Sacred and Profane (16 page)

“I have a gut feeling that Dustin Pode is involved.”

“You’re a good intuitive cop, Pete, but I can’t authorize men based on your hunches.”

“At least send Hollander out to talk to Dustin Pode about his father. Maybe Dustin will implicate Daddy in something naughty,” Decker said. “Mike’s got a light load this morning.”

“
You
can talk to Dustin Pode,” said Morrison. “I’ve no problem with that.”

Decker stalled a moment. He didn’t want to tell Morrison about his Jack Cohen alias just yet. “Let Hollander handle it. He’s good with these broker types. He loves to play dumb.”

“Fine. Hollander goes out for a one-shot deal. But scratch any idea about a tail.” Morrison lit a cigarette. “You’ve done a good job, Pete. Taken a dead case and breathed some life into it. Just don’t go overboard. And don’t do anything dumb-ass with this Dustin Pode. I don’t want a citizen’s harassment complaint slapped on this division. God knows LAPD gets enough fabricated shit from the papers. Let’s not give them something real to work with.”

Decker nodded.

“Now what is this about getting another juvey into the Donaldson halfway house?”

“I owe someone a favor.”

Morrison didn’t press it.

“Okay,” he said. “Start the paperwork.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

“When are you taking the lieutenant’s exam?”

“I thought maybe next year.”

“Why not this year?”

“I haven’t had a hell of a lot of time to study.”

“You’re a
lawyer
, Pete. After the bar, the exam should be a snap.”

Decker shrugged. He didn’t have time to study because the yeshiva courses were occupying all his free time—or lack thereof. But he couldn’t tell the captain that.

Morrison looked disapproving, but said nothing. He stood up and walked away without a word. Decker rubbed his eyes.

Man, he was tired.

The phone rang.

“Decker.”

“It’s the illustrious Patsy Lee Newford, better known as the redheaded superspy.”

“Patsy Lee Newford?”

“Hey Decker, that’s a
boss
name in Indiana.” She laughed, sounding like a soprano jackhammer.

“What do you have for me, Kiki?”

“Pode took a hike.”

“Know where he went?”

“Uh uh. But he was one of the major distributors of snuff films ’round these parts.”

“Yeah,” Decker said. “I found that out.”

A little too late
.

“Have any other names of snuff men?” he asked.

“Nope. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Lie low, Kiki. This is getting messy. You’ve done enough. I’m working on paying you back like we discussed.”

She was silent.

“You there?” he asked.

“Yeah. I can’t believe you’re coming through.”

“Call me back in a week,” he said. “It should be all set up.”

“Okay. I’ll see what I can dig up in the meantime.”

“No!” Decker said, more loudly than he’d intended to. “Just cool it. We’ll find Pode ourselves. Don’t do any more.”

She was silent again.

“Kiki, if you keep poking around, you’re gonna get whacked. Is that straightforward enough?”

“Hey, I did all right so far. I can take care of myself.”

“Honey, I’m sure you can,” Decker said, backing off. “How ’bout you doing me a favor and just keep your nose clean until I can get you into this program?”

A long pause on the other end of the line.

“What’s it like?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“It’s a really good place, Kiki. Lots of trees and grass and a swimming pool. The people are good—strict but honest. You’ll do real well there.”

“Will you visit me?”

Decker hesitated, then said, “No. But you’ll make loads of friends, honey. Good friends.”

“What if I don’t make it, you know? I mean what if—”

“Kiki, let’s take it one day at a time.”

“It’s just that I’m not so sure it’s what I want. I mean I want to get off of the streets you know, but I’m real independent like.”

“You’ll do fine.”

“I mean I got a couple of quirks you know.”

“Everyone has quirks.”

“Do they have TVs there?”

“Yes.”

“Do they watch Walley George?”

Decker smiled. “I’m sure you’ll get TV privileges.”

“I dunno…I just dunno if I’m ready. Maybe I’m better off working for you.”

“Kiki, if you want to help me out, keep yourself out of trouble until I contact you, okay?”

“How will you know where to find me?”

“Still got my card?”

“Uh huh.”

“Then come by the station house in a week. You need bread in the meantime?”

“I’m okay.”

“Then come by in a week.”

She was silent for a long time.

“I’m a little nervous, you know.”

“That’s okay, Kiki. Everyone gets nervous occasionally. Even big, macho cops who pack iron. You come by in a week. Deal?”

“Deal,” she said, then hung up the phone.

Decker placed the receiver back in the cradle and leaned back in his chair. He felt good. Marge came over to him with a hot cup of coffee.

