Читать книгу Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 23

The alley was a tunnel of black and smelled liked a setup. Decker unhitched his gun and took out a penlight. Shining it on the lumpy asphalt, he inched his way toward the rear of the third building on his left, nostrils flaring at the odor of rotting garbage and excrement. He stopped. There was something wrong, and as much as he wanted a handle on this case, this wasn’t the way to get one. Turning back, he froze suddenly at the sound of a hiss.

“Son of a bitch,” the hoarse voice croaked.

Decker spun around in the direction of the whisper and saw nothing but boxes and dented trash cans.

“Clementine?”

“I said no pieces, Cop.”

“It’s my security blanket.”

“That wasn’t the deal, Cop.”

Decker said, “I’ve got the cash, Clementine.” He began to sweat. Killing the penlight, he backed up against a wall. The conversation was taking place in the dark. No sense being in the spotlight.

“Throw over the green,” the raspy voice instructed. “Across the alley, second building on your right.”

“First you tell me what you know about the Countess.”

“First you toss over the bread.”

They were at a standstill. No one so far had known the Countess’s true identity, and all roads pointed to Clementine. This pow-wow had been arranged via the pimp’s number one lady. Info for cash—$200 in twenties.

He played the scenario in his head. Once he forked over the money, the pimp couldn’t escape without coming into his line of vision. And he did have his piece …

He shone his penlight across the alley and pitched the envelope of cash where Clementine had instructed.

“It better be good for what we’re paying you, Clementine.”

The pimp made no move to pick up the package.

Silence. Decker turned off the light. In the distance he saw the glowing orange tip of a cigarette.

“Name was Kate Armbruster. A mud duck from Klamath Falls, Oregon,” the voice whispered. “Picked her up when she was fourteen. She wasn’t even fresh then—a had-out piece of shit. But she worked her tail off. Got a lot of action from her. Then she got weird.”

“What happened?” the detective asked.

“Met up with a dude called the Blade—skinny, crazy cracker into knives and pain. Permanent pain, if you can dig what I’m saying. Boogying with the high beams on—smoking lots of Jim Jones. I know they offed animals—big dogs. Get the poor motherfuckers tightroped on water and watch them rip each other apart. They say Katie just loved puppies. Cut ’em up live and offer ’em to old six sixty-six himself. Some say they got more so-fist-to-cated in their taste.”

“Meaning?”

“Only one step up from animals, Cop. You put two and two together.”

“Who is this Blade?”

“Don’t know his real name. Dude must be in his twenties, average height, and skinny, like I said. Brown hair and maybe brown eyes. Can’t tell you much more. All white meat looks alike.”

“Where did they hang out, Clementine.”

“Don’t know.”

Decker illuminated the money with his penlight, aimed his .38, and shot off the tip of the envelope. The alley reverberated with the echo of the blast and filled with the smell of gunpowder. He reloaded the chamber and shut off the light.

“If that’s the best you can do, I’m going to blow your wad to bits, Clementine. Where did they hang out?”

A cackle came from the garbage cans.

“You’re a fuckin’ A, Decker,” said a hollow whisper. “An A number one fuckin’ felon. Don’t you know it’s against the law to shoot money in America?” He laughed again. “Shoot it until it ain’t nothing but a pile of green Swiss cheese. My answer’s the same. Don’t know where they did their shit, don’t know who their stooges was, don’t know ’cause I didn’t want to know, Cop. I wasn’t into that shit, so I closed my eyes.”

“Did they film their cult rituals?” Decker asked.

“Yeah.”

“Who has the films?”

“Don’t know who their customers be.”

“Who deals in snuffs around these parts?”

“Lots of people.”

“Names.”

Silence.

Decker waited.

“Talk says the main distributor is a fat fuck named Cecil Pode.” Clementine coughed—a dry, hacking sound. “Works out of his studio in Culver City.”

“Who gives Pode the films?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who does Pode sell the films to?”

“Used to sell ’em to the Countess. Like I tole you, don’t know who her customers be.”

“Let me get this straight. The Countess made films with the Blade. Then Cecil would buy them from the producer and sell the finished product back to her?”

“That way she be paid off twice. Once as the star, the other when the goods be delivered. She knew who all the weirdos be and have an easy time unloading the shit at the price she wanted.”

“Then why bother using Cecil as a distributor? Why not sell directly to the customers?”

“Rumor has it that Cecil does the filming as well as the distributing.”

“Are the films videotaped?”

“No way! Good old-fashioned 16 mm half-inch film. Keeps it cheap and rare. Videotape’s too easy to pirate.”

