Faye Kellerman - Cold Case

“It's rotten of Strapp to put this kind of pressure on you.”

“I'll survive. Did you have a chance to look up when Christopher Donatti came to L.A. as a student?”

“Bad boy Chris came to Central West High a year after Little's murder. He never attended North Valley, although the schools are only six miles apart. If you want, I can delve a little further. The Little murder looked like a professional hit, and Donatti was … is a professional killer.”

Decker nodded. “Actually, I might even give him a call. Guys like him are always paranoid and hyperaware, so he may have heard something.”

“You can't be serious!” When Decker shrugged, Marge said, “The son of a bitch shot you.”

“It wasn't personal.”

“You're crazy!”

“Maybe so, but a lot is riding on a solve for a fifteen-year-old case, and I'll take any help I can get. So who's still teaching at North Valley High from the Little days?”

Marge handed him the list—two teachers from the humanities, two from math and science, and the boys' gym coach. “If you allow me to bring Oliver in, we could probably rip these interviews off in a couple of days. He would also be helpful because Scott was in Homicide at Devonshire when Little was murdered.”

“Have you talked to him about the Little case?”

“I don't do anything without your okay, boss, but I'm sure if he read the file, a lot would come back to him. I did ask him about Arnie Lamar and Cal Vitton.”

“And?”

“He said they were all right … not corrupt as far as he knew. They were old-timers, although he was quick to point out that they were probably the same age as he is now. Then as he thought about it, he slipped into one of his famous funks. As you well know, it's unpleasant dealing with Scott Oliver when he's moping.”

“Did he wonder why you were asking about Lamar and Vitton?”

“I think he guessed, Pete. They've become synonymous with Ben Little's murder.”

Decker handed her a slip of paper. “The first name—Phil Shriner— was the private detective that Melinda Little Warren hired to look into her husband's murder. He wasn't successful, even though Melinda said that she paid him a fortune.”

“Do you know if he's still practicing?”

“No idea.”

“I'll check him out.” She wrote down the name in her note pad. “Who's Darnell Arlington?”

“A pet project of Ben Little. The first time Darnell was expelled, Ben went to bat for him and the school gave the kid a reprieve. The second time, Darnell got the boot and Ben backed up the school. Arlington was in Ohio when the murder happened, and Ben's widow had heard that the kid turned his life around. Cal Vitton talked to him at the time of the murder, but he's worth a second look.”

“Consider it done.” Marge wrote down Arlington's name and gave the slip back to Decker. “So I can bring Oliver into the fold?”

Decker thought about it. “All right, let's include Oliver. Strapp knows that I can't do this all by my lonesome, but he doesn't want it getting back to the big boys that I've farmed it out. With all his faults, Scott can keep a confidence.”

“That is true.”

“And who knows? Maybe a special assignment will snap him out of his funk.”

Marge shrugged. “One can hope, and yet one will probably be disappointed.”

CALVIN VITTON ANDArnie Lamar had turned in their guns and shields shortly after the Little murder, but neither had left town. Silent Cal—as he was known—had an address in Simi Valley, a mountainous community northwest of L.A. The area had wide streets, big skies, and lots of undeveloped land that sat atop granite and bedrock. Many working cops called Simi home, and an equal amount of vets retired to small ranches carved from the hillsides. When Vitton didn't pick up the house phone, Decker left a message on his machine, asking him to please call back at his convenience.

Arnie Lamar lived in Sylmar northeast of L.A. The neighborhood was noted more for its honor farms and detention centers than it was for its natural scenery. It was rugged country: some mountains but also dusty flat areas that were perfect for Lamar's passions of auto building and racing, and climbing up hillsides in one of his ATVs. When Decker phoned, Arnie was just about to go to the track, testing one of his newest vehicles, something that he had cobbled together using parts from a Viper, a Lamborghini, an old Jag XKE, and a small engine jet. They decided to meet at three in the afternoon.

Decker showed up on time. Upon arrival, he took note of Arnie's four-car garage, the door to one of its stalls yawning wide open. A chimerical, cherry red vehicle was parked in the driveway with a pair of denim legs sticking out from the undercarriage.

“Hello,” Decker called out.

“In a minute” was the response.

The lieutenant used the downtime to look around. Lamar seemed to have a nice-sized spread, similar to Decker's old homestead except there weren't any stables. The front yard was bereft of green, a brown square of hardscrabble dirt spotted with shreds of rubber, discarded chrome, and rusting steel. The house was one story and wood sided and if it had any style, Decker would call it California ranch. It wasn't exactly dilapidated, but upkeep wasn't Lamar's forte.

The body slid out from underneath the red hunk of metal. Lamar was on his back, resting on a block of oak on wheels. He had on oil-stained overalls and a gray T-shirt. His feet were housed in sneakers. He rolled over to his side and hoisted his frame up until he was erect. Lamar was a short man and slight in build, bald with a white mustache, dark coffee eyes, and knobby fingers that clutched a wrench. “Three o'clock already?”

“By my watch, it is.”

“Sheez, I get under there, I forget about everything.” His face was streaked with dirt and grease. He wiped his hands on an oil-stained rag. “I'd like to clean up. It won't take longer than ten minutes. You want something to drink. It's hot today.”

“Water would be nice.”

“How 'bout a beer?”

“I'm working.”

Lamar smiled with yellowed teeth. “I won't tell.”

Decker smiled. “Water is fine, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” The retired detective opened the door and led Decker inside.

The interior was surprisingly clean: floors swept, shelves dusted, and the furnishings simple and old. The dining table and chairs looked handmade, the work good but not professional. Pictures adorned the walls and tabletops: one special woman and children at various ages until they were grown with children of their own. At present, there was no sign of the special woman anywhere.

The house was on the dark side even with the blinds open. Decker sat down on a faded floral sofa. The only other seating was a cracked leather lounge chair that had a bird's-eye view of the television—no doubt Lamar's special seat. His makom hakevuah , Rina would have called it, using the Hebrew term for an honored place. At home, Decker had a blue leather armchair and ottoman.

Ten minutes later, Lamar made his appearance, pink cheeked and wearing clean denims and a black T-shirt. He was carrying a plastic cup of water and a can of Coors Light. After giving the cup to Decker, he pop-topped the beer and took a long swig.

“That's good drinks.” Lamar plopped down in his chair. “I used to hate diet beer. Now I've gotten so used to the light taste that the dark brew seems way too strong.”

“It's amazing how we adjust our attitudes to rationalize things.”

Lamar said, “So who decided to reopen the Ben Little homicide?”

“It seems one of his fans from his teaching days struck it big in technology up in Silicon Valley. There's a hefty endowment riding on the success of the case.”