Sacred and Profane (12 page)

“Then I’ll see you at noon, Annie.”

“Hey, what say I send out for some Chinese food?”

He paused. “I keep kosher.”

“Pizza?” she tried. “Plain cheese pizza?”

“Strictly kosher.”

“I thought you weren’t sure you were Jewish.”

“I’m still not sure, but I’m working on it. I’ve got a sack lunch anyway.”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll pick up some cottage cheese. It’s a good time to start my diet.”

Her figure didn’t need it, he thought.

“See you at noon,” he said.

His next call let Freddy at the Police Photo Lab know he was sending up a few snapshots to enlarge. Marge came up to his desk.

“The photos of Pegteeth were clipped from a defunct rag called
Erotic Ecstasy
. These are at least a year old,
and naturally, the editor has cut town. But this is a list of photographers the magazine hired.”

Decker took the list and scanned the contents. Cecil Pode’s name jumped out at him. He felt that surge of excitement, the hunting instinct. But instead of prey, he ferreted out resolution—order in an otherwise disintegrating world.

“This guy,” Decker said pointing to Pode’s name. “I want to find out more about him. He’s a legit photographer, but one of my ears on the street tells me he has a sideline specializing in the younger trade.”

Marge checked off the name. “I’ll see what I can dig up,” she said.

“Good,” Decker answered. “Mike, run these photos up to Freddy. I’ve called him and left instructions, so all you have to do is give them to him.”

“Sure. Where are you going?”

“To talk to Lindsey Bates’s boyfriend.”

Truscott had moved
up in the world. Apparently being remiss on debts paid off. His new residence was in a thirty-unit building in a fashionable part of Santa Monica—new construction made of cheap, brown stucco that wouldn’t wear well. But each unit had a balcony and the front was abloom with flowers. The complex contained a pool, a hot tub, a recreation room, a small but well-equipped gym, and plenty of BMWs in the subterranean parking lot. Decker found the manager’s unit and knocked on the door.

“Who is it?”

He recognized the voice.

“It’s the police. Mrs. Grover.”

He heard a series of clicks and snaps, locks being unhinged. The door opened. Mrs. Grover was in her seventies, with thin blue hair.

“Sergeant Decker?” she asked tentatively.

Decker showed the woman his ID.

“Won’t you come in, please.”

She whistled her S’s. Dentures.

“Thank you,” Decker said, “but I’m fine out here. Which unit is Mr. Truscott’s?”

“Number thirteen. The second one on the left. He’s still there, Sergeant. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee first?”

“I’d love to, Mrs. Grover, but I’m a bit pressed for time.”

The old woman accepted his excuse as if she’d heard it plenty of times before. Decker noticed the change in her expression.

“But if you don’t mind, I could use a glass of water,” he said.

She perked up. “Certainly.”

“I’ll wait here,” Decker said. “I want to keep my eye on the apartment.”

“I understand,” she said.

She came back with a frosted tumbler. Decker took the water and thanked her.

“Mrs. Grover, how much does Mr. Truscott pay for his apartment?”

“Six fifty a month. If it wasn’t for rent control, it would bring a lot more.”

“What kind of security deposit did he give you for the unit?”

“The boy’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

“No.”

Not yet
.

“Did he give you a first and last month’s rent?”

“Yes. And a one month’s damage deposit.”

Almost two grand. No wonder Chrissie boy wasn’t paying his bills. Decker finished his water, thanked her, and left.

Truscott answered the door with resignation.

“I knew you’d be coming. It was only a matter of time.”

He was a good-looking boy with a dark complexion, thick curly hair, and big gray eyes. His face was lean—almost emaciated—with a sharp jawline, and his expression was unmistakably sad. The lower lip curved
downward as if frozen in a tragedy mask. He was taller than average, with a good build, and Decker thought that he and Lindsey would have made a striking couple.

The place had been transformed into a shrine—curtains drawn and walls covered with black cloth. A black sheet blanketed the lone mattress on the floor. Three ebony plastic parsons tables held a dozen or so lit candles. There were no other furnishings.

Truscott motioned to the floor and sat down. Decker followed suit.

“Where’d you get the money to afford this place, Chris?”

The boy was taken aback.

“I…I don’t know what you mean?”

“Photography must be hauling in
beaucoup
bucks.”

“You kidding?”

“I’ve been checking into you, Chris. You aren’t paying your bills; you leave a dump near the ghetto in Venice after paying your landlady with rubber. Then I find you playing yuppie in Santa Monica. What’s the story?”

The boy looked down.

“Ain’t no story. I’m busted. Flat, stone cold broke. This is all borrowed time. Ain’t got more than fifteen bucks to my name and I haven’t had a gig since…”

He shook his head.

