Sacred and Profane (13 page)

“Don’t know anything other than what I told you,” she said. “Just that he takes fuck pictures on the side—young kids—boys as well as girls. Lots of chicken hawks out here.”

Decker pulled out the snapshot of Doe Two—Joan.

“Ever seen this girl, Kiki?”

The adolescent’s eyes widened.

“Yeah.”

It was Decker’s turn to grin.

“Who is she?”

“Countess Dracula. They call her that because of her teeth. She’s kinky, Decker, real kinky.”

“Tell me about her.”

“I don’t know anything really. Just talk on the streets. They say stay away from her. I haven’t heard about her in a while.”

“That’s cause she’s dead, Kiki. You don’t have to be worried about her anymore. C’mon. What do you know?”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“This have to do with the girl you were asking about?”

“What do you know about the Countess?”

Kiki sighed.

“Man, I’m really thirsty. And hungry, too. I dunno if they can change a twenty.”

“What do you want?”

“Make it a number six this time, with lots of cheese and garlic. And a large Coke.”

He got up and returned with her order. It smelled toxic. She bit into the hot dog, chewed, then wiped her mouth and took a sip of soda.

“What can I tell you? She’s a weirdo. Or
was
a weirdo. She’s really dead, huh?”

Probably
, he thought.

“Yes,” he answered.

“You know, I hear Clementine knew her before she got real weird. I bet he could tell you a bunch about her.”

“You’re stalling,” he said.

“Decker, I don’t
know
anything for sure. She was bad and did weird things, or so they say.”

“What weird things?”

“Just weird things.”

“Like what?”

The girl brought her face close to his. Her breath stank.

“They say she snared dupes, ya know? Maybe some illegals who she threatened to expose to Immigration. She’d do kinky things with them—make ’em fuck dogs or eat dead rats. They say she cut up animals and drank their blood.”

A real sweetheart
, he thought. What could that have to do with Lindsey?

Kiki pulled away from him, sweating profusely.

“I talk too much.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know anything more.”

“And Clementine was her pimp?”

“I dunno. Maybe they had a thing goin’.”

“Did she photograph her parties?”

“Shit, I dunno.”

“I’m a pervert,” he said. “Where do I get ahold of kinky films?”

“I dunno.”

“C’mon!”

“I
dunno
!” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Honest.”

“Then ask around for me, huh?”

“Uh huh,” she said, quickly. “I got my own ass to think about.”

Decker was silent. Kiki bit her lip.

“How much will you give me?” she asked.

“You get me any kind of still or celluloid that links the Countess and Lindsey Bates and I’ll do more than get you money, I’ll get you off the streets, Kiki. I’ll get you into the best halfway house in the city and make sure you’re taken care of until you reach legal age. If you’ve got a habit, I’ll get you into a top-notch rehab program. No cold turkey, something with compassion. I’m in Juvey, I have a lot of favors owed to me, and I know how to pull strings.”

“And if I don’t find anything, I stay out here peddling my ass. That the idea, Decker?”

The detective chewed on his mustache, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it.

“I need something to bargain with in order to strike deals,” he said. “I’m sorry but that’s the way it works. If I took you off the streets now, maybe they could find a home for you, maybe not. But if I take you off after you’ve
produced
and tell my buddies, ‘Hey, guys, this little gal has come through at risk to herself and we need
to pay her back, otherwise our credibility with teenage informants is diddlysquat,’ then we’ve got something. They still won’t give a shit about you, but they’ll do it.”

She folded her arms and scrunched her body into a tight ball.

“You guys are a bunch of creeps, you know that?”

He said nothing.

“Give me a cigarette.”

He handed her a Marlboro and lit it for her.

“I start nosing around where I don’t belong, and bad people are gonna get suspicious.”

He took a deep drag on his smoke and patted her shoulder.

“Listen, you’ve got rules, I’ve got rules,” he said. “First thing you have to do is stay alive.”

He stood up. She looked skinny and her chin was smeared with sauce.

“No matter what you come up with, I’ll see what I can do about getting your ass out of here. But no promises.”

She tried to look tough, but her face crumpled. She started to cry. He sat back down, and she threw her arms around him, hugging him hard while sobbing on his shoulder.

“You must get a lot of this crybaby shit,” she sniffed.

“It’s happened before.”

