“What do you have?”
She slapped some papers into his hands—warrants.
“That was fast,” he said.
“Arlington’s statement carries clout with a certain judge. Morrison called up and voilà!”
Decker read the documents—search warrants for Executive First and Cameron Smithson’s condo, and an arrest warrant for Smithson Junior himself.
“Nothing for Dustin?” he asked.
“We don’t have anything on him. Let’s be grateful for what we’ve got.” Marge put on her coat. “A couple of West L.A. detectives are searching Junior’s house. We’ll take Executive First.”
Decker pocketed the papers.
“Let’s go catch a bastard,” he said.
Forty minutes later, the detectives turned onto Avenue of the Stars. The Century City thoroughfare was an empty ribbon of glistening blacktop bordered by steel-griddle buildings that shimmered in the cool, overcast air. Marge pulled the unmarked into a loading zone in front of a postmodern edifice of chrome and glass—no doubt someone’s architectural statement, she thought. Cold cold cold!
They walked up the black brick pathway to double glass doors. The entrance hall was brightly lit by a ceiling of fluorescent tubing and a security guard sat reading Sports Illustrated in a booth to the right of a bank of six elevators.
Decker knocked and the guard looked up—a middle-aged man with thick, fleshy features and a cue-ball head. Placing his hand on his gun, the guard swaggered over to them. They showed him their badges through the glass.
“What is it?” he asked them, opening the locked door.
“We have a search warrant for suite 581 of this building,” Marge informed him. “Your superior should have notified you of our arrival.”
“No one called me,” said the bald man, shrugging.
“Why don’t you call in?” suggested Decker.
As the watchman phoned, they waited on a bench in front of the elevators. Decker placed his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his palms. Until now he hadn’t fully realized how much of his life Rina, the boys, and the yeshiva had taken up. Now, with long stretches of time suddenly at his disposal, he felt aimless instead of liberated. Sudden anger welled up inside his chest. Rina had no right to desert him. Or maybe it was the other way around. Hadn’t he suggested they take a breather from each other? But a breather didn’t mean her leaving him and moving away.
Fuck it all! Well, better hostility than depression. At least anger pumped him up for work. Depression left him a zombie.
“What do you think we’ll find?” Marge asked.
“I’m not naive enough to think that the asshole left his books out in plain view, but maybe we can locate something incriminating against the whole shitload of scum.”
“You okay, Pete?”
“Fine.”
The guard put down the receiver and motioned them over.
“Yep,” he said to them, “you’re all cleared. Someone should have called, but you know how messages get screwed up. I think half our operators are on something.” The man scrunched his eyes and rubbed his egghead. “They talk kind of slurred and giggle all the time.”
“Can you take us up now?” Marge asked impatiently.
“Oh yeah. Sure, Detective. Right away.”
He unlocked an elevator, rode with them up to the fifth floor, took out a passkey, and walked them to the suite. Muffled voices could be heard through the walls. Decker put his index finger to his lips and motioned them into the corner of the hallway, far enough away from the suite not to be heard, but close enough to keep an eye on the door.
“When did they come up here?” Marge whispered to the guard.
“They must’ve entered before I came on duty because they didn’t come after I got here. I came on duty at ten P.M.”
“Maybe they never went home from work,” Decker suggested in a hushed voice. “Go back to your station. Use the stairwell and be very quiet about it.”
The guard nodded and disappeared. Decker drew his gun.
“Expecting trouble?” Marge asked, taking out her own.
“Not really,” he answered. “I checked gun registration, and nothing was ever issued to any of the Podes or Smithsons. But Cecil pulled a .38 on me and I’m not taking any more chances with these pricks.
“If Cameron Smithson is in there, the case is duck soup. We go in and make the arrest. If he isn’t, then we’ll have to do a number on whoever is in there.”
“Namely Smithson Senior or Pode or both,” Marge said.
“Just what we were going to do anyway. Any last minute things you want to go over?”
She shook her head. “How about yourself?”
“I’m clear. Let’s go.”
They went back to the office. Decker pounded on the door and stepped aside.
“Police,” he yelled. “Open up.”
Harrison Smithson responded by partially opening the door and sticking out his head. Flushed and panting, he looked overwrought.
“What’s going on?”
“Police officers,” Marge said. She opened her wallet and showed him the badge. “Open up.”
The broker paused.
“We have a search warrant, Mr. Smithson,” she added. “You have no choice.”
Decker pushed the door open.
Dustin Pode was stooped over, brushing off the knees of his trousers. The room was in complete disarray. Filing cabinet drawers were pulled out, boxes stuffed with papers were piled on the desks and chairs. A paper shredder was going full force in the corner. Marge ran over and shut it off.
“What the hell is going on?” Pode asked.
“Planning on going somewhere, gentlemen?” Decker asked, putting his gun away.
“Who are you?” Pode spat at Decker. “Sure as hell your real name isn’t Jack Cohen.”
The detective pulled out his badge and ID, and as Pode read, a look of horrified recognition swept across his face.
“You’re the cop who murdered my father.”
