Cold Case. Faye KellermanЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.”
“No one is like Rina.”
Decker didn't have a comeback to that. “Would you like to come over Friday night for Shabbos?”
“Uh, what day is it? Tuesday?”
“Yep.”
“I think it would work for me. Let me ask Koby and I'll get back to you.” The coffee started to brew, the steam roaring as it forced the water through the grounds. “Did you clear this with Rina?”
“You've got an open invitation, but I'll clear it with her.”
Cindy handed her father another shot of espresso. “I love this machine. I can even steam milk. It saves a bundle on my outside coffee bills.”
“Yeah, what do they charge now for designer coffee? Something like five dollars for an amount the size of a thimble?” Decker held up the file. “Thanks so much for this. It really, really helps.”
Cindy sized up her father. “I keep waiting for you to lose passion about your cases. It never happens.”
“Some cases get more attention than others. This one has a lot of money riding on a solve.”
“And you think Ekerling has something to do with a fifteen-year-old murder case?”
Decker simply shrugged. He finished his espresso and wiped his mouth on a napkin. “I can't put it off much longer. Traffic's going to be horrible, so I might as well bite the bullet.”
“I'd ask you to stay for dinner, but I think we're meeting some friends to night.”
“No, I have to get back to my wife and your sister, although Hannah's never around anymore. But Rina still loves me.”
“I'm sure Hannah loves you as well.”
“Yeah, I'm sure she does, but at her age, she has a funny way of showing it.”
AFTER WRITING COPIOUS notes on two packs' worth of index cards, Decker had a neat summary of the Primo Ekerling case. He had come away with the following account.
At five-thirty in the afternoon, Ekerling and his brand-new silver 550S Mercedes sedan left his office on San Vicente Boulevard and disappeared into the ether. His initial absence from the world was noticed by his girlfriend, Marilyn Eustis, when she failed to reach Ekerling by phone. She left messages but wasn't particularly wary when he didn't return the calls. He had an eight o'clock dinner meeting that night, and Marilyn figured that they'd meet up at the designated restaurant. Primo could be lax with phone calls, but he was always punctual with his fellow associates and this evening mixed business with pleasure.
At nine in the evening, Ekerling was still a no-show. His associates were miffed, and although Marilyn was concerned, she kept it to herself and made excuses. She knew that Primo must be very much indisposed because this gathering was important. Song-sharing sites had just about rendered multitrack CDs obsolete, and because of this, the state of the recording industry had turned dismal. Companies were loath to record more than a single song per artist, which greatly reduced time in the studio, which in turn greatly reduced the need for record producers. Among the few survivors, the competition was fierce. This particular group of people represented an up-and-coming hip-hop band, and they were reinterviewing Primo for the position of producer for their newest release. The money wasn't terrific but the exposure was, and Marilyn Eustis felt that Ekerling would have prioritized this meeting. At the very least, had he not been able to make it, he would have called.
Still, the show went on. Marilyn mollified egos in the producer's absence and treated the gang on her tab. The wine flowed, the food kept on coming, and when they emptied out of the restaurant at a little past eleven, she felt that a good time had been had by all.
For her part, Eustis hardly ate a thing.
She drove to Primo's condo and let herself in with her key. As usual, the space was tidy with no signs of disturbance. Marilyn checked the development's gated parking lot and was quick to note that Primo's Mercedes wasn't in its allotted slot.
Her initial calls were to the police and highway patrol inquiring about accidents. When that turned into a goose egg, thank God, she called the police a second time to report Ekerling as a missing person.
The police were unimpressed by the urgency in her voice. She'd have to wait until Primo was missing for a longer period before they'd send someone to look into the disappearance. When it became clear that Primo wasn't going to show up on his own accord, the police sent a detective named Marsden Holly to talk to Marilyn.
Holly, upon hearing what Primo did for a living, offered alternative scenarios, most of them variations on his cutting town or being with another woman. Marilyn was insistent that neither was plausible. The detective took down the model, make, and license plate of the Mercedes and called it in. Ekerling remained a mystery until a cop noticed a ticketed Mercedes. When the vehicle turned up as hot, he reported the crime to GTA—grand theft auto.
Detective Cynthia Kutiel—Decker allowed himself a bit of pride here—noticed a sagging trunk. When the lid was popped, detectives discovered the partially decomposed body curled into the fetal position. The victim had been shot in the head execution style, his hands and feet bound tightly.
Homicide detectives were called in along with the coroner investigators.
They were followed by the techs and a police photographer.
Evidence was collected, pictures were taken, and fingerprints were lifted. The good news was that the fingerprints secured at the crime scene matched two lowlife petty criminals named Geraldo Perry and Travis Martel. Both teens had priors, although up to now, they had managed to eschew violence. Detectives Rip Garrett and Tito Diaz pointed out a trend of escalating crime in the boys' rap sheets and felt that they had finally crossed that line.
The teens were brought in and grilled in separate interview rooms. Both boys recited the same story and used the same defense. At around ten in the evening, the boys had wandered into Jonas Park—a known drug spot—looking to score weed. Instead they had found the lone Mercedes in an empty parking lot near the park. Both freely admitted to stealing the car, but neither confessed to killing Ekerling. They claimed they took the car joyriding: cruising Santa Monica Boulevard, then racing down Sunset at three in the morning, eventually abandoning the car in the Hollywood hills after the engine started to smoke.
Both were adamant about their innocence. They claimed they had no idea that Ekerling had been stuffed inside the trunk and was moldering in his own private coffin.
“Where'd you go after you abandoned the car?” Rip Garrett asked Travis Martel.
“We was hungry, man. We needed eats, nomasayin'? We went to Mel's, had some waffles. They was good. Then we called up some buds and axed them to pick us up.”