“I need some air,” Pode said, suddenly gasping.
Decker turned the air conditioner on full blast.
“Want to get it off your chest?” Decker urged.
“Fuck off!”
“Now Weirdo Cameron had you by the balls. He started blackmailing not only you but your father as well. Cameron would make sadistic porno films—snuffs—and force your father to film them and use his old porno contacts to peddle them. If your father refused, Cameron threatened to tell the police how you murdered your mother—”
“No!”
“Ever see one of the films, Dustin? Ever see the look of abject terror on the girl’s face as she’s being sliced and tortured. Ever see flesh burn? Too bad the films couldn’t have featured the putrid smell of sizzling skin—”
“NO, NO, NO!” Pode screamed. “They were all staged, damn it! It was ketchup and Karo syrup…”
He sunk to his knees.
“Tell me about it, Dustin?”
“NO!”
“Then I’ll keep talking.” Decker glanced at his watch. “Wonder what’s keeping Detective Dunn and Mr. Smithson?”
He smiled, knowing the number she must be playing on Senior. Damn, she was good.
“Before I keep going, let me just read you your rights, just for the hell of it.”
Pode said nothing as Decker Mirandized him.
“Sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
Pode didn’t answer.
“Where were we?” Decker pulled Dustin back onto the chair and leaned over his shoulder. “Oh yeah. Cameron made films, Earl and the Countess starred in them, and the proceeds went to pay off Cammy Boy’s sour investments. Damn son of a bitch always fancied himself as a bigwig producer artiste, didn’t he? Kissed up to assholes like Armand Arlington when they all thought he was a piece of shit.”
Pode let out low moan.
“When you protested, Cameron would threaten to blow the lid on you and your father. At first your dad was genuinely coerced, but then he started enjoying the extra revenue—helped pay off his gambling debts to the loan sharks. But the only problem was, the more money he had, the more he blew. See, Dustin, I know everything—”
Pode bolted up and began to pace.
“You don’t know a damn thing!” he shouted. “She would have killed us all! She was getting worse. She was paranoid when she was drunk. Thought everyone was out to get her. She was coming after us with knives! She once cut up Dad so badly…”
He leaned against a wall and started to weep. Decker let the sobs continue for a minute, then walked over to him and gently placed his hands on his shoulder.
“I understand,” he said softly. “Look, Dustin, none of this is your fault. It’s Cameron’s. He was the one who murdered. He murdered the Countess, didn’t he?”
Dustin sniffed and nodded his head.
“Did he tell you why he did it? He did it for money, didn’t he?”
Again Dustin nodded, as he dried his eyes on his shirt sleeve. The man had turned pathetic.
“She wanted a bigger piece of the pie, huh?” Decker asked.
“That’s what Cameron told me,” Dustin said in a weak voice. “He threatened to expose me if I told anyone.”
“Threatened you with what?”
“You know.”
“Your mother?”
Dustin nodded.
“Cameron’s evil, Dustin, a psychopath. He’s the one who talked your brother into killing Lindsey—”
“My brother never killed anyone. I told you it was all staged!”
“I saw the film, Dustin. The girl died. Your brother and the Countess killed her. Then Cameron went ahead and used the same gun that killed Lindsey Bates to murder the Countess and your brother.”
Either Pode didn’t hear him or Decker’s timing was off, because the broker didn’t react.
“Did you understand what I said, Dustin?”
The tear-stained face looked up.
“Earl’s dead, Dustin.”
Pode shook his head no.
“He was positively identified by dental records, Dustin. Cameron killed him—”
“No!” Pode screamed, drool slipping out of the corners of his mouth. “No!” He lunged at Decker, who sidestepped the attack, and went stumbling onto his knees.
“Cameron killed your brother. I know about it. Tell me where he is.”
“No, no, no!” He was wailing now. Decker let him cry it out, then helped him off his knees and back onto the chair.