“I’ll do what I can, Decker.”

“Good. But don’t get yourself killed for it.” He broke away. “Take your time, Kiki. You poke around too quickly, someone’s ears will perk up. So don’t rush it.”

She nodded and wiped her tears with a dirty napkin.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “You keep in touch.”

“Yeah.”

He tousled her hair and slipped her a five from his own pocket.
Kids
, he thought. Inside, they were all just kids.

Cecil Pode’s work
address led Decker to a block-long shopping center off Venice Boulevard in Culver City. The studio, sandwiched between a shoe store and a takeout pizza shop, was fronted by two large windows that displayed blowups of stiff poses and pasted-on smiles: a family dressed in Sunday finest, a bride silhouetted by backlighting, a bar mitzvah boy, a confirmation girl. In the distance, propped on an easel, was a sixteen-by-twenty photo of a pair of hands with matching wedding rings resting against a background of flowers.

No cum or beaver shots here.

Decker walked inside, and as he stepped over the threshold, a bell jingled. The room was empty, but a voice from the back told him he’d be out in a second. Decker said okay and sat down on a couch. In front of him was a coffee table covered with albums containing sample photos. He picked one up. More proofs of brides, grooms, bar mitzvah boys, nice families.

Restless, he stood up and walked around, his eyes finally focusing on a cork bulletin board full of tacked-on business cards—a professional baby-sitter; two shyster lawyers promising cheap fees (
se habla español
), CPAs, interior designers, a licensed marriage and family counselor (flashing on his sessions with Jan, he knew what that was worth). One card caught his attention. It bore
the same last name as the studio’s owner.
Dustin Pode, Vice President/Executive First Brokerage House. Member SPIC/The quality discount broker: investments, tax shelters, real estate, and retirement funds
.

Decker pocketed the card, and a moment later a man came out of the back room. He looked older than fifty-two, stoop-shouldered, with coarse black hair streaked with steel encircling a large bald spot, and a matching swatch of Brillo under his small, round nose. He was overweight, with loose jowls and thin lips. The dark eyes managed to be weary and alert at the same time.

“How may I help you, sir?”

“Police,” Decker said taking out his badge.

Pode smiled unctuously.

“How can I be of service, Sergeant?” he asked.

“Tell me about
Erotic Ectasy
,” Decker said.

The smile didn’t waver.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Decker took out the picture of the Countess and laid it on the countertop.

“This is your handiwork. Shall we hang it in the window next to the confirmation girl?”

“Never saw her in my life,” the photographer said.

“Cut the bullshit, Pode.”

“All right, all right.”

He went over to the front door, turned the
open
sign to
closed
, and locked the door. For a fat man, his gait was surprisingly graceful.

“I had some gambling debts, so I moonlighted to keep from going under. But I’ll tell you this much. It was all legit stuff. All the chickies I shot were over eighteen, so the most you can accuse me of is bad taste. I’m not proud of it, but it kept my head above water, and we all gotta make a living, right?”

“Who’s the girl?” Decker said, pointing to the Countess again.

“Beats me. I don’t remember photographing her.”

“How could you forget these teeth?”

“I’m saying I don’t know her.”

Bastard was hiding something. Decker showed him Lindsey Bates.

“How about this one?” he asked.

Pode barely glanced at the photo. Decker thought he saw a flicker of recognition in the wary eyes, but it faded so quickly it was hard to be sure.

“Nope. No way!” Pode shook his head emphatically. “This girl isn’t more than sixteen, and like I told you, I only did legal stuff.”

“Right, Pode. You’re Joe Citizen.” Decker shoved the photo under his nose. “Take another look.”

“I don’t know her,” Pode insisted.

“Who peddles the kiddy stuff?” Decker pressed.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m getting really pissed off, Cecil,” Decker said.

Pode began to breathe heavily.

“Try a pimp named Johnson—Wilmington Johnson. He goes in for young girls.”

“Who else?”

“That’s it.”

He hadn’t mentioned Clementine, which meant that Clementine was the biggie and Johnson was a throwaway.

“Where does Johnson hang out?”

“Hollywood. Where else?”

“
Where
in Hollywood, Pode?”

“Golden Dreams Motel. Sunset near Highland. He gets the runaways and the little kids, sells ’em on the street.”

“And photographs them?”