“Who paid Pode for his camera work?”

“Don’t know.”

“The Countess?”

“Don’t know.”

Decker felt frustration growing inside. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

“Why was the Countess whacked?”

Clementine didn’t answer. Decker repeated the question.

“Sometimes people get carried away,” said Clementine softly.

“Where could I find the Blade?”

“Tole you before, man. Don’t know.”

“Cecil know him?”

“Don’t know.”

“Ever know a girl named Lindsay Bates?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure—”

“I said I don’t know the chick,” Clementine interrupted. “You got enough for your money. I see you, Decker. Got your piece in your right hand and your smoke in your left. I got cat’s eyes, Cop—see things coming in as well as out. I didn’t trust you anymore than you trusted me, so that means, my man, that I got my piece too. You get cute, you be dead. Now get the hell out of here while you still got your balls in one piece.”

“Stick around, Clementine. I just might need you again.”

“Fuck you. Get out of here.”

Decker backed out of the black void and into the silvery mist of the street lights. Suddenly he felt hot. Mopping his forehead with the back of his hand, he stood for a moment to catch his breath, then took off his jacket. By the time he reached the Plymouth, he was drenched in sweat.

Pode lived in a frame house in Mar Vista. The neighborhood was predominantly white working class, but over the past few years, a slow trickle of immigrant Latinos had worked their way into the cheaper homes. Pode’s place was badly in need of a paint job and the lawn was a tangle of weeds. The porch steps were crumbling and the flagstone walkway was as much dirt as it was rock. If Pode had money, he obviously wasn’t spending it on hearth and home.

The house was dark, the curtains drawn. After determining that no one was home, Decker went back to the car and waited. It was not the time to play hot dog and attempt a break-in. He knew Cecil was trapped. Marge was at the shop, he was here, and all good homing pigeons return to roost.

He sipped the container of black coffee, listening to the staccato voices of the dispatchers reporting crimes—burglaries, robberies, GTAs. The yetzer harah is alive and well. More than well. Goddam robust.

Devil worship, living sacrifices, pain flicks. How the hell did Lindsey figure in? Suppose she and the Countess had been snuffed in a film. How had the Countess gotten hold of her in the first place? Pulled her into a car at gunpoint in front of a busy shopping center? Stranger things had been known to happen, but he didn’t like it. And why was the Countess killed along with her? Maybe Lindsey Bates had a secret life as a satanic cultist and had been involved from the start.

No. It didn’t make sense.

The hours passed. Decker’s hopes for a quick catch began to fade. He’d come on too strong with Pode and Pode’d split town along with his goods.

Decker radioed Marge.

“Anything?” he asked her.

“Dead.”

“I think Pode might have taken an extended vacation.”

“So now what do we do?”

“There’s his son, Dustin, the stockbroker and film maker.”

“Why do you think he’s dirty, Pete?”

“I don’t think he’s one way or the other, but I still want to feel him out. We’ve returned each other’s calls but haven’t been able to connect.”

“Doing the old Jack Cohen alias again?” Marge asked.

“Jack loves intrigue.”

She asked: “How long do you want to hang around?”

“You can go home, Marge. He’s more likely to show up here than at his studio.”

“Unless he has business to clear up here.”

There was a pause.

“How about another hour?” Marge suggested.

“Okay.”

At 4 A.M. they called it quits.

It came to him—a flash of insight as he was pulling up into the driveway of his ranch. He shifted into reverse and headed for Santa Monica, arriving at the apartment complex a half hour before dawn. The chill and wetness of the night had seeped into the nape of his neck, and he pulled up the collar on his jacket. Stopping in front of number thirteen, he knocked hard on the door. Five minutes later, Truscott answered in his underwear and swayed drowsily, using the doorhandle for balance.

“What’s goin’ on?” he muttered.

“You remember me, Chris?”

The boy nodded sleepily.

“Come in.” He yawned and opened the door wide.

Neither one bothered to sit.

“What’s goin’ on?” the boy repeated.

“The gig you got on the day of Lindsey’s disappearance—you said it was a wedding.”

“Yeah.”

“You said you got it at the last minute.”

“Yeah.”

“Who was the original photographer supposed to be?”

“A guy I know.”

“What’s his name?”

“Cecil Pode. He’s a—”

“Shit!” Decker slammed his fist into a waiting palm. “Did Pode know you were supposed to meet Lindsey?”

The boy’s face was the picture of confusion. He rubbed his eyes.

“What are you gettin’ at?” he asked.

