The Mercedes Coffin (25 page)

“No one specific, mate, just the world.”

DECKER HANDED MARGE
a slip of paper on which was written a name, an address, and a telephone number. “One of Rudy Banks’s lawyers. Go over and find out if she’s had contact with Rudy in the last few days.”

Marge flipped hair out of her eyes. Dressed in blue slacks, a white shirt, and a cardigan sweater, she could have stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. The name on the note was Hillary Mackleby, and the address was in the city. “You can’t find out this information by a phone call?”

“She’s not going to tell us anything about Rudy because of confidentiality issues, but a clever detective will be able to interpret her facial expression once you tell her that he’s been missing since Saturday. If she seems calm, he isn’t missing. If she seems alarmed, then maybe he hasn’t contacted her.”

“Where is this place?”

“Wilshire between Crescent Heights and La Brea.”

Marge sat down. “No problem. It’s convenient, anyway. I have to go into the city. I’ve found Jervis Wenderhole.”

“A-Tack.”

“I found out why they called him that,” Marge said. “His full name is Jervis Attarack Wenderhole. Attarack… A-Tack. Anyway we set up the appointment by phone tag. Since I’ll be going into the city, I’ll stop by the law offices and try to speak with Mackleby in person.”

Oliver knocked on the open door, then stepped into the office, wearing a brown jacket, white shirt, and a gold tie. Marge looked at him. “You look like you’re headed for Vegas.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. “How’d the memorial go?”

“Freddie Vitton was a wealth of information. Rudy Banks used to torture Vitton’s younger brother, Cal Junior, when they were in school together. Banks went so far as to try to throw acid on his genitals—”

Marge said “Jesus” and Oliver said “Ouch” at the same time.

Oliver said, “What did Cal Senior do when he found out?”

“Apparently, Big Cal man never found out about the bullying,” Decker said.

“C’mon.” Marge looked up from her notepad. “He had to have known something.”

“According to Freddie, he probably did know
something,
but Cal J never confided in his dad, so Cal Senior never did anything. Freddie did mention that his father hated Rudy and if Rudy would have been implicated in Little’s death, Cal wouldn’t have hesitated to haul him in. Rudy was a punk and had run-ins with the law.”

“I don’t buy that. Big Cal knew about it. A good parent knows when something’s wrong.”

“He wasn’t a very good parent,” Decker said.

Marge said, “But how would Freddie
know
that his father hated Rudy if Junior never mentioned the bullying to his dad? And if Cal Senior hated Rudy because he was a local punk, why would he be talking about Rudy to Freddie?”

“Good point,” Decker said. “Freddie also told me that Ben Little was intervening on Cal J’s behalf. Maybe that’s why Cal Senior didn’t intervene. And eventually the situation was taken care of. Rudy was expelled. Since Arnie Lamar said that Big Cal wasn’t that comfortable with his son’s homosexuality, I could see Cal Senior letting someone else deal with the situation.”

Oliver said, “If Little expelled Banks, then Banks would have a reason to hate him.”

“But Banks had been out of North Valley for five years,” Marge told him. “He was already a punk rock star. Why would he wait so long to kill Little?”

Decker said, “Maybe he had finally amassed enough money to pay for the hit.”

Marge was making diagrams. “Banks torments Cal J, Little expels Banks. Then Banks kills Little… and then fifteen years later, Cal Senior commits suicide?”

“Oh, I spoke to Detective Shirley Redkin about suicide. The death was ruled inconclusive.” When both detectives looked up, Decker explained, “Off the record, she thinks the ME wanted to keep the options open just in case other information came in.”

The room was quiet for a moment. Oliver said, “Is it possible that Rudy found out about the reopening of the case and murdered Cal Senior?”

Decker shrugged.

Marge shook her head. “You know, we’ve never even interviewed Banks face-to-face.”

“I talked to him.”

“For how long?”

“About five minutes.”

“I rest my case,” Marge said. “We seem to be making him our convenient fall guy.”

Oliver said, “His name keeps showing up.”

“How about this?” Decker said. “Freddie also told me that Rudy used to be the drug dealer for the school. I just talked to Liam O’Dell and he said Rudy was the drug supplier for the group.”

