Sacred and Profane (11 page)

Soon he became absorbed in the material, looking up references, checking sources, attempting to translate and understand the Hebrew which still eluded him.

It seemed he’d only been at it for minutes when he found himself squinting. The daylight had turned to dusk and it wouldn’t be long before the unlit room turned pitch black. He leaned back in his chair and inhaled deeply, enjoying the solitude, feeling very calm. His arm felt much better; Rina had done an excellent job. She never ceased to surprise him—so utterly feminine yet so com
petent. He saw firsthand how she handled crises, and her strength and willpower were scary. Maybe it was the religion; the women in the Bible were not known for their passivity—Judith lopping off the head of Holofernes, Yael driving a tent peg through Sisera’s temples. He could picture Rina doing that. After all, didn’t she buy a gun?

He heard footsteps and saw Rabbi Schulman dressed in his formal Shabbos silks. Decker started to rise, but the old man motioned him to remain seated.

“How’s your arm?” the old man asked.

“She told you?”

“You should have gone to a hospital. Shabbos should not be preserved at risk to human life.” He sat down. “
Pekuah nefesh
—your life is more important. Halachically, you should have gone.”

“Let me ask you this, Rabbi Schulman. If it had been you, what would you have gone?”

The Rosh Yeshiva sighed.

“Halacha is halacha. If I were convinced it was life-threatening, I would have gone.”

“You’re hedging.”

“What you did was unwise, Peter.” The old man smiled dryly. “And on top of that, you missed my lecture.”

“What language did you give it in this time?” Decker asked grinning.

“Hebrew and Yiddish. But you’re a bright man. You would have picked up something.”

Schulman raised his eyebrows.

“You looked tired at
shacharis
this morning. A blind person could see your exhaustion, now. Go to my house and rest.”

“I want to go to
mincha
,” Decker said.

The old man nodded.

“All right. Come with me. I won’t waste an old man’s breath to try to dissuade you.”

The men rose and Decker tensed his bicep. The joint was still stiff, but there was some limited motion—progress.

It was Sammy’s and Jacob’s turn to hold the havdalah candle. They stood on top of chairs flanking Decker, at the side of the dais, and lifted the silver candle holder high in the air. The Rosh Yeshiva struck the match and held it to the wicks, and soon the multicolored strands of braided wax were aglow with bright orange flames. The light flickered over the boys’ faces, and for a moment Decker flashed to the bonfires in Hotel Hell. The faces of the young squatters had been masks of death, but these boys were vibrant with life. Decker wrapped his fingers over their hands to protect them from the hot wax drippings and Sammy smiled at him. It warmed his heart.

Rav Schulman raised the silver goblet of wine and began, intoning a mellow singsong:

“
Baruch atah Adonai Elohenu, Melach Haolam borei pre hagofen
.”

Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has created the fruit of the vine.

The congregation responded with a resonant “Amen.”

The rabbi put down the wine cup and lifted a two-foot sculptured tower of silver. Its roof was peaked and topped by a gilt flag; gilt bells dangled from the edge of the eaves. Three of the tower’s sides were embossed with Hebrew letters, the fourth held a miniature door. Inside were spices—cloves, frankincense, allspice, whole chunks of cinnamon. In a loud voice, the rabbi made the blessing over the aromatics, opened the door, and deeply inhaled their sweet/tart perfume. He passed the tower to
Decker who held it to the boys’ noses and his own, then returned it to the rabbi.

“Amen.”

The rabbi put down the spicebox and blessed God, the creator of light, by holding his fingernails close to the flame of the candle. He then recited the rest of the
havdalah
, the prayer marking the conclusion of Sabbath. Soon the new secular work week would start and God’s holy day of rest would officially be over.

Mellifluously, Schulman recited the last blessing and took a sip of wine. He poured the remaining wine into a silver dish, took the candle, and quenched the flame in it. The fire crackled and sparked until it was reduced to a stream of smoke.

“
Baruch atah Adonai hamavdil beyn kodesh lechol
.”

Blessed art Thou, Oh Lord, who hast made a distinction between sacred and profane.

