Faye Kellerman: The Mercedes Coffin

“And what might that be?”

Another small laugh. “You expect me to do your work for you?”

“You owe me one for plugging me.”

“No, no, no. I settled the score with that one, pal. If anyone owes, you owe me.”

“Bullshit. That one doesn’t count.”

“Ask your sons if it doesn’t count.”

Silence. Then Decker said, “Call me if you think of something.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Just because you would.”

“Why don’t you call me if you think of something? ’Cause from where I’m sitting you’re not only barking up the wrong tree, you don’t even have a stump to piss on.”

MELINDA LITTLE WARREN was not surprised by the detectives at her door. “You should have called first. I’m about to go out.”

As the inscrutable Colonel Dunn would have said: the woman was a cool cookie. Even her blond hair was more ice than amber. She wore a kelly green silk blouse and a pair of chino pants. Her feet were housed in rhinestone sandals. Marge said, “How about giving us a few minutes?”

“If I thought this would only take a few minutes, I would let you come in. And if I thought it would help Ben’s case, I’d let you come in. But I know what it’s about because you’ve probably talked to the bastard.”

“The bastard?” Oliver asked.

“Don’t play coy with me!” She was red with anger. “That man is a liar!”

“So tell us your side, because right now all we’ve heard is his story.”

“Like you give a solitary damn…oh fuck!” She threw open the door and walked away. The detectives took it as a sign to continue the conversation indoors.

The view from inside was lovely, but Melinda didn’t notice. She was too busy pacing back and forth. “The fact that I may have had a little problem a long time ago does not impact upon what I told that tall detective. And it has zero to do with my husband’s murder. But of course, you always have to look at the grieving widow, don’t you? I stood to gain the most from Ben’s death. No matter that I was total train wreck. No matter that I was suicidal. No, you have to look at the widow!”

Marge said, “Why did you call Phil Shriner a bastard?”

“Because that’s what he is! I hired him to keep confidences, not to break them!”

“He claims you didn’t hire him at all. That he was your excuse for gambling away insurance money-”

“That’s a lie!” Melinda pivoted around. “I had a problem, okay? I met Phil from those problem days. The one good thing he did was to get me into GA meetings, but he only did that because he wanted to get into my pants.”

“Did he?” Oliver asked.

“Don’t insult me!” Melinda hissed. “I was a compulsive gambler, not a drunk! I was clearheaded and Shriner was a pig.”

Oliver held up the palms of his hands. “We’re trying to get a handle on your husband’s murder. We’re on the same side.”

“That’s what the police told me fifteen years ago and I don’t believe you any more than I believed them.” Melinda melted into her white sofa. “Incompetent idiots!”

Oliver had no answer for that. He looked to Marge for backup. She exhaled softly and sat next to Melinda on the sofa. “I’m sorry to be opening up old wounds, Mrs. Warren. It must be very painful for you.”

Melinda glared at Marge with moist eyes. “Spare me the amateur psychobabble. I’ve been to enough therapists to know the empty words from the real thing, okay?”

The room fell silent. Oliver busied himself by staring at the view. Melinda said, “I keep waiting…wondering…when can I move on?” Her eyes softened as tears spilled down her cheeks. “Aren’t I entitled to a little happiness?”

“If I were in your shoes, I’d kick us out, saying talk to my lawyer.” Marge shrugged. “I hope you don’t do that, though. If we want to find Dr. Little’s murderer, we’ve got to talk to you about Phil Shriner and your gambling problem.”

Oliver felt it was safe to chime in. “We’d like to hear what you have to say since you and Shriner seem to be at odds.”

Marge treaded lightly. “Phil implied that you’d gambled away insurance money and you were too embarrassed to admit it to your folks. So instead you told them that you spent money on a private investigator. Shriner agreed to be your cover.”

Oliver added, “He was quick to admit that he was also a compulsive gambler. And he also implied that it was probably your husband’s death that drove you to gambling.”

“Of course his death drove me to gambling!” Melinda cried out. “It did all sorts of weird things to my psyche. Do you think I made it a habit to gamble when Ben was alive?”

Marge said, “So when did gambling become a problem for you?”

“About six months after…” Melinda pulled a box of tissues onto her lap and yanked one from the slot. She blotted her tears. “You have to remember that it wasn’t just loneliness, it was fear! The police had no idea who killed Ben, and I kept thinking that there was someone out there who wanted to finish the job by killing my boys and me. I was petrified. I sold the house and moved in with my parents, but that got old very soon. I started going to casinos just to get out. My dad taught me poker when I was five. I was good at it. At first I won money. That was my downfall. If I would have lost right away, I probably wouldn’t have returned.”

“How long before you knew that your gambling was out of control?”

“I don’t know what Phil told you, but I was never broke. I still had some savings.”

She reached for her purse, pulled out a compact and began to reapply her makeup: powder, blush, lipstick. When she was done, the traces of her tears had vanished.

“But it was embarrassing…throwing away money like that. Phil and I reached a mutually beneficial plan. He would cover for me but only if I threw some money his way to look into Ben’s murder. Phil jumped at the agreement. He was in hock up to his eyeballs and was grasping at anything green.”

Marge said, “We’ll need to go over your bank records at the time of your husband’s murder. If we have your written permission, it’ll be easier.”

She was quiet for a while. “If it’ll get you off my back, go ahead.”

“To verify that you didn’t have gambling problems before your husband’s murder.”

Melinda licked her lips. “Not problems. Ben and I went to Vegas, sure. We’d see the shows, we’d gamble…sometimes I’d win, sometime I’d lose. I always enjoyed it, but I didn’t feel any compulsion to keep doing it.”

“And once again, you’re telling us that the problems happened after the murder.”

“Absolutely. I was a psychological wreck and was given this sudden windfall. I wish insurance wouldn’t have been so forthcoming. Time might have helped me be more discerning.”

“Why do you think Shriner suddenly decided to blow your cover?” Oliver asked her.

“Because you’re reinvestigating the case and he didn’t want to look like a boob to the cops.”

The stories jibed…maybe too well. Marge said, “You said that he agreed to cover to your folks, but only after you agreed to pay him some money. To me, that sounds like blackmail.”

For the first time, Melinda smiled. “I wouldn’t go that far…I…he needed money and I was thoroughly disgusted with the police. It would have been nice if he had investigated Ben’s murder with a little more zeal, but…” A sigh. “I didn’t pay him much. Frankly, I don’t see why I should have had to pay him at all. The police should have done their job.”

“How well did you know the primary investigators?” Oliver wanted to know.

“I called a lot at the beginning. Less after Phil started hunting around. In the end, they retired and the case went cold. By the time I recovered from my gambling and my fears and my infinite psychiatric bills, I just wanted to move on with my life.”