Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 02

by Sacred;Profane

  “Poor guy,” Marriot said sympathetically. He was a wiry, bespectacled man who never spoke hastily.

  “I’ll say.” Hollander turned to MacPherson. “Rina was one piece of ass.”

  “Think she was really any good?” MacPherson asked. “I mean being a nun and all.”

  “Probably dynamite,” Hollander answered, “I mean, the man had to be hooked on something else besides God, right?”

  “Mind you the only thing I did was superimpose the X rays of the skull over the painted boy’s face,” Hennon said over the phone. “But as an off-the-cuff opinion, I’d say the boy in the film matches the skull you dug up.”

  “Thanks for doing this on your weekend, Annie.”

  “I’m still waiting for a dinner, big man.”

  “How about tonight?”

  There was silence over the line.

  “You’re serious?” she asked.

  “If you are.”

  “You’re on,” Hennon said. “Anywhere specific you want to go?”

  “You choose. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Great.”

  She gave him her address in Santa Monica and Decker hung up the phone. He turned around and saw Marge.

  “Eavesdropping on me?”

  “I just came in to use the phone,” she said.

  “It’s all yours.”

  She looked down and kicked the floor absently.

  “Of course I couldn’t help but overhear a little.”

  “Hennon says the skull that we dug up in the mountains matches the painted man in the snuff film.”

  “Just as you figured.”

  “Yup.”

  “So who’s the painted boy?”

  “The Blade,” Decker answered. “Whoever he is. Find out what happened to Clementine?”

  “No.”

  “Damn. I’m so pissed at myself. I should have pulled him for a composite when I had the chance.”

  “He’ll show up eventually unless he’s running from something.”

  “My informants tell me no one is after him as far as they know,” he said.

  “Then he’ll turn up.” Marge paused, then asked: “What happened with Rina?”

  “Cultural differences,” he said.

  “I thought you liked being Jewish?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. I wasn’t aware of how involved it got. Now I am. Judaism is a hands-on religion. It takes over your life. There are dietary restrictions, sexual restrictions, drinking restrictions, clothing restrictions…You know you’re not even allowed to wear a garment made of wool and linen.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. No one does. It’s just a law.”

  He paused a moment, then said, “Over there, I’m an alien. But I’ve been a stranger in a strange land before, and I consider myself very adaptable. But adaptation is empty unless you believe in what you’re doing. I know that and so does Rina.”

  “I think about God once in a while,” Marge said.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, I think about the size of His penis.”

  Decker burst into laughter.

  “Must be a humdinger, don’t you think?” she said.

  “That’s blasphemous.”

  “Yeah, it is,” she said. “I was raised an Episcopalian, but I stopped going to church the day I sprouted pubic hairs. I don’t believe in it at all. But every once in a while, when I’m all alone in bed—a rare occasion if I can help it—I get to thinking, what if I’m wrong? What if all that crap they fed me at Sunday school turns out to be right? Then I get real spooked.

  “Rina has it made,” Marge went on. “Even with all the restrictions. If she’s wrong and there’s no one up there, she’ll be dead anyway and won’t know the difference. But if she’s right…man, she’s hit the jackpot.”

  “Do you want to come in for a nightcap?” Hennon asked, flicking on the lights to the apartment.

  “Sure,” Decker replied.

  Her condo was comfortable, full of soft colors, a pillowy sofa and plants sprouting from terra-cotta pots.

  “Have a seat,” Hennon said. “What can I get you?”

  “Coffee’s fine,” Decker answered.

  “Take off your jacket. Make yourself comfortable.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

  He removed his jacket and holster and stretched. Looking around he saw the bathroom. A few minutes later he came out to find her pointing his .38 at one of her Boston ferns.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked irritatedly. She lowered the gun.

  “I just wanted to see what it felt like being behind one of these.” She smiled. “God, you feel so invincible.”

  He didn’t smile back. Walking over to her, he gingerly took the revolver from her hands.