The first snapshot
was a white anus being penetrated by a black penis. Decker tossed it aside, but Hollander picked it up for a second look. He was a bald man with a fringe of brown hair, a large walrus mustache, and an overhang of belly. He was smiling this morning. He liked this assignment.

“Do you think this is a boy ass or a girl ass?” he asked Decker, puffing on his meerschaum. “From this angle, I can’t tell.”

Decker snatched the photo out of his hands and gave him a sour look.

“Mike,” he said, “we’re supposed to be looking at faces, not asses.” He held up several snapshots of Lindsey Bates. “
This
girl, Mike. We’re looking for
this
girl.”

The detective grunted unappreciatively and sucked in his gut.

“And put out the pipe,” Decker snarled. “This room is cramped enough without you smogging it up.”

Hollander killed the embers.

“What’s eating
your
ass, Rabbi? Have a bad weekend at the Holyland?”

“I had too good a weekend,” Decker complained. “I’m not ready to come back to this shit.”

“Pete, there are at least a dozen guys out there just waiting for this assignment.”

“And I’d be glad to give it to the drooling bastards, but the case is mine, Michael.”

“All I’m sayin’ is if this is gettin’ to you, you’ve got lots of backup.”

Decker picked up another photo. A blonde girl was fellating a fat man with a wart on his penis. Decker studied her face and then rejected it.

“Shit, Pete, get a load of the size of this—”

“I’m not interested.”

A moment later, Marge walked in.

“You know, MacPherson offered to trade Easter weekend with me if I’d give him this assignment.” She was incredulous. “Those boys are the horniest bunch of schmucks I’ve ever seen.”

“You don’t understand the male species, Marjorie,” Hollander said.

“You’ll explain it to me someday, Michael.”

He grinned lecherously. “Just give me a date.”

“Tell you what,” she said. “We’ll break in the twenty-first century together.”

Hollander was silent and appeared to be concentrating.

“Thirteen years from now, Mike,” Decker said.

Marge laughed. “Have a snapshot of Lindsey to refresh my memory?” she asked Decker.

He handed her one of their working pictures. It was Lindsey’s junior high school graduation photo—a head shot of an even-featured teenager ripening to womanhood—a flirtatious smile, a gleam in the eye. There was nothing stiff and frozen about the picture. Lindsey had presence. Marge made a face.

“Pretty little thing, wasn’t she,” Hollander said. “Damn shame.”

“She was Cindy’s age,” Decker said. “I asked around about her all day yesterday. Combed every mission, shelter, halfway house, and drug rehab center in the L.A.
San Fernando Valley area, and nobody had ever seen her. I even took the photo down to Skid Row and tried some of the street people. Nada. This is a last resort and it probably won’t turn up anything. She was a nice kid according to everyone I’ve talked to. I don’t think we’ll find her in these archives.”

“Hey, Margie,” Hollander said, “Take a look at the—”

“Not interested, Michael.”

Hollander grumbled and chewed on his cold pipe stem.

Marge began sorting through a pile of pornography.

“How many boxes of this garbage do we have?” she asked.

“As many as you want,” Decker said, tossing photographs aside.

“You ever get hold of Mr. Bates?” Marge asked.

Decker winced and waved his hand in the air.

“That bad, huh?” Hollander said.

“One of those repressed types,” said Decker. “Midway through the questions, he cracked. It was
bad
. The floodgates opened and it was all downhill from that point on. God, I feel for that man. I don’t think I’d do any better.”

They sorted through some more photos—contorted positions designed for the camera rather than pleasure.

“Pete, what do you think of this?” Marge showed him a teenage girl masturbating.

Decker studied the photo and shook his head.

“The eyes are wrong.”

Marge shrugged and attacked another pile of pictures.

“What do we do if we find her in one of these?” Hollander asked.

“They’re numbered on the back, Mike,” Decker answered. “If we find a match, we can look up where the photo came from and, hopefully, get a fix on who the photographer was.”

“How was Saturday at the yeshiva, Pete?” Marge asked.

“Terrific.”

“Your arm looks looser,” she said.

“Doc says I’ll be fine.”

“Hey, Rabbi,” Hollander said. “You never did tell us how the hell that happened.”

“Would you believe I got bit by a dog? Of all the stupid things.”

