Читать книгу Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 30

On Monday morning Decker watched Clementine pick up his personal belongings at the grilled window of the county jail. Seen in the light, the clean-shaven, bespectacled man was the color of a paper bag, with blue eyes, a bald spot, a weak chin, and a close-cropped Afro. Thin, short, and slight, he could easily have been mistaken for a café au lait Mr. Peepers. Not very intimidating. No wonder he liked doing business in the shadows.

He eyed Decker, and the two of them walked out of the receiving area into a grassy courtyard. Clementine looked up at Decker’s face and then at the bulge in the detective’s jacket.

“Sergeant,” he said, acknowledging Decker.

“You beat the rap, huh?”

“The lady dropped the charges.”

“She was in a coma for two days.”

Clementine smiled. “The incident between the lady and me was purely a business matter, Sergeant. Nothing personal.”

“Have to keep ’em in line, right?” Decker pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and offered it to the pimp.

“The lady don’t mind,” Clementine said, taking the smoke. “She depends on my good will for her livelihood.”

Decker gave him an impassive stare and got a grin of porcelain caps in return. Teeth again. He noticed them all the time now.

“What do you want?” Clementine asked.

“Recognize this guy?” Decker showed him the picture of the painted man in the film.

Clementine took off his glasses, squinted, then replaced them on his nose.

“Dude’s got on a shitload of warpaint. How the hell should I know who he be?”

He’d dipped into his pimp persona.

“Take a good look,” Decker pressed. “Look at the build, at any distinguishing marks that might remind you of someone.”

The pimp shrugged.

“Clementine, is this the Blade?” asked Decker.

“Don’t know, Cop. Can’t tell with all the camouflage.”

“Look at these other stills. Could these be the Blade?”

Clementine quickly sorted through the photographs.

“Can’t help you, Decker.”

He handed back the pictures.

“What did the Blade look like?” Decker urged. “C’mon, you’ve seen the dude. Short, tall—”

“Everyone looks tall to me.”

“How was he built? What kind of threads did he wear?”

“Dude was skinny. I tole you that. I know I tole you that. Hey, I’m no fuckin’ fashion consultant. I’m a free man. I gotta go, so if you’ll excuse me—”

Decker grabbed his bony arm.

“I want you to come down to the station and do a composite for the police artist.”

The pimp swung out a hip and sneered at Decker.

“Now why would I wanna do that, Cop?”

“Community service. And if you don’t, I’m going hunting for you, Clementine. Your whores’ll be marked. Your ‘livelihood’ will wind up in jail and your spare cash’ll be pissed away for bail money. And if you don’t think I’m serious, you ask anyone I’ve ever worked with how determined I can be.”

The pimp snarled and spat a chunk of brown saliva on the ground. Mr. Peepers was trying to save face.

“Perhaps I could work it into my busy schedule.”

“Perhaps you could work it in right now.”

“Find anything in the crap we picked up from Pode’s studio?” Marge asked Decker.

He looked up from his desk, took a sip of lukewarm black coffee, and shook his head.

“No such luck. The films left behind were legit, the junk papers were random numbers or meaningless scribbles. Nothing illuminating or incriminating.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“How’d the interviews go this morning, Margie?”

“I must have hit every dirty bookstore and porn studio in Hollywood. A few had heard of Cecil Pode, but none admitted doing business with him.”

“If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.”

“My sentiments exactly,” she agreed. “But you can only roust so much before the ACLU gets on your ass.”

“How about Dustin Pode? Anything new on him?”

“Far as I know, Joe Broker’s clean as a whistle,” she said. “When’s your appointment with him and Cameron—and the inimitable Jack Cohen?”

“Three. Drinks at the Century Plaza.” Decker rubbed his eyes. “Did you find out anything about the Blade?”

“The name sounded familiar to a few of ’em. Nothing beyond that. What about Clementine?”

“He’s giving a composite of the Blade to Henderson right now. I hope to have a face to match the name in a few minutes.”

“Good,” she nodded. “You know, I tried to call you yesterday. Now that you’re eating like a normal person, I wanted to invite you over to a Sunday barbecue at Carroll’s, but you weren’t home.”

“What the hell was I doing yesterday?” He wrinkled his forehead. “Oh yeah, I took Rina’s kids out on the horses.”

She gave him a funny look.

“You’re back together again?”

“No, I don’t think we’ve said a dozen words to each other. She’s called here twice, but I keep putting off calling her back. But why take it out on the kids, we’d arranged this outing weeks ago.”

“You break up with the woman, but keep the kids?” She shook her head in amazement. “You’re a sucker, Decker.”

He shrugged. “What can I tell you? There’s an attachment.”

His phone rang. He picked up the receiver, listened while jotting down notes, thanked the party on the other end, and hung up.

“That was Colin MacGruder of the Culver City PD bomb squad.”

“And?”

“Homemade number. Could have picked up the components anywhere. I forgot to ask him how the damn thing was detonated.”

Decker started to redial, but put down the phone when he saw the police artist walking his way, Clementine behind him. Decker and Marge met him halfway across the room.

