Sacred and Profane (15 page)

The alley was
a tunnel of black and smelled liked a setup. Decker unhitched his gun and took out a penlight. Shining it on the lumpy asphalt, he inched his way toward the rear of the third building on his left, nostrils flaring at the odor of rotting garbage and excrement. He stopped. There was something wrong, and as much as he wanted a handle on this case, this wasn’t the way to get one. Turning back, he froze suddenly at the sound of a hiss.

“Son of a bitch,” the hoarse voice croaked.

Decker spun around in the direction of the whisper and saw nothing but boxes and dented trash cans.

“Clementine?”

“I said no pieces, Cop.”

“It’s my security blanket.”

“That wasn’t the deal, Cop.”

Decker said, “I’ve got the cash, Clementine.” He began to sweat. Killing the penlight, he backed up against a wall. The conversation was taking place in the dark. No sense being in the spotlight.

“Throw over the green,” the raspy voice instructed. “Across the alley, second building on your right.”

“First you tell me what you know about the Countess.”

“First you toss over the bread.”

They were at a standstill. No one so far had known
the Countess’s true identity, and all roads pointed to Clementine. This pow-wow had been arranged via the pimp’s number one lady. Info for cash—$200 in twenties.

He played the scenario in his head. Once he forked over the money, the pimp couldn’t escape without coming into his line of vision. And he did have his piece…

He shone his penlight across the alley and pitched the envelope of cash where Clementine had instructed.

“It better be good for what we’re paying you, Clementine.”

The pimp made no move to pick up the package.

Silence. Decker turned off the light. In the distance he saw the glowing orange tip of a cigarette.

“Name was Kate Armbruster. A mud duck from Klamath Falls, Oregon,” the voice whispered. “Picked her up when she was fourteen. She wasn’t even fresh then—a had-out piece of shit. But she worked her tail off. Got a lot of action from her. Then she got weird.”

“What happened?” the detective asked.

“Met up with a dude called the Blade—skinny, crazy cracker into knives and pain. Permanent pain, if you can dig what I’m saying. Boogying with the high beams on—smoking lots of Jim Jones. I know they offed animals—big dogs. Get the poor motherfuckers tightroped on water and watch them rip each other apart. They say Katie just loved puppies. Cut ’em up live and offer ’em to old six sixty-six himself. Some say they got more so-fist-to-cated in their taste.”

“Meaning?”

“Only one step up from animals, Cop. You put two and two together.”

“Who is this Blade?”

“Don’t know his real name. Dude must be in his twenties, average height, and skinny, like I said. Brown hair
and maybe brown eyes. Can’t tell you much more. All white meat looks alike.”

“Where did they hang out, Clementine.”

“Don’t know.”

Decker illuminated the money with his penlight, aimed his .38, and shot off the tip of the envelope. The alley reverberated with the echo of the blast and filled with the smell of gunpowder. He reloaded the chamber and shut off the light.

“If that’s the best you can do, I’m going to blow your wad to bits, Clementine. Where did they hang out?”

A cackle came from the garbage cans.

“You’re a fuckin’ A, Decker,” said a hollow whisper. “An A number one fuckin’ felon. Don’t you know it’s against the law to shoot money in America?” He laughed again. “Shoot it until it ain’t nothing but a pile of green Swiss cheese. My answer’s the same. Don’t know where they did their shit, don’t know who their stooges was, don’t know ’cause I didn’t want to know, Cop. I wasn’t into that shit, so I closed my eyes.”

“Did they film their cult rituals?” Decker asked.

“Yeah.”

“Who has the films?”

“Don’t know who their customers be.”

“Who deals in snuffs around these parts?”

“Lots of people.”

“Names.”

Silence.

Decker waited.

“Talk says the main distributor is a fat fuck named Cecil Pode.” Clementine coughed—a dry, hacking sound. “Works out of his studio in Culver City.”

“Who gives Pode the films?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who does Pode sell the films to?”

“Used to sell ’em to the Countess. Like I tole you, don’t know who her customers be.”

“Let me get this straight. The Countess made films with the Blade. Then Cecil would buy them from the producer and sell the finished product back to her?”

