The Mercedes Coffin

“You shouldn’t be spending your good luck on departmental obligations.”

“I have no intention of doing that. I’m just saying having the extra money has made us feel a little cockier. Rina teaches because she wants to, and I work because I want to. If Strapp starts to protest too much, I’m outta here. That’s what money does. It allows me to pass the buck and let some other schmuck squirm in front of the brass.”

PHIL SHRINER LIVED with his wife of fifty years in a retirement home called Golden Estates, not too far from where Calvin Vitton blew his head off. The acreage was beautifully planted, with living quarters consisting of an apartment complex and public areas. There were also small, detached bungalows set around winding walkways.

The community had an on-site cafeteria, two restaurants, a recreation room, a gym, and a movie theater. The grounds included two swimming pools with accompanying Jacuzzis, two te

Shriner and his wife lived in bungalow 58 off the putting green. His wife had gone to her daily exercise class, Phil explained to Marge and Oliver, so he could spare them around an hour. The house’s interior was light and airy with hardwood floors and a fireplace. It was also crammed with furniture.

“We just moved in a few months ago,” Shriner explained. “We’ve downsized our living space and we didn’t have time to sell all of our furniture. Sit anywhere you like.”

Their options were three couches, four big stuffed armchairs, or two ottomans. Marge chose a chair while Oliver opted for one of the sofas. Shriner was of average size and weight, and had thi

He folded his arms in front of his chest, his butt just barely touching the edge of the seat. “So what’s going on?”

Defensive posture, Marge noted. “LAPD is reopening the Be

The arms folded tighter across his chest. “Melinda called me, said you might be coming down.”

Marge glanced at Oliver and tried to hide her surprise. “I didn’t know the two of you were still in contact.”

“Haven’t spoken to her for nearly fourteen years.”

“Why did she call you?” Oliver asked.

“She wanted me to lie.” His jaw tightened. “I’m older, I have enough retirement money, I’m sick of games. But mainly, I told her I wasn’t going to do it because it was going to come out sooner or later.”

“You two had an affair,” Oliver suggested.

“I wish.” He sank back into the chair. “The story was she hired me to look into her husband’s death. I didn’t work too hard on it because she was barely paying me. I suppose you want an explanation for that.”

“It would be nice,” Marge told him.

“I’m a compulsive gambler. Nothing that I thought I couldn’t handle until that fateful day when it hit me that I was over my head and if I didn’t get out of debt real soon, I was going to lose everything. So I turned to GA.”

Gamblers Anonymous. “Good call,” Oliver told him.

“It was my only call. The first thing they taught me to do was to admit to my family that I fucked up. Once I did that, my mom, God bless her, bailed me out. It took me time to pay her back, but eight years later, I was all caught up and then some. I had a lot of business. I took on a few employees to help me out.”

“Melinda Little?” Oliver asked.

“No, I met Melinda way before,” Shriner said. “We used to frequent the same casinos.”

“She had a gambling problem.” Marge tried to keep her voice even.

“She did. I was the one who talked her into going to GA before she hit the skids. She was reluctant to admit it, but once she did, she went with the program. The hardest part was confession. She just couldn’t bring herself to admit to her folks that she’d been gambling away her dead husband’s insurance money. We worked out a plan. She’d say that she spent the money on hiring a private investigator-the reason why she was low on funds. Her parents bought the story and helped her out. She was ashamed, but swore she’d never go near a table again.”

“I was told that she had money in the bank when Ben died,” Marge said. “When did she start gambling?”

Shriner shrugged. “I met her about six months after the tragedy. She was hitting the tables pretty often: her game was blackjack. I do know that some of her husband’s insurance went to the boys for an educational fund that she couldn’t touch. That was probably a very good thing. We compulsive gamblers don’t have a good stop mechanism.”

“She was very forthright giving us your name,” Oliver told him.

“She didn’t know I was going to blow her cover. Otherwise she might not have.”

“How’d she react to that?”

“She wasn’t pleased, but she didn’t try to talk me out of it. Part of the GA philosophy is to come clean with your lies and excuses. I thought it would be therapeutic for us if we told the truth. She’s not ready for confession, but she had no right to tell me how to run my own life. She knows that you’ll be contacting her again.”

Oliver said, “Do you think it’s possible that she had something to do with her husband’s murder?”

“Anything’s possible, but I’d say no.”

Oliver said, “Why?”

“I could just tell that the woman was in pain.”

“She may have felt bad about his death, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t cause it, especially if she had a habit to support.”

“It was my understanding that she started gambling after the murder. At least, I don’t remember seeing her until after it happened.”

“She could have gambled elsewhere.”

Shriner said, “Look. I’m not saying that she didn’t have the urge. I’m not saying that she didn’t indulge from time to time. But it was my understanding from being in the group with her that the problems started on a large scale after her husband was murdered. The woman appeared despondent. She was lonely, she was ashamed, and she was in an altered state of mind. Unless you’ve been there, it’s hard to imagine how quickly you can go from ‘I’m okay, I can handle it’ to ‘I’m totally out of control.’”

“So you think she hid her compulsion until after he died?” Oliver was skeptical.

“I betcha that her husband knew about her tendencies. He probably was able to rein her in. Once he was gone, and she had this sudden windfall of cash…that’s a deadly combination. The whole point of my confession is that I don’t want you to see me as incompetent. I was a very good private investigator, and I did what I could for Melinda, but I wasn’t going to go the full nine yards for her because I had my own troubles.”

“So we’re back to my first question, what do you remember about the case?”

“Little seemed to be well liked and admired. The way it laid out, it seemed like a professional hit, but I couldn’t find a reason why someone would have wanted to off him.”

Oliver said, “That brings us back to his wife…”

Shriner said, “If she was in deep, deep trouble, she had resources other than murder.”

“Did you know if she owed anyone cash?”

Shriner said, “Not to my knowledge.”

“What did you investigate?” Marge asked.

“The usual. His friends, his relatives, his colleagues, some of his students.”

“Does the name Darnell Arlington mean anything to you?”

“The black kid who was kicked out of school. Yeah, I talked to him over the phone. By the time Little was murdered, he’d moved away. I remember that he seemed broken up about Little. Why? Does the kid have a record?”