Читать книгу Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 24

Discretion was the word of the hour. Hollander’s interview with Dustin Pode had been a double-edged sword. Decker hoped it would smoke out Dustin and make him do something foolish, but he also knew that it had heightened Pode’s awareness of cops. The tail would have to be close to invisible.

He debated over which car to use. Although it had a police radio, the unmarked was a terrible vehicle for a tail, a giveaway to anyone perceptive about cop cars. His personal vehicles were a red ’69 Porsche 911, which he’d rebuilt, and a Jeep. Neither blended inconspicuously in street traffic. Finally, he settled on Rina’s ’77 bronze Volvo station wagon and gave her the Plymouth. He carried his beeper and had asked Marge to buzz him if anything important came up. He hoped all his bases were covered.

So far, the only place Pode had gone to was work. Decker parked a couple of stalls down from the broker’s white Mercedes 450 SL on level C of the underground garage. The place was dank, the air loaded with exhaust fumes, and he felt a headache coming on. He sat in his car for an hour, then, wanting to stretch his legs, climbed the stairs to the fifth floor. The hallways were empty and soundless except for an occasional inner door closing or a ding from the elevator bell. He leaned against the wall and waited. Another hour passed. At 11:15, Dustin finally came out of his office. From a corner, Decker had a good chance to memorize his face as he waited for the elevator.

Mike was right. The younger Pode was a good-looking man. Five eleven, one seventy or eighty, and well built. An iron pumper, his chest swelled under his shirt, big shoulders. Coiffed dark hair with a full mustache. A deep sunlamp tan. His face was lean with a sloped nose and deep-set dark eyes under dark brows.

Tall, dark, and handsome with little resemblance to his father. As soon as Dustin stepped inside the elevator, Decker rushed down the stairwell to his car. He pulled out of the space a couple of seconds after the Mercedes.

Pode’s destination was Beverly Hills—lunch at La Ragazzina Boutique, a one-room Italian restaurant jammed with a mixture of businessmen, entertainment hangerson, and women shoppers with acute ennuitis just dying for a little attention. It was a good place in which to observe Pode because everyone was either self-absorbed or wanted to be noticed. Decker found a spot at the end of the tiny bar and ordered a club soda.

Pode sat in a dark-red booth in the corner opposite the bar. Five minutes later Cameron Smithson joined him with two other suits. The four of them talked animatedly for a while, until Cameron pulled out a briefcase. Within moments, the table was covered with papers.

Decker glanced at his watch. Half a day shot. Maybe Morrison was right. This was a waste of manpower. He got up and found a pay phone occupied by a lady with the hands of a fifty-year-old but the face of a woman twenty years younger. Good lift. Her hair was as orange as his, but her color came from a bottle. Rechecking his watch, he grew impatient with the woman’s blabbering and glanced over to Pode’s table.

The pile of papers had grown.

Finally, she hung up. Turning around, the woman smiled at him and reached for his hair. Instinctively, he backed away.

She let out a chuckle.

“It’s natural, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Lucky boy.” She turned around and caught the headwaiter’s eye.

“Tony!” she purred huskily, spreading out her arms widely and embracing the tuxedoed Hispanic.

The hug didn’t help her get a table any faster. Smiling all the way, ole Tony led her to the bar.

Decker dialed the station and Marge told him there had been no new developments—the warrants hadn’t been approved yet, the X rays from Oregon hadn’t arrived. She had decided to put the case in abeyance for the moment and work on another that had just come over the line.

Swell!

Yesterday, the case had been hot, but now a definite chill was settling in. Goddam it, Lindsey deserved more.

An hour later Pode left the restaurant. Decker followed him to the Rox-San building, five blocks from where he’d eaten. More waiting. He pulled out his lunch—a chunk of kosher salami with crackers and nothing to drink. He’d made his own brown bag today. The garlic lingered on his breath and he became irritable.

If nothing came of this, he’d have to go back to Hollywood, and a return to scuzzville didn’t thrill him. Lately the crap was beginning to get to him. The dichotomy—one minute he was a spiritual being, praying, seeking a higher order in his life; the next, knee deep in scum and shit. He was living in two worlds, not sure which part of his life was real and which was an undercover assignment.