“That way she be paid off twice. Once as the star, the other when the goods be delivered. She knew who all the weirdos be and have an easy time unloading the shit at the price she wanted.”

“Then why bother using Cecil as a distributor? Why not sell directly to the customers?”

“Rumor has it that Cecil does the filming as well as the distributing.”

“Are the films videotaped?”

“No way! Good old-fashioned 16 mm half-inch film. Keeps it cheap and rare. Videotape’s too easy to pirate.”

“Who paid Pode for his camera work?”

“Don’t know.”

“The Countess?”

“Don’t know.”

Decker felt frustration growing inside. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

“Why was the Countess whacked?”

Clementine didn’t answer. Decker repeated the question.

“Sometimes people get carried away,” said Clementine softly.

“Where could I find the Blade?”

“Tole you before, man. Don’t know.”

“Cecil know him?”

“Don’t know.”

“Ever know a girl named Lindsay Bates?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure—”

“I said I don’t know the chick,” Clementine inter
rupted. “You got enough for your money. I see you, Decker. Got your piece in your right hand and your smoke in your left. I got cat’s eyes, Cop—see things coming in as well as out. I didn’t trust you anymore than you trusted me, so that means, my man, that I got my piece too. You get cute, you be dead. Now get the hell out of here while you still got your balls in one piece.”

“Stick around, Clementine. I just might need you again.”

“Fuck you. Get out of here.”

Decker backed out of the black void and into the silvery mist of the street lights. Suddenly he felt hot. Mopping his forehead with the back of his hand, he stood for a moment to catch his breath, then took off his jacket. By the time he reached the Plymouth, he was drenched in sweat.

Pode lived in a frame house in Mar Vista. The neighborhood was predominantly white working class, but over the past few years, a slow trickle of immigrant Latinos had worked their way into the cheaper homes. Pode’s place was badly in need of a paint job and the lawn was a tangle of weeds. The porch steps were crumbling and the flagstone walkway was as much dirt as it was rock. If Pode had money, he obviously wasn’t spending it on hearth and home.

The house was dark, the curtains drawn. After determining that no one was home, Decker went back to the car and waited. It was not the time to play hot dog and attempt a break-in. He knew Cecil was trapped. Marge was at the shop, he was here, and all good homing pigeons return to roost.

He sipped the container of black coffee, listening to the staccato voices of the dispatchers reporting crimes—
burglaries, robberies, GTAs. The
yetzer harah
is alive and well. More than well. Goddam robust.

Devil worship, living sacrifices, pain flicks. How the hell did Lindsey figure in? Suppose she and the Countess had been snuffed in a film. How had the Countess gotten hold of her in the first place? Pulled her into a car at gunpoint in front of a busy shopping center? Stranger things had been known to happen, but he didn’t like it. And why was the Countess killed along with her? Maybe Lindsey Bates had a secret life as a satanic cultist and had been involved from the start.

No. It didn’t make sense.

The hours passed. Decker’s hopes for a quick catch began to fade. He’d come on too strong with Pode and Pode’d split town along with his goods.

Decker radioed Marge.

“Anything?” he asked her.

“Dead.”

“I think Pode might have taken an extended vacation.”

“So now what do we do?”

“There’s his son, Dustin, the stockbroker and film maker.”

“Why do you think he’s dirty, Pete?”

“I don’t think he’s one way or the other, but I still want to feel him out. We’ve returned each other’s calls but haven’t been able to connect.”

“Doing the old Jack Cohen alias again?” Marge asked.

“Jack loves intrigue.”

She asked: “How long do you want to hang around?”

“You can go home, Marge. He’s more likely to show up here than at his studio.”

“Unless he has business to clear up here.”

There was a pause.

“How about another hour?” Marge suggested.

“Okay.”

At 4
A.M.
they called it quits.

It came to him—a flash of insight as he was pulling up into the driveway of his ranch. He shifted into reverse and headed for Santa Monica, arriving at the apartment complex a half hour before dawn. The chill and wetness of the night had seeped into the nape of his neck, and he pulled up the collar on his jacket. Stopping in front of number thirteen, he knocked hard on the door. Five minutes later, Truscott answered in his underwear and swayed drowsily, using the doorhandle for balance.

