Faye Kellerman: The Mercedes Coffin

“I don’t like that man. He’s not sincere.”

“He is sincere. He’s just nervous around you.”

Genoa smiled. Then she grew serious. “Out of all the people in the case, you know who I identify with?”

“Who’s that?”

“Ryan Goldberg. His fate could have been mine if it hadn’t been for Dr. Ben.” She stood up. “All right. I’ll meet with your captain and throw him a bone. Keep me informed if something new happens.”

“I will.”

“Let me know if you find Rudy or Goldberg or if you find Rudy’s car. I would think while it might be hard to find a person, it shouldn’t be so hard to find a car.”

“Think how hard it is to find your keys when you’ve misplaced them in your own house.”

She considered his words. “Yes, that is a good point, although I have a thirty-thousand-square-foot house.”

Decker smiled, but she failed to see the humor. “The car could have been repainted, it could have been chopped up, it could be holed up in a garage, or it could be right under our noses. America ’s a big country, Ms. Greeves. There’s lots of space to get lost.”

THE PILLOW BEGAN to vibrate: little tiny fingers massaging his cheek. Without opening his eyes, Decker pulled the covers over his head, reached underneath, and extracted the phone.

“Decker.”

“This is what I got, and I don’t know how reliable it is.”

The voice jolted him awake. His heart began to pound.

“Hold on.” Decker slithered out of bed and tiptoed into the walk-in closet. On the second shelf, he kept two pencils and a pad of paper. “I’m here. I’m listening. What do you have?”

“There’s a small inn near Ocean Boulevard in Santa Monica called the Sand Dune. It rents by the hour. Ladies go in and ladies go out.”

“Aha.”

“My sources tell me that the guy you’ve been looking for has been there recently. Different name, different hair, different clothes, but it’s probably him. They say that he pays in cash and they say he’s a chubby chaser. Whether any of it is true or not, I don’t know. I’m just passing it along. Don’t bother saying thank you; your friendship is all I ask for.”

“By friendship you mean almost killing me?”

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have. Besides, you always hurt the one you love.”

“By any chance, do you have a direct connection with this fine law-abiding establishment?”

“Me? Never. Why would you think that?”

“You’ve been known to help the ladies.”

“I’m a generous guy. I help everyone.”

“I assume that a certain lady told you all this. I’d like to talk to her.”

“Can’t help you there, but I won’t do you bodily harm if you go down to the establishment and talk to people. Just be polite.”

“Donatti, it’s a murder case. I need to talk to her.”

“Who knows if she even exists? And if she does, who knows if she’s telling the truth. People say all sorts of things to get on my good side.”

“You’ve got a good side?”

“I do. I just don’t use it too often. My bad side’s so much more fun.”

THE UNCERTAINTY FACTOR.

What if Donatti got it wrong?

What if Donatti was deliberately misleading him?

What if Rudy Banks didn’t show up?

What if he showed up and something went wrong?

What if he showed up, everything went according to plan, but he wasn’t involved in Ben Little’s death?

What if, despite Decker’s best efforts, the case was never solved?

For the moment, the “what if” was pushed aside to deal with the “what needed to be done.” Talking to the owner of the Sand Dune motel was a chore. It took a lot of cajoling before Mr. Craddle was thoroughly convinced that the detectives involved were from Homicide and not from Vice. At last the proprietor figured out that to help the police would benefit him in the long run.

Hollywood placed rotating decoys at the front desk of the Sand Dune. Sometimes it was a man, sometimes a woman. Since security cameras had already been set up, Decker, Diaz, and Garrett reviewed the most recent tapes, trying to see if they could recognize Banks from the hundreds of grainy shots of furtive men. Since the quality wasn’t sharp, it was hard to make out features, and even when they did, they noticed that a lot of men purposely hid their faces or turned their backs toward the camera aimed at the desk. Several additional security cameras were installed, courtesy of the police, so that it was easier to capture faces from different angles. Old cameras were upgraded. Everything was in place.

So they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

PATIENCE WAS NOT only a virtue, it was a necessity. As months passed and there was no sign of Rudy Banks, the Hollywood brass became disenchanted with Decker’s tip. They pulled back the decoys at the Sand Dune and allocated them to other operations. Every week, Diaz or Garrett or Decker or Marge or Oliver or some other Hollywood Homicide detective went in to check the tapes and replace them with clean cartridges. No one was surprised when the contents revealed nothing significant-just sneaky johns and call girls. But that was detective work: hours of mind-numbing tedium followed by that compensatory, glory-hallelujah, once-in-a-blue-moon, shot-in-the-veins adrenaline rush.

Marge was in her living room drinking coffee, flipping channels via remote control when she received a call from newly minted Detective Cindy Decker Kutiel.

“Do you know where Dad is?”

“Have no idea.” Marge pressed the mute button. “You can’t reach him on his cell?”

“It’s turned off.”

“Maybe he and Rina are watching a movie.”

“He usually has it on vibrate.”

“Maybe the battery is low. What’s up, Cindy?”

“I’m here at Hollywood doing Sand Dune tape duty. I’ve put in a call to Rip and Tito, but I figured that maybe someone from your neck of the woods might want to come over as well.”

Marge sat up abruptly, almost spilling coffee onto her lap. “You found him?”

“I think so. Actually, I didn’t find him. I was reviewing the tape when Petra Conner came in to help me. Do you know Petra?”

“I met her at your wedding. She’s from Homicide. You two are in a bowling league together.”

“Exactly. Petra ’s also an artist. Her eye is particularly well trained to notice nuances in faces. I don’t know why we didn’t think of her before.”

“I’m calling Oliver and we’ll be right over.”

“Good…I’m getting a call. I think it’s Dad. I’ll see you later.”

ONCE THEY DETERMINED that it was most likely Rudy’s face, they discovered that he’d frequented the place before, one time with a bald head-probably a head cap-and another time with a blond wig. The most recent visit-three weeks ago-showed him wearing a baseball cap with a bomber jacket.

“This one…” The clerk hit the photograph with the tips of his fingers. “He likes them with meat.” The clerk was Cecil Dobbins: fifty-eight, five six, two forty with a raging potbelly, white hair, and milky blue eyes.

It had been a slow night and Dobbins was in a talkative mood. He had been under Mr. Craddle’s employ for the last year and a half. The work was okay, a little boring. The hardest part was keeping a clean establishment, making sure that whatever went on was legal and lawful and between two consenting adults. “Mr. Craddle don’t want any problems. That’s why he’s cooperating with you.”

“We appreciate it,” Marge told him.

“Just keep your eye out for this guy,” Garrett said. “If you see him, don’t try to apprehend him yourself. He’s dangerous.”

Decker added, “Just don’t let on that you know who he is.”