Cold Case. Faye Kellerman
“'Cause we told them we boosted a Benz and would give them the navigation system and the stereo for twenty bucks and a ride home. They said okay.”
“So then what happened?”
“They come to Mel's and order some waffles, too. I was still hungry, so I ordered a club with extra bacon. Then when we all was finished we went by the Benz and drove it into the hills where it was real quiet. We left the nav, but we boosted the stereo. It had took about five minutes.”
“When did you leave Hollywood?”
“Like four o'clock. Me and Gerry was tired.”
Rip and Tito didn't believe the jokers. They theorized that the bad boys were attempting to jack the Mercedes when Ekerling confronted them. Shots were fired, Primo was murdered. The kids stuffed the dead man into the trunk, drove the car forty miles away from the crime scene, and left the Mercedes in the Hollywood hills.
The buds of Travis and Geraldo—two dudes named Tyron and Leo—confirmed the teens' stories. The waitress at Mel's remembered all four boys. But the detectives remained unconvinced. So did the D.A. and a grand jury. Travis Martel and Geraldo Perry were arraigned for the crimes of carjacking and murder. Bail was denied. The teens were languishing in jail.
Decker regarded the photographs.
Geraldo Perry was five eight and 120 pounds, a thin teen with a scrawny mustache and a soul patch. His eyes were droopy and his shoulders were narrow. He looked like a hype.
Travis Martel was black but not the typical African American. He had wavy hair, mocha-colored skin, thick lips, an angular nose, and upward-slanted brown eyes. He was also five eight, thicker in build but not any sort of a muscleman. In his mug shot, the eyes engaged and challenged.
Primo Ekerling was six one, a solid two hundred pounds if Decker had to make a guess. He had a thick head of curly hair, dark brown eyes, and a jutting, cleft chin.
Decker was struck by some similarities between the Ekerling and Bennett Alston Little cases: same make of the cars, bodies stuffed in the trunk, public dump spots for the vehicles. But if Decker was to get anywhere, he needed to ramp up the connections. As it stood, there was nothing Decker could hang his hat on.
He put down the case file and googled Primo Ekerling; over a thousand references flashed across the monitor. The first few pages dealt with his shooting, but after those thinned, most of the articles had to do with his business as a producer and then his youthful stint as a punk rock star. It was interesting to note how a person could be almost a complete unknown and still have so many references.
Primo Ekerling had his backers. But he also had a number of detractors as evidenced by all of his lawsuits.
He was suing a band that he had produced for back payment.
He was suing a record company that had hired him for back payment.
He was suing a former member of his own defunct band—the Doodoo Sluts—for royalties from their “best of” CDs.
He was also suing a number of other record producers for back payment.
Decker read the articles carefully, trying to find Freddy Vitton's name, but that came up empty. Decker did notice that one of the many producers whom Ekerling was suing had also been a band member of the former Doodoo Sluts—a guy named Rudy Banks.
He picked up the Ekerling file, looked for Rudy's name but didn't find it anywhere. Not surprising because Martel and Perry had been arrested almost immediately, so why bother? And it wasn't a smart thing to start calling up Ekerling's critics and asking pointed questions. Someone might get pissed. Someone might call up Detective Rip Garrett or Detective Tito Diaz and start complaining about a nosy lieutenant from West Valley. And if they mentioned the name Decker, not only would he be in a tight spot, that lieutenant would also put his daughter in an even tighter spot.
Especially because two suspects were currently in custody and those two suspects had been in diapers or nonexistent when Bennett Alston Little had been murdered.
No, no, no, it would be an unwise thing to talk to Ekerling's adversaries. What Decker needed was one of Primo's allies.
He wrote himself a reminder to call Marilyn Eustis tomorrow morning.
WHILE THE MORNING coffee was brewing, Decker turned on the family laptop. It was clogged with a plethora of different sites and icons and was ancient in a rapidly moving techno world. However, it still worked.
The Doodoo Sluts had gone through several transformations, but in its heyday eighteen years ago, it consisted of a quartet: Elvis Costello look-alikes who were, in turn, Buddy Holly look-alikes—four white boys in black suits, white shirts, thin black ties, and big round black-rimmed glasses. Their most successful track was entitled “Bang Me” and climbed its way to number eight on the Top 100 hit list. The song wasn't available in any routine download format.
Decker was still searching for the song or a “best of” CD that contained the song when Hannah walked into the kitchen. The teen was dressed in a full blue skirt and a white-collared polo top, the preferred uniform of the school. With her red hair, she could have doubled as the American flag. Decker closed the computer, convincing himself that he was spending some quality time with his elusive daughter. That usually translated into making her eggs and pouring her orange juice.
“How's it going?” he said cheerfully.
“You're taking me to school?”
“Is that okay?”
“I love your company, but your car doesn't have satellite radio. Can we listen to my CD mix?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thanks.” She plopped down on a kitchen chair, her eyes still full of sleep. “I'm not hungry, Abba. I'll eat later at school.”
“All they serve is sugar cereal and that's a terrible thing to eat in the morning. You get a blood sugar rush, and then you crash. You need protein.”
“I need another twenty hours of sleep.”
“What time did you get to bed?”
“It doesn't matter when I get to bed. It's when I wake up.”
“Well, if you get to bed earlier, it might be easier to wake up earlier.” He was sounding preachy this morning. “How about some scrambled eggs?”
“If you insist.”
Decker took out a pan and three eggs. She liked only one yolk and the rest egg whites. He gave the eggs more substance by adding a little milk and cheese. “I need your professional help.”
Hannah looked up. “My help?”
“What do you know about the punk scene?”
“You mean the real punk scene or the retro punk scene.”
“The original period. I'm interested in a group called the Doodoo Sluts. They peaked in the late eighties.”
Hannah's smile was genuine. “And the name's for real?”
“Would I lie?”
“Yes, but probably not about this. I've never heard of them, Abba. Personally, I never got punk rock, but I am sorry I missed the grunge scene.”
“That's too bad. I never understood Nirvana's appeal. Jake loved them.”
“They're not my favorite. I'm talking about Pearl Jam, Sound-garden, and Alice in Chains. But I digress. I have a friend who's a maven on original punk rock. What do you want to know?”
“Anything he or she can tell me about the Doodoo Sluts.”