“I wanted to do something nice for myself, you know. To escape the pain. Say ‘Fuck it’ to the world and go out in style. It didn’t work. What does it matter anyway? You’re here about her, right?”

“Where were you between eleven
A.M.
and twelve-thirty
P.M.
on the day of Lindsey’s disappearance?”

“Working.”

“Can anyone verify your presence?”

“Only about two hundred people.” He looked at Decker. “If you want a confession, I’ll give you a con
fession. I’m dead as far as I’m concerned anyway.”

“I want the truth, Chris. Not convenience.”

“The truth is I didn’t kill her physically. But I’m responsible for her death. If I would have shown up like we planned, this never would have happened.”

His lip began to tremble.

“Tell me about your gig, Chris,” Decker said.

“I was photographing a wedding. Came through at the last minute, and I thought the bread was too good to pass up. If I had only known…”

The boy was aching.

“Who hired you for the job?”

“The lady’s name was Bernell. Margaret Bernell. Her daughter got married. I showed up at the church around nine-thirty, maybe ten, and left around three in the afternoon.”

“Do you have her phone number?”

The boy went and got it.

“I’m going to call her now, Chris.”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“Come with me to the manager’s unit. We’ll borrow her phone.”

“I’ll come, but I ain’t gonna split on you. Don’t have anywhere to go.”

“Come on, Chris.”

His alibi checked. Mrs. Bernell had only nice things to say about him and the quality of his work. Decker walked him back to his apartment.

“You keep close by,” the detective said. “I might need you.”

The boy shrugged.

“I want to find Lindsey’s killer,” Decker said.

“Don’t matter none to me,” Truscott said. “Nothing will bring her back to life.”

“Well, later on, after the numbness wears off, you may
want to see the bastard strung up by his balls. So stick around.”

Truscott nodded.

“Chris, were any of your friends deaf or hard of hearing?”

Truscott shook his head.

“Lindsey know anybody deaf or hard of hearing?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Ever seen this girl?” Decker showed him a head shot of the female with the peg teeth.

He glanced at it and shook his head.

“Look carefully.”

Truscott took the picture and examined it closely.

“Don’t know her. What does this have to do with Lindsey?”

“I’m not sure.”

But I hope something
, he thought.

By the time he got back to the station, a manila envelope was waiting on his desk. Dependable Freddy! Decker opened the gummed seal, pulled out the enlargement, and grinned.

The man is on
fire,
he’s so hot
.

He headed for Captain Morrison’s “office” on the other side of the building. Morrison and the station’s day watch commander, Roy Ordik, shared a pint-sized cubicle—barely enough room for the two desks, two chairs, a computer on a stand, and a filing cabinet. At least Morrison was thin and could squeeze through the cracks, but Ordik was fat. Decker rarely saw them in the office at the same time. Maybe that was the secret.

Morrison raised his head when Decker entered.

“What’s up, Pete?”

Decker placed the original porno photo and the enlargement on the captain’s desk. Morrison looked at the
obscene portrait and the enlargement and waited for the explanation.

Decker said, “This is a blowup—the ear of this peg-toothed girl. She’s wearing a hearing aid.” He pointed to a tiny nub behind the ear lobe.

“Go on.”

“I’m hoping this is the Jane Doe found with Bates. That skeleton had the same peg teeth. The dentist said that people with this kind of teeth often have hearing problems.”

“How many people have teeth like that?”

“I don’t know. I’m taking the photos over to Dr. Hennon this afternoon. I’ll see what she says.”

The captain nodded approval.

“Check out the boyfriend?”

“Yeah, his alibi panned out. I’m going to drive by his place again, just to make sure he hasn’t decided to split. If he stays put, I see no reason to consider him a suspect. He seemed to have been broken up by her death.”

“Good,” Morrison said. “Keep it up.”

Decker rushed out of the office and bumped shoulders with Marge.

“Gotten a whiff of a scent, Peter?” she asked, smiling.

“Just call me bloodhound.”

“Cecil Pode,” Marge said, reading off of a page. “He’s fifty-two—a self-employed photographer with a studio in Culver City. Stable little bugger. Same business for over twenty years. Ran him through NCIC. No wants, no warrants, no priors.”

Decker frowned.

“Yeah, it would have been nice if he’d have come back a scumbag,” she said.

“He’s a scumbag,” Decker said. “Nice guys don’t snap Polaroids of young girls smothered in spunk.”

“Well, then he’s a legally clean scumbag,” she an
swered. “I’ll dig a little deeper. Talk to a few of my ears. I’ll see what I come up with. Hollander will do the same.”

Decker nodded.

“What’s with the tooth lady in the porno shots?” Marge asked.

