“Yeah. Check around and see if any fire starters have been spending a lot of cash lately.”
“Will do,” she said. “Are you going back to the station?”
“Probably,” said Decker. “Marge, when Mike’s done with Pode’s house, have him call Arnold Meisner and ask him to find Earl Pode’s medical records. Tell Mike to impress upon the doc that this is a homicide investigation and we need the chart ASAP.”
“What do you think you’re gonna find besides more evidence of child abuse.”
“I want to see if Earl was a bed wetter.”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“I’m a close theorist. We all have our weaknesses.”
“Okay,” she said. “Check in with you later.”
He placed the mike back on the receiver, gripped the wheel, and pondered his dilemma. Dammit, he needed something more—a break! If he wanted to do right by Lindsey—maybe even by Kiki—it was time to put his butt on the line.
The executive offices of Arlington Steel were on the fifteenth floor of a downtown building that looked like a monolith carved from Swiss cheese. Odd holes and balconies robbed the structure of any smoothness of line. Decker took the elevator up. The receiving office was manned by a receptionist who had her nose buried in a donut and coffee. She was chunky, with big knockers and a permanently confused look branded on her face. He approached the desk.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
The woman looked up.
“I’d like to see Mr. Arlington.”
She started flipping through the appointment calendar.
“He’s not expecting me, but this…” He leaned in close. “This is a personal matter. I think he’d like to talk to me.”
“You can’t see Mr. Arlington without an appointment,” she said.
“But I have to see him. He’ll be very disappointed if he doesn’t see me.”
The baffled look deepened.
“Uh, let me buzz Ms. Scott, Mr. Arlington’s personal secretary—”
“Is she through that door?”
“Yes, all the offices are. But you can’t—”
“That’s okay.”
“Wait a minute,” the plump woman protested, hurrying after Decker as he sprinted down the hallway.
The corridor ended in a pair of twelve-foot rosewood double doors with a pair of brass name plaques affixed to them: Armand Arlington, Chairman of the Board, and directly under it in smaller letters, Ms. Monique Scott, Executive Secretary. He swung one door open, almost clipping the receptionist, and marched into the interior office. A statuesque blonde stood up and glared at both of them.
“He just stormed past me, Ms. Scott. I—”
“I’ll handle it, Jeanine. Go back to your desk.”
Decker locked eyes with Scott. The stuff of which dreams are made, Mama. She was in her late twenties, with wide-set gray eyes and full, bee-stung lips. Decker smiled. She didn’t. Her eyes hardened into cold, metal dimes.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Arlington,” he said.
“He’s not here.”
“Then I’ll wait in his office.”
“The adjoining door is locked and I’m not about to buzz you in.”
She sauntered to the front of her desk and placed her hands on her hips.
“Listen, sir, I don’t know who you think you are storming your way in like this, but Mr. Arlington doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. If you don’t leave, I’m going to call Security.”
Decker flashed her his badge and Ms. Scott sighed.
“What seems to be the trouble, Officer?”
“It’s personal, ma’am.”
She dialed a number and spoke into the receiver in a carefully modulated voice.
“Mr. Arlington won’t be available for another three hours,” she told him.
“I’ll wait.” Decker held up a folder he was carrying. “I’ll just do a little work in the meantime.”
He sat down in a brocade wingback.
“I’d prefer that you wait outside in the receiving office. The chairs are quite comfortable out there. I’ll have Jeanine bring you coffee if you’d like.”
“It’s a lot quieter in here,” Decker answered without budging.
“It’s impossible for me to concentrate with you here.”
“I’ll be real quiet.”
She glared at him, but returned to her desk chair and lit a cigarette.
“Oh, you smoke,” he said. “Then you don’t mind if I do?”
“I only have one ashtray. There are several outside.”
“I like to share.” Decker lit up, walked over to the desk, lit a match, and tossed it in the crystal dish. Standing over her shoulder, he peered at her paperwork.
“Officer, I find it difficult to work with you breathing down my neck.”
“Oh, sorry.” He backed away. “I was just curious about what you do. People ask me all the time about my work.”
She didn’t answer. Walking back to his chair, he took off his jacket.
“I work in Sex Crimes, you know.”
She looked up at him. When he had caught her eye, he unhitched his gun and opened the barrel, dumping the bullets into his palm.
“I had this rape case once that was unbelievable,” he said. His cigarette dangled from his lips and dropped ash as he spoke.
Her eyes fixed on the gun for a moment, then quickly focused down to her desktop. “I’m very busy—”
The first bullet clunked into the chamber.
“Seems like two convicts had just gotten out of the slammer and picked up this whore…” He sighted down the revolver and aimed it toward the window.
“Do you have to do that?” the secretary asked nervously.
“Do what?”
“Point that thing?”
He laughed, lowered the gun, and plunked two more bullets into the barrel. “Hey, you’re safe. I’m an A-one shot. Only pick off what I’m aiming at and I’m not aiming at you.”
The woman didn’t appear consoled.
