Faye Kellerman - Cold Case

“When you called up the investigators, who did you talk to?” Marge asked.

The question momentarily stumped her. Then Melinda said, “Mostly Detective Lamar, I think. I found him more congenial than Detective Vitton.” She looked at her watch. “I'm late to a luncheon and the honoree is a very dear friend. I'd like to go.”

Oliver said, “What would you say if I told you—”

Marge said, “Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Warren.”

“Not a problem. But please next time, do call.”

Marge stood and signaled Oliver to the door. “We will. Goodbye now.”

As soon as they were outside, Oliver turned on his partner. “Why'd you interrupt me midsentence?”

“Because I didn't want you to tell her about Vitton's suicide until we know more.”

“But I wanted to see how the Ice Queen would react! I haven't ruled her out as a suspect. The murder looked like a hit, and she has a gambling problem. How do you know she didn't whack him for insurance? Or maybe she hired Shriner for the hit—or Vitton and that's why he killed himself.”

“Exactly why I want to dig up more information on her and on Vitton before we drop the news. Things like: What kind of funds did she have before her husband was murdered? Did any money go out shortly after Little's death? Did she know Cal Vitton before Ben died? Let's say we find something on her. The suicide would be a perfect excuse to come back and talk to her. And if we don't find anything on her, why put the woman through more pain by mentioning the suicide?”

Oliver still looked miffed. “I don't like being muscled out of my comfort zone even if you do outrank me.”

“Would it help if I bought you some cookies?”

“Fuck you,” Oliver snapped.

“It was a serious offer.” Marge looked wounded. “Mrs. Grich's. Macadamia nut, white chocolate and coconut. But suit yourself, bud.”

“You think you can mollify me through my stomach?”

“It always worked in the past.”

There was a long pause. “I like dark chocolate.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart.”

RETIRED DETECTIVE ARNOLDLamar showed up as if he were dressed for a funeral: ill-fitting black suit meant for a bigger man, skinny black tie, and white shirt. His feet were stuffed into scuffed oxfords. His face was drawn, and his eyes were glazed as they scuttled back and forth between Decker and Detective Shirley Redkin from the Simi Valley Police Department. Finally Lamar's eyes landed on Decker, staring at him from across the interview table. “What'd you say to him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you set him off or anything?”

Decker didn't take offense. “I told Detective Vitton the same thing I told you. That I wanted to talk to him about the Bennett Little case and get his impressions. If he found that offensive, then I plead guilty.”

Silence.

“I wasn't threatening, just insistent. Can you think of a reason why he'd kill himself?”

“No.”

“You called Vitton before I got hold of him. He told me that much. What was his state of mind?”

“He was Cal.” Lamar shook his head. “Grumpy. After he retired, he didn't want anything to do with LAPD except to cash his pension check. For a while, we kept in contact, but then that fizzled. He didn't give me any indication that he was desperate, but I'm no psychiatrist or anything.”

“What was your conversation about?”

“I told him that LAPD reopened the Little case and you'd be calling him.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He asked what they expected from him. I told him I didn't think they expected anything. They just wanted to hear about the investigation. He grumped and said something like it's a little late in the game for this. In short, he was just being Cal. If I would've thought that there was something wrong, I would have …” He blinked back tears. “Cal hasn't been happy for a while.”

“Women problems?” suggested Shirley Redkin.

Lamar made a conscious effort to shift his eyes from Decker's face to hers. He thought she looked like an Aztec Indian. “The divorce was years ago. At the time, it was a bad one, although at their son's wedding, they were on speaking terms. Two children … both live out of town.”

“Where?” Shirley asked.

“One's in San Francisco, the other lives in Nashville.”

“What do they do?” Decker wanted to know.

“Not police work.” He shook his head. “The Nashville son, Freddy, is a producer of country songs, what ever that means. Cal Junior … well, what can I say. He bats for the other side.”

“Do you mean he's gay?” Shirley asked.

Lamar nodded painfully. “After Cal J came out, Big Cal was never the same.”

“How long ago was this?”

Lamar had to think about it. “Ten years ago, maybe.”

Decker said, “So it wasn't a recent thing that pushed Vitton over the edge?”

“It wasn't recent, but that don't mean it didn't push him over.”

“So why now?” Shirley asked.

“I've been thinking about that nonstop. Maybe it was a combination of things. Reopening a case that was our biggest failure, his son being gay, no steady work, no women in his life. After a while, everything adds up.”

Decker said, “Enough to get him to eat his gun?”

“Cal hadn't been happy for a long time,” Lamar repeated.

“Who is Cal's ex?” Shirley asked him.

“Francine Vitton. Don't ask me where she lives, I have no idea.”

“What about the boys? Do you have a telephone number for them?”

“No, but I'm sure the number's in Cal's directory. He kept in touch with his boys … mostly Freddy, but he was on speaking terms with Cal J. That wasn't always the case.”

“No?”

“Well, you know how it is. When Cal first told his dad, Big Cal wanted nothing to do with him. Cooler heads prevailed later on. They reconciled. I'm sure the boys could tell you where their mother lives.”

Shirley said, “Are you being completely open with us, Detective Lamar? There isn't something in Cal's life that could have driven him to kill himself?”

“If there was, I didn't know about it.”

“Did Cal feel that he gave the Little case one hundred percent?” Decker asked.

Lamar bristled. “That's a loaded question, Lieutenant. When the case remains open, you always feel that there's something more that you can do. But sometimes you just fail. And as you both know, that ain't a good feeling.”

ANUGGET POPPED INTODecker's mind.

When he had asked Arnie Lamar about Calvin Vitton's sons, the retired detective had responded: The Nashville son, Freddy, is a producer of country songs, what ever that means. Earlier in the day when he had talked to Donatti and asked him about Primo Ekerling, he had said, He's a music producer. What'd he do?

There were tens of thousands of people in the recording industry. It wasn't much of a coincidence, but Decker was alone in an ocean, grabbing at any log that happened to be floating by. As soon as he got into his office, he phoned Lamar. “It's Pete Decker again.”

“What's going on?”

“A quick question about Cal's boys. How old would they be?”

“Freddy's around thirty-five, Cal J's a few years younger. Why are you asking?”

“I like to have a mental picture before I do interviews.”

Lamar paused. “There's more to it than you're lettin' on.”

“Then please tell me what I'm holding back. I can use all the help I can get.”

“Say hello to the Vitton boys for me.”

He cut the line before Decker had a chance to respond. Just as he set the phone down, Marge knocked on the doorjamb. She was with Oliver, and Decker motioned them in. Their mission was to bring him up to date on Melinda Little Warren.