Читать книгу Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 21

Cecil Pode’s work address led Decker to a block-long shopping center off Venice Boulevard in Culver City. The studio, sandwiched between a shoe store and a takeout pizza shop, was fronted by two large windows that displayed blowups of stiff poses and pasted-on smiles: a family dressed in Sunday finest, a bride silhouetted by backlighting, a bar mitzvah boy, a confirmation girl. In the distance, propped on an easel, was a sixteen-by-twenty photo of a pair of hands with matching wedding rings resting against a background of flowers.

No cum or beaver shots here.

Decker walked inside, and as he stepped over the threshold, a bell jingled. The room was empty, but a voice from the back told him he’d be out in a second. Decker said okay and sat down on a couch. In front of him was a coffee table covered with albums containing sample photos. He picked one up. More proofs of brides, grooms, bar mitzvah boys, nice families.

Restless, he stood up and walked around, his eyes finally focusing on a cork bulletin board full of tacked-on business cards—a professional baby-sitter; two shyster lawyers promising cheap fees (se habla español), CPAs, interior designers, a licensed marriage and family counselor (flashing on his sessions with Jan, he knew what that was worth). One card caught his attention. It bore the same last name as the studio’s owner. Dustin Pode, Vice President/Executive First Brokerage House. Member SPIC/The quality discount broker: investments, tax shelters, real estate, and retirement funds.

Decker pocketed the card, and a moment later a man came out of the back room. He looked older than fifty-two, stoop-shouldered, with coarse black hair streaked with steel encircling a large bald spot, and a matching swatch of Brillo under his small, round nose. He was overweight, with loose jowls and thin lips. The dark eyes managed to be weary and alert at the same time.

“How may I help you, sir?”

“Police,” Decker said taking out his badge.

Pode smiled unctuously.

“How can I be of service, Sergeant?” he asked.

“Tell me about Erotic Ectasy,” Decker said.

The smile didn’t waver.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Decker took out the picture of the Countess and laid it on the countertop.

“This is your handiwork. Shall we hang it in the window next to the confirmation girl?”

“Never saw her in my life,” the photographer said.

“Cut the bullshit, Pode.”

“All right, all right.”

He went over to the front door, turned the open sign to closed, and locked the door. For a fat man, his gait was surprisingly graceful.

“I had some gambling debts, so I moonlighted to keep from going under. But I’ll tell you this much. It was all legit stuff. All the chickies I shot were over eighteen, so the most you can accuse me of is bad taste. I’m not proud of it, but it kept my head above water, and we all gotta make a living, right?”

“Who’s the girl?” Decker said, pointing to the Countess again.

“Beats me. I don’t remember photographing her.”

“How could you forget these teeth?”

“I’m saying I don’t know her.”

Bastard was hiding something. Decker showed him Lindsey Bates.

“How about this one?” he asked.

Pode barely glanced at the photo. Decker thought he saw a flicker of recognition in the wary eyes, but it faded so quickly it was hard to be sure.

“Nope. No way!” Pode shook his head emphatically. “This girl isn’t more than sixteen, and like I told you, I only did legal stuff.”

“Right, Pode. You’re Joe Citizen.” Decker shoved the photo under his nose. “Take another look.”

“I don’t know her,” Pode insisted.

“Who peddles the kiddy stuff?” Decker pressed.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m getting really pissed off, Cecil,” Decker said.

Pode began to breathe heavily.

“Try a pimp named Johnson—Wilmington Johnson. He goes in for young girls.”

“Who else?”

“That’s it.”

He hadn’t mentioned Clementine, which meant that Clementine was the biggie and Johnson was a throwaway.

“Where does Johnson hang out?”

“Hollywood. Where else?”

“Where in Hollywood, Pode?”

“Golden Dreams Motel. Sunset near Highland. He gets the runaways and the little kids, sells ’em on the street.”

“And photographs them?”

“Maybe,” Pode said. His mustache quivered.

“How’s your son, Cecil?”

The question threw him.

“Which one?”

“Dustin. How’s he doing in the investment business?”

“Uh, fine. Fine enough that he doesn’t come around here borrowing money. Bought himself a Porsche and a condo in the Marina. Boy has a nose for a deal.”

“So why don’t you invest with him? This place sure could use an overhaul.”

“I’ve got a couple of bucks in his projects,” said Pode guardedly.

“Tell me about the Countess.”

The man’s eyes darted about.

“Uh … Uh?”

“The Countess. People say you know her.”

