Cold Case

“If I were in your shoes, I'd kick us out, saying talk to my lawyer.” Marge shrugged. “I hope you don't do that, though. If we want to find Dr. Little's murderer, we've got to talk to you about Phil Shriner and your gambling problem.”

Oliver felt it was safe to chime in. “We'd like to hear what you have to say since you and Shriner seem to be at odds.”

Marge treaded lightly. “Phil implied that you'd gambled away insurance money and you were too embarrassed to admit it to your folks. So instead you told them that you spent money on a private investigator. Shriner agreed to be your cover.”

Oliver added, “He was quick to admit that he was also a compulsive gambler. And he also implied that it was probably your husband's death that drove you to gambling.”

“Of course his death drove me to gambling!” Melinda cried out. “It did all sorts of weird things to my psyche. Do you think I made it a habit to gamble when Ben was alive?”

Marge said, “So when did gambling become a problem for you?”

“About six months after …” Melinda pulled a box of tissues onto her lap and yanked one from the slot. She blotted her tears. “You have to remember that it wasn't just loneliness, it was fear! The police had no idea who killed Ben, and I kept thinking that there was someone out there who wanted to finish the job by killing my boys and me. I was petrified. I sold the house and moved in with my parents, but that got old very soon. I started going to casinos just to get out. My dad taught me poker when I was five. I was good at it. At first I won money. That was my downfall. If I would have lost right away, I probably wouldn't have returned.”

“How long before you knew that your gambling was out of control?”

“I don't know what Phil told you, but I was never broke. I still had some savings.”

She reached for her purse, pulled out a compact and began to reapply her makeup: powder, blush, lipstick. When she was done, the traces of her tears had vanished.

“But it was embarrassing … throwing away money like that. Phil and I reached a mutually beneficial plan. He would cover for me but only if I threw some money his way to look into Ben's murder. Phil jumped at the agreement. He was in hock up to his eyeballs and was grasping at anything green.”

Marge said, “We'll need to go over your bank records at the time of your husband's murder. If we have your written permission, it'll be easier.”

She was quiet for a while. “If it'll get you off my back, go ahead.”

“To verify that you didn't have gambling problems before your husband's murder.”

Melinda licked her lips. “Not problems. Ben and I went to Vegas, sure. We'd see the shows, we'd gamble … sometimes I'd win, sometime I'd lose. I always enjoyed it, but I didn't feel any compulsion to keep doing it.”

“And once again, you're telling us that the problems happened after the murder.”

“Absolutely. I was a psychological wreck and was given this sudden windfall. I wish insurance wouldn't have been so forthcoming. Time might have helped me be more discerning.”

“Why do you think Shriner suddenly decided to blow your cover?” Oliver asked her.

“Because you're reinvestigating the case and he didn't want to look like a boob to the cops.”

The stories jibed … maybe too well. Marge said, “You said that he agreed to cover to your folks, but only after you agreed to pay him some money. To me, that sounds like blackmail.”

For the first time, Melinda smiled. “I wouldn't go that far … I … he needed money and I was thoroughly disgusted with the police. It would have been nice if he had investigated Ben's murder with a little more zeal, but …” A sigh. “I didn't pay him much. Frankly, I don't see why I should have had to pay him at all. The police should have done their job.”

“How well did you know the primary investigators?” Oliver wanted 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. Goodbye 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.”