“That won’t be necessary,” answered Decker. He picked up a receiver on an empty desk. A shrill young voice broke through.
“Ya know, you guys have a lot of nerve. I musta called this number a hundred times over the weekend and nobody answered. What if I had something important to tell you? I don’t think you give a shit who gets ripped off just as long as it don’t happen on your precious weekend—”
“Who is this?” Decker yelled into the receiver.
“It’s your informant, Decker.”
“Got something you want to tell me, Kiki?”
“Not over the phone.”
“I’m not meeting with you unless you tell me what this is about.”
There was a pause.
“Well…” she teased.
Decker checked his watch. “I’ve got a shitload of work, Kiki, so either put up or shut up.”
“I didn’t find out anything about the girl, but I’m still trying.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“Yeah, that and ten cents—excuse me—twenty cents won’t get me a fucking phone call. I do have a name for you. A photographer who shoots porno. Lots of young ones and runaways.”
Decker grabbed a scrap of paper.
“Go on.”
“He runs a legit operation, also. You know—weddings, graduation, confirmations—”
“Name Kiki.”
“Cecil Pode. His place is in Culver City. Is that worth anything, Decker?”
“Could be.”
“Man, I’m busted. Have a heart.”
“What do you want?”
“A sawbuck would sure feel fine.”
“Get me some names of pimps who specialize in runaways and we may be able to work something out.”
“By what time?”
“Two.”
“Okay,” she said. “Meet me at the Teriyaki Dog on Sunset and Vermont. It’s across the street from the kiddy hospital. I should be able to dig up some names by then. How’s your arm, Decker?”
“Fine. I’ll see you at two.”
“Did you go to a doctor?” she persisted. “Like I told you, bites can be dangerous—”
“Kiki, I’ve got to go.”
He hung up and went back to the photos.
“Any luck?” he asked.
“Nope,” Marge answered. “What I’d like to know is why I can go through an entire box in the same time it takes Hollander to go through three pictures.”
“I’m a careful observer with an eye for detail,” Hollander retorted. “Get off my back, lady.”
Decker started in on the next box.
“Jesus,” Hollander exclaimed. “Have these young women no shame? She’s got jism up her nose.”
“A picture that grosses you out?” Marge said to Hollander. “This I’ve got to see.”
She held the snapshot.
“Ugh! She’s covered in cum.”
Decker took a peek and his eyes widened. He grabbed the photo out of Dunn’s hand.
“What is it, Pete?”
“Got any more pictures of this one, Mike?”
“Yeah,” Hollander said. “Tons. She’s a busy little beaver, ’scuse the pun.”
“What is it?” Dunn repeated.
“Her teeth!” Decker exclaimed. “Look at her front teeth! They’re pegs!”
“Here’s some others,” Hollander said.
Decker shuffled excitedly through the pile. None of the others showed her teeth, but he did find one that looked promising. She was performing fellatio, and it showed a complete side view of her face.
“I’ve got to make a couple of phone calls,” Decker said. “Margie, contact Vice and reference these photos. Mike, keep looking for Lindsey Bates.”
“Will do,” Hollander said, grinning and saluting.
Decker rushed out of the room and nearly collided with George.
“Got another phone call, Pete.”
Decker punched down the line.
“This is Mrs. Grover. I got a message on my machine to call a Detective Sergeant Decker at the Foothill police station?”
The woman sounded elderly.
“Thanks for calling back, Mrs. Grover,” he said. “This is Sergeant Decker. I’m calling about that one bedroom you had advertised in the Santa Monica Express.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, it’s been rented.”
“Could you tell me the name of the person you rented it to?”
“Uh, am I allowed to do that?”
“Yes, ma’am, you are.”
“I guess it’s all right, then. After all, you are the police.”
Decker waited.
“His name is Christopher Truscott.”
Bingo!
“Is Mr. Truscott in right now?”
“I believe he is.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Grover. I want to stop by and talk to him and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention our little conversation.”
“Is he in trouble, Sergeant? I don’t want any troublemakers—”
“No, no. It’s nothing like that. But I want to surprise him with my visit.”
“Well…All right.”
“I’ll stop by and introduce myself, ma’am.”
“That would be lovely.”
“Good-bye.”
Decker clapped his hands together, rubbed them vigorously, and let go with a broad smile. Leads! He was getting some leads! He called Annie Hennon.
“Hello, Pete. What’s up?”
“Have you got a spare lunch hour?”
“Personal or business?”
“The latter.”
“Either way, it’s fine.”
“Then I’ll see you at noon, Annie.”
“Hey, what say I send out for some Chinese food?”
He paused. “I keep kosher.”
“Pizza?” she tried. “Plain cheese pizza?”
“Strictly kosher.”
“I thought you weren’t sure you were Jewish.”
“I’m still not sure, but I’m working on it. I’ve got a sack lunch anyway.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll pick up some cottage cheese. It’s a good time to start my diet.”
Her figure didn’t need it, he thought.
“See you at noon,” he said.
His next call let Freddy at the Police Photo Lab know he was sending up a few snapshots to enlarge. Marge came up to his desk.