“I’m going to see the dentist about her now. Want to come?”

“Gonna have to pass,” said Marge. “I’ve got a court date with a weenie wagger.”

Decker pulled out the porno photo and laid it in front of Hennon. The peg-toothed girl had brought a man to ejaculation and his penis was spurting into her mouth. She was covered with semen. But Hennon zeroed right in on the teeth without glancing at the action. A real pro.

She smiled broadly. “These look like Hutchinson’s incisors to me. What an eye!”

“Take a gander at this, Annie.” He showed her the blowup of the ear and the hearing device.

“You don’t miss a trick, do you?”

He grinned. “What do you think?”

“There’s potential here. I want to fool around with the photos and compare them to the X rays of Doe Two’s skull and teeth. I’ve got a darkroom. Give me about twenty minutes.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll eat my lunch.”

She left, and he opened his paper sack and pulled out foil-wrapped packages. Rina had prepared him a piece of cold poached salmon, cucumbers in sour cream smothered with fresh dill, and a square of noodle kugel with raisins, pineapple, and pecans. No doubt about it, if they ever married, he’d turn into a blimp. Reaching into the bag again, he took out a Bert-and-Ernie thermos. He’d asked her before not to pack it, but she was insistent that
it was the only way to keep drinks cold. If he wanted an adult thermos, go out and buy one. But of course he never got around to it, and she kept using the kiddie one.

He unscrewed the top and poured the liquid into the white plastic top. It looked like carbonated apple juice, but to his surprise it turned out to be beer—Dos Equis. He laughed. Before knowing him, Rina had never bought a six-pack. Although he never drank while on duty, he felt impelled to take a sip. A toast in her honor. He ate heartily and took another swig of beer at the end of the meal. He had just finished a cigarette when Hennon reappeared.

“You have the luck of the Irish, Pete.”

“It’s a match?”

“I wouldn’t swear in court based on what you’ve given me, but let me show you something. I’ve superimposed Jean’s craniofacial skeleton onto the picture you gave me. Look how everything lines up. The eye sockets, the antrum or maxillary air sinus, the nasal sinus, and of course, the upper teeth. A case could be made for positive identification just based on photography, but I’m conservative. Go ahead and find out the identity of this girl. Then we’ll get the dental records, if she has them, and confirm what we already think.”

“Super. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They stared at each other. For some reason, he couldn’t avert his eyes. She licked her lips. He felt a wave of heat and knew he’d had enough.

“Whew,” he said, wiping his forehead with a napkin. “Is it hot in here or is it my imagination?”

“I feel fine,” she said with an impish grin.

“I’d better leave.” Decker picked up the empty sack with the Bert-and-Ernie thermos inside.

He headed for the door.

“Pete,” said Hennon, “do you want your pictures back?”

He laughed.

“Yes, I do, thank you.”

“Anytime, Sergeant.”

After checking out Truscott again, Decker headed for the Teriyaki Dog. It was a ramshackle fast-food stand on Sunset across the street from Children’s Hospital. This part of Hollywood wasn’t hooker turf and Decker suspected that was why Kiki had picked out the spot; she didn’t want to be seen with a cop in front of her peers. But if that was her rationale, the girl wasn’t too bright. The stand was open and visible from the boulevard.

She was wolfing down a conconction of hot dog, chili and Chinese vegetables, and the mixture of smells was potent. He sat down beside her at a splintered picnic table. Placing his elbows on the table top, he noticed it was sticky with crusted food. He raised his coat sleeve and grimaced.

“Wanna bite?” she offered.

“No thanks.” He frowned. “One arm is enough.”

She looked puzzled, then broke into a laugh and punched him on the shoulder—his good one.

“You’re a kidder, huh?”

“What do you have for me?” he asked.

“Slow down,” she said, talking with her mouth full. “What’s the hurry?”

“I’m busy, Kiki. Put up—”

“Or shut up, I know.” She stopped eating, wiped her hands on a napkin, and took out a small scrap of paper. “These two guys specialize in younger meat and they’re both bad dudes.”

Decker looked at the names: Wilmington Johnson. Clementine.

“Clementine have a last name?” he asked.

“Just Clementine,” she answered licking her fingers.

As in “
Oh my darlin
.”

“Black? White?” he asked.

“Both are niggers. Clementine is pretty light from what I hear. I’ve never seen him.”

She picked up her food and took another bite. “Can you get me a Coke?”

He handed her a twenty. “Buy your own.”

“You’re a real big-timer, Decker.” She pouted. Then she broke into a smile. “So I did all right, huh?”

“Not bad. Where’d you get the names from?”

“Here and there. You check out Pode yet?”

“No. Tell me about him.”