“What’s goin’ on?” he muttered.

“You remember me, Chris?”

The boy nodded sleepily.

“Come in.” He yawned and opened the door wide.

Neither one bothered to sit.

“What’s goin’ on?” the boy repeated.

“The gig you got on the day of Lindsey’s disappearance—you said it was a wedding.”

“Yeah.”

“You said you got it at the last minute.”

“Yeah.”

“Who was the original photographer supposed to be?”

“A guy I know.”

“What’s his name?”

“Cecil Pode. He’s a—”

“Shit!” Decker slammed his fist into a waiting palm. “Did Pode know you were supposed to meet Lindsey?”

The boy’s face was the picture of confusion. He rubbed his eyes.

“What are you gettin’ at?” he asked.

“Did Pode ever meet Lindsey?”

“Couple times. I used to develop my pictures at his studio. He saw some of the shots I took of her and asked
me to bring her around. He said he wanted to snap a couple of shots of her for his window display. Made a point of telling me how photogenic she was. I don’t think he ever did it, though.”

“Did Pode ever see the nudes you took of Lindsey?”

“I guess. I don’t remember.”

“How’d you meet Pode?”

“On the beach. He hung around the Venice boardwalk a lot.”

“Did you tell Pode before the day of the gig that you had a date with Lindsey on the day of her disappearance?”

“I might have. I don’t fuckin’ remember.” Panic seized the boy. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What the hell do you mean you’re not sure?” Truscott’s voice cracked. “What’s Cecil got to do with Lindsey? Did he do anything to her?”

Decker was silent. Truscott grabbed his shoulders. He had an alarmingly tight grip for a man his size.

“Did he do anything to her?” he shouted.

“He might have,” Decker said quietly. “He might have told her to come with him to meet you. And then he might have abducted her.”

The boy’s scream came out a strangled, sucking gasp. Then he collapsed into Decker’s arms.

Decker slept in the station’s dormitory from 6:30 to 8:30
A.M.
Bleary-eyed at 9
A.M.
, he placed a call to the information operator in Klamath Falls. There were three Armbrusters. The second one was the winner. Kate had left home seven years ago and hadn’t been heard from since. Decker explained the situation, expecting to hear emotional upheaval on the other side, but the mother’s only comment was good riddance to bad rubbish. She gladly
supplied the name of Kate’s dentist and made it a point to tell him not to bother to ship the body home. Katie was trash, and a Christian funeral for her would be sacrilegious
and
a waste of hard-earned money.

Decker reminded himself that Katie had been born with congenital syphilis. The indignation of the hypocrites.

Katie’s dentist had only X rays of current patients at his fingertips. It would be a couple of days before he could find her radiographs. He did remember working on her once or twice. The Armbrusters really couldn’t afford too much. If he found the X rays, he’d be glad to send them down. A shame about Katie, he said to Decker. She was a wild kid, but that was no reason to die.

Morrison sat across his desk, eyes fixed on Decker’s face.

“You want to tell me what the hell is going on, Pete? You’ve requested two search warrants and a tail on some stockbroker named Dustin Pode.”

“The warrants are for his father’s home and studio. Cecil Pode is a snuff film distributor. I’m betting he’s involved in Lindsey Bates’s abduction and death. After I questioned him, I think he cut town. I want to see if he left anything incriminating behind.”

“Who says he’s a snuff distributor—the pimp you talked to?”

“He and another source.”

“Who?”

Decker rubbed his eyes and suppressed a yawn.

“A hooker. Her street name’s Kiki. She seems on the up-and-up.”

Morrison thought for a moment, then said, “Let’s do it this way. We’ll try for search warrants for Pode’s house and studio based on what you found out from Truscott. Unlikely we’ll get them without
something
concrete. A
still or a film or at least someone who saw Bates and Pode together the day of her disappearance.”

“Dunn is going to comb the Galleria and ask around at all the stores. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Maybe,” the Captain said.

“What about the tail?” Decker said.

“Dustin Pode is a private citizen who isn’t residing or working in our jurisdiction. He hasn’t been implicated. “You don’t have any real evidence on Cecil Pode; you have
nothing
on Dustin Pode. A tail is out of the question. Takes up too much manpower.”