“Banks was a drug runner and Darnell was a drug runner,” Oliver said. “That’s how the two were connected. When Arlington was arrested for drug dealing, Ben Little found out about the operation. He somehow managed to sweep Arlington’s arrest under the table because he liked Arlington, but he had no such love for Banks. He became a threat to Rudy’s operation, so Banks had him murdered.”

Marge said. “You’re assuming that Rudy still worked North Valley when Darnell came to the school.”

Oliver said, “The turf isn’t that big, and Darnell would have been perfect for the job. Then Darnell got caught and Little became a threat. Rudy told Darnell to fix the situation. Now by then Darnell had moved away, but he still had friends. Maybe he hired one of his dawgs to do the shooting.”

Decker looked skeptical. “Wenderhole and Josephson were interviewed. They had alibis.”

Marge said, “And why didn’t Vitton arrest Rudy if he suspected him of selling drugs?”

Oliver said, “He probably didn’t have the evidence. Just like
we
don’t have the evidence.”

Marge held up a finger. “Or maybe Rudy had something on Cal Senior. Something big enough to make Cal Senior back off.”

“Like what?” Oliver said. “That Cal J was gay?”

Decker said, “Freddie implied that even before Cal J came out, it was pretty clear that he was gay.”

“It was common knowledge?” Marge asked.

Decker said. “I got the feeling it wasn’t spoken about, but it kinda hovered over Cal Senior’s consciousness.”

“Have you spoken to Cal J?”

“I’m going to try to talk to him before he goes back to San Francisco. By the way, the blood I found in Banks’s apartment doesn’t match Ekerling.”

Marge made a face. “So we’ve got
another
body to deal with?”

“I wish we had another body,” Decker said. “All we have is blood drips. I have no idea who the blood belongs to or how old it is. When are you going to meet with Wenderhole?”

“This afternoon.”

Oliver said, “If Darnell hired Wenderhole to ice Little, he’s going to lawyer up. You’re not going to get anything out of him.”

Marge said, “I left messages that I wanted to talk to him about the Little case. If he was going to lawyer up, he had his chance. He agreed to meet with me. So I think our theory about Darnell hiring out his peeps is crap. Maybe it was Melinda Little who hired out. That insurance policy keeps tickling the back of my mind.”

“You think Melinda hired Rudy to kill her husband?” Oliver said.

“Why are you so
obsessed
with Rudy?” Marge asked.

“Because he keeps lingering around like a bad fart.”

“But we keep blaming everything on him. It’s like the Democrats in ’08. Every ill that had befallen the country — from terrorism to global warming — was George Bush’s fault.”

Oliver smiled. “Ooooh, she’s getting all political!”

“I’m just saying Banks right now is easy dumping ground. We need to consider other alternatives. And by the way, you should hear Will if you think I’m a fascist.”

“But he’s from Berkeley.”

“Precisely why he’s so right-wing.”

“We’ll know more once you’ve spoken to Wenderhole,” Decker said. “Arlington had a known beef against Little. Let’s see if we can explore that a little further. When you interview Wenderhole, make sure he doesn’t feel threatened. Put the blame on Arlington if you have to.”

“Agreed.” She turned to Oliver. “Want to come with me?”

“Funny, I was going to ask you if you wanted to come with me this afternoon to interview Phil Shriner.”

“Can’t do it. We’ll meet up later and exchange notes.”

“Good idea,” Decker added. “Maybe by that time I will have talked to Cal J.”

Marge sighed. “So many suspects, so little time.”

PEOPLE NEVER FAIL
to surprise. Once there had been three teenaged thugs. Although it was true that Leroy Josephson had died from gunshot fire, the two remaining boys had turned the corner from back alley to upright. Darnell Arlington was a high school athletic coach, and Jervis Wenderhole was now on the government payroll as a gang counselor at a youth center in South Central. When Bennett Little was murdered, Wenderhole would have been around seventeen. That meant Wenderhole should be about thirty-two — a young man at the height of his strength.

If someone had told Marge that Jervis Wenderhole was fifty, she would have had no trouble believing it.

It could have been the wheelchair. Psychologically, people associated the apparatus with the aged. But it was more than just the confines of the steel chair. Wenderhole’s bald crown was ringed with white, kinky curls. His deep-set eyes were dark and wary. His lips were pale; his mocha skin was blotched with white colorless patches. When Marge knocked on his open office door, he looked up, noticing her badge around her neck, and held up an index finger. He was talking to a tall teen who was clutching a basketball.