“He couldn’t have killed Earl,” Pode argued desperately. “He told me Earl had left town. I just got a postcard from Mexico.”
“Cameron must have had it mailed. Earl’s dead, Dustin. I saw his skull this afternoon, complete with the mid-line lower jaw fracture.”
“Dear God!” The man’s shoulders heaved with sobs. “He was all I had. I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this nightmare.”
“It’s all true. Cameron killed your brother for the same reason he killed the Countess. They were trying to extort more bread from him, and Cammy Boy couldn’t afford ’em any longer. So he whacked ’em. I’ve got the ledgers, Dustin. They’ll tell me the whole story.”
Dustin shook his head like a child denying a sinful thought.
“Help me find the bastard, Dustin. Tell me where he is.”
“I don’t know,” Pode said weakly. “I don’t know.”
“We all know that Cameron wasn’t just working with your father and brother. There had to be someone bigger. Who else was involved?”
“I don’t know anything. I tried to keep out of it.”
“Maybe for names, we could strike a deal with the district attorney.”
“I don’t know anything.” Pode’s body was shaking, jerking loosely as if he were having a seizure. “I swear it!”
“Did Cameron take off?” Decker asked.
Numbly, Pode nodded.
“When?”
“Few hours ago. One of his contacts…” Pode blew his nose and started crying again. “When can I see him?”
“Who?”
“My brother. When can I pick him up?”
“I’ll see to it that the body’s immediately released, but you’ve got to help me out, Dustin.”
Pode began to weep uncontrollably. Decker shook him.
“Help me, dammit. Help yourself, for God’s sake!” he yelled. “Where is Cameron?”
“I don’t know!” Dustin screamed back. “I swear it! A contact tipped him off over the phone that the cops were closing in. He didn’t even bother to pack. Just took off.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would his father know where he is?”
“I don’t know. Harry didn’t tell me if he did.”
If Smithson Senior knew anything, Marge would find out.
“Why didn’t Cameron take off as soon as the cops started to investigate?”
“He claims he had protection.”
Arlington!
“Was Harrison Smithson involved in the film business?” Decker asked.
“Not as far as I know. He knew something wasn’t right, but never asked questions. When Cameron told him to start packing, Harrison did as told. That was part of the problem. Harrison spoiled the kid rotten. His only child. Let the son of a bitch have everything he ever wanted.”
“Why didn’t you take off after Cameron called?” Decker asked.
“Someone had to clean house,” Pode said flatly.
“Do you know who the contact was?” Decker asked.
Pode shook his head.
“C’mon, Dustin! Save your ass and tell me a name!”
“I don’t know anything, Sergeant. I swear I don’t know!”
“I hope you know something for your own sake. Something you can bargain with. Tell me anything you know that might help your case, Dustin. These ledgers are full of incriminating evidence. You admitted knowing about the snuff films—”
“They told me
they were staged!”
“But you knew about them.”
Pode said nothing.
“Dammit, Dustin. Who made the fucking call to Cameron?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who were his contacts?”
“I don’t know.”
“Big shots?” Decker asked.
“He claimed they were.” Pode looked at Decker and beseeched, “What do you want from me? I don’t know anything.”
Decker sighed. He’d have to get Arlington another way.
“All right. Let’s take it slow. What time did Cameron take off?”
“The call came at about ten tonight. He left right afterwards.”
After banking hours, Decker thought. If Cameron was going to hole up somewhere, he’d have to get hold of some money.
“Did Cameron have cash on hand?”
“You kidding? The son of a bitch was always in the hole.”
“Did he have any kind of nest egg?”
Dustin looked sick.
“We had a…”
“Slush fund?” Decker tried.
“More like an emergency fund. At the Security Pacific here in Century City.”
“How much is in there?”
“About twenty thousand.”
“Can he withdraw from it without your consent?”
“He needs all three signatures, and he can only withdraw the money at this branch.”
“How is Cameron at forging signatures?”