“Did Pode ever meet Lindsey?”

“Couple times. I used to develop my pictures at his studio. He saw some of the shots I took of her and asked me to bring her around. He said he wanted to snap a couple of shots of her for his window display. Made a point of telling me how photogenic she was. I don’t think he ever did it, though.”

“Did Pode ever see the nudes you took of Lindsey?”

“I guess. I don’t remember.”

“How’d you meet Pode?”

“On the beach. He hung around the Venice boardwalk a lot.”

“Did you tell Pode before the day of the gig that you had a date with Lindsey on the day of her disappearance?”

“I might have. I don’t fuckin’ remember.” Panic seized the boy. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What the hell do you mean you’re not sure?” Truscott’s voice cracked. “What’s Cecil got to do with Lindsey? Did he do anything to her?”

Decker was silent. Truscott grabbed his shoulders. He had an alarmingly tight grip for a man his size.

“Did he do anything to her?” he shouted.

“He might have,” Decker said quietly. “He might have told her to come with him to meet you. And then he might have abducted her.”

The boy’s scream came out a strangled, sucking gasp. Then he collapsed into Decker’s arms.

Decker slept in the station’s dormitory from 6:30 to 8:30 A.M. Bleary-eyed at 9 A.M., he placed a call to the information operator in Klamath Falls. There were three Armbrusters. The second one was the winner. Kate had left home seven years ago and hadn’t been heard from since. Decker explained the situation, expecting to hear emotional upheaval on the other side, but the mother’s only comment was good riddance to bad rubbish. She gladly supplied the name of Kate’s dentist and made it a point to tell him not to bother to ship the body home. Katie was trash, and a Christian funeral for her would be sacrilegious and a waste of hard-earned money.

Decker reminded himself that Katie had been born with congenital syphilis. The indignation of the hypocrites.

Katie’s dentist had only X rays of current patients at his fingertips. It would be a couple of days before he could find her radiographs. He did remember working on her once or twice. The Armbrusters really couldn’t afford too much. If he found the X rays, he’d be glad to send them down. A shame about Katie, he said to Decker. She was a wild kid, but that was no reason to die.

Morrison sat across his desk, eyes fixed on Decker’s face.

“You want to tell me what the hell is going on, Pete? You’ve requested two search warrants and a tail on some stockbroker named Dustin Pode.”

“The warrants are for his father’s home and studio. Cecil Pode is a snuff film distributor. I’m betting he’s involved in Lindsey Bates’s abduction and death. After I questioned him, I think he cut town. I want to see if he left anything incriminating behind.”

“Who says he’s a snuff distributor—the pimp you talked to?”

“He and another source.”

“Who?”

Decker rubbed his eyes and suppressed a yawn.

“A hooker. Her street name’s Kiki. She seems on the up-and-up.”

Morrison thought for a moment, then said, “Let’s do it this way. We’ll try for search warrants for Pode’s house and studio based on what you found out from Truscott. Unlikely we’ll get them without something concrete. A still or a film or at least someone who saw Bates and Pode together the day of her disappearance.”

“Dunn is going to comb the Galleria and ask around at all the stores. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Maybe,” the Captain said.

“What about the tail?” Decker said.

“Dustin Pode is a private citizen who isn’t residing or working in our jurisdiction. He hasn’t been implicated. “You don’t have any real evidence on Cecil Pode; you have nothing on Dustin Pode. A tail is out of the question. Takes up too much manpower.”

“I have a gut feeling that Dustin Pode is involved.”

“You’re a good intuitive cop, Pete, but I can’t authorize men based on your hunches.”

“At least send Hollander out to talk to Dustin Pode about his father. Maybe Dustin will implicate Daddy in something naughty,” Decker said. “Mike’s got a light load this morning.”

“You can talk to Dustin Pode,” said Morrison. “I’ve no problem with that.”

Decker stalled a moment. He didn’t want to tell Morrison about his Jack Cohen alias just yet. “Let Hollander handle it. He’s good with these broker types. He loves to play dumb.”

“Fine. Hollander goes out for a one-shot deal. But scratch any idea about a tail.” Morrison lit a cigarette. “You’ve done a good job, Pete. Taken a dead case and breathed some life into it. Just don’t go overboard. And don’t do anything dumb-ass with this Dustin Pode. I don’t want a citizen’s harassment complaint slapped on this division. God knows LAPD gets enough fabricated shit from the papers. Let’s not give them something real to work with.”

Decker nodded.

“Now what is this about getting another juvey into the Donaldson halfway house?”

“I owe someone a favor.”

