reason why she was low on funds. Her parents bought the story and helped her out. She was ashamed, but swore she’d never go near a table again.”

“I was told that she had money in the bank when Ben died,” Marge said. “When did she start gambling?”

Shriner shrugged. “I met her about six months after the tragedy. She was hitting the tables pretty often: her game was blackjack. I do know that some of her husband’s insurance went to the boys for an educational fund that she couldn’t touch. That was probably a very good thing. We compulsive gamblers don’t have a good stop mechanism.”

“She was very forthright giving us your name,” Oliver told him.

“She didn’t know I was going to blow her cover. Otherwise she might not have.”

“How’d she react to that?”

“She wasn’t pleased, but she didn’t try to talk me out of it. Part of the GA philosophy is to come clean with your lies and excuses. I thought it would be therapeutic for us if we told the truth. She’s not ready for confession, but she had no right to tell me how to run my own life. She knows that you’ll be contacting her again.”

Oliver said, “Do you think it’s possible that she had something to do with her husband’s murder?”

“Anything’s possible, but I’d say no.”