right, let's include Oliver. Strapp knows that I can't do this all by my lonesome, but he doesn't want it getting back to the big boys that I've farmed it out. With all his faults, Scott can keep a confidence.”
“That is true.”
“And who knows? Maybe a special assignment will snap him out of his funk.”
Marge shrugged. “One can hope, and yet one will probably be disappointed.”
CALVIN VITTON AND Arnie Lamar had turned in their guns and shields shortly after the Little murder, but neither had left town. Silent Cal—as he was known—had an address in Simi Valley, a mountainous community northwest of L.A. The area had wide streets, big skies, and lots of undeveloped land that sat atop granite and bedrock. Many working cops called Simi home, and an equal amount of vets retired to small ranches carved from the hillsides. When Vitton didn't pick up the house phone, Decker left a message on his machine, asking him to please call back at his convenience.
Arnie Lamar lived in Sylmar northeast of L.A. The neighborhood was noted more for its honor farms and detention centers than it was for its natural scenery. It was rugged country: some mountains but also dusty flat areas that were perfect for Lamar's passions of auto building and racing, and climbing up hillsides in one of his ATVs. When Decker phoned, Arnie was just about to go to the track, testing one of his newest vehicles, something that he had cobbled together using parts from a Viper, a Lamborghini, an old Jag XKE, and a small engine jet. They decided to meet at three in the afternoon.
Decker showed up on time. Upon arrival, he took note of Arnie's four-car garage, the door to one of its stalls yawning wide open. A chimerical, cherry red vehicle was parked in the driveway with a pair of denim legs sticking out from the undercarriage.
“Hello,” Decker called out.
“In a minute” was the response.
The lieutenant used the downtime to look around. Lamar seemed to have a nice-sized spread, similar to Decker's old homestead except there weren't any stables. The front yard was bereft of green, a brown square of hardscrabble dirt spotted with shreds of rubber, discarded chrome, and rusting steel. The house was one story and wood sided and if it had any style, Decker would call it California ranch. It wasn't exactly dilapidated, but upkeep wasn't Lamar's forte.
The body slid out from underneath the red hunk of metal. Lamar was on his back, resting on a block of oak on wheels. He had on oil-stained overalls and a gray T-shirt. His feet were housed in sneakers. He rolled over to his side and hoisted his frame up until he was erect. Lamar was a short man and slight in build, bald with a white mustache, dark coffee eyes, and knobby fingers that clutched a wrench. “Three o'clock already?”
“By my watch, it is.”
“Sheez, I get under there, I forget about everything.” His face was streaked with dirt and grease. He wiped his hands on an oil-stained rag. “I'd like to clean up. It won't take longer than ten minutes. You want something to drink. It's hot today.”
“Water would be nice.”
“How 'bout a beer?”
“I'm working.”
Lamar smiled with yellowed teeth. “I won't tell.”
Decker smiled. “Water is fine, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” The retired detective opened the door and led Decker inside.
The interior was surprisingly clean: floors swept, shelves dusted, and the furnishings simple and old. The dining table and chairs looked handmade, the work good but not professional. Pictures adorned the walls and tabletops: one special woman and children at various ages until they were grown with children of their own. At present, there was no sign of the special woman anywhere.
The house was on the dark side even with the blinds open. Decker sat down on a faded floral sofa. The only other seating was a cracked leather lounge chair that had a bird's-eye view of the television—no doubt Lamar's special seat. His makom hakevuah, Rina would have called it, using the Hebrew term for an honored place. At home, Decker had a blue leather armchair and ottoman.
Ten minutes later, Lamar made his appearance, pink cheeked and wearing clean denims and a black T-shirt. He was carrying a plastic cup of water and a can of Coors Light. After giving the cup to Decker, he pop-topped the beer and took a long swig.
“That's good drinks.” Lamar plopped down in his chair. “I used to hate diet beer. Now I've gotten so used to the light taste that the dark brew seems way too strong.”
“It's amazing how we adjust our attitudes to rationalize things.”
Lamar said, “So who decided to reopen the Ben Little homicide?”
“It seems one of his fans from his teaching days struck it big in technology up in Silicon Valley. There's a hefty endowment riding on the success of the 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?”