Pode’s face turned a bilious green.
“God!” He bowed his head in utter defeat. “I know what you’re thinking. That he’ll probably come by tomorrow morning and try to pick it up.” He buried his face in his hands and began to cry again. “Oh Jesus Christ, what happened to my life?”
It was close to five by the time Decker finished all the paperwork. His back and shoulders ached and his head was exploding. Popping a couple of aspirins in his mouth, he swallowed them dry, stretched, and walked over to the coffee urn. Some kind soul had had the decency to brew up a fresh batch.
He poured himself a cup of black coffee and went back to his desk, troubled. Dustin Pode had burned his house down because he hated his mother. But he didn’t harbor overt animosity toward his father. So why would he blow up Cecil’s studio? And why the sudden switch from arson to detonators? Dustin insisted he hadn’t done it. Maybe he was telling the truth.
He walked over to Marge. She was catnapping at her desk and he shook her shoulders gently. She awoke abruptly and confused.
“What time is it?” She bolted upward.
“About five.”
“Why the hell did you wake me up?” she asked, irritatedly. “We’ve still got three hours before we have to be at the bank.”
“Take a ride with me,” Decker said.
“Where?”
“To the beach.”
“What?” she said, laughing. But she was already reaching for her coat.
“Let’s go visit another angry young man,” he said. “I’ll explain on the way over.”
Truscott opened the door, rubbed his eyes, and broke into a vacant grin.
“I was expecting you,” he giggled. “I was. I was. I was.”
The kid had changed, The depression was gone. He was dancing around in a tiny circle, clapping his hands and stomping his feet as if doing a hora.
Decker looked around. The place had changed, too. The black sheets had ben removed, and in their place were photos of Lindsey, hundreds of them, papering the walls. The floor was a garbage dump—heaps of empty styrofoam hamburger containers, empty Coke cups, cigarette butts, half-eaten doughnuts and cookies, quart containers with melted ice cream oozing out, cupcake wrappers.
Twinkie defense, thought Decker.
“You shouldn’t have blown up the studio,” Decker said gently.
“We had to,” Chris said, looking at the walls. “Didn’t we, Lindsey? I told you we’d get the sucker, and we did, Babydoll.” He burst into applause and shouted. “Yea!”
“Chris, someone could have gotten hurt,” Marge said.
“Uh uh, no way. No way, José!” Truscott shook his head vehemently. “I made sure. I saw you guys go in, I waited for you guys to go out. I waited till everyone was far away. I made sure. I don’t want to hurt anybody except the fucker who hurt us. Right, Babydoll?”
He was talking to the wall again.
Marge looked at Decker. He shrugged.
“We’re going to call Santa Monica police now, Chris,” Decker said. “You’re going to be arrested. Do you have a lawyer?”
“Nope.”
“They’ll give you one,” Decker said. “Don’t say anymore until you’ve talked with your lawyer. All right?”
Truscott smiled angelically. “May I use the bathroom?” he asked politely. “I’d like to wash up before I go.”
“No,” Marge said. “Stay right here.”
“I have to make pee-pee,” Truscott babbled out.
“Make in your pants,” she said softly.
He did and smiled as his pants leg became saturated with urine.
“Suicidal,” Marge whispered to Decker. “I don’t want him alone in there.”
They waited in silence until the police arrived. The detectives gave their statements as Chris was led out whistling “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Decker watched as they stuffed him in a blue and white cruiser. Involuntarily, he found himself planning the kid’s defense. A psych. eval.; the kid was obviously distressed—no, distraught. Much better word. Bring in a few of Lindsey’s friends as character witnesses. Mention that Lindsey’s father had been feeding Chris’s bottomless pit of guilt. The kid had no priors—Decker had checked that out when he’d suspected him in Lindsey’s death. No one had been injured in the blast. Even with a mediocre lawyer, Chris should get off with probation.
