The Mercedes Coffin (35 page)

“Got it,” Decker said. “Rudy told you that he shot Primo in self-defense.”

“Yeah.” Martel tried the story on for size and liked it. “That’s what Rudy tole me. That he shot Primo out of self-defense. But now there was a problem, nomasayin’?”

“What was the problem?”

“That he had to get rid of the body and that I had to help cuz it was my fault that it happened in the first place. Cuz this was all about my CDs and that’s the way a white jury was gonna see it.”

The detectives nodded encouragement.

Martel sighed. “So Rudy tells me he parked Ekerling’s Benzene a few blocks away. He had gave me the keys and told me to dump the car somewhere in the ’hood. And for my efforts, he gave me a couple hundred bucks. And he sez if anyone axe me where I got the money, just tell ’em from drugs, nomasayin’?”

Decker said, “Weren’t you curious why he had Primo’s Mercedes-Benz and why he wanted you to ditch it?” When Martel just shrugged, Decker said, “C’mon, Travis, you must have figured it out. Which ’hood did he want you to drop the car in?”

“Huh?”

“Did he tell you to dump the car in Hollywood or South Central?”

“He sez to dump it in my ’hood at Jonas Park. That it would look like some nicca boosted the whip, made a deal down there, and left the car cuz it was hot.”

“Lots of drug deals at Jonas Park?” Decker asked.

“Whatever you want.” Martel paused to organize his thoughts… or to concoct a plausible story. “So I call up Gerry from someone’s cell at the Bitty Bit ho’down and I tell him I gonna pick him up and we gotta go dump a Benzene somewhere in the hood.”

“Okay.”

“So I go pick up Gerry and we go cruisin’ in the whip and then we go to dump it in Jonas Park. But then we don’t got anyone to take us home, nomasayin’? I ain’t gonna ask no runner for a hike.”

“Let me see if I understood you correctly, Travis.” Decker tried to keep his face even. “Rudy gave you the keys to Primo Ekerling’s car.”

“Yeah.”

“Where was the car parked?”

“Down the block.”

“Down the block from the Bitty Bit party.”

“Yeah.”

“So you took the car with Primo Ekerling’s body in the trunk of the car and called up Geraldo Perry—”

“No, first I call up Gerry and then I took the car.”

Decker said, “Yes. Sorry. First you called up Gerry using someone’s cell at the Bitty Bit party and told him you had a Mercedes-Benz with a body in the trunk that you had to get rid of and you were going to pick him up.”

“I didn’t know there was no body in the trunk. Just that I had to dump the whip.”

“Whose phone did you use?” Garrett asked.

“Wha?”

“You said you called up Gerry at the Bitty Bit party. Whose phone did you use?”

“I don’t remember. Some ho.” He seemed annoyed by the question.

Decker said, “So you picked up Gerry and you two are riding around with Primo Ekerling in the trunk of the car and… then what happened?”

“We take the whip to Jonas Park to leave it there. But once we there, there ain’t no one to get a hike from. So Gerry sez we got the Benzene, let’s cruise and have some fun. And I figure, the man is dead, it don’t make no difference now.”

Travis Martel had just contradicted himself with the admission that he knew about the dead man in the trunk.

“…we take the whip back to the Bitty Bit party, but by then it was almost two in the morning and all the food’s gone and all the liquor’s gone and Gerry…” He leaned forward. “See, we be riding around for over two hours, so Gerry’s hungry and tells me he’s in the mood for pancakes. So we get back into the whip and ride around until Gerry sees Mel’s. So he sez, ‘How ’bout Mel’s?’”

“Gerry’s hungry and says how about Mel’s?”

“Zackly,” Martel said. “So we dump the car ’bout a few blocks from Mel’s. We still don’t got no hike home since we left the car a few blocks away, so I call up Rudy on the number he gave me. But I musta copied it wrong cuz it ain’t working.”

“Maybe he gave you a wrong number on purpose,” Garrett said.

“Yeah, I thought about that.”

“So you’re stuck without a ride home. What happened next?”

“Gerry calls up a whoadie of his and tells him we’ll buy some pancakes if he come pick us up. And his whoadie sez okay but he’s with a bro so we has to buy him some pancakes, too. So Gerry sez okay, he’ll buy everyone pancakes. So we wait for ’round an hour and then Gerry’s buds come in Mel’s and I buy everyone pancakes with the money that Rudy gave me. I bought everyone pancakes and eggs and bacon and shit. It comes to like a hundred dollars. But that’s okay cuz I still had about two hundred left over even with buyin’ everyone breakfast. So we all ate pancakes and eggs and shit and then we went home.”