“I’ll just wait outside until you’re done.” Marge slipped into the hallway and leaned against a faded yellow wall festooned with children’s art. Somewhere there was an indoor gym reverberating with the sound of bouncing rubber, and mixed with the din was the pulsating thump of rap music. Marge had passed a TV room and a crafts room on the way in. Not a computer in sight.

The teen soon emerged, dribbling down the hallway. He turned left and disappeared. Marge showed her face in the door opening. Wenderhole was at his desk, writing some notes. Without looking up, he said, “Come in, Sergeant.”

His wheelchair took up most of the space and also served as his desk chair. No place for her to park her butt. She leaned against the wall. “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Wenderhole.”

“Jervis.” He spun around and faced her. “Did you have a chance to look around?”

“Not much. Didn’t want to disturb anyone.”

“With all that racket going on I don’t think anyone would notice.” Wenderhole smiled. “What’d you think about what you saw?”

“I think that you’re doing very well with limited resources.”

The man nodded. “
Very
limited resources.”

“My daughter goes to Cal Tech. She belongs to a group that reconditions old computers and gives them away to worthy organizations. Most of the time, we’ve been the recipients. LAPD is pretty bare-bones. But I can pass the word to her if you want.”

“Thank you, Sergeant, but it won’t do us much good. Anything we can’t affix to the wall or floor winds up getting stolen. However, I wouldn’t mind a laptop.”

Marge smiled. “I’ll let her know.”

“Cal Tech…” Wenderhole shook his head. “She must be a genius.”

“She is, but not thanks to me. She’s adopted.”

“Is she Asian?”

Marge paused before answering. “You assumed she’s Asian because she goes to Cal Tech?”

Wenderhole smiled. “Racist, isn’t it. Well?”

“Chinese. She was orphaned while a teen and I got lucky.”

“Stereotypes come from somewhere.” Wenderhole leaned back, his shoulders folding into his body. “Geographically, I haven’t strayed too far from home. I was born about a half mile south of here. When I was a teen, the Los Angeles United School District had optional busing. The lottery put me at North Valley with Darnell Arlington and Leroy Josephson. We were a trio in misery — misplaced, mismanaged, and mistreated. After Darnell was relocated, Leroy and I didn’t last too long. We both dropped out in tenth grade, but neither of us told our mothers because we knew a good deal when we saw one. Working in that white area, it was a whole lot easier to sell shit. We were the only show in town for a while.”

“You sold drugs. So who was the supplier?”

“Darnell handled almost everything. Once he got caught — and moved away — Leroy and me were shipped back to the ’hood. Then Leroy was gunned down, and I was shot and paralyzed. I probably would have kept going if a bullet hadn’t stopped me. I probably would have ended up like Leroy.”

“How long did it take for you to make the transformation?”

“You mean from gangsta to solid citizen?” He thought a moment. “I’ve been doing this for seven years. Psychologically, it’s taken me longer to adjust, and that’s because I see myself in so many of the kids here.”

Marge took out her notepad. “You said you were misplaced, mistreated, and…”

“Mismanaged.”

“Yeah, mismanaged. No one tried to help you?”

“No one.”

“What about Bennett Little? He seemed to have an outstretched hand.”

Wenderhole stared at her. “Dr. Ben’s project was Darnell, not me. I suppose I was hopeless in his eyes. Or… maybe he did try to help, but I didn’t hear him — really hear him. His words were white noise.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I was pissed off and on drugs. I didn’t listen to my nana, my mother, my minister, my coach. I certainly wasn’t gonna listen to no pissy-ass white boy.” He smiled. “What a stupid jerk I was. Even with missing almost all of school, I scored almost 1100 on the SAT. If I’d been born a different color in a different area, I would have been a lawyer or a psychologist.”

“There’s still time,” Marge said.

Wenderhole was taken aback. “Yes, you’re right about that. I’m still making excuses. Patterns die hard.”

“So you didn’t have much to do with Dr. Ben?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with anyone in North Valley. I only stepped inside a classroom when it rained because it was too wet and cold to hang. You know how often it rains in L.A., so you now know how often I was physically in school.”

“What do you remember about Dr. Ben’s death?”