“Maybe,” Pode said. His mustache quivered.

“How’s your son, Cecil?”

The question threw him.

“Which one?”

“Dustin. How’s he doing in the investment business?”

“Uh, fine. Fine enough that he doesn’t come around here borrowing money. Bought himself a Porsche and a condo in the Marina. Boy has a nose for a deal.”

“So why don’t you invest with him? This place sure could use an overhaul.”

“I’ve got a couple of bucks in his projects,” said Pode guardedly.

“Tell me about the Countess.”

The man’s eyes darted about.

“Uh…who?”

“The Countess. People say you know her.”

“Then people are full of it. Look, what do you want? If you’re going to batter me with questions, I want to call a—”

“Where does Dustin work?”

Pode broke into a smile. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to
confuse
me.”

“Where does he work?”

“Century City, in a big high-rise on Avenue of the Stars. Got some spare cash you want invested, Sergeant?”

“Johnson,” Decker said. “How well do you know him?”

“I don’t know him at all. I’ve just heard rumors that Johnson specializes in tender meat.”

“Who’d you hear these rumors from?”

“This person, that person.” Pode shrugged. “Long time ago. The old memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“With a few well-placed kicks, I bet we can dredge it up. What do you think?”

“Are you threatening me with physical abuse, Sergeant?”

“Me? Perish the thought! ’Course I could put out the word that you’re my snitch. There’s no telling what could happen.”

Pode’s fat face turned ashen.

“You got something you want to tell me, Pode?”

“No,” he said, quietly.

“Good. Thanks for your time.” Decker smiled. “You can keep these photos. I’ve got copies. And you want to know something else? I think you’ve got copies, too.” He paused, then said, “Point of information. This little vampire-toothed lady smothered in cum—she’s the Countess.”

“Are you ready for this?” Marge said to Decker. “Pode’s a widower. His wife died, burnt in a fire about fifteen years back.”

Decker’s eyes widened.

“Pode’s house had a history of calls to the Fire Department,” Marge explained. “Apparently, Pode’s wife—her name was Ida—used to imbibe spirits, then smoke in bed and set it on fire. Usually she escaped unharmed except for a little smoke inhalation and bad sunburn. One time the Fire Department found her unconscious and revived her. The last time, she was charred to a crisp, identified through dental records. Sound familiar?”

“Did they check out arson?”

“Yep. The fire was clean. Pode’s insurance on her life was nothing to write home about, either. A ten-thousand double indemnity with hubby as the sole beneficiary. Pode was paid with no questions asked.”

“Anyone else die in the fire?”

“Nope.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Marge said. “Just be
cause Lindsey was burnt to death doesn’t mean Pode’s our guy.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Marge said, “But it is a coincidence.”

Decker said, “I’m not a big believer in coincidences.”

The year Decker worked as a lawyer for his ex-father-in-law had been a total bust except for Jack Cohen’s dirty jokes. Lawyers told even bluer jokes than cops and no one could tell them better than Jack. Despite the end of his marriage to Jan, he and Jack had somehow remained friends. Decker made a quick phone call to him and explained the situation. Cohen agreed to let Decker use his name as a cover, then began to pump him about his newest,
young
girlfriend. Decker swore to himself. Cindy was a great kid, but discretion was not her forte. He hemmed and hawed, dodging the personal questions as best he could, and finally ended the conversation with a vague promise to bring Rina by the office one of these days. Jack sounded delighted, confirming what Decker had thought all along. Jan’s old man was an incorrigible lecher.

Decker knew from experience that discount brokers didn’t place a premium on image, and Executive First was no exception. It was bare bones: four walls, two metal tables, a few unoccupied folding chairs, and a disheveled-looking bleached blonde wearing a polyester stretch top that didn’t give where it should have. If you want glitz, go to any full-service brokerage house. The big desks, the high-tech electronic ticker tape, and the busty young secretary all cost extra, and those hidden expenses were passed on to the client in the form of higher trading fees.

The blonde was seated at one of the tables taking a
call from a switchboard. She motioned Decker onto a folding chair as she spoke into a headphone mike in a soft, modulated voice. She put the caller on hold.

“Harry?” she shouted. “Oh Haaaarry!”

She turned to Decker and said, “Must be in the little boy’s room.” Punching back the button, she took the caller’s name and number, then hung up the receiver. Another light started blinking. She debated answering the call, but instead turned to Decker.