Pode left an hour later and returned to Executive First. He was there for another twenty minutes, then came out with a gym bag. Decker followed him to the Sports Connection.

More cooling of the heels outside the health club.

At least the view was good. He stared at the leotard-clad women going in and out of the gym. Good bodies, but too sharp-edged, too muscular for his taste. He liked his women softer, with curves—like Rina.

He was in a pisser of a mood—angry with himself. Time was a precious commodity, and he’d blown a whole day and ended up with nothing more tangible than air. Yeah, maybe Cecil had contacted his son, maybe Dustin did set him up somewhere and slip him a little bread. But if anything had happened, it’d probably taken place already and the two weren’t going to do him any favors and meet in front of his eyes.

He’d finish out the day, and if nothing panned out, he’d try a last-ditch stake at Pode’s studio tonight. If all of his efforts failed, he’d have to try a different approach.

On impulse, he opened the glove compartment in Rina’s car. It contained maps and scribbled scraps of paper—grocery lists and reminders to herself—written half in Hebrew, half in English. He smiled at her penmanship, visualizing her delicate hand dashing off a note, at the look of intensity on her face as she wrote. Once, he’d seen her topless—just for a moment. It had been an accident. Jacob had spilled ketchup on her blouse and she’d changed in the bathroom, closing but not locking the door. He’d had to use the bathroom, had opened the door and there she was. She’d covered herself in the same instant he’d closed the door, but he’d seen her. It demonstrated to him once and for all that she wasn’t a china doll, but was made of flesh—like him. They both had been embarrassed when she’d emerged and neither one had ever mentioned it. But now, engulfed in loneliness, the recollection helped ease the pain.

He had the luck of the Irish, Hennon had said. Ironic for a Jew who’d been raised Baptist. Cecil Pode showed up at his studio a little after midnight. Shrouded in the lacy shadows of an elm, Decker saw his fat face looking greasy and white under the artificial lighting of the street lamp. The photographer was fumbling with his keys trying to unlock the studio. He threw a furtive glance over his shoulder, then managed to open the door.

How to proceed, Decker thought. Catch him on his way out. No sense gangbusting your way in with no warrant. Any incriminating evidence will be inadmissible without proper search and seizure.

Fifteen minutes later Pode came out with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He was about to lock up when Decker made his move, his footsteps soundless.

“Police, Mr. Pode.” Decker stuck his foot in the door.

Pode gasped, then saw who it was and exhaled loudly. “You scared the shit out of me. What the hell is this?”

“I’d like to talk with you for a moment, Cecil,” Decker said.

“What about? It’s after midnight, for Chrissakes. Can’t it wait until the morning?”

“No.”

“You got a warrant?”

“No,” Decker answered. “Last I heard you don’t need one for talking.”

Pode paused. Decker could feel the fat man’s brain straining in indecision.

“Come in,” Pode said, shutting the door behind them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Decker caught the glint of steel. Instincts took over. He pounced on Pode as the gun cracked out cordite that sprayed black into his jacket. The revolver flew out of Pode’s hand and skittered across the linoleum.

“You motherfucker!” Decker yelled, pinning the squirming hulk to the floor. Underneath the fat was a layer of muscle. It was a bitch trying to contain him and find the handcuffs at the same time. Pode bucked up forcibly, throwing Decker off balance, and made a crawl toward the gun. Decker grabbed the back of his shirt and slammed his face against the ground.

“I don’t believe it!” he said, clamping on the metal bracelets. He took a deep breath. “You tried to shoot me, you stupid ass! You’re under arrest!”

“Oh Christ!” the man began to blubber.

“You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right, anything you say may be used against you in a court of law—”

“Oh Jesus Fucking Christ!”

“You have the right to legal counsel during questioning—”

“I can get you what you want, Decker.”

“If you can’t afford an attorney—”

“I can get it for you right now, but it’s not on me. I gotta make a phone call.”

“One will be appointed to you by a court of law before questioning—”

“I can get the film, Decker! The film you want.”

“Do you understand your rights, Pode?”

“I know where it is.”

“DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND THE RIGHTS I JUST READ TO YOU?”

The fat man nodded.

“Say yes, Pode,” Decker said. “Say: yes, I understand my rights.”

“Yes, I understand my rights. I can get you what you want, but I gotta have a deal.”

