Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 17

by The Mercedes Coffin

  “So what was your story for the cops?”

  “We’d be each other’s alibi. Before I left to pick up Leroy, my mom asked me where I was going. I told her to hang out with Leroy. She was talking to the minister and he heard me say it. She’d never imagine that I traveled twenty-five miles to pick up Leroy. I didn’t have a car. Leroy didn’t have a car. And why would we be there? Besides, why would we hurt Dr. Ben? We were never his special boys like Darnell. In North Valley High, we were invisible.”

  “But you were interviewed about the murder.”

  “Yeah, of course. Because of Darnell and the drug charges and we were his friends and were black. No one could believe that a white boy would hurt Dr. Ben. I was interviewed by some white cop named Vitton who came to my house. He talked to me. He talked to my mom. He talked to my minister. After that, he never spoke to me again.”

  “And Leroy?”

  “His grandmother said that Leroy and me was home with her. She must have been about ninety at the time—deaf and blind. She didn’t know if Leroy was home or not, but she wasn’t gonna say anything to a bunch of cops.”

  He paused to reorganize his thoughts.

  “About six months after Dr. Ben’s murder, Leroy calls me out of the blue and tells me he’s got some good news. He found some rock star who liked my songs and wanted to hear more of them.”

  Marge was quiet.

  “Now’s the time for Primo Ekerling.”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

  Wenderhole gave her a fleeting smile. “Primo had been into the punk scene, but it was wearing thin. He was having trouble with the band, and he really wanted to be more behind the scenes. He liked my songs. We did a demo tape. Leroy somehow managed to get the tape played at a few of the alternative stations. I didn’t make a dime off it, but, man, hearing yourself over the squawk box. It got me women. It got Leroy women. It got us welcome at all the clubs. Problem is, if you run around with shit, you get your hands dirty. And that’s exactly what happened.”

  He patted the wheelchair.

  “We were partying just like we always did, except one night some hyped-up bro went crazy and started peeling off rounds. Leroy caught it in the chest and head. I caught it in the back. When I woke up, I couldn’t move my legs. I couldn’t even feel my legs.”

  Wenderhole’s jaw clenched as tightly as his fists.

  “I wasn’t allowed to feel that sorry for myself because at least I was alive. Leroy…he didn’t have a chance.” A beat. “It wasn’t a wake-up call, it was a fuckin’ time bomb going off in my brain. For the first time in my life, I could be on drugs legally because the pain was so unbelievable.”

  “It must have been hell.”

  “If there was something worse than hell, I was in it. I swore that I was going to clean up my act and do something. It took me years, but finally I joined the human race. I started trying to better myself. I talked to other paraplegics. I realized that I was luckier than most because my dick still worked. I eventually did get some feeling back in my legs and toes. For a while, I could even manage on crutches. But you get older, it don’t get better. I finally got tired enough to admit I needed a little more help. I can still swim like a fish, but I’ve been using a wheelchair for the last three years.”

  Wenderhole waited long enough for Marge to feel that it was okay to ask questions.

  “Did you talk to Ekerling after you got shot?”

  “I think Primo visited me a couple of times, then nothing. No market for a rapper in a wheelchair, and there was lots of others writing rap. He didn’t have any use for me anymore.”

  “Did you think that Leroy’s connection to Ekerling had something to do with Bennett Little’s murder?”

  “Why would I think that? Ekerling didn’t come into the picture until way later.”

  “And you never questioned Leroy about Bennett Little’s murder?”

  “No. I didn’t want to know nothing.”

  “And your only involvement in the incident was picking Leroy up from the park.”

  “That was it. You want me to make a statement about that, I will. That is part of recovery. I lied to the police. I fully admit it.”

  “When you heard about Ekerling’s death—his car being jacked, the body being stuffed into a trunk and shot execution style—did you make a connection between his murder and Bennett Little’s murder?”

  “I thought about it only after I read about the two moronic dick brains that the police hauled in for the crime—that one of them was an aspiring rapper. That set off bells. That was me and Leroy fifteen years ago.”