“Where was I?” He puffed out a cloud of smoke from his cigarette, finished reloading, and snapped the chamber shut. “Oh, yeah…these two hardtimers bought this bimbo and brought her to a hotel room—not too far from here actually, around Fifth and Main. Anyway, they took turns doing a number on her with a coat hanger and a bar of soap—”
“Officer, I’m really not interested—”
“Then, one of them gets the bright idea of calling up a bunch of their buddies for a little party. Ten minutes later, about fifteen of them show up—”
“Officer—”
“And do their thing ’til the poor hooker passes out. When she comes to, she’s got six guys going at her in every conceivable orifice. Blood’s spurting like a geyser—”
“Please!”
“Know what happened?” He smiled. “They pierced through the vagina into the abdominal wall—”
“Let me try and get hold of Mr. Arlington again.”
“That’s a terrific idea, Ms. Scott,” he said, smiling. He stared at the beautiful face, now coated with a sickly green pallor. He almost felt sorry for her.
Five minutes later Arlington stomped in. Decker remembered him from the film bust as being a small man cowering in the corner, hiding from the spray of human remains. But on his own turf he seemed larger, augmented by power and anger. His black eyes spat fire, his mouth quivered with fury, lips almost white from tension. The only thing that softened him was his nose—veiny, bulbous, a product of too much ninety proof.
“You’re in big trouble, Detective,” he bellowed. “I’m going to call up your superior right now and—”
“I’m not here in an official capacity, Mr. Arlington. Why don’t we have a little chat in your suite?”
“Get out of here!”
“Mr. Arlington, there are things I’d like to say to you, and I don’t want to say them in front of your secretary.”
“Call Secur
ity, Monique,” Arlington ordered.
Decker ripped the phone away from her hands.
“You’ve got a wife and six kids,” Decker said quickly. “I’m sure they know about Monique here. I don’t think they’re aware of any of your other peculiarities. I’d be happy to tell them about it if you’d like. After all, I was there when you were arrested, Charlie.”
The rage subsided as Arlington weighed his options. Perfectly composed, he unlocked the door to the inner office and stood aside for Decker to enter.
His suite was rich, dark, and austere, and smelled of leather and good tobacco. The desk was nine feet wide, traditional, and intricately carved, with a leather top upon which sat a marble desk set and crystal inkwell. The walls were oxblood embossed leather alternating with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with gold mesh doors. The oils were Flemish and mostly unfamiliar to Decker, but he knew they weren’t dimestore copies. The artists he did recognize were a Hals over the marble mantlepiece and a Vermeer on the opposite side of the room. Decker sat in a leather armchair and propped his feet on an ottoman. Next to him was a mounted globe, which he spun idly, watching the countries pass under the tips of his fingers.
Arlington sat behind his desk.
“Who is your superior?”
Decker flipped him a card.
“Call this extension. Ask for Captain Morrison. He’ll deny sending me here and I’ll catch hell, if that’s what you want.”
Arlington picked up the phone, but put it down. Wordlessly, he opened his drawer and took out a wad of cash.
“How much?”
“I’m not interested in money. I need information.”
“As I told the police before, the screenings were arranged by Cecil Pode. He’s dead. That’s all I can say.”
“Pode distributed, but he isn’t the type of scum you’d work with directly. You’d deal with someone more respectable than a two-bit bagman—someone with at least a veneer of respectability.”
Arlington pursed his lips.
“I have nothing else to say.”
“Then maybe I’ll ring up your little woman. I also have this friend over at the Times—”
“I’ll sue your ass off. I’ll ruin you.”
“I’m sure you will.” He stood up and trudged over to the Hals with his hands in his pocket. “I was at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam in 1970. Unbelievable—a place like that buried in the midst of all that decadence. Back then Dam Square was triple-stacked with dropouts. I’ve heard they’ve cleaned it up since then.” He glared at Arlington. “It’s good to do housecleaning and take out the garbage, don’t you think?”
“I’m not interested in a travelogue, Decker. If you have nothing further to say, leave and we’ll both get on with our business.”
“You know,” said Decker, “I figure, what the hell! Time for a career change. I’ve been thinking of doing something more spiritual anyway. Jesus, you work on the street and see shit pile up day after day—burnt out runaways, hookers, pimps, murderers, rapists, burglars, robbers. And kinky rich scumbags with influence buying their way out of retribution.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m sick of this job. I’d like to get away from it all. Maybe you’d be doing me a favor, Armand. Let’s put it this way. If I don’t hear from you by, let say…” Decker glanced at his watch, “this time tomorrow, you make your move and I’ll make mine.”
“Get the hell out of here!”
“Thank you for your time, sir.”
23
Decker decided to ride bareback. He threw a woolen blanket over the black stallion and mounted the rippling back. The horse protested by lurching forward and breaking into a gallop around the pen. Decker dug his heels into its haunches; the animal neighed, stopped, and reared. He tightened the reins and pulled backward, but again the horse rebelled, sprinting wildly, racing toward the fences. Decker jerked tightly to the left, forcing the horse to turn to avoid collision. The stallion sprinted, slowed down to a canter, then down to a trot, panting from the sudden burst of activity.
