Free The Mercedes Coffin by Faye Kellerman Page A

to know.
    “I called a lot at the beginning. Less after Phil started hunting around. In the end, they retired and the case went cold. By the time I recovered from my gambling and my fears and my infinite psychiatric bills, I just wanted to move on with my life.”
    “When you called up the investigators, who did you talk to?” Marge asked.
    The question momentarily stumped her. Then Melinda said, “Mostly Detective Lamar, I think. I found him more congenial than Detective Vitton.” She looked at her watch. “I’m late to a luncheon and the honoree is a very dear friend. I’d like to go.”
    Oliver said, “What would you say if I told you—”
    Marge said, “Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Warren.”
    “Not a problem. But please next time, do call.”
    Marge stood and signaled Oliver to the door. “We will. Good-bye now.”
    As soon as they were outside, Oliver turned on his partner. “Why’d you interrupt me midsentence?”
    “Because I didn’t want you to tell her about Vitton’s suicide until we know more.”
    “But
I
wanted to see how the Ice Queen would react! I haven’t ruled her out as a suspect. The murder looked like a hit, and she
has
a gambling problem. How do you know she didn’t whack him for insurance? Or maybe she hired Shriner for the hit — or Vitton and that’s why he killed himself.”
    “Exactly why I want to dig up more information on her and on Vitton before we drop the news. Things like: What kind of funds did she have before her husband was murdered? Did any money go out shortly after Little’s death? Did she know Cal Vitton before Ben died? Let’s say we find something on her. The suicide would be a perfect excuse to come back and talk to her. And if we don’t find anything on her, why put the woman through more pain by mentioning the suicide?”
    Oliver still looked miffed. “I don’t like being muscled out of my comfort zone even if you do outrank me.”
    “Would it help if I bought you some cookies?”
    “Fuck you,” Oliver snapped.
    “It was a serious offer.” Marge looked wounded. “Mrs. Grich’s. Macadamia nut, white chocolate and coconut. But suit yourself, bud.”
    “You think you can mollify me through my stomach?”
    “It always worked in the past.”
    There was a long pause. “I like dark chocolate.”
    “Anything you want, sweetheart.”
     
     
    RETIRED DETECTIVE ARNOLD Lamar showed up as if he were dressed for a funeral: ill-fitting black suit meant for a bigger man, skinny black tie, and white shirt. His feet were stuffed into scuffed oxfords. His face was drawn, and his eyes were glazed as they scuttled back and forth between Decker and Detective Shirley Redkin from the Simi Valley Police Department. Finally Lamar’s eyes landed on Decker, staring at him from across the interview table. “What’d you say to him?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Did you set him off or anything?”
    Decker didn’t take offense. “I told Detective Vitton the same thing I told you. That I wanted to talk to him about the Bennett Little case and get his impressions. If he found that offensive, then I plead guilty.”
    Silence.
    “I wasn’t threatening, just insistent. Can you think of a reason why he’d kill himself?”
    “No.”
    “You called Vitton before I got hold of him. He told me that much. What was his state of mind?”
    “He was Cal.” Lamar shook his head. “Grumpy. After he retired, he didn’t want anything to do with LAPD except to cash his pension check. For a while, we kept in contact, but then that fizzled. He didn’t give me any indication that he was desperate, but I’m no psychiatrist or anything.”
    “What was
your
conversation about?”
    “I told him that LAPD reopened the Little case and you’d be calling him.”
    “What did he say to that?”
    “He asked what they expected from him. I told him I didn’t think they expected anything. They just wanted to hear about the investigation. He grumped and said something like