“I realize that, Detective. I don’t expect a breakthrough. Just your thoughts and insights-”
“No new thoughts. Definitely no new insights. You taking time out to talk to me would be a total waste because I don’t have anything to tell you.”
“Sometimes just by talking, new things pop up.”
“We’re talking now. Nothing new is popping up.”
Decker gritted his teeth. “Still, if you can give me an hour, I’d appreciate it.”
“Why?” Vitton’s voice had tightened even further. “I already told you, I got nothing to say.”
“Okay, then let me spell it out for you. I was ordered to reopen the case. That means I have to talk to everyone involved. If there’s a definite reason why you don’t want to talk to me, I’d like to hear it.”
Silent Cal was silent. Decker waited him out.
“I just don’t have anything new to say to you. Arnie and I never found a good suspect, and we went through them all.”
“Who did you interview?”
“Just read the goddamn file.”
Again, Decker felt his jaw clench. “I have the file in front of me. I was wondering if there were people who didn’t make it into the file.”
“Everyone I interviewed should be in the file.”
“Who came closest as a suspect?”
“No one. The man didn’t have any enemies!”
“He must have had one.”
“No, he didn’t. He had bad luck.”
“You think it was a random carjacking?”
“He drove a Mercedes. A car like that would be a good score to a couple of punk boosters.”
“But they didn’t steal the car.”
“Maybe Ben came out and surprised them…that has always been my theory…that the punks panicked, threw him into the trunk, and drove to Clearwater Park. Once there, they whacked him.”
Decker gave Cal ’s ideas brief consideration. Immediately the question arose: How did the punks escape from the park? It could be the punks just walked away. The file had recorded lots of shoe prints on the grass by the car lot, but none of them led anywhere, and fifteen years later, that was probably a dead end.
“That’s one explanation,” Decker told Vitton. “I’d like to talk to you in person and consider other theories.”
Another round of silence.
Decker said, “Look, Cal, if I didn’t have to talk to you, I wouldn’t bother. But I need to do this. So help me out and make it as painless as possible. The quicker we do this, the quicker I’m out of your hair.”
“I used that line many times when I was at LAPD, and I know that it’s a truckload of shit. This is only the beginning.”
“What time can you meet me tomorrow?”
“Come at nine in the morning.”
“I’ll be there. This is the address I have for you.” Decker read off the numbers. “Is it current?”
“Yeah, it’s current.”
“So I’ll see you at nine.”
“Fine. I’ll meet with you. But don’t expect a hot pot of coffee waiting for you. This ain’t a social call.”
CHAPTER 8
THE NUMBERS WRITTEN on Decker’s notepaper matched a small stucco house in a development of modest homes. The street was wide-typical of most streets in Simi Valley -and ended in a cul-de-sac. If lawns were classified like eye color, the patches would have been designated as hazel, a mixture of green grass with russet, sun-bleached weeds. The sidewalk trees were stalks with bushy, untrimmed canopies, resembling adolescent boys with a ’fro. Mixed flowers offered some color, as did the blue sky, but most of the surrounding rocky terrain was brown and dusty.
Both of Decker’s stepsons and his younger daughter had taken their driver’s license examinations in Simi. It was a good place to learn because the roadways were broad and there were assigned left-hand turn lanes complete with arrows. With Hannah now driving, Decker was left to ponder how fast his life had come at him. He felt active and vigorous, but that didn’t change the years. Was retirement a theoretical concept or an inevitable reality of the near future?
After parking the car, he checked his watch. At precisely nine o’clock, he got out of the cruiser and ambled up the walkway, climbing two steps to reach the door. He gave the wood a firm knock, the type of rap that told a cop that another cop had arrived and there was serious talking to be done.
When no one answered right away. Decker was peeved. He rang the bell and waited, feeling uneasy when silence answered him back.
He glanced over his shoulder, as if he expected Cal to materialize; then he looked upward at the cloudless cerulean ether. No Cal in the sky, either, just the fluttering of black ravens along with harsh cawing. The late spring morning was still cool enough to be comfortable, but the warmth from the sun was attracting bugs-bees, gnats, flies, and the ever pesky mosquitoes.
He knocked again, tried the door handle, which, not surprisingly, was locked.
His watch now read 9:10.
Vitton’s driveway was empty.
Who the hell did he think he was, avoiding the police? Cal must have been an idiot to think that an amateurish dodge would discourage Decker. With an angry scrawl, he wrote on the back of his business card that he’d be in touch! He dotted the exclamation point angrily and was two steps away from his car when something tickled his brain.
The house had a one-car garage sealed with a plank door that contained a glass inset. Decker turned around, walked up the empty driveway, and peeked through the window. Inside sat an old black pickup next to a workbench area.
Would a guy like Vitton own two vehicles?
He looked at the gray cement driveway. Although it wasn’t pristine, it wasn’t spotted with oil stains or fluid leaks.
Again he glanced around, biding his time while his brain fired ideas.
Someone could have come by and picked up the old man.
Cal could have gone out for a walk.
But Decker was bothered. Cal was first and foremost a cop. Career detectives didn’t miss appointments without explanations. If Vitton hadn’t wanted him to come, he would have phoned Decker and told him so. And if there had been an emergency, Cal would have left a note or a message on Decker’s cell. No-shows were irresponsible. More than that, they were cowardly, and Calvin Vitton didn’t impress Decker as a coward.
There was a six-foot wooden gate that separated the front and back yards. Decker peered over the top and noticed that the gate was secured by a bolt lock. He called out and when nothing answered him back, Decker decided to jump the fence. He found a purchase for his foot on a low cinder-block wall, but his hands still had to do the majority of hoisting up his big frame.
Up and over.
He landed awkwardly on his right foot, but shook it off with a couple of steps.
Vitton’s backyard was small and dry and backed up against a spill-way that was fenced off by cyclone wires. As Decker peered through the metal, he noticed a few shallow pools of stagnant water basking in the heat of the spring. They were green with algae and white with mosquito larvae. He made a note to himself to call County Pest Control or the area was going to have an infestation.
The back door to the house was also locked. Decker knocked hard, but the noise elicited no response. He checked the windows. The shades were down. Nothing seemed awry: no broken glass, no locks that seemed jimmied, and no signs of forced entry.
He gave himself a moment to think.
The sun was climbing higher. Decker could feel the heat on the back of his neck. Competing with the ravens’ calls was the buzzing of insects: the hum of dozens of gnats, the drone of bees foraging for pollen, the high-pitched whine of mosquitoes. And the flies…lots of flies.
He swatted the pests away from his face and regarded his surroundings. A splintered chaise longue with a faded cushion sat on a patch of crabgrass. A few small trees languished around the fence of Vitton’s property. There was a Weber barbecue that looked in pretty good shape. A white plastic table and chairs were off to one side. The top of the table was thick with dirt and bird droppings.