The horse was a beauty, too thickset for show, but light on his feet and full of spirit. Decker loved breaking in the animals, but once they were tame, he felt guilty. Afterwards, they never seemed quite as spunky, always carrying themselves with an air of wounded pride. On a rare occasion a horse would defy his best efforts. He’d curse his failure, but couldn’t help admiring the animal’s tenacity. Way to go, he’d think. Some fires just can’t be put out.
He exercised the horse for an hour, changing directions with a simple pull of the reins, picking up speed with the slightest increase of heel pressure on the hindquarters.
Cut another notch for Cowboy Pete. Why, he’s just a good ole boy, herding them dogies, riding the wilds of Lake Okeechobee, Florida.
Florida cowboys. A proud tradition. His uncle had ranched all his life, took over the place from his grandfather. As a kid, Decker would spend summers on the central plains of the state, hanging out with the ranch hands, laughing at the western hot shots who’d wilt in the humidity of the swamp’s heat.
Them boys never had to deal with ’gators, skeeters, and swamps, the hands would say. They mighten be big men in Texas, but out here, they’s pussies.
Eat shit, Waylon and Willie.
If things didn’t work out with Arlington, he could always go back and ride with Uncle Wilbert, or even go back to Dad and the store.
Uncle Wilbert and Dad. Just your typical down-home millionaires. One day, while herding near Orlando, Uncle Wilbert had discovered Disney scouts sniffing land. Dad had been reluctant at first, but at last agreed to fund Wilbert’s real estate ventures.
Mucho moolah, and in the end, it didn’t make any difference. Dad went back to his hardware store in Gainsville, Uncle Wilbert continued to ride, and all the money was still sitting in the bank collecting interest. No fancy stocks and bonds, just plain old cash clogging up the bank. Millions accumulating for a rainy day.
Lack of sleep was catching up with him. He dismounted and led the horse back into the stable, with Ginger nipping at his heels. He patted the setter’s head and offered both animals water—dog and horse, drinking a toast together. Taking out the combs and brush, he began to methodically groom the horse. An hour later he headed for a hot shower.
He turned the pages and sat upright as he read the climax of the novel. Bam! The cops just blew away the society lady. A righteous shooting but strong stuff for fiction, he thought. The author hadn’t crapped out the ending because the woman was delicate, and he liked that. But he felt sorry for the cops. All the paperwork. Then there’d be the visit from Internal Affairs. And since the family had money, no doubt there was going to be a hell of a lawsuit. The superior breathing down their backs. Not to mention the bad press!
The doorbell rang. Ten pages from the end. He glanced at the clock—11:30. He’d been reading for three hours straight.
Who the hell could that be?
Reluctantly he put the book down and got out of bed. He threw a robe over his nude body and went over to the front door. To his astonishment, it was Rina.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah…Sure.” He stepped out of the way. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine.”
Her eyes ran down his body, arousing and embarrassing him at the same time. She turned away and sat down in a buckskin chair, folding her hands tightly in her lap. Decker took a seat opposite her and waited for her to speak. But she didn’t.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“You didn’t return my calls. I wanted to come when I was sure to catch you home.”
“I was going to return them—”
“But you never got around to it.”
“I’ve been swamped with work, Rina.”
She said nothing.
“Who’s taking care of the kids?” he asked.
“They’re at my parents for the night.”
Decker ran his fingers through his hair. “Look
, let me get dressed—”
“Don’t bother. I’ll make it quick. I’m leaving for New York tomorrow night. I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“How long are you going to be gone?”
“I’m moving there.”
Decker’s mouth dropped open.
She shrugged.
“Bye,” she said.
“You’re moving?”
“Yes.”
“Permanently?”
She nodded.
“You’re leaving the yeshiva?”
“It was a womb for me, Peter—nurturant, protective. It served its purpose. Now I have to get on with my life.”
“Just like that? You’re picking up your kids and moving to New York?”
Again she nodded.
Decker was dumbfounded.
“What do the boys think about it?” he managed to choke out.
“They’re very excited.”
“What are you going to do there?” Decker got up and began to pace. His heart clopped against his chest and his head began to throb. “I mean have you thought about what the hell you’re going to do there?”
“My husband’s parents have found me an apartment very close to them,” she answered calmly. “I’ve always gotten along very well with my in-laws. Much, much better than with my own parents. They’re delighted to have me come out, and especially happy to get a chance to really know their grandchildren. I’m also very close to one of Yitzchak’s sisters. She’s found me a job.”
Decker began to panic.
“What kind of a job?” he asked.
“A bookkeeper in her husband’s factory.”
“What kind of factory?” he asked. As if he gave a shit!
“He’s a wholesale furrier. He makes furs for the major department stores.”
“What do you know about bookkeeping?” he said, challenging her. Why am I asking her stupid questions?
“I’m a math teacher, remember?”
“That’s not the same as bookkeeping!” How can she be so fucking clam!
“I’m sure I can figure it out,” she said. “Peter, there is nothing here for me anymore. My house is a nightmare of lost love and what should have been. If I stay in this town any longer, I’ll rot.”
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