“Drink,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“How much sleep did you get last night, Rabbi?”

“’Bout two hours.”

“Taking the morning off?”

“Not until I find Pode.”

“Good luck,” she said. “I’m off to the Galleria.” She zipped up her shoulder bag and looked at the leather shredding around the seams. “Maybe I’ll look at purses as long as I’m there. This one is shot. Literally. An old gun I used to carry accidentally discharged and blew a hole out
the bottom. I patched it up with electrical tape. Think it’s time for a new one?”

“I’d say that’s reasonable.”

“Can I pick you up anything as long as I’m out?”

Sleep, a steak, and sex
, he thought.
In that order
.

“No thanks,” he said.

“Anything?” Decker asked hopefully.

“Nothing,” Hollander answered.

Angrily, Decker crumpled a piece of scratch paper and threw it in the garbage. Marge hadn’t come up with anything at the Galleria either. If he didn’t come through with some hard evidence, Lindsey would remain an open file. He felt he owed her more.

“What’s ole Dustin like?” Decker asked.

“A sleazebag,” said Hollander, taking off his jacket. He pulled up a chair and sat down, his widespread buttocks overflowing the seat. “Wouldn’t trust him to clip my hangnail.”

“What’d you ask him?”

“Well, first thing I do is try to develop the old rapport. Told him his jacket was pretty sharp. Next thing I know, I’m getting a goddam fashion lecture on where to buy clothes. He knows this fart and that putz who’ll give him fifty percent off on all Italian silk imports. The upshot of the whole thing is the guy loves to play teacher. So I’ll play the dupe. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll talk himself into a corner. But no dice.”

“You wouldn’t put it past him to make snuffs?” Decker asked.

“Hell, no. I wouldn’t put it past him. Guy has radar eyes. Always trying to size you up then figure out his angle.”

“What did he tell you about his dad?”

“Hasn’t talked to Daddy in months. They aren’t as close as they used to be.”

“Maybe we can pull out phone bills that says he has.”

“So what?”

“Well, if it were to show lots of calls between the two of them, at least we’d establish Dustin as a liar.”

“Then what?”

Decker shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“We’d prove what I already instinctively know,” said Hollander. “The guy’s an asshole.”

“What did Dustin think about Daddy’s sideline in porno stills?” he asked.

“Dustin got pissed at that one—claimed that Daddy is just a downhome country photographer. If Daddy ever did anything nasty like that, it was just to feed his poor li’l chilluns!”

“How dare we besmirch Daddy’s blemishless image!” Decker mocked.

“You’d better believe it. Guy was ready to call in the ACLU. I calmed him down. I asked him what kind of car he drove. Guy chewed my ear off on the marvels of the Mercedes.”

Mike scratched his nose, thought a moment, then said, “The guy plainly likes his father. He didn’t say much about his mother.”

“You asked him about the fire?”

“Yep. He said this. Mom got drunk a lot. She was very careless about drinking and smoking in bed. More than once he had to pull her out of smoldering bedcovers. Most of the time he’d gotten her out before any real danger was done. Once in awhile, the room was really smoking and he had to call the FD. The day she died he wasn’t home.

“He spoke about his mother in a real detached way, Pete. I don’t know. Maybe it was because she died so long ago.”

“Or maybe he was real pissed off at her for setting the house on fire,” Decker suggested.

“Yeah,” Hollander nodded. “I didn’t detect much love lost.”

“What about Pode’s limited partnership movies?” Decker wanted to know.

“Pode and this partner of his,” Hollander began. “What the hell was his name?”

“Cameron Smithson.”

“That’s the one,” Hollander said. “They invested in low-budget flicks. Grade B horror movies and teenage jiggle films. I asked if it was possible to see them. I wanted to make sure they were what he said they were.”

“That was smart.”

“He showed me the videos—as much as I wanted to see. And what I saw wasn’t porno: just a lot of healthy-looking babes showing off their boobs and buns. Standard R fare. Pode also let me look at the books. Some of those turkeys even netted him some pocket money.”

“Numbers can be fudged.”

“Yeah, no doubt the sleaze has at least four sets of books: one for his accountant, one for the backers, one for the IRS, and one for himself.”

Hollander scratched his nose again.

“I can’t put my finger on why I hated him so much. Yeah, he talked down to me, but I was feeding into his image of me as the dumb cop. He wasn’t an ornery bastard. He was cooperative, polite. He seemed so…so goddamn oily. Even his looks—Pode’s a good-looking guy if you like the male model type. I could see him getting laid by a lot of Marina airheads. But to me, the guy sizes up as a grease ball.”