“The photos of Pegteeth were clipped from a defunct rag called Erotic Ecstasy. These are at least a year old, and naturally, the editor has cut town. But this is a list of photographers the magazine hired.”
Decker took the list and scanned the contents. Cecil Pode’s name jumped out at him. He felt that surge of excitement, the hunting instinct. But instead of prey, he ferreted out resolution—order in an otherwise disintegrating world.
“This guy,” Decker said pointing to Pode’s name. “I want to find out more about him. He’s a legit photographer, but one of my ears on the street tells me he has a sideline specializing in the younger trade.”
Marge checked off the name. “I’ll see what I can dig up,” she said.
“Good,” Decker answered. “Mike, run these photos up to Freddy. I’ve called him and left instructions, so all you have to do is give them to him.”
“Sure. Where are you going?”
“To talk to Lindsey Bates’s boyfriend.”
11
Truscott had moved up in the world. Apparently being remiss on debts paid off. His new residence was in a thirty-unit building in a fashionable part of Santa Monica—new construction made of cheap, brown stucco that wouldn’t wear well. But each unit had a balcony and the front was abloom with flowers. The complex contained a pool, a hot tub, a recreation room, a small but well-equipped gym, and plenty of BMWs in the subterranean parking lot. Decker found the manager’s unit and knocked on the door.
“Who is it?”
He recognized the voice.
“It’s the police. Mrs. Grover.”
“Sergeant Decker?” she asked tentatively.
Decker showed the woman his ID.
“Won’t you come in, please.”
She whistled her S’s. Dentures.
“Thank you,” Decker said, “but I’m fine out here. Which unit is Mr. Truscott’s?”
“Number thirteen. The second one on the left. He’s still there, Sergeant. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee first?”
“I’d love to, Mrs. Grover, but I’m a bit pressed for time.”
The old woman accepted his excuse as if she’d heard it plenty of times before. Decker noticed the change in her expression.
“But if you don’t mind, I could use a glass of water,” he said.
She perked up. “Certainly.”
“I’ll wait here,” Decker said. “I want to keep my eye on the apartment.”
“I understand,” she said.
She came back with a frosted tumbler. Decker took the water and thanked her.
“Mrs. Grover, how much does Mr. Truscott pay for his apartment?”
“Six fifty a month. If it wasn’t for rent control, it would bring a lot more.”
“What kind of security deposit did he give you for the unit?”
“The boy’s in trouble, isn’t he?”
“No.”
Not yet.
“Did he give you a first and last month’s rent?”
“Yes. And a one month’s damage deposit.”
Almost two grand. No wonder Chrissie boy wasn’t paying his bills. Decker finished his water, thanked her, and left.
Truscott answered the door with resignation.
“I knew you’d be coming. It was only a matter of time.”
He was a good-looking boy with a dark complexion, thick curly hair, and big gray eyes. His face was lean—almost emaciated—with a sharp jawline, and his expression was unmistakably sad. The lower lip curved downward as if frozen in a tragedy mask. He was taller than average, with a good build, and Decker thought that he and Lindsey would have made a striking couple.
The place had been transformed into a shrine—curtains drawn and walls covered with black cloth. A black sheet blanketed the lone mattress on the floor. Three ebony plastic parsons tables held a dozen or so lit candles. There were no other furnishings.
Truscott motioned to the floor and sat down. Decker followed suit.
“Where’d you get the money to afford this place, Chris?”
The boy was taken aback.
“I…I don’t know what you mean?”
“Photography must be hauling in beaucoup bucks.”
“You kidding?”
“I’ve been checking into you, Chris. You aren’t paying your bills; you leave a dump near the ghetto in Venice after paying your landlady with rubber. Then I find you playing yuppie in Santa Monica. What’s the story?”
The boy looked down.
“Ain’t no story. I’m busted. Flat, stone cold broke. This is all borrowed time. Ain’t got more than fifteen bucks to my name and I haven’t had a gig since…”
He shook his head.
“I wanted to do something nice for myself, you know. To escape the pain. Say ‘Fuck it’ to the world and go out in style. It didn’t work. What does it matter anyway? You’re here about her, right?”
“Where were you between eleven A.M. and twelve-thirty P.M. on the day of Lindsey’s disappearance?”
“Working.”
“Can anyone verify your presence?”
“Only about two hundred people.” He looked at Decker. “If you want a confession, I’ll give you a confession. I’m dead as far as I’m concerned anyway.”
“I want the truth, Chris. Not convenience.”
“The truth is I didn’t kill her physically. But I’m responsible for her death. If I would have shown up like we planned, this never would have happened.”
His lip began to tremble.
“Tell me about your gig, Chris,” Decker said.
“I was photographing a wedding. Came through at the last minute, and I thought the bread was too good to pass up. If I had only known…”
The boy was aching.
“Who hired you for the job?”
“The lady’s name was Bernell. Margaret Bernell. Her daughter got married. I showed up at the church around nine-thirty, maybe ten, and left around three in the afternoon.”
“Do you have her phone number?”
The boy went and got it.
“I’m going to call her now, Chris.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“Come with me to the manager’s unit. We’ll borrow her phone.”