“Then people are full of it. Look, what do you want? If you’re going to batter me with questions, I want to call a—”

“Where does Dustin work?”

Pode broke into a smile. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to confuse me.”

“Where does he work?”

“Century City, in a big high-rise on Avenue of the Stars. Got some spare cash you want invested, Sergeant?”

“Johnson,” Decker said. “How well do you know him?”

“I don’t know him at all. I’ve just heard rumors that Johnson specializes in tender meat.”

“Who’d you hear these rumors from?”

“This person, that person.” Pode shrugged. “Long time ago. The old memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“With a few well-placed kicks, I bet we can dredge it up. What do you think?”

“Are you threatening me with physical abuse, Sergeant?”

“Me? Perish the thought! ’Course I could put out the word that you’re my snitch. There’s no telling what could happen.”

Pode’s fat face turned ashen.

“You got something you want to tell me, Pode?”

“No,” he said, quietly.

“Good. Thanks for your time.” Decker smiled. “You can keep these photos. I’ve got copies. And you want to know something else? I think you’ve got copies, too.” He paused, then said, “Point of information. This little vampire-toothed lady smothered in cum—she’s the Countess.”

“Are you ready for this?” Marge said to Decker. “Pode’s a widower. His wife died, burnt in a fire about fifteen years back.”

Decker’s eyes widened.

“Pode’s house had a history of calls to the Fire Department,” Marge explained. “Apparently, Pode’s wife—her name was Ida—used to imbibe spirits, then smoke in bed and set it on fire. Usually she escaped unharmed except for a little smoke inhalation and bad sunburn. One time the Fire Department found her unconscious and revived her. The last time, she was charred to a crisp, identified through dental records. Sound familiar?”

“Did they check out arson?”

“Yep. The fire was clean. Pode’s insurance on her life was nothing to write home about, either. A ten-thousand double indemnity with hubby as the sole beneficiary. Pode was paid with no questions asked.”

“Anyone else die in the fire?”

“Nope.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Marge said. “Just because Lindsey was burnt to death doesn’t mean Pode’s our guy.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Marge said, “But it is a coincidence.”

Decker said, “I’m not a big believer in coincidences.”

The year Decker worked as a lawyer for his ex-father-in-law had been a total bust except for Jack Cohen’s dirty jokes. Lawyers told even bluer jokes than cops and no one could tell them better than Jack. Despite the end of his marriage to Jan, he and Jack had somehow remained friends. Decker made a quick phone call to him and explained the situation. Cohen agreed to let Decker use his name as a cover, then began to pump him about his newest, young girlfriend. Decker swore to himself. Cindy was a great kid, but discretion was not her forte. He hemmed and hawed, dodging the personal questions as best he could, and finally ended the conversation with a vague promise to bring Rina by the office one of these days. Jack sounded delighted, confirming what Decker had thought all along. Jan’s old man was an incorrigible lecher.

Decker knew from experience that discount brokers didn’t place a premium on image, and Executive First was no exception. It was bare bones: four walls, two metal tables, a few unoccupied folding chairs, and a disheveled-looking bleached blonde wearing a polyester stretch top that didn’t give where it should have. If you want glitz, go to any full-service brokerage house. The big desks, the high-tech electronic ticker tape, and the busty young secretary all cost extra, and those hidden expenses were passed on to the client in the form of higher trading fees.

The blonde was seated at one of the tables taking a call from a switchboard. She motioned Decker onto a folding chair as she spoke into a headphone mike in a soft, modulated voice. She put the caller on hold.

“Harry?” she shouted. “Oh Haaaarry!”

She turned to Decker and said, “Must be in the little boy’s room.” Punching back the button, she took the caller’s name and number, then hung up the receiver. Another light started blinking. She debated answering the call, but instead turned to Decker.

“You want to see Harry?” she asked.

“Actually, I’m interested in seeing Dustin Pode.”

“Dustin isn’t in and I’m not sure when—Ah, here’s Harry.”

Harry was Harrison Smithson. He was in his fifties, with a full head of thick white hair and pale blue eyes rimmed in red. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a pair of navy gabardine slacks that had seen better days. He sat down at the other table.

“Have a seat,” he said to Decker.

His phone rang. Smithson picked it up, greeted the person on the other end, and began rummaging through the piles of papers in front of him.

“I’ve got the confirmation order right here, Mr. Amati. Yes, I have the check also, but I’m holding it because the settlement date hasn’t been established yet … Yes, it should be by next week … week the issue is cancelled, you’ll be the first to know. Yes, yes, thank you.”