  “It’s loaded, Annie. You shouldn’t be fooling around with a loaded gun,” he said, placing the gun back in the shoulder harness.

  “Sorry,” she shrugged. “Coffee’s ready.”

  He sank into a brown chair, irked. Not only had she done something dumb, she’d violated his personal property.

  Returning with a tray, she set it on the coffee table.

  “Cream or sugar?” she asked.

  “Black.”

  “That’s right,” she said. Handing him a mug, she parked herself across the table.

  “You use your gun a lot?” she asked.

  “As little as possible.”

  “It gives you a sense of power, doesn’t it?”

  “Not really.” He forced a smile. “Can we change the subject?”

  She frowned.

  “Okay. What’s the weirdest case you ever were on?”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Annie, but I don’t want to talk about my work. If you want to talk about dentistry—”

  “God, no.”

  “So you understand—”

  “Yeah, but my work is so damn boring.”

  “So’s mine. Believe me.”

  “The bones case is boring?”

  “The bones case is frustrating!” He lit a cigarette. “Do you have an ashtray handy?”

  “Not really. I’m allergic to cigarette smoke.”

  “You didn’t say anything at the restaurant.”

  “I was trying to be polite.”

  Decker stared at his smoke.

  “Where can I throw this?”

  “Toss it down the sink.”

  He got up, did it, and came back.

  “So what happened with your girlfriend?” she asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about that either.” He sipped his coffee. “So you like to ski and play tennis.”

  “We exhausted that over dinner, Pete.”

  Decker smiled.

  “Yeah, we did.”

  “Come to think of it, I did most of the talking.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “So I’m getting a little tired of hearing myself blabbing.”

  “I’m a little quiet tonight,” he said.

  “True. And it makes it mighty hard to get some snappy banter going.” She chuckled. “Most of the men I date…you can’t shut them up. Always chewing your ear off about the latest hustle they have going. Trying to dress up their essentially lackluster lives. Now I get hold of a cop who works in the blood and guts of the city—who does something primal—and he doesn’t like to talk.”

  He shrugged.

  She shrugged.

  “Wanna fuck?” she asked.

  Decker burst into laughter.

  “No, I don’t wanna fuck.”

  “What kind of a girl do you think I am?” she mocked, crossing herself. “Jesus, it was just a thought. And not that unusual a question. Where have you been for the last fifteen years, Kiddo?”

  “I like you,” Decker smiled. “You make me laugh.”

  “I like you, too,” she answered. “You make me horny.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks?”

  “Yes, thanks. Would you have preferred my
ripping off your clothes in mad lust?”

  “That sounds good.”

  “You try to be a gentleman…” He laughed. “Famine to feast.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind.”

  “You’ve got your ex-friend on your mind, don’t you?”

  “She’s left her watermark.”

  “Then this was for nothing.” She seemed hurt.

  “It wasn’t for nothing. I had a nice time with you. You’re great company and a lovely woman.”

  “Sure. Let’s go out for a beer sometimes,” she said sarcastically.

  “Not in the bars I frequent. You’d have ten guys on your tail the minute you walked in the door.”

  She smiled.

  “Trying to redeem yourself, Pete?”

  “How am I doing so far?”

  “Not bad. Keep going.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “In all seriousness, tomorrow I’m going to kick myself for being such an ass tonight. I must be crazy to let you slide through my fingers.”

  “So do something about it. Make the plunge.”

  “I can’t. I’m too confused. Give me about a month or so.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and looked him over.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Thanks for the consideration,” he said. He hoped he was being disarming. Luckily, the awkward situation took care of itself. His beeper went off.

  “Phone’s over in the kitchen,” she said.

  It was Marge.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I found Clementine.”

  “I’ll be right down,” he said eagerly.

  “Hold on, Kiddo. He ain’t going anywhere. He’s in the county jail.”

  21

  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 Clement
ine.

  “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.