Decker stuffed the badge back in his jacket and said, “We have a search warrant for this premise and an arrest warrant for Cameron Smithson.”
“Cameron isn’t here,” Harrison said quickly.
“Where is he?” Marge asked.
“I don’t know,” his father answered. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing barging in on citizens like this?”
The feigned outrage did little to conceal the obvious fright that was overtaking Smithson. Decker bore into him.
“Unless you want an obstruction charge tacked onto whatever else we find, I suggest you let us get on with our work.”
“Call Cahill and Jarrett,” Pode said softly to Smithson. “And don’t say anything until someone gets here.”
“Dustin, I think—”
“Harrison, just do as I say!”
Decker walked around the room, tangled his leg in the switchboard cord, tripped, and ripped it out of the wall.
“Goddam!” he swore. “I sure am clumsy.”
He searched his pockets and pulled out some change.
“Here. There must be a pay phone in the building somewhere. The call’s on me.”
“Generous,” Pode said, glaring at the open palm. “Keep your change. I don’t want anything from you.” He turned his attention to Smithson. “Use the phone in the lobby, Harry.”
“I think I need some air, Pete,” Marge said. “I’ll walk you down, Mr. Smithson.”
“A phone call to my lawyer is confidential, Detective,” Smithson said, trying to remain calm.
“Yeah, but a phone call to your son warning him off could get you in a lot of trouble,” Marge replied. “I’m only thinking of your welfare.”
“Make the call, Harrison,” Pode ordered.
As they left, Marge gave Decker a surreptitious wink. God bless Marjorie, he thought. If only he and the woman he loved were as attuned to each other as the two of them were.
He started sorting through the
piles of papers while trying to size up Pode. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the stockbroker methodicaly remove a box from a chair, pick up a copy of Forbes that was lying around, and bury himself in the magazine. He looked nervous but still in control. Well, let’s see if something can’t be done about that.
“You know, Pode,” he began. “I’ve been checking into you.”
“Do tell.”
“I’ve been checking into you like the way I checked into your father.” Decker pulled out a ledger and opened it. “Like I checked into your mother, like I checked into your brother…”
Pode didn’t react.
“Tell me something, Dustin. Did Earl ever stop wetting his bed?”
Pode’s only response was fingers gripping the edges of the magazine.
“He didn’t?” Decker pressed.
A small laugh emanated from behind the periodical.
“I guess not, huh?”
Silence.
“Hey, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. A lot of boys are bed wetters. I’m just curious if Earl ever licked the problem.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I would if I could find him,” said Decker. “Heard from him lately?”
Silence.
Decker had asked the morgue to hold off notifying Pode about his brother’s death. Just now Pode had responded acerbically, without fear or trepidation. Either Dustin didn’t know that Earl had died or he didn’t care.
“Where’s Cameron?” Decker asked.
“I don’t have to answer your questions,” Pode said. “Just do what you have to do and get out of here.”
“You’re right,” Decker agreed. “You don’t have to answer my questions, but I can still ask ’em. For instance, how come your mama had such a hard time opening her bedroom door to escape that fire she died in?”
Pode slammed down the magazine. His face had turned white.
“I don’t have to listen to this!”
Decker ignored him. “Now sometimes people can’t turn door handles because they’re just too damn hot to touch,” he went on. “But that’s usually the case when the fire starts on the outside, not on the inside. And if Mama did grab a red-hot handle, some of her flesh would have seared onto the metal. That didn’t happen. Now how could she not have had enough strength to turn a door handle and get the hell out of there?”
“I’m going to take a walk,” Pode said.
“I don’t think so.”
“And how do you propose to stop me?”
“How about I’m delaying you for questioning? Material witness to a triple homicide.”
“Is that official?”
“If you want it to be.”
Pode said nothing, turned around, and started straightening some papers.
“Don’t touch anything,” Decker commanded.
Clenching his jaw, Pode went back to Forbes. Decker scanned a ledger, put it aside, and ripped open another box.
“Now I know that your mother was drunk that day. In fact she was a chronic alcoholic. And chronic lushes have a keen sense of survival.” He dumped the contents of the carton of the floor and began to sort through the scattered papers. “See, what I figure is maybe Mama was trying to get out from the inside and someone was holding the door from the outside.
Carefully, Pode placed the magazine on the floor and went to the water cooler. Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead.
“As long as you’re up, how about you getting me a drink?” Decker asked.
“Get it yourself!”
“C’mon. Don’t be sore.”
“Fuck off!”
Decker got up, kicked another box and, walked over to the cooler. Dustin walked away, but Decker dogged his heels.
“Did you ever see that special with Farrah Fawcett that was on the boob tube a couple of years back? The Burning Bed, I think it was.”
Dustin sat back down in his chair and didn’t answer. Decker stood behind him, peering down over his shoulders.
“I remember when the real case hit the papers,” he said. “Francine Hughes murdered her husband by burning him to death after putting up with years of physical abuse.”
“Are you insinuating anything?” Pode croaked out.
“Nah,” he said, dismissing the thought as absurd. “Want to know what I found out about you?”
“I’m not particularly interested in what you found out,” Dustin said. He had interlaced his fingers, but the hands were still shaking.
