Faye Kellerman - Cold Case

Lamar nodded. “Good luck to you, then.”

“You don't harbor much hope?”

“Nothing would make me happier than a solve. The damn thing was always a thorn in my side. There seemed to be no reason for it other than bad luck. You know as well as I do … you see homicides and each one of them is ugly. But some … drug dealers, hookers, thieves, gang-bangers … now no one deserves to die by violence. But if you're gonna put yourself in harm's way, shit happens. But this guy … nothing I dug up indicated that he was anything else except Joe Model Citizen.”

“How deep did you manage to dig?”

“We didn't get any interference if that's what you mean.” Lamar thought about the question. “We started with the wife and when we hit a wall, we branched out to friends, coworkers, students, and community people. There was an insurance policy, but at that point, the widow hadn't bought herself a new car or a flashy diamond ring. There was money in a college fund for her boys. She also took a job.”

“What kind of work?”

“I think the school hired her as a secretary or a teacher and used his seniority so she could keep the benefits.” He finished off his beer. “We scoured through Little's desk, his files, his old floppy disks and the computer, his credit cards, his phone records, his bank account. When I tell you nothing was awry, I mean it.”

Decker nodded, although something struck him as odd. “I spoke to the widow. She married very well.”

Lamar took a moment to digest that. “Good for her.”

“She also told me that she had gone into debt, hiring a private detective named Phil Shriner, trying to get a lead on the case.”

“Hmm …” Lamar crushed his beer can. “Did she get anywhere?”

“Nothing that she wanted to tell me about. But when you checked out her account, she was solvent.”

“She must have gone into debt after I retired.”

“So you don't know anything about the private detective?”

“Didn't even know he had a name until you told it to me. Have you checked him out?”

“I have someone going down that avenue,” Decker told him. “Right after you retired and I came on, one of my first assignments was dealing with a murder of a coed at Central West Valley High.”

“Central West …” Lamar wiped his mouth on his hand. “Cheryl Diggs, was it?”

“Exactly. Her boyfriend at the time was a guy named Christopher Whitman. He's now Christopher Donatti.”

“Whitman …” He looked confused. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Because we originally brought him in for the Diggs murder. It turned out he was innocent, but as a side note, we discovered that the boy was totally mobbed up.”

Lamar frowned. “As in New York mob?”

Decker nodded. “He worked as a hit man for his uncle—a real goombah named Joey Donatti. After Joey died, Chris inherited his money as well as his enterprises. What Chris didn't inherit, he made on his own by running numbers, operating brothels, and peddling subscriptions to Internet porn sites. He took his unreported cash and now he owns a chunk of Manhattan real estate between Harlem and Washington Heights. His registration dates put him at Central West after Little was murdered, but he could have been here before the official date of enrollment. I just was wondering if you had any dealings with him before I came on.”

Lamar shook his head no. “I don't recall talking to him as part of the Little investigation. Look in the notes and see if I interviewed him.”

“I did and you didn't.”

Lamar shrugged as if to say, “So there you have it.”

“As far as I know, his name never came up. But neither Cal nor I bothered to look into people from Central West.”

“I have one more guy I want to run by you. A kid named Darnell Arlington.”

“Darnell Arlington …” Lamar scrunched his eyes. “I remember him … a black kid … troubled. I think we ruled him out. How 'bout refreshing my memory.”

“You're right. Darnell was a troubled kid. When he was threatened with expulsion, Ben went to bat for him and got him a second chance. Darnell blew that opportunity, and the boy was finally kicked out of North Valley for good. That happened about six months before Little was murdered. The second time, by the way, Ben sided with the school.”

Lamar didn't talk for a moment. “I never did talk to the boy, when his name came up. As I'm remembering it, he wasn't even in the state when Little was killed.”

“Little's widow told me that he was in Ohio, playing in a school basketball game.”

“Yeah, it's coming back.” Lamar nodded. “Cal was the one who interviewed Darnell. The kid was back east playing in a game, witnessed by about one hundred people. From what I recall, the kid was broken up about Little's death.” A pause. “You're looking at a revenge thing?”

“I'm considering everything.”

“Like I said, Cal checked him out. He could tell you more than I could about Darnell.”

“When I talk to Cal, I'll ask about Darnell. Do you still keep in contact with your old partner?”

“We see each other every now and then. For all that we went through together, once that whole thing ended, we found out that we didn't have too much in common. I'm a doer, Cal's a brooder. Sometimes it worries me, but I'm tired of mothering the man. Eventually he needs to figure it out on his own.”

“I've left a message. I trust he'll call me back.”

“Oh yeah, he'll do that. Little bothered him as much as the case bothered me. Let me know if you make any headway. Be nice to see someone in custody before I die. That's not too much to ask of the Good Lord, right?”

Decker agreed that it wasn't too much to ask . But when it came to results, the GL always seemed to have other ideas.

BY SIX INthe evening, most of the detectives had checked out on the whiteboard, leaving the squad room hauntingly quiet. When Decker listened hard enough—carefully enough—he could hear wounded voices speaking to him through the blue-covered murder books. He often got his best insights by being receptive. Focused and wired on coffee, he cleared about half his desk when the knock on the door frame broke his concentration.

Marge Dunn and Scott Oliver looked as if the day had dragged on too long. Marge's hair was wilting, and Oliver's royal blue tie was askew. His formerly starched white shirt was limp, and he was carrying his suit jacket.

Marge said, “Ben Little should be nominated for sainthood.”

Oliver kicked out a chair with his foot and sat down, stretching his legs in front of him. “He'd give Mother Teresa a run for her money. Not a speck of dirt to dig up, but I'm still not convinced. No one can be that good.”

“I agree with Oliver,” Marge said. “How can a guy that dynamic and active not have at least one skeleton in his closet?”

Oliver said, “I remember the cops being frustrated about that. I think we all would have been more comfortable dealing with the whack if the vic had some bad habits.”

“Interesting that you say that,” Decker said. “Arnie Lamar remarked that the Little homicide was particularly sad because he was such a nice guy.” His eyes drifted to Oliver's. “What did you think of Homicide's handling of the case?”

“They worked it pretty hard for about six months. Then it just froze. I recall that Arnie and Cal kept at it from time to time, but this wasn't a case with a lot of forensics. There was some ballistic evidence, a couple of prints that Arnie would run from time to time. And DNA? Pshaw, my friend, pshaw.” Oliver waved his hand in the air and chanted, “Ice, ice, baby.”

“What did you think of Cal and Arnie?” Decker asked.