Morrison didn’t press it.

“Okay,” he said. “Start the paperwork.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

“When are you taking the lieutenant’s exam?”

“I thought maybe next year.”

“Why not this year?”

“I haven’t had a hell of a lot of time to study.”

“You’re a lawyer, Pete. After the bar, the exam should be a snap.”

Decker shrugged. He didn’t have time to study because the yeshiva courses were occupying all his free time—or lack thereof. But he couldn’t tell the captain that.

Morrison looked disapproving, but said nothing. He stood up and walked away without a word. Decker rubbed his eyes.

Man, he was tired.

The phone rang.

“Decker.”

“It’s the illustrious Patsy Lee Newford, better known as the redheaded superspy.”

“Patsy Lee Newford?”

“Hey Decker, that’s a boss name in Indiana.” She laughed, sounding like a soprano jackhammer.

“What do you have for me, Kiki?”

“Pode took a hike.”

“Know where he went?”

“Uh uh. But he was one of the major distributors of snuff films ’round these parts.”

“Yeah,” Decker said. “I found that out.”

A little too late.

“Have any other names of snuff men?” he asked.

“Nope. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Lie low, Kiki. This is getting messy. You’ve done enough. I’m working on paying you back like we discussed.”

She was silent.

“You there?” he asked.

“Yeah. I can’t believe you’re coming through.”

“Call me back in a week,” he said. “It should be all set up.”

“Okay. I’ll see what I can dig up in the meantime.”

“No!” Decker said, more loudly than he’d intended to. “Just cool it. We’ll find Pode ourselves. Don’t do any more.”

She was silent again.

“Kiki, if you keep poking around, you’re gonna get whacked. Is that straightforward enough?”

“Hey, I did all right so far. I can take care of myself.”

“Honey, I’m sure you can,” Decker said, backing off. “How ’bout you doing me a favor and just keep your nose clean until I can get you into this program?”

A long pause on the other end of the line.

“What’s it like?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“It’s a really good place, Kiki. Lots of trees and grass and a swimming pool. The people are good—strict but honest. You’ll do real well there.”

“Will you visit me?”

Decker hesitated, then said, “No. But you’ll make loads of friends, honey. Good friends.”

“What if I don’t make it, you know? I mean what if—”

“Kiki, let’s take it one day at a time.”

“It’s just that I’m not so sure it’s what I want. I mean I want to get off of the streets you know, but I’m real independent like.”

“You’ll do fine.”

“I mean I got a couple of quirks you know.”

“Everyone has quirks.”

“Do they have TVs there?”

“Yes.”

“Do they watch Walley George?”

Decker smiled. “I’m sure you’ll get TV privileges.”

“I dunno … dunno just dunno if I’m ready. Maybe I’m better off working for you.”

“Kiki, if you want to help me out, keep yourself out of trouble until I contact you, okay?”

“How will you know where to find me?”

“Still got my card?”

“Uh huh.”

“Then come by the station house in a week. You need bread in the meantime?”

“I’m okay.”

“Then come by in a week.”

She was silent for a long time.

“I’m a little nervous, you know.”

“That’s okay, Kiki. Everyone gets nervous occasionally. Even big, macho cops who pack iron. You come by in a week. Deal?”

“Deal,” she said, then hung up the phone.

Decker placed the receiver back in the cradle and leaned back in his chair. He felt good. Marge came over to him with a hot cup of coffee.

“Drink,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“How much sleep did you get last night, Rabbi?”

“’Bout two hours.”

“Taking the morning off?”

“Not until I find Pode.”

“Good luck,” she said. “I’m off to the Galleria.” She zipped up her shoulder bag and looked at the leather shredding around the seams. “Maybe I’ll look at purses as long as I’m there. This one is shot. Literally. An old gun I used to carry accidentally discharged and blew a hole out the bottom. I patched it up with electrical tape. Think it’s time for a new one?”

“I’d say that’s reasonable.”

“Can I pick you up anything as long as I’m out?”

Sleep, a steak, and sex, he thought. In that order.

“No thanks,” he said.

“Anything?” Decker asked hopefully.

“Nothing,” Hollander answered.

Angrily, Decker crumpled a piece of scratch paper and threw it in the garbage. Marge hadn’t come up with anything at the Galleria either. If he didn’t come through with some hard evidence, Lindsey would remain an open file. He felt he owed her more.

“What’s ole Dustin like?” Decker asked.

“A sleazebag,” said Hollander, taking off his jacket. He pulled up a chair and sat down, his widespread buttocks overflowing the seat. “Wouldn’t trust him to clip my hangnail.”

