Faye Kellerman - Cold Case

He put down the case file and googled Primo Ekerling; over a thousand references flashed across the monitor. The first few pages dealt with his shooting, but after those thinned, most of the articles had to do with his business as a producer and then his youthful stint as a punk rock star. It was interesting to note how a person could be almost a complete unknown and still have so many references.

Primo Ekerling had his backers. But he also had a number of detractors as evidenced by all of his lawsuits.

He was suing a band that he had produced for back payment.

He was suing a record company that had hired him for back payment.

He was suing a former member of his own defunct band—the Doodoo Sluts—for royalties from their “best of” CDs.

He was also suing a number of other record producers for back payment.

Decker read the articles carefully, trying to find Freddy Vitton's name, but that came up empty. Decker did notice that one of the many producers whom Ekerling was suing had also been a band member of the former Doodoo Sluts—a guy named Rudy Banks.

He picked up the Ekerling file, looked for Rudy's name but didn't find it anywhere. Not surprising because Martel and Perry had been arrested almost immediately, so why bother? And it wasn't a smart thing to start calling up Ekerling's critics and asking pointed questions. Someone might get pissed. Someone might call up Detective Rip Garrett or Detective Tito Diaz and start complaining about a nosy lieutenant from West Valley. And if they mentioned the name Decker, not only would he be in a tight spot, that lieutenant would also put his daughter in an even tighter spot.

Especially because two suspects were currently in custody and those two suspects had been in diapers or nonexistent when Bennett Alston Little had been murdered.

No, no, no, it would be an unwise thing to talk to Ekerling's adversaries. What Decker needed was one of Primo's allies.

He wrote himself a reminder to call Marilyn Eustis tomorrow morning.

WHILE THE MORNINGcoffee was brewing, Decker turned on the family laptop. It was clogged with a plethora of different sites and icons and was ancient in a rapidly moving techno world. However, it still worked.

The Doodoo Sluts had gone through several transformations, but in its heyday eighteen years ago, it consisted of a quartet: Elvis Costello look-alikes who were, in turn, Buddy Holly look-alikes—four white boys in black suits, white shirts, thin black ties, and big round black-rimmed glasses. Their most successful track was entitled “Bang Me” and climbed its way to number eight on the Top 100 hit list. The song wasn't available in any routine download format.

Decker was still searching for the song or a “best of” CD that contained the song when Hannah walked into the kitchen. The teen was dressed in a full blue skirt and a white-collared polo top, the preferred uniform of the school. With her red hair, she could have doubled as the American flag. Decker closed the computer, convincing himself that he was spending some quality time with his elusive daughter. That usually translated into making her eggs and pouring her orange juice.

“How's it going?” he said cheerfully.

“You're taking me to school?”

“Is that okay?”

“I love your company, but your car doesn't have satellite radio. Can we listen to my CD mix?”

“Absolutely.”

“Thanks.” She plopped down on a kitchen chair, her eyes still full of sleep. “I'm not hungry, Abba. I'll eat later at school.”

“All they serve is sugar cereal and that's a terrible thing to eat in the morning. You get a blood sugar rush, and then you crash. You need protein.”

“I need another twenty hours of sleep.”

“What time did you get to bed?”

“It doesn't matter when I get to bed. It's when I wake up.”

“Well, if you get to bed earlier, it might be easier to wake up earlier.” He was sounding preachy this morning. “How about some scrambled eggs?”

“If you insist.”

Decker took out a pan and three eggs. She liked only one yolk and the rest egg whites. He gave the eggs more substance by adding a little milk and cheese. “I need your professional help.”

Hannah looked up. “ My help?”

“What do you know about the punk scene?”

“You mean the real punk scene or the retro punk scene.”

“The original period. I'm interested in a group called the Doodoo Sluts. They peaked in the late eighties.”

Hannah's smile was genuine. “And the name's for real?”

“Would I lie?”

“Yes, but probably not about this. I've never heard of them, Abba. Personally, I never got punk rock, but I am sorry I missed the grunge scene.”

“That's too bad. I never understood Nirvana's appeal. Jake loved them.”

“They're not my favorite. I'm talking about Pearl Jam, Sound-garden, and Alice in Chains. But I digress. I have a friend who's a maven on original punk rock. What do you want to know?”

“Anything he or she can tell me about the Doodoo Sluts.”

“It's a he—Ari Fieger. He's a bit of a nerd and overly pompous, but he knows his stuff.”

Decker spooned the scrambled eggs onto a plate. “Here you go.”

“You're too good to me, Abba. And all I ever do is give you attitude.”

“You're a terrific daughter.”

“Now you're lying.”

“I'm telling the one-hundred-percent truth.” His cell phone rang: it was Marge. “Excuse me, sweetie. Yo.”

“I'm at the airport waiting for Continental to tell us how long we will be delayed. So far, it's an hour.”

“That doesn't sound good.”

“Weather, they say. It's always weather.”

“When in doubt, blame it on the weather. When is your interview with Darnell Arlington?”

“Not until eight in the evening. So far we're okay because I've built in an airline delay factor.”

“Marge, do you have your computer with you?”

“I do.”

“Does the wireless work?”

“It does. What do you need?”

“Everything you can find on the Doodoo Sluts. Spelled just like it sounds.” He heard her laughing on the other end. “Primo Ekerling was a member of the group. He was suing another former member named Rudy Banks. Ekerling is also involved in another suit with Banks … something about a record they co-produced and Banks withheld money.”

“Great. It'll give me something to do. Or should I say doodoo.”

Decker smiled. “I'll talk to you later.” He discontinued the call. “Ready?”

“Not really, but what's my choice other than malingering.”

“That won't get you anywhere. You'll just have to make up the work.” Decker hoisted her backpack. “What's in here? Lead?”

“Meaningless and out-of-date textbooks that you and Eema paid a fortune for.”

“You're going to hurt yourself carrying all this weight.”

Hannah hugged her father's arm. “That's why I need a big, strong abba.”

THE BUILDING WASfour stories of chrome and glass, a stone's throw away from where Suge Knight had set up offices for the notorious Death Row Records, the premier label of L.A. gangsta rap. While investigating a case years ago, Decker used to pass some of Suge's billboards perched atop the office building: people sitting on toilets and other offensive images. Now Tupac was dead and Suge was in jail. Ah, the fleeting phantom of fame.

Ekerling's office was on the second floor, sandwiched between an insurance agent and a guru named Om Chacra who sported a degree in Far Eastern and holistic medicine. The door was locked and there was no bell, so Decker knocked. The door opened but only a crack because it was bolted by a chain.

“Yes?”