  Marge was writing furiously. “Why would someone have wanted to shoot Bennett Little?”

  “I don’t know, Sergeant; I barely even knew the man.”

  “How do you think Leroy got involved with his murder?”

  “I don’t know if he was.”

  Marge said, “From what you’ve told me, there had to be other players in Little’s murder besides Leroy. Any ideas who might have set the thing up?”

  “No.”

  “What about Darnell? Could he have called the shots? He had a reason to hate Little.”

  Wenderhole was circumspect. “Darnell was angry, but I can’t see him being angry enough to arrange a hit. And where would he get that kind of money?”

  “He might have saved up something from running drugs.”

  Wenderhole smiled bitterly. “You’ve never been a runner. All you get is pocket change. Everything you make goes in your mouth, up your nose, or into your lungs. Darnell didn’t have money to pay Leroy.”

  “And you have no idea who paid Leroy to murder Little?”

  Wenderhole hedged. “I don’t know if Leroy killed Little or not.”

  Marge tried a different tactic. “When you worked with Ekerling, did you meet any of his former bandmates?”

  Wenderhole thought for a minute without speaking. Then he went into his file, pulled out a folder, and began to rummage through it. “Here is my former life as A-Tack: old clippings, PR pieces, and the few reviews that I got. I saved them all.”

  “Can I see them? They might be helpful to the investigation.”

  “In a minute…” He pulled out a yellowed piece of newspaper print. “Here…” He handed it to Marge. “Once I opened for Primo’s group—the Doodoo Sluts. I think it was their last concert together. It was at a club in Hollywood. The place was packed, but not because of me. It was a bunch of white punkasses. I got through two numbers before they started throwing shit at me.”

  Marge read the review. The critic had good things to say about A-Tack but called the Sluts sell-out hacks. “Your two numbers must have been impressive.”

  “Sergeant, all I remember is trying to escape without being lynched. I was pissed off at Primo for setting me up like that.”

  “Do you think he did it on purpose?”

  “No, not on purpose. Maybe he thought he was doing me a favor…giving me exposure. But a producer should know the audience for his performer.”

  “If you opened for the Doodoo Sluts, you must have known the members of the band.”

  “I didn’t know them. I met them before the show. I liked the Irishman on the drums. And the guitarist was real good. I forget his name.”

  “Ryan Goldberg.”

  “That’s right. Ryan. He was a big guy. Kinda weird, too, but friendly in that Lurch sort of way.”

  “What about Rudy Banks?”

  “Rudy Banks…” Wenderhole paused. “I remember him best of all because he knew I’d gone to North Valley High. I asked him how he knew that and he told me that Darnell Arlington used to run drugs for him in North Valley. If that’s true, I was running drugs for him, too, because I ran drugs for Darnell.”

  “He told you this after meeting him once?”

  “The guy was a loudmouth. He said Darnell was a moron who blew the entire operation when he got caught. Even talking about it made him mad. I got the feeling that Rudy felt Darnell owed him somethin
g.”

  “You don’t remember Rudy Banks from North Valley High.”

  “First off, I was never in school. Also, I think he was out by the time I got bused into the valley.”

  “He was out of school but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t still running drugs.”

  “Still running drugs?”

  “According to some people, Rudy ran drugs while he was enrolled in North Valley.”

  “Don’t surprise me.”

  “Did you ever call up Darnell to ask if he had run drugs for Rudy?”

  “No, ma’am. By the time I opened for the Sluts, I hadn’t spoken to Darnell in a long time. He had his new life. He didn’t want nothing to do with Leroy and me.”

  “Maybe you hadn’t spoken to him, but maybe Leroy had.”

  “I already told you that Darnell didn’t have money to pay off Leroy.”

  “But Rudy had plenty of money to hire Leroy.”

  “I don’t think Rudy ever met Leroy.”

  “Was Leroy at your show when you opened for the Sluts?”