“You want to see Harry?” she asked.

“Actually, I’m interested in seeing Dustin Pode.”

“Dustin isn’t in and I’m not sure when—Ah, here’s Harry.”

Harry was Harrison Smithson. He was in his fifties, with a full head of thick white hair and pale blue eyes rimmed in red. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a pair of navy gabardine slacks that had seen better days. He sat down at the other table.

“Have a seat,” he said to Decker.

His phone rang. Smithson picked it up, greeted the person on the other end, and began rummaging through the piles of papers in front of him.

“I’ve got the confirmation order right here, Mr. Amati. Yes, I have the check also, but I’m holding it because the settlement date hasn’t been established yet…. Yes, it should be by next week…If the issue is cancelled, you’ll be the first to know. Yes, yes, thank you.”

He looked back at Decker.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for investments that are speculative in nature but have a higher rate of return on the upside. A friend of mine tuned me into Dustin Pode. I thought I’d come down here and check him out personally.”

“Which of Mr. Pode’s investments interest you?” Smithson asked matter-of-factly.

“Well, what kind of prospectuses do you have to offer me?” Decker hedged. His year with Jack doing wills and estate trusts had been good for something. You learn the lingo.

“Well, I don’t know if Mr. Pode ever got around to any formal prospectuses.”

“What did he file with the SEC?”

Smithson hesitated. “They’re not exactly public offerings.”

The phone rang again. The receptionist answered it.

“It’s Grunz, Harry.”

“Take a message,” Smithson said wearily. He turned his attention back to Decker. “It would be best to have Mr. Pode call you directly, Mr….”

“Cohen,” Decker said. “Jack Cohen.” He handed Smithson one of his father-in-law’s business cards.

Smithson inspected it briefly.

“All right, Mr. Cohen. I’ll have Mr. Pode call you.”

Decker was about to stand up, but paused.

“My friend told me that Mr. Pode had done very well in movie production limited partnerships. Does he still do that?”

“Yes,” Smithson answered. “Occasionally. But he and my son, Cameron, are also involved in a real estate syndication which, to my mind, is going to really take off. It’s speculative, of course, and I wouldn’t recommend putting your life savings into it. But as far as potential for an upside profit—you’re talking sky’s the limit.”

“Sounds like my type of deal,” Decker said, smiling. “A little cash and a lot of stomach acid.”

The outer door burst open and a young man flew in. He stomped up to Smithson’s desk, completely unaware, it seemed, of Decker’s presence.

“Where are Cumberlaine’s certificates?” he demanded of Smithson.

The older man turned pink and lowered his voice.

“The securities are still being registered, Cameron. The order was only placed a couple of weeks ago.”

“The guy wants his certificates,” Cameron said, loudly. “I told him I’d have them for him.” He started pacing. “This isn’t some penny-ante bimbo, Harry, we’re talking big stakes. Somebody who can inject a little class, not to mention a lot of money, into this firm. The man’s connected!”

Smithson cleared his throat and turned to Decker. “This is the senior vice-president of Executive First,” he said, “Cameron Smithson. This is Mr. Cohen, an interested investor.”

“Hello,” Cameron said, shaking Decker’s hand. “I’ll leave you two alone in a minute.”

Decker regarded Smithson’s son. He wasn’t particularly small, but his overall appearance suggested delicacy. His complexion was baby-smooth, almost translucent, with a hint of peach fuzz above a narrow pink upper lip. His hair was blonde and fine and combed to cover a patch of denuded scalp. His eyes were watery blue, his nose thin with surprisingly wide nostrils. His blue cashmere blazer was perfectly tailored, his charcoal slacks, razor pressed. A red silk tie hung against a backdrop of white sea island cotton, the collar of the shirt secured by a gold pin. His hands were slender with un-callused palms, fingernails filed and shaped and coated with clear polish.

Not a man used to getting his hands dirty
.

Cameron glared at his father. “I
need
those certificates, Harry.”

“I can’t get them now,” Smithson said, embarrassed. “Can’t get blood from a turnip, Cam.”

“Then what the hell do I tell Cumberlaine?” His expression suddenly shifted. “Never mind! I’ll think of something. Blame it on the SEC or, better yet, blame it on the post office.”