“Happens to the best of us,” said Hollander. “I remember once getting stung by a bee. People always tell you if you don’t bother it, it won’t bother you. Well, I didn’t do a thing and the little fucker looked me straight in the eye and stuck its stinger into my arm. Really pissed me off.”

“Ernst got stung by a bee,” Marge said. “Blew up like a blimp.”

“How is he?” Decker asked, shuffling photos.

“Beats me. Haven’t seen the sucker for two weeks.”

Decker looked up. “You’re kidding. I thought you two were tight.”

“Appearances are deceiving,” Marge said.

“What happened?” Decker asked.

“It was mutual. I think I was too much woman for him.”

“I’ll say,” Hollander snickered. “You outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Take a look at this, Pete.”

Another blonde girl, not more than fifteen, was performing cunnilingus on a gaping vagina. Decker studied the snapshot closely.

“I’d say no, but it’s close. What do you think, Marge?”

She scrutinized the picture.

“Too close to call. My gut instinct is no, but I’d check it out.”

“This photo reminds me of a joke,” Hollander said.
“What’s the difference between pussy and parsley?”

“Not everyone eats parsley,” Marge said. “That’s old, Mike. Even older than you.”

“Okay. How about this one?” said Hollander. “What’s the difference between pussy and parsley?”

“What?” Decker asked.

“Parsley leaves a good aftertaste.”

Decker smiled, but Marge frowned.

“You’ve been munching the wrong carpet, Mike,” she said.

“You sound jealous, Margie,” Hollander said, grinning. “Maybe it’s your recent loss of male companionship. For a small fee, I can accommodate your needs sooner than the twenty-first century.”

“Don’t make me ill,” she answered, looking ill.

“Give me the snapshot, Mike,” Decker said. “We’ll start a close-call pile over here.” He turned to Marge. “You want me to spread the word around that you’re available?”

“Thanks, but I just met someone.”

“Jesus, you don’t waste any time, do you, girl,” Mike said.

“When you’re hot, you’re hot,” Decker said.

“Who’s the lucky guy, Margie?” Hollander asked.

“Carroll.”

Hollander looked at her. “A girl?”

“Watch your mouth, Mike. Two r’s, two l’s. He’s six six and weighs a hard two ninety.”

“Carroll’s a great name,” Hollander said quickly.

“What instrument does he play?” Decker asked.

“He’s tone deaf,” Marge said glumly.

“That’s a departure,” said Decker, discarding another photo.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t done too well with the musicians in my life. I figured it was time for a change. The
only trouble is now I don’t have anyone to play my flute with.”

“What a shame!” Hollander said, holding back a smile. Marge was a terrible musician, but that didn’t stop her from performing in public, usually with her musician boyfriends. No one had the heart to tell her the truth.

“But it’s good for me,” she continued. “I’ll work on some solo pieces and let you guys know when I’m ready.”

Decker stifled a groan.

“Great, Marge,” he said.

“How’s Rina?” Marge asked.

“Fine.”

“You two going to do something soon?” Mike asked. “You’re obviously smitten by the lass. Or is it smote? You should know about that, Rabbi. Didn’t the Jews smote the Egyptians or something like that?”

Decker shrugged. The digs were good-natured and he let them pass. After all, his transformation over the past months had to seem strange to his colleagues. No doubt they attributed his metamorphosis to Rina; he loved her and was changing to please her.

But Decker knew it was deeper than that. Religion had given him a spark of renewed faith, and though it hadn’t blossomed into fire—maybe he was too cynical for it to ever get that bright—it was still better than complete darkness.

His thoughts were interrupted when a young detective with a pencil-line mustache stuck his head in the room.

“You’ve got a call, Pete.”

“Okay, George.”

The mustache turned upward into a grin.

“Want me to take over for a while, Rabbi?” George asked. “All those immoral photographs must be very unsettling to the spirit.”

“That won’t be necessary,” answered Decker. He picked up a receiver on an empty desk. A shrill young voice broke through.

“Ya know, you guys have a lot of nerve. I musta called this number a hundred times over the weekend and nobody answered. What if I had something important to tell you? I don’t think you give a shit who gets ripped off just as long as it don’t happen on your precious weekend—”

“Who is this?” Decker yelled into the receiver.