  “Yeah, I see what you’re saying. He might have been backstage with me and met the band. But this was way after Dr. Ben’s murder.”

  “And after the show, the Doodoo Sluts broke up?”

  “More or less. Primo went into producing full-time. I don’t know what happened to Rudy, Ryan, and the Irishman. As for me, I was living the high life until a hype flushed the dream down the toilet.” A heavy sigh. “I keep tellin’ myself that it was for the best. Maybe one day I’ll believe it.”

  Marge let the words hang in the air. Then she said, “What was Leroy Josephson’s role when you were recording with Primo? After all, he was the one who set you up with Ekerling?”

  “Leroy acted as my manager. He’d push the demo to the radio stations.”

  “Did he and Ekerling work together to promote you?”

  “Now that’s a good question.” He thought a moment. “The few times that Leroy came to the studio, Ekerling shooed him out. Leroy was pissed, but he understood. Mostly they did their things, and they did them separately. Leroy did the legwork…talking people into listening to the demo. And we were finally getting somewhere.” His face darkened. “We was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Marge regarded the newspaper clipping again. “I want to go back to Rudy Banks because his name keeps showing up in our investigation. You told me that Rudy was pissed at Darnell for getting caught. Was Rudy also pissed at Ben Little for busting open the operation?”

  “I don’t know if there even was an operation. Rudy just told me that Darnell used to run drugs for him. This was a year or two after Little’s death. I certainly wasn’t going to call Darnell and ask if it was true. I didn’t care if it was true. I was doing my own thing and I’m sure Darnell was doing his own thing and that was that.”

  “This is all coming at me very fast. We’re going to have to go over this again…and again.”

  “I figured that. I can’t give you much more time today, but like I said, I’ll come in and make a statement to the police. I’ll accept the consequences for my actions, but I’m not going to implicate Darnell in anything. As far as I know, he didn’t do anything.”

  “I’ve talked to him. He’s hiding something.”

  “If he is, I don’t know about it. All I did was help a friend, and now he’s dead. I’ve carried some kind of queasy guilt in me for a long time. I’m ready to get rid of it and move on. That’s the key to living in peace, Sergeant, the ability to recognize your mistakes and then to move on.”

  CHAPTER 31

  THE CALL WAS from Marge.

  Going sixty-five on the freeway, Decker had reservations about driving while connected even though he had a hands-free option: too many people distracted for a nanomoment with dire consequences. The closest off-ramp was a mile away and would drop him deep in the Santa Monica Mountains. Reception would be challenging.

  He skipped over Moraga Drive and passed up Sunset Boulevard—nowhere to pull over and park. His first opportunity came with the Wilshire off-ramp, but as soon as he got off, he realized he made a mistake. The major thoroughfare was clogged with traffic and lined with high skyscrapers that prevented any kind of clear reception. He waited until he had crawled through the corridor that bled into the main shopping district of Beverly Hills.

  There were no big buildings to interfere with phone waves, but the congestion remained horrendous. He sat and sat while cars inched along, wondering if he should call back or park or wait until after he talked to Marilyn Eustis. At the last minute, he pulled his clunker onto Rodeo Drive and parked in a loading zone. He took out his notepad, rang up Marge, and was about to settle back for a phone conversation until he heard a knock on his window. A BHPD uniformed motorcycle cop with white hair and a walrus mustache was peering inside, his expression partially hidden behind shades. The scowl on his face was obvious.

  “I’ve got to call you back,” Decker said when Marge answered. He rolled down the window. “I’m an LAPD police lieutenant and need to return a phone call for official business. Can you give me a minute?”

  “You have a badge?”

  “I have a badge and I also have a gun,” Decker told him. “I’m going to pull back my jacket to show it to you, reach into my pocket, and get you my identification, okay?”

  “Go slow.”

  “You bet.” Decker fished out his ID. The mustachioed man regarded it and nodded. “Try to make it quick. The merchants start screaming when access to their stores is blocked. You’re not going to take the heat, but I will.”

  “I understand. I’ll be done in a moment. Thanks.”