“What do you have, Larry?” Marge asked.

He handed her the composite of the Blade.

“Holy shit!” she said.

Decker grabbed the picture. “This is the Blade?” he asked Clementine.

“As best I remember,” the pimp answered. “Like I tole you all you white boys look alike.”

“That’s Dustin Pode!” Marge exclaimed.

“Goddam if it isn’t,” agreed Decker.

“Then who the hell is the boy in the movie?” she asked.

“I’ll see that question and raise you one better: Whose bones are lying in the morgue?”

Decker sat at the table in the Century Plaza Bar and played with the swizzle stick in his glass of club soda. Dustin was on his third whiskey sour, Cameron was nursing a gin and tonic. Things were going smoothly; Pode hadn’t made him as a cop. Neither of them had batted an eyelash when he ordered plain soda. Probably thought he was an alkie on the wagon. Pode began his initial pitch:

“The initial investment will most likely net a fifteen-and-a-half percent return on a buy-in at five thousand K per unit. That in itself is a handsome return. But the big pay-off, Mr. Cohen, is the capital appreciation.”

Dustin Pode straightened his Countess Mara tie, smoothed his cashmere blazer, and handed Decker a four-page glossy. The color phots included pictures of ruddy men with white hair and flabby chins dressed in gray flannel suits, and several views of spanking new structures—apartment buildings, condos, motels. Next to the photos were profit/loss statements, earnings for the two previous years, and projected earnings for the next fiscal year.

“You can see here, Mr. Cohen, average time of investment holdings is about five years, and figuring the rate of return based on projected earnings, you should be able to walk away with a long-term gain of at least twenty-five percent per year.”

“Guaranteed,” Smithson Junior added.

Dustin chuckled nervously at the statement.

“Nothing is guaranteed,” he corrected. “But this is as close to a sure thing as anything around.”

Dustin sipped his sour. Nothing but ice left in it now. Decker smiled encouragingly and Pode continued:

“Of course, you, Mr. Cohen—being the sophisticated investor that you are—don’t have to be reminded about the inherent risks in any syndication—”

“I like risks,” Decker interrupted.

“No gain without some pain, right, Mr. Cohen?” said Cameron.

Pode flinched and produced a sickly smile.

Decker tried not to stare at Pode, but it was hard. He couldn’t imagine this unctuous salesman—when you got down to it that’s all brokers were—associating with someone like the Countess. But then again, the repressed ones were usually the kinkiest.

It was easier to imagine violence in Cameron. There was something dead about his eyes.

“You know,” said Decker. “I thought I might like to take a stab at something even riskier, but with a higher potential upside.”

Pode finished his drink and waited for Decker to go on. Cameron wasn’t as patient.

“Such as?” he asked.

“I hear you boys have done well on film deals.”

Cameron cleared his throat. “We’ve had a great deal of success in the past—”

“But we don’t do film syndication anymore unless something spectacular comes along,” Pode broke in. “The movie industry is too risky, what with inflated budgets and the unpredictable tastes of the public. More important, the new tax laws have minimized the amount of loss now deductible on initial investment. It used to be that even if you invested a portion in a film, the total loss allowable to be deducted was the sum total of the amount of the invested—”

“I’m sure Mr. Cohen doesn’t want to be bored by details,” Cameron interrupted.

Pode stiffened. His hand squeezed his glass and his knuckles whitened.

“The upshot is,” Cameron said, “film doesn’t bring in the money it once did. However, once in a while a good limited partnership presents itself. We’ll be happy to let you know when one does.”

Decker picked up the P/L statement, the three prospectuses, and a stack of graphs and charts.

“Do that.” He stood up. “I have to be getting back. Thanks for your time. I’ll rethink what we’ve talked about and let you know just as soon as I’ve come to a decision.”

Smithson and Pode stood and extended their hands. Decker took Smithson’s first.

“Nice to talk with you, Mr. Cohen,” Cameron said flatly.

Decker offered his hand to Pode.

“Thank you, Mr. Cohen. It was a pleasure talking to you, and I hope the future portends a mutually advantageous business relationship for us.”

Decker smiled. “I’m sure it will.”

He sat in the darkness of his bedroom and felt like a widower. He mourned the lost relationship with Rina; he mourned the staleness of the Bates-Armbruster case.

If Dustin was the Blade, then who was the painted-faced kid in the movie? An understudy who’d stepped in at the last moment?

Had Dustin pulled his father into porno or vice versa?

Just what was Dustin’s involvement?

How could he tap into Dustin without scaring him off?

The hell with it.

He turned on the light and stared at the siddur resting on his nightstand. He shouldn’t leave it out like that. He should put it away on a shelf so he wouldn’t spill coffee on it. For no reason, he picked it up and began reading the praises of God. Without his realizing it, he had said maariv—the evening prayers. He turned off the light and stared at the blackness that surrounded him. He had been moved by the words. Solitude always brought out his religious nature. Strange that the only time Marge thought about God was when she was alone in bed. Perhaps God was best seen in the dark. He closed his eyes and scrunched up the pillow.