Faye Kellerman - Cold Case

Rina emerged from the kitchen, her hair maddeningly black without a hint of gray even though the woman was in her forties. Her lack of aging never ceased to painfully remind Decker that he was in his fifties and had a head streaked with silver. The follicles that retained the most of Decker's original carrot red coloring were embedded in his mustache. The facial hair was maybe a bit out of style, but Rina claimed it made him look very masculine and handsome, and she was the only one he was still trying to impress.

Rina wiped her hands on a dish towel. She pointed to the boxes. “What's all that about?”

“I got saddled with another cold case, only this one needs a quick solve.”

“See what happens when you're too successful?”

Decker smiled. “Aren't you my good friend. What smells so good?”

“Chicken cacciatore over pasta. I've loaded it with garlic trying to stave off the current flu bug. My plan is to make it uncomfortable for anyone to get too close to us. But we'll be okay with each other because we'll both eat the same entrée.”

“What about our progeny? Will she be able to come close?”

“Hannah is irrelevant since I basically haven't seen her in three days—the consequence of a driver's license. She's at Lilly's studying for a chemistry test.”

Decker brightened. “So we're all alone?”

“Yes. How about if you clear off the table and I'll open the wine. I've picked out a Sangiovese that I found on KosherWine.com.”

“Sounds wonderful but just a single glass for me, darlin'. I've got to work.”

“Hence the boxes.”

“There are still three more in the car.”

“Yikes. Can I help?”

“No, just leave these on the table for a moment, and I'll drag everything into the office. Then we can have dinner before I plow my way into ancient history. How's your day been?”

Rina's eyes twinkled flashes of blue. “The same as always. I try to teach resentful kids something that they have no interest in learning.”

“Charming. For what they pay you, you can walk away.”

“I could …” Again she smiled. “But then life wouldn't hold any challenges. As much as I love gardening, a plant is no substitute for a surly teenager. And honestly, I really do like the kids.”

“The cold case I'm working on was a teacher.”

Rina turned serious. “Who?”

“It happened fifteen years ago. A history teacher at North Valley.”

“Bennett Little. Found in the trunk of his Mercedes, shot execution style.”

“What a memory.”

“It was a big case. You were still at Foothill and we were living at your old ranch.” She smiled. “I miss the ranch sometimes, even though it was a two-and-a-half-mile walk to shul.”

“I miss the ranch, too, although I do not miss cleaning horse stables. My hands are dirty enough as is. I'm really impressed with your memory, although it makes sense. At your age, I had a pretty good memory as well.”

“I know, Peter, you're ready for the glue factory.”

“What else do you recall about the Little case?”

“In the end, the ruling was that it was probably a carjacking.” She frowned. “Am I wrong or isn't there a current Hollywood case similar to Little that actually is a carjacking?”

“Indeed there is. Two sixteen-year-old punks have been arrested.”

“Are the two related?”

“Fifteen years apart?” Decker shrugged. “Doubt it, but without knowing the specifics of either case, I can't say.”

“Did they open the Little case because of the Hollywood case?”

“Indirectly, yes.” Decker blew out air. “I'll explain it over dinner. Let me get those other boxes inside. Then I'll clear the table and we can eat. I'm starving.”

“Are you sure I can't do anything else for you, Peter?”

“You can bring out the candles. As far as I know, a little atmosphere and romance never hindered anyone's investigation. And I suppose you can make a strong pot of coffee. I'm going to need it to night.”

THE DRY FACTSof the homicide played out like this. After a full day of work, Little left his office and headed to the school parking lot. Before he reached his three-year-old silver 350SL Mercedes-Benz, he was cornered by a group of six students. The pupils described the interchange as jocular. They chatted with Dr. Ben until Little checked his watch and excused himself, saying he was late for a meeting. According to the kids, Little left the parking lot around four-thirty.

The meeting consisted of a local group of residents and Connie Kritz, a member of the L.A. Board of Supervisors. They were talking about community shelters for the homeless—a hot-button issue in the nineties.

Not that the homeless weren't just as needy today. But having gone through years of dealing with civic issues, Decker knew that there was only so much room for star status. The unwashed schizophrenics seemed to have been supplanted by global warming.

According to records, Dr. Ben had called his home number from his car phone at 4:52 P.M. Melinda Little, Ben's wife of fifteen years, said that the conversation was brief because the car phone's reception was full of static. Ben stated that he expected to be home around seven.

When the clock struck eight, Melinda started to grow concerned. She called his car phone but no one answered. She paged him on his beeper but he didn't call back. Still, she wasn't really worried, figuring that Little had turned off his beeper and was deep in debate. Passions ran high when dealing with the homeless. When her cuckoo clock struck nine and there was still no word from Ben, Melinda told her sons that she was going out for a few minutes.

Melinda drove to Civic Auditorium only to find it empty. With shaking hands, she drove back home, locked herself in the bedroom, and started going through a roster of community numbers until she managed to secure the home phone listing for Connie Kritz. The supervisor was surprised that Melinda hadn't heard from Ben. Connie told her that the homeless meeting had finished up around seven-thirty. She thought that Ben had left with the rest of the group.

It was now close to ten.

Melinda called the police, only to be told that an adult isn't considered officially missing until he or she has been gone for at least forty-eight hours. She told them how unusual it was for Ben to be late, but the sergeant wasn't interested. He suggested some other possibilities.

Maybe he was with a friend.

Maybe he was with a girlfriend.

Maybe he stopped off to get some dinner.

Maybe he stopped off at a bar.

Maybe he took a drive.

Maybe he was having a midlife crisis and needed some time to think.

What ever the situation was, the sergeant suggested that she go to bed and the situation would probably resolve itself by morning.

Melinda would have none of that. She knew that if Ben had gotten waylaid, he would have called on the car phone. That's what the damn thing was for. Emergencies.

At eleven-thirty that evening, the boys knocked on the bedroom door and asked why their mother had been locked in her bedroom for the past hour and a half. Not wanting to alarm them, Melinda said she was helping a friend in crisis.

“Where's Dad?” asked the youngest.

“Out helping someone else.”

The sons had no problem believing the story. Ben was always helping someone.

Melinda told her sons to go to bed and began making more phone calls. An hour later, when Melinda still hadn't heard from Ben, her closest friends came over to stay with her until this ordeal resolved. Their corresponding husbands had been sent out to look for Ben and/or his car.

The dreaded call came in at three-thirty in the morning. Ben Little's Mercedes had been spotted—the sole vehicle in a paved lot at Clearwater Park. The police had been called. Two squad cars eventually arrived at the location.