  After revving the handles of his motorcycle, the cop drove off. Decker redialed Marge. “What’s up?”

  “Where are you?”

  “On my way to see Marilyn Eustis.”

  “Great. So you must have found out what I found out. Who told you?”

  “Who told me what?”

  “That Primo Ekerling used to produce Jervis Wenderhole under the name A-Tack.”

  “He did?” Decker took out his notepad. “When was this?”

  “About a year after Ben Little’s murder.” A pause. “So why are you going to see Eustis?”

  “To find out if Primo Ekerling had recorded or had dealings with Travis Martel.”

  “Travis Martel? The guy who’s in jail for Primo’s murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t Marilyn Eustis tell us that she didn’t know Martel or Perry?”

  “Yes, she did, but that doesn’t mean that Ekerling didn’t know him.” He explained Cindy’s downloading of Martel’s rap song and the B and E lyrics.

  “Ordinarily I’d say that’s reaching, but maybe not.” She recapped her conversation with Jervis Wenderhole. Decker had been sitting for around twenty minutes, taking notes and talking theories, when he was interrupted by a small, dark-complexioned man banging on his window. The chap was middle-aged with slicked black hair, and dressed completely in yellow. Even his croc boots had been dyed deep gold.

  “Hold on, Marge.” Decker rolled down the window.

  “You have to move right away,” the man yelled out in accented English. Out came Decker’s badge. “I don’t care if you’re the president, you have to move!”

  Bossy dude, but he was in the right. Decker said, “One minute—”

  “One minute!” The man screamed. “You’ve had twenty!”

  “You’ve been timing me?”

  “You bet your—…you need to move! I have a very important client coming any moment. This is a big space and he has a Phantom Rolls-Royce.”

  Decker told Marge, “I have to call you back. I have to move. I’m blocking a space for a very important customer—”

  “Client.”

  “Excuse me. Client.” He hung up the cell and started the motor. “Sorry. You’re right. This is your space and you’re entitled to it.”

  “That’s okay.” The man calmed down. “That’s okay.”
As Decker was about to pull out, the little yellow gnome held up his hand. “Hold on.” He ran into the store and came back with a bag. “My new aftershave. No hard feelings. I just need the space. Besides, it’s smart business. Who knows? Maybe someday you’ll be rich and you’ll be a very important client.”

  EKERLING’S FORMER OFFICE room had been reduced to a generic couch, a bare coffee table, a couple of club chairs, a clear desk, and a filing cabinet. The shelves, however, were still triple stacked with CDs, but gone were the multitude of cardboard boxes and with them, probably any evidence that Ekerling had worked with Travis Martel.

  Marilyn sat on the couch, her legs crossed with the right one extending up and down at the knee like the arm of a railroad crossing. She had a cigarette in one hand and a Coke Zero in the other, periodically flicking ashes into the pop-top opening. The blue-eyed blonde looked fetching in black latex jeans and a scoop-necked tee. “I’m taking over Primo’s clients.”

  “I didn’t know you were a producer.” Decker had settled opposite her in a chair.

  “I’m not. I’m talking about being an agent. I can probably do it as well as anyone else, considering the client list.” She shook her head. “Poor Primo was a good guy, but he didn’t exactly burn up the airways with success stories.”

  Decker pointed to the bookshelves. “He seems to have amassed a lot of CDs.”

  Marilyn craned her neck to look at the jewel boxes, and then turned her attention back to Decker while puffing on her cigarette. “You’re impressed by that?” A roll of the eyes. “Ninety-nine point nine of them puppies went to the pound and were never heard from again. And the point one percent who had some success left Primo as soon as they could. Don’t confuse quantity with quality. Demos are cheap.”

  “I didn’t know that Primo was an agent.”

  “There you go. Yes, he was an agent, but not a very good one. Talent and charisma don’t just show up at your doorstep. You’ve got to go out and chase it. When you’re numbed by alcohol and shit, ambition and hard work seem like dirty words.”