He looked back at Decker.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for investments that are speculative in nature but have a higher rate of return on the upside. A friend of mine tuned me into Dustin Pode. I thought I’d come down here and check him out personally.”

“Which of Mr. Pode’s investments interest you?” Smithson asked matter-of-factly.

“Well, what kind of prospectuses do you have to offer me?” Decker hedged. His year with Jack doing wills and estate trusts had been good for something. You learn the lingo.

“Well, I don’t know if Mr. Pode ever got around to any formal prospectuses.”

“What did he file with the SEC?”

Smithson hesitated. “They’re not exactly public offerings.”

The phone rang again. The receptionist answered it.

“It’s Grunz, Harry.”

“Take a message,” Smithson said wearily. He turned his attention back to Decker. “It would be best to have Mr. Pode call you directly, Mr …”

“Cohen,” Decker said. “Jack Cohen.” He handed Smithson one of his father-in-law’s business cards.

Smithson inspected it briefly.

“All right, Mr. Cohen. I’ll have Mr. Pode call you.”

Decker was about to stand up, but paused.

“My friend told me that Mr. Pode had done very well in movie production limited partnerships. Does he still do that?”

“Yes,” Smithson answered. “Occasionally. But he and my son, Cameron, are also involved in a real estate syndication which, to my mind, is going to really take off. It’s speculative, of course, and I wouldn’t recommend putting your life savings into it. But as far as potential for an upside profit—you’re talking sky’s the limit.”

“Sounds like my type of deal,” Decker said, smiling. “A little cash and a lot of stomach acid.”

The outer door burst open and a young man flew in. He stomped up to Smithson’s desk, completely unaware, it seemed, of Decker’s presence.

“Where are Cumberlaine’s certificates?” he demanded of Smithson.

The older man turned pink and lowered his voice.

“The securities are still being registered, Cameron. The order was only placed a couple of weeks ago.”

“The guy wants his certificates,” Cameron said, loudly. “I told him I’d have them for him.” He started pacing. “This isn’t some penny-ante bimbo, Harry, we’re talking big stakes. Somebody who can inject a little class, not to mention a lot of money, into this firm. The man’s connected!”

Smithson cleared his throat and turned to Decker. “This is the senior vice-president of Executive First,” he said, “Cameron Smithson. This is Mr. Cohen, an interested investor.”

“Hello,” Cameron said, shaking Decker’s hand. “I’ll leave you two alone in a minute.”

Decker regarded Smithson’s son. He wasn’t particularly small, but his overall appearance suggested delicacy. His complexion was baby-smooth, almost translucent, with a hint of peach fuzz above a narrow pink upper lip. His hair was blonde and fine and combed to cover a patch of denuded scalp. His eyes were watery blue, his nose thin with surprisingly wide nostrils. His blue cashmere blazer was perfectly tailored, his charcoal slacks, razor pressed. A red silk tie hung against a backdrop of white sea island cotton, the collar of the shirt secured by a gold pin. His hands were slender with un-callused palms, fingernails filed and shaped and coated with clear polish.

Not a man used to getting his hands dirty.

Cameron glared at his father. “I need those certificates, Harry.”

“I can’t get them now,” Smithson said, embarrassed. “Can’t get blood from a turnip, Cam.”

“Then what the hell do I tell Cumberlaine?” His expression suddenly shifted. “Never mind! I’ll think of something. Blame it on the SEC or, better yet, blame it on the post office.”

He stormed out of the office. The room was eerily quiet—the stifling calm after the cessation of a freak tornado. Smithson cleared his throat.

“You’ll have to forgive Cameron,” he said sheepishly. “He gets a bit overexcited when he can’t make good on his word. He takes his work very seriously.”

Decker nodded. He was making excuses for his son. It sounded like something he was used to doing.

“I’ll have Mr. Pode call you,” Smithson said, trying not to appear nonplussed.

“That would be fine.”

“I hope I’ve been of service to you, Mr. Cohen.”

“You have,” answered Decker. “I’m glad I made it over here.”

The men rose. Smithson held out his hand and Decker took it.

There was more action outside the Golden Dreams Motel than inside. The proprietor, a middle-aged Armenian, complained animatedly to Decker that the prostitutes and pimps had driven away all his legit business. Decker listened with half an ear, and when the man paused for air, stuck in his question. Who, of the half dozen pimps outside, was Wilmington Johnson? The owner pointed out a tall, emaciated black with a full Afro, wearing purple stretch pants, a gold lamé V-neck shirt, and a black velvet jacket. Around his neck were plaits of gold chains and on his arms were two babes of fifteen or sixteen—both white.