“Did he have the kind of good looks that could sway an impressionable young girl?”

“Definitely.”

He went over the play in his mind. Act One: Lindsey meets Chris, who introduces her to fellow photographer Cecil Pode. Act Two: Cecil sees Lindsey as much more than a would-be model for
Playboy
. Act Three: Cecil introduces her to his son, Dustin. Act Four: Dustin seduces her and convinces her to star in his skin flicks. Act Five: Lindsey dies, maybe because she didn’t like what she was doing and Dustin had a low tolerance for recalcitrant actresses; maybe because she starred in a snuff; maybe because she was in the wrong fire at the wrong time—like Dustin’s mother.

A whole lot of maybes.

Why would she bother to make arrangements to meet Chris at the Galleria if she was going to run away with Dustin? Did Lindsey ask Cecil to get Chris out of the way so she could run away with Dustin and throw suspicion on Chris? Poor Chris. Decker could still feel the boy in his arms, cradling him like a baby as he sobbed. And what gasping sobs—like a dying man fighting for air.

He needed the Podes. Cecil was gone. Dustin was all he had.

Discretion was the
word of the hour. Hollander’s interview with Dustin Pode had been a double-edged sword. Decker hoped it would smoke out Dustin and make him do something foolish, but he also knew that it had heightened Pode’s awareness of cops. The tail would have to be close to invisible.

He debated over which car to use. Although it had a police radio, the unmarked was a terrible vehicle for a tail, a giveaway to anyone perceptive about cop cars. His personal vehicles were a red ’69 Porsche 911, which he’d rebuilt, and a Jeep. Neither blended inconspicuously in street traffic. Finally, he settled on Rina’s ’77 bronze Volvo station wagon and gave her the Plymouth. He carried his beeper and had asked Marge to buzz him if anything important came up. He hoped all his bases were covered.

So far, the only place Pode had gone to was work. Decker parked a couple of stalls down from the broker’s white Mercedes 450 SL on level C of the underground garage. The place was dank, the air loaded with exhaust fumes, and he felt a headache coming on. He sat in his car for an hour, then, wanting to stretch his legs, climbed the stairs to the fifth floor. The hallways were empty and soundless except for an occasional inner door closing or a ding from the elevator bell. He leaned against the wall
and waited. Another hour passed. At 11:15, Dustin finally came out of his office. From a corner, Decker had a good chance to memorize his face as he waited for the elevator.

Mike was right. The younger Pode was a good-looking man. Five eleven, one seventy or eighty, and well built. An iron pumper, his chest swelled under his shirt, big shoulders. Coiffed dark hair with a full mustache. A deep sunlamp tan. His face was lean with a sloped nose and deep-set dark eyes under dark brows.

Tall, dark, and handsome with little resemblance to his father. As soon as Dustin stepped inside the elevator, Decker rushed down the stairwell to his car. He pulled out of the space a couple of seconds after the Mercedes.

Pode’s destination was Beverly Hills—lunch at La Ragazzina Boutique, a one-room Italian restaurant jammed with a mixture of businessmen, entertainment hangerson, and women shoppers with acute ennuitis just dying for a little attention. It was a good place in which to observe Pode because everyone was either self-absorbed or wanted to be noticed. Decker found a spot at the end of the tiny bar and ordered a club soda.

Pode sat in a dark-red booth in the corner opposite the bar. Five minutes later Cameron Smithson joined him with two other suits. The four of them talked animatedly for a while, until Cameron pulled out a briefcase. Within moments, the table was covered with papers.

Decker glanced at his watch. Half a day shot. Maybe Morrison was right. This
was
a waste of manpower. He got up and found a pay phone occupied by a lady with the hands of a fifty-year-old but the face of a woman twenty years younger. Good lift. Her hair was as orange as his, but her color came from a bottle. Rechecking his watch, he grew impatient with the woman’s blabbering and glanced over to Pode’s table.

The pile of papers had grown.

Finally, she hung up. Turning around, the woman smiled at him and reached for his hair. Instinctively, he backed away.

She let out a chuckle.

“It’s natural, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Lucky boy.” She turned around and caught the headwaiter’s eye.

“Tony!” she purred huskily, spreading out her arms widely and embracing the tuxedoed Hispanic.

The hug didn’t help her get a table any faster. Smiling all the way, ole Tony led her to the bar.

Decker dialed the station and Marge told him there had been no new developments—the warrants hadn’t been approved yet, the X rays from Oregon hadn’t arrived. She had decided to put the case in abeyance for the moment and work on another that had just come over the line.

Swell!

Yesterday, the case had been hot, but now a definite chill was settling in. Goddam it, Lindsey deserved more.