Martel shrugged.

“That’s it.”

The cell was silent.

Decker said, “Let me recap this very briefly. Rudy told you that he went to Ekerling’s office to get your CDs back.”

“Yeah.”

“Rudy said there was a problem. That he and Ekerling argued.”

“Yeah.”

“That Ekerling came at Rudy with a knife and Rudy shot Ekerling and stuffed him in the trunk of the Mercedes.”

“Yeah.”

“So you knew about the body in the trunk, Travis.”

“He was dead. I checked it out with my own eyes. He was already dead.”

“I understand that.”

“I didn’t do no murder.”

“I know,” Decker soothed. “Rudy said he needed you to get rid of the body. He gave you the keys to the Mercedes and told you to dump it in the hood.”

“Yeah.”

“You picked up Geraldo Perry and went to Jonas Park to get rid of the car. But then you realized that you had no one to pick you up from the park. So you took the car
all
the way back into Hollywood to dump it.”

“Yeah. Like I tole you, Gerry wanted to go to the Bitty Bit party, anyway. And I figure why not cuz Ekerling be already dead.”

“Got it,” Decker said. “So you drove the car back to Hollywood, to the Bitty Bit party, but by that time, the party was over and Gerry was hungry. He wanted pancakes.”

“Yeah, that’s why we dumped the Benzene where we did. We saw Mel’s and figured we’d get some pancakes. We bought everyone pancakes.”

“Why didn’t you tell us all of this in the first place?” Diaz asked.

“’Cause Rudy tole me that if somethin’ happens, that I shouldn’t talk. That he’d get me a white-assed lawyer and everything would be fine.”

“And you believed him?”

“He’s a white boy,” Travis said. “He sez he’s a lawyer.”

“That much is true,” Decker said.

“He knows the system. Besides, I knew that he weren’t goin’ be producin’ my shit if I ratted him out.”

Garrett pushed over a yellow legal pad. “You want to write your story down for us? Then maybe we can talk to the district attorney and help you out.”

Martel regarded the paper and pen and then Garrett’s face. “All this talk about food… it’s way past lunch. I’m starvin’. I need something to eat.”

“Start writing and I’ll order in some food,” Diaz said.

“I don’t want jail shit,” Martel insisted. “I be heppin’ you out, I deserve a good lunch.”

“What do you want?” Garrett asked.

“All this talk about pancakes…” Martel shrugged. “How ’bout some pancakes?”

DECKER HAD BEEN
operating on casino time — protracted periods under artificial lighting without any sense of the passage of hours. He had arrived at County Jail at nine in the morning. By the time he was back in the West Valley, it was almost six, the sun still in the sky but the shadows long. His cell’s voice-mail box was full, and there was a stack of telephone pink message slips in his in-box.

After parking in the lot at the station house, he had entered through the back door, winding his way through the halls to get to his private space. The door to his office was open, the light was on, and a wonderful aroma was wafting into the squad room. His desk had been covered with a red-checkered tablecloth and set with paper plates and plastic utensils. Rina was sitting in his chair, absorbed in a novel.

“Good book?” he said.

She looked up. “Very good.” She stood up and kissed his cheek. “I was in the mood for a picnic.”

“We’re indoors.”

“We can open a window and pretend.”

Decker smiled and drew his wife into his arms. “You don’t know how wonderful this is. I’m starved.”

“Then shall we dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business?”

“Absolutely.” Decker drew up a chair on the opposite side of the desk. “What have we?”

Rina opened a picnic basket. “Corned beef on rye or chicken salad on whole grain?”

“One of each.”

She handed him two wrapped sandwiches. “I have cucumber salad, Waldorf salad—”

“Just set them on the desk and stick a fork in it.”

“Will do.”

Decker wolfed down the corned beef, then helped himself to the salads. “Where’s Hannah?”

“In a study group. She told me that she spoke to you last night.”

“I did.”

“She said you two had a nice discussion.”

“Interesting. It’s hard to tell if she enjoys my company or finds me annoying.” He looked up from his sandwich. “I feel like I’m a litmus test. Depending what kind of mood she’s in, I’m either way too acidic or way too basic.”