The man had arrived.

He went up to Johnson and told the girls to beat it.

“Say what, white boy?” Johnson asked, staring out into the street.

“You Johnson?” Decker asked.

The black turned around and gave him a quick once-over.

“Well, that all depends on what you want, man.”

“Oh,” Decker said meekly. Then he spun around and gave the pimp a short, hard punch to the solar plexus. Johnson folded over like a loose strand of licorice and began panting, teary-eyed. His whores stared at the detective, one with animosity, the other with admiration.

“Jesus,” Decker said helping him up. “I’m so sorry. I just lost my balance for a second. Jesus.” He brushed off the pimp’s coat. “I’m so sorry.”

Johnson stared at him with evil eyes.

“I’m looking for Wilmington Johnson,” Decker said, smiling.

“Who the fuck are you?” Johnson spat.

Decker took out his badge.

“Police.”

Johnson muttered to himself. Pulling out a pair of glasses, he stared at the shield, then looked at Decker. “Yeah, you’re police all right. What you want?” He was about to remove the spectacles, but Decker held his arm and showed him the picture of the Countess.

“Yeah,” Johnson nodded. “I seen the bitch.”

“Was she one of yours?”

Johnson laughed, showing off horse-sized teeth.

“No way. Ain’t got that kind of animal in my stable. Try a dude named Clementine.”

“Where does he hang out?”

“Here and there.”

Decker scowled at him.

“Where is ‘here and there’?”

“The Strip, the Boulevard, the back alleys,” said Johnson. “Catch him when you can.”

“What do you know about the Countess?”

“She was bad-assed. Kinky.”

“Know this one?” Decker showed him Lindsey.

Johnson took a long look.

“A nice one,” Johnson nodded. “Fresh meat. Could get a lotta mileage from her. But the angel hasn’t crossed my path.”

“You sell pictures of your girls, Johnson?”

The pimp laughed.

“Say what?”

“Sell pictures of them with their johns.”

“Shit, no. Who needs the extra hassle? I ain’t greedy.”

“Some people say you do.”

“Who?”

“Cecil Pode.”

Johnson sputtered out guffaws.

“Ole Cecil. How’s the fat boy doing?”

“What do you know about Cecil?”

“Fat old fart. Used to slip me a few extra bucks if I’d let him shoot some of my girls in the raw. After a while he got in my face, man. Tried to steal some of my cuties. But my girls are loyal. I told him to take a hike. Musta been two years ago.”

Decker put away his notebook.

“You stay put,” Decker said. “I may come back for you.”

“Hey, Mr. Policeman, where the fuck should I be goin’ to? My livelihood is right out here.” The pimp’s eyes narrowed and shifted to the hookers. “Interested?”

Decker gave him either a hard pat or a light slap on the face.

“No.”

The cop who walked into the interrogation room was no more than a kid.

“You’re Vice in these parts?” Decker asked.

“Yup.”

The cop’s name was Beauchamps—all-American surfer boy with peroxide hair, movie idol eyes, and the deep tan that a redhead could never attain. Decker felt tired and old. And whenever he felt tired and old, he also felt pissed. The kid gave him an aw shucks grin.

“Welcome to Hollywood PD. Want a cup of coffee?”

“Pass,” Decker said.

“How long of a shift have you been on?”

“I didn’t have a mustache when it started.”

Beauchamps laughed, then said, “I’ve seen you before.”

“I was here last Sunday asking about a runaway.”

“That’s right. You spoke with Martell.”

“Yeah,” Decker said. “I’ve got some new developments. A kinky one that goes by the name of Countess Dracula.” He showed Beauchamps the picture.

“Don’t know her personally,” said the Vice cop, “but I’ll circulate it.”

“How about a pimp named Clementine?”

“Him I know.”

“Where does he hang out?”

“All over. His main squeeze lives in a pink duplex on Genesee, off of Hollywood Boulevard. Her name matches the house. Get this—Pinky Lovebite.”

Decker nodded. “Where can I get hold of kinky films, real nasty stuff?”

Beauchamps grinned boyishly. “If I knew that, Decker, I’d have a hell of a bust.”

“Ever hear of a photographer named Cecil Pode?”

“Nope.”

“Thanks.”

“Stop by again,” Beauchamps said. “I’ll buy you dinner.”