Faye Kellerman - Cold Case

“Lieutenant Decker of LAPD. I'm looking for Marilyn Eustis?”

“You found her. ID, please?”

Decker slipped his badge into the allotted space and waited. A moment later, the door opened and a slim, leggy blonde with a cigarette was giving him a quick once-over. She returned his billfold. “Can't be too sure nowadays. Come in. The place is a mess, so watch your step.”

She turned her back, and Decker followed her swaying hair and rear until she pointed to an empty folding chair. “Have a seat. I'll be back in a moment.”

Decker complied and studied Marilyn. She was dressed in black, and although she was attractive, she emitted nothing but nervous energy. Her blue eyes quivered as if they were bathing in adrenaline.

He looked around. It was a small room in utter chaos: papers and boxes everywhere with lots of shelves of CDs, most of which were jewel-box demos. A single pot of coffee sat by itself in a corner, looking forlorn. He saw her dragging over a chair and got up to help. “Are you in the process of moving?”

“Just cleaning out Primo's shit.” She plopped down. “Seeing if there was any money due. He seemed to be current. He was a lousy house keeper, but pretty good with the bills.” She rubbed her neck. “So why are you here? I thought the police had the punks in custody.”

“They do.”

“So I repeat, why are you here?”

Decker leaned toward her. “This, in no way, is a reflection on the detectives involved in Mr. Ekerling's case. I'm sure that the perpetrators in custody did it. I'm here because Primo Ekerling's murder was similar to one that happened over fifteen years ago involving a man named Bennett Alston Little.” He waited for the name to register. When it didn't, he said, “The case has been reopened. I'm in charge and I just want to make sure that the coincidences are merely that— coincidences.”

Marilyn crossed and uncrossed her slender legs. She was wearing a tight black skirt that showed lots of skin. “What kind of coincidences?”

Decker told her about the cars and the bodies in the trunks plus the fact that both cases involved public parks after dark.

She continued to stare. “You're thinking like a serial killer?”

“The murders were fifteen years apart.”

“A choosy serial killer.”

Decker didn't dare smile, but her black sense of humor was better than bitterness. “I'm trying to see if there was a direct link to the two men, and so far I haven't come up with anything. So I'd like to get a little background on Primo. What can you tell me about him?”

She shrugged. “Primo was born in New York. I met him in New York. I know that he spent some time out here when he was involved with the punk music scene in the late eighties to the early nineties.”

“The Doodoo Sluts.”

“You've done your homework.”

“Not completely but while looking up Primo on the Internet, I noticed he was involved in several lawsuits with a man named Rudy Banks who was also in the Doodoo Sluts. What can you tell me about that?”

“You suspect Rudy?”

“I don't even know Rudy enough to suspect him. But I can do basic math. If Mr. Ekerling and Rudy were out in the L.A. scene in the late eighties to early nineties, that would be right around the time that Ben Little was murdered.”

She puffed on her cigarette, but blew the smoke the other way. “And?”

“I have no and , Ms. Eustis. I'm just trying to gather information.”

“Rudy can be summed up with a single word. Schmuck! Now if he would have been murdered, no one would have been surprised. The man only had enemies.”

“Why's that?”

“Because he rips off people habitually. He makes compilations. He steals songs but won't pay royalties. He also plagiarizes songs that other people write and won't pay them for it. Sometimes he actually makes money legitimately. Primo and Rudy co-produced a retrospective on the L.A. punk scene with current artists doing old favorites. The CD album made a little money—one of the cuts even made it to iTunes for a brief period of time—but Rudy took all the profits.”

“How does he get away with it?”

“When people complain, he says sue me. Some do, but most don't.”

“Where does Rudy get the money for legal work?”

“The son of a bitch is smart. Ten years ago, right after the group broke up, Rudy went to law school. One of those nighttime rip-off deals where none of the students ever pass the bar. Guess what?”

“He passed the bar.”

“He specialized in intellectual property. He knows the ins and outs. Let me tell you something, Lieutenant, it's hard to get a judge to even listen to your case. Ninety-nine percent of these cases get thrown out on the first round. Primo let Rudy have a free ride for years just because it wasn't worth it.”

“So what changed his mind?”

“Rudy put out a retrospective CD of the Doodoo Sluts without giving Primo, Liam, and Ryan—the other guys in the band—any money whatsoever. The three of them got together and sued. It stopped the release of the CD—at least temporarily—and so far, no one has made a penny except Rudy.”

“So what would happen if all three members died? Would Rudy get all the profits, or would it go to the estates of the members?”

“I have no idea.” She paused and smoked her cigarette. “Rudy is always suing someone or someone is suing him. It's a way of life for him. Still, I don't see him as having anything to do with Primo's death.”

Another pause.

“Although I'm not quite sure that I buy the carjacking gone wrong thing.” She shook her head and regarded Decker's eyes. “You don't buy it, either. That's why you're here.”

“I'm just gathering information. Why don't you buy it?”

“The death seemed calculated. I saw the interview tape of the punk … I guess he's one of the punks. The kid sounded as if he couldn't plan a fart after eating beans.”

“Do you remember the name of the interviewee you saw?”

“No. He was black.”

“Travis Martel.”

“Yeah, that's it.” Marilyn finished her cigarette and lit another. “But what do I know? In the meantime, I'm careful. If it wasn't those jackasses, then maybe it was something more personal. So then maybe I should be looking over my shoulder.”

“Anyone specifically in mind?”

“No, and that's why I'm nervous. The recording business attracts a whole lot of psychos. Some even have talent. It's all marketing these days. What you sound like is irrelevant. It's how you present.”

“I'm sure that's true. How did Rudy meet Primo?”

“I don't really know. I came into Primo's life long after the split of the Doodoo Sluts. We met at AA. I've been sober for over five years. Primo, so far as I know, had been sober for a little longer, but who knows?”

“You think that Primo might have slipped up?”

She blew out smoke. “When I heard that this punk carjacked the Mercedes from Jonas Park, my first thought was: what the hell was Primo doing in a park in southeast L.A. alone at night. Almost immediately I answered my own question. He was probably sucking on a bottle or getting high.”

“Did you ask the coroner if he had alcohol or drugs in his blood?”

“Why would I bother doing that?” She stared at him. “It wasn't what killed him … directly.”

“It would be interesting to know.”

“Yeah, it would explain why he gave up without a fight. If he was drunk or stoned, he probably didn't know what was flying. As a sober guy, he could take care of himself.”

Decker wondered if a comprehensive toxic screen had been ordered at autopsy. He made a note to check it out.

“He was a really good producer. Not that anyone cared. The entire industry is in the throes of a shakeup. The CD is a dinosaur. Everything is downloaded from song-sharing sites. And lots of new groups are bypassing traditional producers and selling their own shit on the Internet. Primo's jobs were fewer and fewer. If he had succumbed to drinking, I wouldn't have been surprised.”