“I looked at your medical records and found out you were an abused kid,” Decker said. “Damn shame no one reported it back then. Your mother used to get drunk a lot and whop the shit out of you. You want to know what else I found out?”
Dustin didn’t respond.
“Earl was an abused child also. But when he reached five, something amazing happened. His pediatric records stopped showing signs of physical abuse. Now yours were full of them clear up through your teens.”
Pode began to breathe heavily.
“Now this is just speculation—”
“I’m not interested,” uttered Pode weakly. But Decker went on.
“When Earl was seven, he was hauled into the doctor for treatment of burns on his hands. At first I thought this was abuse also, but then I started thinking. Burns for abuse are usually on places where people don’t see them—the back, the stomach, the butt. Burns on the hand indicate a kid playing with fire.
“See, that’s why I asked you about the bed-wetting. Fire-starting and bed-wetting, along with cruelty to animals, are a triad you find in a lot of psychopathic teenagers. I’m wondering if Earl ever tortured anything living—like bugs or pets…or people?”
Pode refused to answer. Decker began to circle him—a vulture ready to swoop.
“Let’s get a little more hypothetical,” he said. “For some reason Earl stopped getting beat up by your mother. Now I, being a curious kind of guy, think to myself, why? Maybe Earl was a weird kid who played with fire to scare Mama off, huh? What do you think about that?”
“You have a vivid imagination.”
“Earl started setting fire to Mama’s bed as she slept off her stupors. And she was a bright lady who got the message real fast. Of course she never told anyone that sonny boy was trying to burn her. Then she’d have had to admit what she was doing to you both. So she just covered her ass and said she fell asleep while smoking. And besides, she knew you’d rescue her. You were the good boy—”
“Lies—”
“Mama knew the score,” Decker said, talking over him. “Kicking the shit out of Earl just wasn’t worth getting barbecued for. Besides, there was always little old Dustin to kick around. She began laying off Earl. But that just made it worse for you, didn’t it, Dustin?”
“Filthy lies!”
“Earl thought he was helping both of you. He didn’t realize that Mama was still picking on you when he wasn’t looking. And you were too ashamed to tell him.”
Decker crouched in front of him, almost nose to nose.
“Let’s go back to May 1977,” he said.
Dustin gasped out, “No.”
“Mama was alone in her bed,” Decker said. “Earl had run away from home by then. There was no record of him in high school in ’77. Now I don’t know what the catalyst was but the idea hit you. Mama was sleeping one off, and you took a match—”
“No!” Pode yelled. “I mean, this is preposterous!”
“You set her bed on fire. Maybe you suddenly grew yourself a set of balls—”
“You don’t understand a thing!” Dustin blurted out. “My father…” He didn’t finish.
“She didn’t stay asleep like a good girl, did she, Pode? She tried to get out. No one was there to help her. Maybe someone even hindered her a little…”
“No!”
“No one blames you,” Decker said gently. “Man, I’d be pretty damn pissed if someone binged on hooch and then beat the crap out of me. And you must have been pretty pissed at her
, Dustin. I mean, to go to all the trouble to take down the personal pictures in your dad’s house and destroy them after he died. But even that wasn’t enough. You had to burn down the whole house even if it meant losing money on resale. Now that’s an angry kid.”
Dustin shook his head feebly.
“You also blew up Daddy’s studio, didn’t you?”
“No!” Pode gasped. “That’s not true! I mean, none of it is true.”
“It’s all true,” Decker continued. “I’ve seen child abuse thousands of times, Dustin. I’m just moonlighting in Homicide. I usually work Juvenile, and you’d be amazed at how many cases I’ve worked on that tell your story.”
Sweat dripped down Pode’s nose onto his shirt.
“You hot, Buddy?” Decker asked.
“No.”
“Want a handkerchief?”
“NO!”
“Okay. Just take it easy.” Decker walked away. Don’t crack him before you read him his rights. He poked around another box and found a ledger that didn’t add up. “Who does your books, Dustin?”
Pode said nothing.
“Someone’s been fudging, huh? Skimming off the top. Trying to bleed a little out of legit profits to finance turkey films and shoddy real estate deals.”
“Shut up!”
“Nah, it wasn’t you. You’re too smart. But Cameron…” Decker paused. “He’s a dumbshit, isn’t he? Earl’s best friend whom you’ve always hated. But Earl liked him. Actually they were two of a kind. Weird kids. Neighbors used to say the two of them were inseparable.”
“I’m not going to say another word, Decker.”
“I’m not saying that Earl didn’t love you. In fact, he worshipped you, emulated everything you did. If you were in Spanish Club, so was Earl, if you were on the football team, so was Earl. So you couldn’t figure out why Earl would keep seeing this creep whom you hated. Little did you know how similar they were.”
Pode said nothing, but his body was trembling.
“Let’s go back to that fateful day in May. You killed you mother—”
“No!”
“Earl had left home, but he was still in contact with you—and with Cameron. You told Earl what happened. I mean if anyone could understand, it had to be Earl. But then Earl did a dumb thing. He told Cameron.”
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