“If you wish to waive your right to—”

“Yeah, I wish to waive everything so long as I get a deal—”

Decker hoisted the man to his feet and pushed him against the wall, leaning hard into the small of his back. “You motherfucking son of a bitch, you are in deep shit. You know what you just did? You tried to whack an officer of the law with no provocation whatsoever after he properly identified himself. That’s a fucking no-no.” Decker gave him a roundhouse punch to the left kidney. Pode let out a gush of air and moaned. “Now I’ve got to see some good faith before I talk deal. Where’s the film, Pode?”

“I don’t know the address.”

Decker rammed his knee into the right kidney. Pode screamed.

“I swear I don’t know the address,” he sputtered. “But I can take you there. I just know the place. We changed the location after you started poking around.”

“This place you’re talking about. What is it? A warehouse for your shit?”

“Screening rooms for the pervs. They’re showing the movie you want.”

“Which movie’s that?” Decker said.

Pode was silent. Decker yanked his hair.

“Remember what I said about good faith and deals?”

Pode nodded.

“What film are we talking about?” Decker asked.

“That girl, the blonde one you showed me—Lindsey Bates.”

Decker felt sick. “Go on.”

“The film was custom-ordered by a very rich man,” Pode said, panting. “He didn’t want her specifically. Just someone with her kind of looks—someone pert and fresh.”

“What’s the perv’s name?” Decker asked.

“Don’t know.”

Decker bashed Pode’s face into the wall. His nose and lips began to bleed.

“Jesus Christ!” Pode cried. “I don’t know. Arrest the son of a bitch and you’ll find out.”

“Take me there,” Decker said.

“I gotta make a call first.”

“Bull fucking shit! You just take me there.” Decker unhitched his .38 and stuck it in a roll of adipose below the photographer’s ribcage. “I’m taking your bag also. Later you can show me what you’ve got inside.”

Pode nodded.

“No funny business, Cecil.”

“Right.”

“Let’s go.”

Decker walked him out to the Plymouth, seating him in the passenger side, and secured his feet with an extra set of cuffs. Tossing Pode’s bag in the back, he climbed into the driver side and started the engine.

“It’s near here,” Pode said weakly. “In Venice.”

“That how you met Chris Truscott?” Decker asked, turning on the siren and flooring the gas pedal. “You remember him, don’t you? Free-lance photographer who once lived in Venice.”

Pode didn’t say anything.

“He said you met him on the boardwalk. Did you meet Lindsey there, too?”

Pode lowered his head.

“We know you kidnapped Lindsey. We know you killed her—”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Who did?”

Pode remained silent.

“Good faith, Cecil.”

“She was iced in the film,” Pode said.

“Who’d you deliver her to?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re going to fry, Pode.”

“I swear I don’t know. I left her in a designated spot, locked in this room, doped up. I don’t know who took over the show from there. My contacts are by phone, Decker. I never see ’em face-to-face.”

“Try convincing a jury of that.”

“It’s the truth!” Pode implored.

“How far are we to this place, Pode?”

“It’s close,” he responded in a cracked voice. “Turn left on Pacific.”

Decker slowed the car and killed the siren.

“This isn’t just Venice, this is the Oakwood ghetto,” Decker said. “You wouldn’t be trying to set me up, would you, Cecil?”

“I swear this is where they show the films.”

“Who’s they?”

“I don’t know!”

“Yeah, right,” Decker sneered. “Contacts by phone and all that crap. Why the hell would a rich perv come out here?”

“They all do, Decker. There’s a bunch of ’em and they all love to slum. See some sicko films and get all heated up by them. Then they go out trawling for young meat on the streets and act out the fantasy. They’re the ones who’re sick, not me!”

Decker wanted to puke.

“Turn here,” Pode said. “It’s on Brooks right before Electric. The garage apartment in the back. Slow … Slow’s the house.”

It was a tan one-story cube with security bars on the windows and doors. It wasn’t unusual to find prisonlike houses here, because the neighborhood was bad—tiny stucco cells or government housing units spray painted with graffiti. Even the streets and sidewalks were tattooed. This was gang heartland and life was expendable. A jaunt from the front door to the driveway could prove fatal if it was a night for busting.