Decker rubbed his arms, remembering how he had held Chris, rocked him as he wept. A pitiful, broken kid, consumed with guilt. He made a mental note to call up Chris’s PD. The young man needed psychiatric counseling and his lawyer could request it. Decker hoped to God that the court would follow the recommendation. The last thing he needed was another body on his conscience.
26
“Think Cammy Boy will show?” Decker asked Marge over the radio.
“Who knows?” she answered. “But we’ve got nothing else to lose. Daddy doesn’t know where he is; Mommy doesn’t know where he is; Pode doesn’t know where he is; and Cameron doesn’t have any other friends.”
“If he doesn’t turn up,” said Decker, “maybe the papers we seized last night will tell us something.”
“Hope springs eternal.”
The bank had opened fifteen minutes ago. Decker readjusted his stance and scanned the twenty-story building. He was situated behind a pillar with a view of the back exit. Marge was watching the front. Behind him, across a large, paved courtyard was Century City Shopping Center. The outdoor mall was a conglomeration of department stores, trendy boutiques, and alfresco sandwich shops. Around noon, the walkways were often filled with popcorn, cookie, and candy vendors, flower stands, and espresso machines on push-carts. Decker’s ex-wife often shopped there with Cindy. Decker found the place overly cute.
He looked in front of him, then over his shoulder. People were mulling around, skittering about like moths on a lightbulb. Then what was he, he thought. A hawk? Was there a purpose to all of this? He looked at the sky. Damn it, he swore. If You’re out there, why don’t You ever show Your face. Make it all so much easier.
He was still angry at Rina. She had finally given herself over to him completely only to withdraw literally from his grasp. He ached inside and out and felt it was all her fault.
Aw, screw it! Maybe it wasn’t Rina at all. Just lack of sleep or a decent meal. Maybe it was age.
He saw Cameron and snapped himself out of his funk.
“Go in and take him, Pete,” said a voice on the radio.
Decker began his cautious approach, and when he was clos
e enough, called out his name. Smithson turned around.
“He’s got a gun!” someone shouted into the wireless.
Decker hit the ground as Cameron let go with two shots and headed in the direction of the mall. Decker and a half dozen cops took off after him, dodging screaming shoppers.
Smithson stopped, took aim, fired again, and ducked into the Broadway, knocking down mannequins and upsetting racks of spring fashions. Bright-hued fabrics spilled onto the floor, dripping color like paint off an artist’s palette. Decker tripped over an anorexic dummy modeling a string bikini and red plastic sunglasses. The head split open, revealing a skull as empty as the expression frozen on its face. He regained his footing, heard the crack of a bullet whizzing past him, and fell back onto the floor. As soon as he saw Smithson take off, he got up and followed. His quarry sprinted up the escalator, pushing women behind him as he approached the second, then the third level.
Shrieks were accompanied by shattering glass. Smithson was in the China Department. The police approached slowly, avoiding the shards of broken crystal and china. An eerie calm hung in the air, the sound of shallow breathing.
Then a lead crystal ship’s decanter shot out of nowhere and smashed into a cop. The heavy mass of solid glass bounced off his face and blood poured out of his nose. Gouges etched his cheeks and face. He clutched at his eyes.
“Call an ambulance,” Decker shouted.
Another officer ministered to the wounded man as Decker rushed after Cameron, who had sped back down the escalator to the first floor, into Men’s Wear.
“He’s at the tie counter!” Decker shouted. “Dammit it, clear everyone out of there!”
“Freeze, fucker!” a policeman yelled.
Smithson grabbed the first person he could reach—an elderly gray-haired woman with thick glasses that made her eyes look bulging—and placed a gun to her temple.
“Step back or she’s dead,” he said between gasps of air. “You understand?”
“No one make a move,” the commanding officer yelled. “Everyone back off!”
The woman began to hyperventilate, and her eyes rolled backward.
“Just do what he says,” the commander ordered. “Just do what he says.”
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