An hour later Pode left the restaurant. Decker followed him to the Rox-San building, five blocks from where he’d eaten. More waiting. He pulled out his lunch—a chunk of kosher salami with crackers and nothing to drink. He’d made his own brown bag today. The garlic lingered on his breath and he became irritable.

If nothing came of this, he’d have to go back to Hollywood, and a return to scuzzville didn’t thrill him. Lately the crap was beginning to get to him. The dichotomy—one minute he was a spiritual being, praying, seeking a higher order in his life; the next, knee deep in scum and shit. He was living in two worlds, not sure which part of his life was real and which was an undercover assignment.

Pode left an hour later and returned to Executive First.
He was there for another twenty minutes, then came out with a gym bag. Decker followed him to the Sports Connection.

More cooling of the heels outside the health club.

At least the view was good. He stared at the leotard-clad women going in and out of the gym. Good bodies, but too sharp-edged, too muscular for his taste. He liked his women softer, with curves—like Rina.

He was in a pisser of a mood—angry with himself. Time was a precious commodity, and he’d blown a whole day and ended up with nothing more tangible than air. Yeah, maybe Cecil had contacted his son, maybe Dustin did set him up somewhere and slip him a little bread. But if anything had happened, it’d probably taken place already and the two weren’t going to do him any favors and meet in front of his eyes.

He’d finish out the day, and if nothing panned out, he’d try a last-ditch stake at Pode’s studio tonight. If all of his efforts failed, he’d have to try a different approach.

On impulse, he opened the glove compartment in Rina’s car. It contained maps and scribbled scraps of paper—grocery lists and reminders to herself—written half in Hebrew, half in English. He smiled at her penmanship, visualizing her delicate hand dashing off a note, at the look of intensity on her face as she wrote. Once, he’d seen her topless—just for a moment. It had been an accident. Jacob had spilled ketchup on her blouse and she’d changed in the bathroom, closing but not locking the door. He’d had to use the bathroom, had opened the door and there she was. She’d covered herself in the same instant he’d closed the door, but he’d seen her. It demonstrated to him once and for all that she wasn’t a china doll, but was made of flesh—like him. They both had been embarrassed when she’d emerged and neither one
had ever mentioned it. But now, engulfed in loneliness, the recollection helped ease the pain.

He had the luck of the Irish, Hennon had said. Ironic for a Jew who’d been raised Baptist. Cecil Pode showed up at his studio a little after midnight. Shrouded in the lacy shadows of an elm, Decker saw his fat face looking greasy and white under the artificial lighting of the street lamp. The photographer was fumbling with his keys trying to unlock the studio. He threw a furtive glance over his shoulder, then managed to open the door.

How to proceed
, Decker thought.
Catch him on his way out. No sense gangbusting your way in with no warrant. Any incriminating evidence will be inadmissible without proper search and seizure
.

Fifteen minutes later Pode came out with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He was about to lock up when Decker made his move, his footsteps soundless.

“Police, Mr. Pode.” Decker stuck his foot in the door.

Pode gasped, then saw who it was and exhaled loudly. “You scared the shit out of me. What the hell is this?”

“I’d like to talk with you for a moment, Cecil,” Decker said.

“What about? It’s after midnight, for Chrissakes. Can’t it wait until the morning?”

“No.”

“You got a warrant?”

“No,” Decker answered. “Last I heard you don’t need one for talking.”

Pode paused. Decker could feel the fat man’s brain straining in indecision.

“Come in,” Pode said, shutting the door behind them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Decker caught the glint of steel. Instincts took over. He pounced on Pode as the gun cracked out cordite that sprayed black into his jacket.
The revolver flew out of Pode’s hand and skittered across the linoleum.

“You
motherfucker!
” Decker yelled, pinning the squirming hulk to the floor. Underneath the fat was a layer of muscle. It was a bitch trying to contain him and find the handcuffs at the same time. Pode bucked up forcibly, throwing Decker off balance, and made a crawl toward the gun. Decker grabbed the back of his shirt and slammed his face against the ground.

“I don’t believe it!” he said, clamping on the metal bracelets. He took a deep breath. “You tried to shoot me, you stupid ass! You’re under arrest!”

“Oh Christ!” the man began to blubber.

“You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right, anything you say may be used against you in a court of law—”

“Oh Jesus Fucking Christ!”

“You have the right to legal counsel during questioning—”

“I can get you what you want, Decker.”

“If you can’t afford an attorney—”

“I can get it for you right now, but it’s not on me. I gotta make a phone call.”