Rina laughed. “How was your day?”

“Really long but very profitable.” He gave her a brief recap of his eight hours in a cell with Travis Martel. “So now that Banks seems to be involved, Hollywood can justify even more manpower to hunt him down.”

“Even
more
manpower? They were looking for him previously?”

“Yes, they were, but not with this newfound intensity.” He explained to her about the blood splotches he had discovered behind the newly painted baseboard in Rudy’s apartment. “The blood’s not Primo Ekerling’s.”

“So whose blood is it?”

“A very good question. We got the DNA back. We know it was a woman. Once we locate Banks, maybe we can even get an answer. The good part is that with Hollywood looking for him, I don’t have to concentrate my efforts toward finding him. Plus, I got them to post a couple of guys to look for Ryan Goldberg.”

“The missing Doodoo Slut.”

“Exactly.” He put down his sandwich and picked up a pile of message slips. “Sorry. I just want to see if any of my messages are from Liam O’Dell.”

“Take your time. I’ll just eat my sandwich and read my book.”

“What are you reading?” he asked absently.

“A biography of Eric Clapton.”

“I didn’t know you like that kind of thing.”

“It has its moments. All celebrities are a might off, but rock stars are uniquely nuts.”

“You’re telling me?” Decker continued to sort through the messages. “Just the little acquaintances I’ve made with D-list people have made me realize that. And yet the wannabes keep on coming like locusts during the dry season. Doesn’t matter who steps on them, who squashes them and mashes them under their heels, there’s always more. Travis Martel was willing to sit in jail and risk a life sentence in prison for a crime he probably didn’t commit, just on the off chance that if he ever came out of the pen, Rudy Banks would get him a recording contract. Now how crazy is that… ah, here we go.” Decker picked up the phone and dialed Liam’s cell. “This shouldn’t take long.”

O’Dell answered on the third ring.

“It’s Lieutenant Decker. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” His voice was tense.

“I’ve managed to secure a couple of Hollywood police officers to look for Ryan.”

“Bully for you.”

Decker ignored his anger, knowing where it was coming from. “I spent the entire day at County Jail talking to Travis Martel. He had some interesting things to say.” He summarized eight hours of master interrogation for Mad Irish. “It seems Rudy promised Martel a record contract if he’d either murder Primo or just get rid of the car.”

“And you believe him? Martel?”

“I believe that he was involved, and I believe that Rudy was involved.”

“Nice to have Rudy’s neck in a noose, but right now I’m thinking about Mudd. If the police crap out, we’re thinking about a private eye. Know anyone?”

Certainly not Phil Shriner, Decker thought. “I know some Valley people… not so many city people.” A beat. “I’ve heard good things about a West L.A. PI named Aaron Fox. He used to be with LAPD but we never crossed paths. I’ll get you a number. Again, let me know if you hear from Ryan.”

“Ditto.” Liam cut the line.

“Everything okay?” Rina asked.

“One step at a time,” Decker opened his chicken salad sandwich. “Wow, this is just terrific. Thanks again.”

Rina opened another box. “Hannah baked cookies for the squad room. You can have one. They’re pareve.”

“Tell her thank you. To what do we owe such benevolence?”

“She was baking cookies for her friends, and I said as long as she had the bowls and cookie sheets out, she should bake for you guys.”

“What did she say to that?”

“She said okay, but clearly wasn’t keen on the idea. Then I told her you’d write her a note and the school would probably give her credit for community service. That brightened her outlook considerably. It means she won’t have to do her after-school hours this week.”

Decker popped a cookie in his mouth. “Delicious. I should be offended by my own daughter’s tepid response to baking for me and the crew, but I’m not.” He took another and made short work of it. “Let’s face it. No one works for free.”

THE MORNING WAS
clear and bright, the sunlight tumbling out from the cloudless, blue ether. The drive to the Palisades was free moving. Decker was behind the wheel with Marge sitting shotgun drinking a mocha latte and Oliver in the back mocking her coffee choice, railing on about suckers who paid three dollars for something that probably cost twenty-five cents to make.

Marge broke into his rant. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to pour this over your head.”

“Let me just ask you a question,” Oliver said. “Does Will drink any of that shit?”

“Will’s a coffee drinker.”

“I’m a coffee drinker, but that’s not what I asked you. I want to know if Will drinks any of that mocha, chocolate, whipped, foamed, soy, nonfat—”