He drove by and saw a faint illumination on top of the garage. Parking a half block down, he called in for immediate back-up, giving firm instructions to approach without lights or sirens.

“Who’s in there, Cecil?”

“Just the perv and a projectionist.”

“Who’s the projectionist?”

“I just call him Joe.”

“What’s he armed with?”

“He isn’t armed.”

Guy must have a machine gun, Decker thought.

“Mr. Rich Perv have a bodyguard?”

“Not that I know of.”

Figure at least one guard.

Two cruisers arrived in less than a minute.

“Stay put, Cecil. Don’t try anything dumb.”

Decker got out of the Plymouth and briefed the four uniforms. They conferred, and radioed in to their superior. A minute later a bull-necked black cop named Lessing came back to Decker.

“Ordered to go in and take it,” he said. “I’ll lead.”

“It’s your territory,” Decker said.

“You want in?” Lessing asked.

“You bet,” he answered. “Place is probably guarded and armed.”

“Let the insider do the talking,” suggested a six-foot female who reminded him of Marge. Her partner was toting a shotgun.

“Good idea,” agreed Decker. “Pode will get us inside and we’ll make the bust. I need that film. It’s material evidence for a homicide I’m working on.”

“Let’s go,” Lessing said.

“Fourteen-L-six’s here,” the woman said, as another black-and-white pulled up.

“We can use all the help we can get,” Decker said.

Two more uniforms came up, also carrying shotguns.

“I’ll go get our card key,” Decker said. He went back to the Plymouth, uncuffed Pode’s hands and feet, and pulled him out of the car.

“You’ve got to get us inside, Cecil. The place is a barbed-wire camp.”

Pode nodded. “I’ll tell you what to do.”

Decker laughed and pushed the fat man forward. “You’ve got a nutty sense of humor, my man. You’re coming with us. But don’t worry. You said no one’s armed.”

They walked the half block, and Pode led the seven officers up the outside stairs to the garage apartment. They took their positions. The entire rear of the structure was a mesh of steel wires and bars. Sitar music was coming from the inside.

“Get us inside,” Decker whispered to Pode.

The fat man was bathed in his own sweat.

“I lied,” he whispered back. “They have guns.”

“How many?”

“Projectionist and bodyguard. They have Uzis.”

“Get us inside, Cecil.”

“They’ll shoot me,” he sobbed. “They shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Get the door open and we’ll protect you,” said Lessing.

Looking like a condemned man, Pode gave a signaled knock.

They heard a series of knocks and clicks, and then a voice from inside said, “Who is it?”

“Pode. I got another one who was insistent.”

“Show started.”

“He already paid me big for the viewing,” Pode said shakily. “For Chrissakes, just open the door.”

Locks began to snap open. Everyone stepped inside. The minute the door showed light, Lessing kicked it open and yelled, “Police! Freeze!” Instantaneously, he pitched backward as if blown away by torrential wind, his stomach gushing a scarlet river.

Pandemonium broke out. Bursts of machine guns. Blasts of shotguns. The pops of the .38s. Screams, blood splattering all over the walls and floors. The exchange of gunfire lasted less than a minute, but its aftermath left a slaughterhouse. Pode was a crumpled pile at the foot of a free-standing movie screen. Another man was sprawled over a puddle of blood at the base of the projector, a hole ripped through his chest, his left arm blown off and propelled five feet to his left. Still another person had exploded into chunks on the south wall of the room. One man was still alive, hunched into a corner, sobbing.

Miraculously, the movie was left intact and kept on rolling.

Decker saw Lindsey’s face and was stunned into immobility. She was still alive, but barely, having been sliced in the chest, stomach, and genitals. A red-robed man in white face accented with black lines for whiskers, eyebrows, and mouth was drinking her blood. The Countess, also in a red robe, was smearing it over her face. The painted man took a .38 and shot the girl in the breastbone and forehead. She jerked at each bullet, released her bowels and died. Decker saw the Countess pour clear liquid over her from a metal canister and light a match. Lindsey began to melt, the skin crackling and charring against the sound of a deep, resonant chant.

“Jesus Christ!” someone groaned.

“Someone turn that shit off!” the female cop barked. “Jesus!”

“Holy Mother of God,” another cop whispered, shaking his head in disbelief.

The film stopped. Decker threw up.