“One will be appointed to you by a court of law before questioning—”

“I can get the film, Decker! The film you want.”

“Do you understand your rights, Pode?”

“I know where it is.”

“DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND THE RIGHTS I JUST READ TO YOU?”

The fat man nodded.

“Say yes, Pode,” Decker said. “Say: yes, I understand my rights.”

“Yes, I understand my rights. I can get you what you want, but I gotta have a deal.”

“If you wish to waive your right to—”

“Yeah, I wish to waive everything so long as I get a deal—”

Decker hoisted the man to his feet and pushed him against the wall, leaning hard into the small of his back. “You motherfucking son of a bitch, you are in deep shit. You know what you just did? You tried to whack an officer of the law with no provocation whatsoever after he properly identified himself. That’s a fucking no-no.” Decker gave him a roundhouse punch to the left kidney. Pode let out a gush of air and moaned. “Now I’ve got to see some good faith before I talk deal. Where’s the film, Pode?”

“I don’t know the address.”

Decker rammed his knee into the right kidney. Pode screamed.

“I swear I don’t know the address,” he sputtered. “But I can take you there. I just know the place. We changed the location after you started poking around.”

“This place you’re talking about. What is it? A warehouse for your shit?”

“Screening rooms for the pervs. They’re showing the movie you want.”

“Which movie’s that?” Decker said.

Pode was silent. Decker yanked his hair.

“Remember what I said about good faith and deals?”

Pode nodded.

“What film are we talking about?” Decker asked.

“That girl, the blonde one you showed me—Lindsey Bates.”

Decker felt sick. “Go on.”

“The film was custom-ordered by a very rich man,” Pode said, panting. “He didn’t want her specifically. Just someone with her kind of looks—someone pert and fresh.”

“What’s the perv’s name?” Decker asked.

“Don’t know.”

Decker bashed Pode’s face into the wall. His nose and lips began to bleed.

“Jesus Christ!” Pode cried. “I
don’t
know. Arrest the son of a bitch and you’ll find out.”

“Take me there,” Decker said.

“I gotta make a call first.”

“Bull fucking shit! You just take me there.” Decker unhitched his .38 and stuck it in a roll of adipose below the photographer’s ribcage. “I’m taking your bag also. Later you can show me what you’ve got inside.”

Pode nodded.

“No funny business, Cecil.”

“Right.”

“Let’s go.”

Decker walked him out to the Plymouth, seating him in the passenger side, and secured his feet with an extra set of cuffs. Tossing Pode’s bag in the back, he climbed into the driver side and started the engine.

“It’s near here,” Pode said weakly. “In Venice.”

“That how you met Chris Truscott?” Decker asked, turning on the siren and flooring the gas pedal. “You remember him, don’t you? Free-lance photographer who once lived in Venice.”

Pode didn’t say anything.

“He said you met him on the boardwalk. Did you meet Lindsey there, too?”

Pode lowered his head.

“We know you kidnapped Lindsey. We know you killed her—”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Who did?”

Pode remained silent.

“Good faith, Cecil.”

“She was iced in the film,” Pode said.

“Who’d you deliver her to?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re going to fry, Pode.”

“I swear I don’t know. I left her in a designated spot, locked in this room, doped up. I don’t know who took over the show from there. My contacts are by phone, Decker. I never see ’em face-to-face.”

“Try convincing a jury of that.”

“It’s the truth!” Pode implored.

“How far are we to this place, Pode?”

“It’s close,” he responded in a cracked voice. “Turn left on Pacific.”

Decker slowed the car and killed the siren.

“This isn’t just Venice, this is the Oakwood ghetto,” Decker said. “You wouldn’t be trying to set me up, would you, Cecil?”

“I swear this is where they show the films.”

“Who’s they?”

“I
don’t
know!”

“Yeah, right,” Decker sneered. “Contacts by phone and all that crap. Why the hell would a rich perv come out here?”

“They all do, Decker. There’s a bunch of ’em and they all love to slum. See some sicko films and get all heated up by them. Then they go out trawling for young meat on the streets and act out the fantasy. They’re the ones who’re sick, not me!”

Decker wanted to puke.

“Turn here,” Pode said. “It’s on Brooks right before Electric. The garage apartment in the back. Slow…that’s the house.”

It was a tan one-story cube with security bars on the windows and doors. It wasn’t unusual to find prisonlike houses here, because the neighborhood was bad—tiny
stucco cells or government housing units spray painted with graffiti. Even the streets and sidewalks were tattooed. This was gang heartland and life was expendable. A jaunt from the front door to the driveway could prove fatal if it was a night for busting.