“I’ll come, but I ain’t gonna split on you. Don’t have anywhere to go.”
“Come on, Chris.”
His alibi checked. Mrs. Bernell had only nice things to say about him and the quality of his work. Decker walked him back to his apartment.
“You keep close by,” the detective said. “I might need you.”
The boy shrugged.
“I want to find Lindsey’s killer,” Decker said.
“Don’t matter none to me,” Truscott said. “Nothing will bring her back to life.”
“Well, later on, after the numbness wears off, you may want to see the bastard strung up by his balls. So stick around.”
Truscott nodded.
“Chris, were any of your friends deaf or hard of hearing?”
Truscott shook his head.
“Lindsey know anybody deaf or hard of hearing?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Ever seen this girl?” Decker showed him a head shot of the female with the peg teeth.
He glanced at it and shook his head.
“Look carefully.”
Truscott took the picture and examined it closely.
“Don’t know her. What does this have to do with Lindsey?”
“I’m not sure.”
But I hope something, he thought.
By the time he got back to the station, a manila envelope was waiting on his desk. Dependable Freddy! Decker opened the gummed seal, pulled out the enlargement, and grinned.
The man is on fire, he’s so hot.
He headed for Captain Morrison’s “office” on the other side of the building. Morrison and the station’s day watch commander, Roy Ordik, shared a pint-sized cubicle—barely enough room for the two desks, two chairs, a computer on a stand, and a filing cabinet. At least Morrison was thin and could squeeze through the cracks, but Ordik was fat. Decker rarely saw them in the office at the same time. Maybe that was the secret.
Morrison raised his head when Decker entered.
“What’s up, Pete?”
Decker placed the original porno photo and the enlargement on the captain’s desk. Morrison looked at the obscene portrait and the enlargement and waited for the explanation.
Decker said, “This is a blowup—the ear of this peg-toothed girl. She’s wearing a hearing aid.” He pointed to a tiny nub behind the ear lobe.
“Go on.”
“I’m hoping this is the Jane Doe found with Bates. That skeleton had the same peg teeth. The dentist said that people with this kind of teeth often have hearing problems.”
“How many people have teeth like that?”
“I don’t know. I’m taking the photos over to Dr. Hennon this afternoon. I’ll see what she says.”
The captain nodded approval.
“Check out the boyfriend?”
“Yeah, his alibi panned out. I’m going to drive by his place again, just to make sure he hasn’t decided to split. If he stays put, I see no reason to consider him a suspect. He seemed to have been broken up by her death.”
“Good,” Morrison said. “Keep it up.”
Decker rushed out of the office and bumped shoulders with Marge.
“Gotten a whiff of a scent, Peter?” she ask
ed, smiling.
“Just call me bloodhound.”
“Cecil Pode,” Marge said, reading off of a page. “He’s fifty-two—a self-employed photographer with a studio in Culver City. Stable little bugger. Same business for over twenty years. Ran him through NCIC. No wants, no warrants, no priors.”
Decker frowned.
“Yeah, it would have been nice if he’d have come back a scumbag,” she said.
“He’s a scumbag,” Decker said. “Nice guys don’t snap Polaroids of young girls smothered in spunk.”
“Well, then he’s a legally clean scumbag,” she answered. “I’ll dig a little deeper. Talk to a few of my ears. I’ll see what I come up with. Hollander will do the same.”
Decker nodded.
“What’s with the tooth lady in the porno shots?” Marge asked.
“I’m going to see the dentist about her now. Want to come?”
“Gonna have to pass,” said Marge. “I’ve got a court date with a weenie wagger.”
Decker pulled out the porno photo and laid it in front of Hennon. The peg-toothed girl had brought a man to ejaculation and his penis was spurting into her mouth. She was covered with semen. But Hennon zeroed right in on the teeth without glancing at the action. A real pro.
She smiled broadly. “These look like Hutchinson’s incisors to me. What an eye!”
“Take a gander at this, Annie.” He showed her the blowup of the ear and the hearing device.
“You don’t miss a trick, do you?”
He grinned. “What do you think?”
“There’s potential here. I want to fool around with the photos and compare them to the X rays of Doe Two’s skull and teeth. I’ve got a darkroom. Give me about twenty minutes.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll eat my lunch.”
She left, and he opened his paper sack and pulled out foil-wrapped packages. Rina had prepared him a piece of cold poached salmon, cucumbers in sour cream smothered with fresh dill, and a square of noodle kugel with raisins, pineapple, and pecans. No doubt about it, if they ever married, he’d turn into a blimp. Reaching into the bag again, he took out a Bert-and-Ernie thermos. He’d asked her before not to pack it, but she was insistent that it was the only way to keep drinks cold. If he wanted an adult thermos, go out and buy one. But of course he never got around to it, and she kept using the kiddie one.
He unscrewed the top and poured the liquid into the white plastic top. It looked like carbonated apple juice, but to his surprise it turned out to be beer—Dos Equis. He laughed. Before knowing him, Rina had never bought a six-pack. Although he never drank while on duty, he felt impelled to take a sip. A toast in her honor. He ate heartily and took another swig of beer at the end of the meal. He had just finished a cigarette when Hennon reappeared.
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