Cold Case

Decker looked at Marge.

“Haven't ruled her out,” she told him.

“How did she react to Cal Vitton's suicide?” Decker asked.

Oliver cocked a thumb in Marge's direction. “She cut me off. The sergeant wants to use the suicide as an excuse in case we want to come back and question her again.”

“Oh …” Decker nodded. “That's good thinking.”

Oliver snapped, “To me, it made more sense to lay it out and see how she reacted.”

“A case could be made for that. But if you're looking through her financials and something comes up, it will be a convenient excuse to see her again. Then as long as you're there, you can ask her about any bank discrepancies.”

Marge grinned. “Oliver, you're not only outranked, you're outvoted.”

Decker said, “I want one of you to look into a couple of things.” He explained to his detectives the weak relationship between Primo Ekerling and Freddy Vitton. “It would be interesting if they knew each other.”

“And what would that prove?” Oliver asked.

“Two men dead within two weeks and both have some kind of tangential association to the Little case.”

“Loo, we don't know that Ekerling has a connection to the Little case.”

“I have to go with Oliver on this one,” Marge said. “I don't see it leading anywhere.”

“At the moment, I'm just like a computer. I amass data and spit back facts, but I offer no opinion.” Decker shrugged. “Just peck around.”

Oliver said, “Doesn't Hollywood have someone in custody on the carjacking?”

“Yes, they do. Two people actually.”

“So what justification do we have throwing in new theories and fucking up their solve?”

“We don't have any justification and yet, I still want to look at the file.”

“So call up your daughter and get it on the sly.”

Decker rolled his eyes. “Good idea, Oliver, I wish I had thought of that.”

THE HOUSE HAD turned into a jewel box: a perfect little bungalow. Converting eight hundred square feet into twelve hundred fifty had produced a two-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath house with a small nook off the living room that could be sleeping quarters or a TV watching area—its current use. The kids had gone with a Mission turn-of-the-century look that was in keeping with the geography of old L.A. The area was filled with hundred-year-old bungalows as well as a few Victorians. There were also remakes and redos: housing from the fifties to the present.

The best part of the remodel was a new and improved patio overlooking the hillside chockablock with houses cut into the granite. On warm days, the landscape gave the feel of Southern Italy or Spain. It was on this very patio that Decker sat with Cindy, enjoying the spring weather, drinking espresso while taking in the view.

Cindy stretched and looked outward. “It don't get much better than this.”

“No, it does not.” He smiled at his daughter. Her wild red hair was tied back in a ponytail holder, and her skin was smooth and pale with just a hint of blush at the cheeks. She wore cutoff jeans and a baggy T-shirt with flip-flops on her feet. It was a pleasure to see his daughter so relaxed. He said, “The rose garden is spectacular.”

“It's the one thing that Koby insisted that we leave untouched and how right he was.”

“The remodel is just perfect, princess. I know it was a hassle but it couldn't have turned out better.”

“Thanks for all your help, Daddy. We couldn't have done it without you.”

“You're welcome, although I didn't do much.”

“First of all, you put us in contact with Mike Hollander. That was ninety percent of it. Second, you did most of the finished tile work. It came out beautifully.”

“I'm glad you like it.” He finished his espresso. “So now we're even. I tiled the backsplash in your kitchen, you got me the Ekerling file.”

“It's not quid pro quo, Dad.”

“Yeah, you had the harder job.”

“That might be true.” Cindy smiled. “Luckily I inherited your ability to lie glibly and seamlessly.”

He didn't deny the obvious. “What lie did you tell them?”

“It really wasn't a stretch. Being as I was the initial detective on the scene, I just told them that I needed a copy for my records. They weren't even a tad suspicious.”

“Who're the detectives on the case?”

“Rip Garrett and Tito Diaz. Diaz gave me the file. It took me over a half hour to copy it, and the pictures didn't come out so great, but I did the best I could. Anyway, the original file is back where it belongs and you have your copy.”

“I'm grateful to you, Detective Kutiel. It wouldn't be cool to inject myself into their case without a reason.” Decker picked up his coffee to drink and remembered he finished it.

“Would you like another?” Cindy offered.

“Actually, I don't have intentions of sleeping, so why not?”

“Come inside and I'll hand over the file. You can also watch me use my new nifty espresso machine.”

He followed her inside to a petite kitchen, which included a farm sink and an old-fashioned stove. “Wow, this came out great.”

“You say that every time.”

“At least I'm consistent. And it's true. This is simply charming. Unfortunately for me, Rina's getting ideas.”

“Uh-oh.” Cindy put the coffee into the machine.

“Although she has a point. The kitchen is a little dated.”

“It wouldn't take much.”

“Not to you.”

Cindy smiled. “Just tell her it doesn't matter about the shape of the kitchen, what matters is the cook, and in that regard, she has me beat by a mile.”

“You're a good cook.”