“It’s your
informant
, Decker.”

“Got something you want to tell me, Kiki?”

“Not over the phone.”

“I’m not meeting with you unless you tell me what this is about.”

There was a pause.

“Well…” she teased.

Decker checked his watch. “I’ve got a shitload of work, Kiki, so either put up or shut up.”

“I didn’t find out anything about the girl, but I’m still trying.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Yeah, that and ten cents—excuse me—twenty cents won’t get me a fucking phone call. I do have a name for you. A photographer who shoots porno. Lots of young ones and runaways.”

Decker grabbed a scrap of paper.

“Go on.”

“He runs a legit operation, also. You know—weddings, graduation, confirmations—”

“Name Kiki.”

“Cecil Pode. His place is in Culver City. Is that worth anything, Decker?”

“Could be.”

“Man, I’m busted. Have a heart.”

“What do you want?”

“A sawbuck would sure feel fine.”

“Get me some names of pimps who specialize in runaways and we may be able to work something out.”

“By what time?”

“Two.”

“Okay,” she said. “Meet me at the Teriyaki Dog on Sunset and Vermont. It’s across the street from the kiddy hospital. I should be able to dig up some names by then. How’s your arm, Decker?”

“Fine. I’ll see you at two.”

“Did you go to a doctor?” she persisted. “Like I told you, bites can be dangerous—”

“Kiki, I’ve got to go.”

He hung up and went back to the photos.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“Nope,” Marge answered. “What I’d like to know is why I can go through an entire box in the same time it takes Hollander to go through three pictures.”

“I’m a careful observer with an eye for detail,” Hollander retorted. “Get off my back, lady.”

Decker started in on the next box.

“Jesus,” Hollander exclaimed. “Have these young women no shame? She’s got jism up her nose.”

“A picture that grosses
you
out?” Marge said to Hollander. “This I’ve got to see.”

She held the snapshot.

“Ugh! She’s covered in cum.”

Decker took a peek and his eyes widened. He grabbed the photo out of Dunn’s hand.

“What is it, Pete?”

“Got any more pictures of this one, Mike?”

“Yeah,” Hollander said. “Tons. She’s a busy little beaver, ’scuse the pun.”

“What is it?” Dunn repeated.

“Her teeth!” Decker exclaimed. “Look at her front teeth! They’re
pegs
!”

“Here’s some others,” Hollander said.

Decker shuffled excitedly through the pile. None of the others showed her teeth, but he did find one that looked promising. She was performing fellatio, and it showed a complete side view of her face.

“I’ve got to make a couple of phone calls,” Decker said. “Margie, contact Vice and reference these photos. Mike, keep looking for Lindsey Bates.”

“Will do,” Hollander said, grinning and saluting.

Decker rushed out of the room and nearly collided with George.

“Got another phone call, Pete.”

Decker punched down the line.

“This is Mrs. Grover. I got a message on my machine to call a Detective Sergeant Decker at the Foothill police station?”

The woman sounded elderly.

“Thanks for calling back, Mrs. Grover,” he said. “This is Sergeant Decker. I’m calling about that one bedroom you had advertised in the
Santa Monica Express
.”

“I’m sorry, Sergeant, it’s been rented.”

“Could you tell me the name of the person you rented it to?”

“Uh, am I allowed to do that?”

“Yes, ma’am, you are.”

“I guess it’s all right, then. After all, you are the police.”

Decker waited.

“His name is Christopher Truscott.”

Bingo!

“Is Mr. Truscott in right now?”

“I believe he is.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Grover. I want to stop by and talk
to him and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention our little conversation.”

“Is he in trouble, Sergeant? I don’t want any troublemakers—”

“No, no. It’s nothing like that. But I want to surprise him with my visit.”

“Well…All right.”

“I’ll stop by and introduce myself, ma’am.”

“That would be lovely.”

“Good-bye.”

Decker clapped his hands together, rubbed them vigorously, and let go with a broad smile. Leads! He was getting some leads! He called Annie Hennon.

“Hello, Pete. What’s up?”

“Have you got a spare lunch hour?”

“Personal or business?”

“The latter.”

“Either way, it’s fine.”