Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 02

by Sacred;Profane

  Jacob nodded. Decker carried him into the bedroom, relieved. As he cooed the youngster back into sleep, he heard hostile mutterings outside. Gently, he brushed black locks off Jacob’s forehead and tucked him into bed, the boy’s bony shoulders peeking out from the edge of the comforter. As soon as Jacob drifted off, Decker rose from the bed, acid pouring into his gut, his head throbbing in anticipation of the showdown.

  Rina and her mother were deep in battle. Her father tried unsuccessfully to arbitrate, attempting to comfort both women and managing to comfort neither. Mrs. Elias cried something to her daughter in Hungarian. Rina came back with a reply. Decker sighed inwardly. It wasn’t enough that he had to struggle with Hebrew, Yiddish, and Aramaic. Now he had to cope with Hungarian. He’d fallen in love with a walking UN.

  The discussion increased in volume, and the women began gesticulating wildly with their hands. Then Mrs. Elias spotted Decker, pointed to him, and shouted something to her daughter. Her tone was virulent. Turning crimson, Rina shot back at her and pointed to the door, sobbing. Her mother stalked away. Confused, Mr. Elias alternated between calling out to his wife and consoling his daughter. Spousal obligation won out over filial love. Mr. Elias kissed Rina a hurried goodbye and ran after his wife. Decker waited for Rina to calm down, then asked, “What’d she say to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “C’mon. I’m a big boy. What’d she say?”

  Rina wiped her face with a Kleenex and looked up at him with puffy eyes.

  “She said—and I quote—‘I lived through the camps only to see the day that my daughter would marry a shaigetz and a Cossack as well!’”

  He broke into laughter.

  “Well, I’m glad you find her amusing because I don’t.”

  But the corners of her mouth had turned upward.

  “Here I am, Chmelnicki on a pogrom, killing the men, raping the women, and plundering the spoils.” His laughter turned bitter. “I’ve been called a lot of things, Rina, but Cossack is a first.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Let’s be charitable and assume your mother had an off night.”

  “She said some horrible things to you.”

  Decker shrugged. “I’m the big, bad goy who’s kidnapping her daughter. We’ll work it out in time.”

  “You’re not a goy, you’re a ger—a convert. Or at least you will be soon.”

  “But she sees me as a goy.”

  “I am not going to marry a goy!”

  “No,” Decker said. “You’re not. You’re going to marry a Jew. You’re going to sleep with a Jew. You’re going to have children with a Jew. But let’s face facts, honey. You fell in love with a Gentile.”

  She said nothing and stared vacantly out the living-room window. Shaking his head disgustedly, he swore to himself, knowing he’d just added a tributary to her already overflowing river of guilt.

  “Rina, I’m running off at the mouth. I’m very tired. Forget I said that.”

  Remaining motionless, she spoke without looking at him.

  “Every morning after I wake up, I take out my siddur and daven shemoneh esreih. And afterwards, every single morning, I pray to Hashem for understanding and forgiveness of my transgressions…Sometimes, I pray for the strength to do what I should have done a long time ago—send you away until you’ve become a Jew.”

  She turned to him.

  “But I must not have the proper kavanah—intent—when I pray, because I never have the fortitude to say goodbye.” She brushed a tear off her cheek. “Do you hate me for feeling that way?”

  “No.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “We both have misgivings.”

  “Do you not want to convert?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. But it isn’t easy to throw away nearly forty years of conditioning, especially when your own parents are very vocal about their disapproval.” He smiled sadly. “We’re getting it from both ends.”

  “You told your parents you’re converting?”

  “Sure. It’s no secret. I wrote them a letter.” He grimaced. “I wrote to my mother and told her I fell in love with an Orthodox Jew and I was converting to her faith. You know what she wrote back?”

  “What?”

  “She wrote, ‘You got singed in the fire the first time around, Peter. This time you’ll burn.’ She wasn’t nuts about Jan being Jewish, and Jan wasn’t all that Jewish. But at least I didn’t convert. This was too much for her.”

  He shrugged and Rina took his hand.

  “That was an awful thing to say,” she said indignantly.

  “Aah, I couldn’t even blame her. How do you tell your parents that you reject their values but you don’t reject them? I hurt them, Rina. I spat in their faces.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  Decker said nothing. She threw her arms around his waist, leaned her head on his chest, and gave him a bear hug.

  “I love you, Kiddo,” he said softly.

  “I love you, too,” she answered. “I’ve been so wrapped up in my own guilt, I’ve never considered the other side.”

  He smiled and kissed her forehead.

  “Have you spoken to your parents since the letter?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I called them about a week ago. They were civil. Said if we were ever down their way to stop by—as if they were talking to a casual acquaintance.”

  He tightened his embrace.

  “Rina, we have a lot going against us: meeting under such lousy circumstances, the difference in our ages and backgrounds. We can try and say screw it all—we’re our own people and love is all that matters—but you know as well as I that the baggage our parents loaded on our backs is with us forever. Let’s both try to be tolerant of them—and tolerant with each other.”

  She nodded.

  “I love you,” he said. “Kiss me.”

  She gave him a peck on the cheek.

  “No.” He cupped her chin in his hands. “I mean really kiss me.”

  He lowered his mouth onto hers, and at once he felt the passion she’d been holding back, her lips parting and her breath warm and sweet. She threw her arms around his neck, almost a chokehold, and latched onto his mouth like a suckling baby to a breast. Not wanting to get excited, he tried to break away, but she brought his mouth back to hers, greedily taking what had been denied her for so long.

  She pulled him down to the floor and fell on top of him, smothering his face with kisses. Her hands tugged at his shirt, jerking the tail out of his pants, fumbling with the buttons. Decker was caught between his own fever and the guilt he knew she’d feel if they continued. The fire won out. He tore at his shirt, popping a button as it opened, then yanked at the zipper of her dress. He’d opened it half-way when Jacob cried out—a piercing screech like the whistle of a tea kettle.

  “Oh God!” Rina wept, covering her face in her hands. “Life is so damn frustrating!”

  “Tell me about it,” Decker groaned.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” she said, panting. “I’m going nuts. I need to escape to a desert island.”

  “Just take me with you.”

  Jacob began to howl.

  She chomped on her thumbnail, trying to steady her shaking hands. “I can’t deal with this, Peter.”

  Decker stood up, buttoned his shirt, and tucked it into his pants. “You sit and dream of rum and coconuts. I’ll see what’s wrong with Jake.”

  When he came out, she had regained her composure.

  “Is he okay?” Rina asked.

  “Yes,” said Decker. “For the time being.”

  “It’s going to be a long night.”

  “Would you like me to stay—”

  “No,” Rina answered quickly. “No, that won’t do at all.” She took Decker’s hands, squeezed them, then let them go.

  “Now I know why there are such strict separation laws in Judaism,” she said.

  “I hate every one of them,” Decker answered. “I don’t suppose you’d want t
o continue where we’d left off.”

  She shook her head. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve become very tired, Peter. I’d probably be terrible.”

  He could deal with that, but didn’t push it. The moment had been lost.

  14

  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?”