“What’d you ask him?”

“Well, first thing I do is try to develop the old rapport. Told him his jacket was pretty sharp. Next thing I know, I’m getting a goddam fashion lecture on where to buy clothes. He knows this fart and that putz who’ll give him fifty percent off on all Italian silk imports. The upshot of the whole thing is the guy loves to play teacher. So I’ll play the dupe. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll talk himself into a corner. But no dice.”

“You wouldn’t put it past him to make snuffs?” Decker asked.

“Hell, no. I wouldn’t put it past him. Guy has radar eyes. Always trying to size you up then figure out his angle.”

“What did he tell you about his dad?”

“Hasn’t talked to Daddy in months. They aren’t as close as they used to be.”

“Maybe we can pull out phone bills that says he has.”

“So what?”

“Well, if it were to show lots of calls between the two of them, at least we’d establish Dustin as a liar.”

“Then what?”

Decker shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“We’d prove what I already instinctively know,” said Hollander. “The guy’s an asshole.”

“What did Dustin think about Daddy’s sideline in porno stills?” he asked.

“Dustin got pissed at that one—claimed that Daddy is just a downhome country photographer. If Daddy ever did anything nasty like that, it was just to feed his poor li’l chilluns!”

“How dare we besmirch Daddy’s blemishless image!” Decker mocked.

“You’d better believe it. Guy was ready to call in the ACLU. I calmed him down. I asked him what kind of car he drove. Guy chewed my ear off on the marvels of the Mercedes.”

Mike scratched his nose, thought a moment, then said, “The guy plainly likes his father. He didn’t say much about his mother.”

“You asked him about the fire?”

“Yep. He said this. Mom got drunk a lot. She was very careless about drinking and smoking in bed. More than once he had to pull her out of smoldering bedcovers. Most of the time he’d gotten her out before any real danger was done. Once in awhile, the room was really smoking and he had to call the FD. The day she died he wasn’t home.

“He spoke about his mother in a real detached way, Pete. I don’t know. Maybe it was because she died so long ago.”

“Or maybe he was real pissed off at her for setting the house on fire,” Decker suggested.

“Yeah,” Hollander nodded. “I didn’t detect much love lost.”

“What about Pode’s limited partnership movies?” Decker wanted to know.

“Pode and this partner of his,” Hollander began. “What the hell was his name?”

“Cameron Smithson.”

“That’s the one,” Hollander said. “They invested in low-budget flicks. Grade B horror movies and teenage jiggle films. I asked if it was possible to see them. I wanted to make sure they were what he said they were.”

“That was smart.”

“He showed me the videos—as much as I wanted to see. And what I saw wasn’t porno: just a lot of healthy-looking babes showing off their boobs and buns. Standard R fare. Pode also let me look at the books. Some of those turkeys even netted him some pocket money.”

“Numbers can be fudged.”

“Yeah, no doubt the sleaze has at least four sets of books: one for his accountant, one for the backers, one for the IRS, and one for himself.”

Hollander scratched his nose again.

“I can’t put my finger on why I hated him so much. Yeah, he talked down to me, but I was feeding into his image of me as the dumb cop. He wasn’t an ornery bastard. He was cooperative, polite. He seemed so … so goddamn oily. Even his looks—Pode’s a good-looking guy if you like the male model type. I could see him getting laid by a lot of Marina airheads. But to me, the guy sizes up as a grease ball.”

“Did he have the kind of good looks that could sway an impressionable young girl?”

“Definitely.”

He went over the play in his mind. Act One: Lindsey meets Chris, who introduces her to fellow photographer Cecil Pode. Act Two: Cecil sees Lindsey as much more than a would-be model for Playboy. Act Three: Cecil introduces her to his son, Dustin. Act Four: Dustin seduces her and convinces her to star in his skin flicks. Act Five: Lindsey dies, maybe because she didn’t like what she was doing and Dustin had a low tolerance for recalcitrant actresses; maybe because she starred in a snuff; maybe because she was in the wrong fire at the wrong time—like Dustin’s mother.

A whole lot of maybes.

Why would she bother to make arrangements to meet Chris at the Galleria if she was going to run away with Dustin? Did Lindsey ask Cecil to get Chris out of the way so she could run away with Dustin and throw suspicion on Chris? Poor Chris. Decker could still feel the boy in his arms, cradling him like a baby as he sobbed. And what gasping sobs—like a dying man fighting for air.

He needed the Podes. Cecil was gone. Dustin was all he had.