Faye Kellerman - Sacred and Profane

The man had arrived.

He went up to Johnson and told the girls to beat it.

“Say what, white boy?” Johnson asked, staring out into the street.

“You Johnson?” Decker asked.

The black turned around and gave him a quick once-over.

“Well, that all depends on what you want, man.”

“Oh,” Decker said meekly. Then he spun around and gave the pimp a short, hard punch to the solar plexus. Johnson folded over like a loose strand of licorice and began panting, teary-eyed. His whores stared at the detective, one with animosity, the other with admiration.

“Jesus,” Decker said helping him up. “I’m so sorry. I just lost my balance for a second. Jesus.” He brushed off the pimp’s coat. “I’m so sorry.”

Johnson stared at him with evil eyes.

“I’m looking for Wilmington Johnson,” Decker said, smiling.

“Who the fuck are you?” Johnson spat.

Decker took out his badge.

“Police.”

Johnson muttered to himself. Pulling out a pair of glasses, he stared at the shield, then looked at Decker. “Yeah, you’re po-lice all right. What you want?” He was about to remove the spectacles, but Decker held his arm and showed him the picture of the Countess.

“Yeah,” Johnson nodded. “I seen the bitch.”

“Was she one of yours?”

Johnson laughed, showing off horse-sized teeth.

“No way. Ain’t got that kind of animal in my stable. Try a dude named Clementine.”

“Where does he hang out?”

“Here and there.”

Decker scowled at him.

“Where is ‘here and there’?”

“The Strip, the Boulevard, the back alleys,” said Johnson. “Catch him when you can.”

“What do you know about the Countess?”

“She was bad-assed. Kinky.”

“Know this one?” Decker showed him Lindsey.

Johnson took a long look.

“A nice one,” Johnson nodded. “Fresh meat. Could get a lotta mileage from her. But the angel hasn’t crossed my path.”

“You sell pictures of your girls, Johnson?”

The pimp laughed.

“Say what?”

“Sell pictures of them with their johns.”

“Shit, no. Who needs the extra hassle? I ain’t greedy.”

“Some people say you do.”

“Who?”

“Cecil Pode.”

Johnson sputtered out guffaws.

“Ole Cecil. How’s the fat boy doing?”

“What do you know about Cecil?”

“Fat old fart. Used to slip me a few extra bucks if I’d let him shoot some of my girls in the raw. After a while he got in my face, man. Tried to steal some of my cuties. But my girls are loyal. I told him to take a hike. Musta been two years ago.”

Decker put away his notebook.

“You stay put,” Decker said. “I may come back for you.”

“Hey, Mr. Po-liceman, where the fuck should I be goin’ to? My livelihood is right out here.” The pimp’s eyes narrowed and shifted to the hookers. “Interested?”

Decker gave him either a hard pat or a light slap on the face.

“No.”

The cop who walked into the interrogation room was no more than a kid.

“You’re Vice in these parts?” Decker asked.

“Yup.”

The cop’s name was Beauchamps-all-American surfer boy with peroxide hair, movie idol eyes, and the deep tan that a redhead could never attain. Decker felt tired and old. And whenever he felt tired and old, he also felt pissed. The kid gave him an aw shucks grin.

“Welcome to Hollywood PD. Want a cup of coffee?”

“Pass,” Decker said.

“How long of a shift have you been on?”

“I didn’t have a mustache when it started.”

Beauchamps laughed, then said, “I’ve seen you before.”

“I was here last Sunday asking about a runaway.”

“That’s right. You spoke with Martell.”

“Yeah,” Decker said. “I’ve got some new developments. A kinky one that goes by the name of Countess Dracula.” He showed Beauchamps the picture.

“Don’t know her personally,” said the Vice cop, “but I’ll circulate it.”

“How about a pimp named Clementine?”

“Him I know.”

“Where does he hang out?”

“All over. His main squeeze lives in a pink duplex on Genesee, off of Hollywood Boulevard. Her name matches the house. Get this-Pinky Lovebite.”

Decker nodded. “Where can I get hold of kinky films, real nasty stuff?”

Beauchamps grinned boyishly. “If I knew that, Decker, I’d have a hell of a bust.”

“Ever hear of a photographer named Cecil Pode?”

“Nope.”

“Thanks.”

“Stop by again,” Beauchamps said. “I’ll buy you dinner.”

“The murdered girl?” the Rabbi asked. “Have you found the culprit?”

Decker took another drag on his cigarette and shook his head. Schulman looked upset.

“Have you talked to the parents at all?”

“Not since the initial interviews,” Decker answered. “I figured I’d call them when I had something worthwhile to tell them.”

The Rabbi crushed out the butt of his handrolled cigarette.

“I’m sure something will break open soon for you, Peter.”

“I appreciate the optimism, Rabbi. This is one of those cases that’s wrapped in layers. And as I peel them off, I know I’m going to find a rotten core. It stinks.”

“Are there ever good cases?” Schulman asked. “That was not meant rhetorically. I’m wondering if there are any cases from which you walk away feeling good?”

“Not really,” Decker said. “But most are very straightforward. A wife shoots her husband because he had a lover. A husband shoots his wife because she nagged him. Mama picked on the son-in-law at the wrong time. This one is not like that, though.”

The Rosh Yeshiva was clearly troubled.

Decker cursed his stupidity. He shouldn’t have told Schulman about his work. The old man had been insulated from the depravity of the outside world and was not equipped to deal with it.

“Don’t worry, Rabbi,” Decker said. “We’ll solve the case.”

He had told Rina that he’d stop by after his session with Schulman. As he approached her door, he could hear voices inside her house-a foreign tongue-Hungarian.

Her parents! Shit!

Reluctantly, he knocked. Rina swung open the door and stared at him, looking haggard. She was holding Jacob and was struggling under his weight, the boy’s feet dangling down to her shins. He was dressed in pajama bottoms but was barechested, his swollen eyes evidence that he’d been crying.

Her parents were standing around the doorway, looking their usual stiff selves. Her mother, Mrs. Elias, though wrinkled around the eyes and lips, was still a very pretty woman. Rina resembled her except that she’d inherited her father’s baby-smooth complexion, ending up with the best of both worlds. Mr. Elias was shorter than his wife, with a solid frame packed with muscle. He appeared agitated, his round face flushed and wet with perspiration.

“What’s wrong?” Decker asked.

“Come in,” Rina said, wearily.

“You didn’t ask who it was?” her mother scolded her in a heavy accent. “It could have been anyone.”

“I saw him through the peephole,” Rina said tensely.

“C’mere, Jake,” Decker said, forcing himself to breathe regularly. “Give your mama’s arms a rest.”

As Decker reached out to take Jacob, the boy screamed, kicked, and buried his face in his mother’s neck.

“He’s had another nightmare,” Rina explained. “I don’t think he’s fully awake. He woke up soaked with sweat, and everytime I try to put a shirt on him he screams. If I try putting him back to sleep, he screams. If someone tries to take him, he screams. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Sit down with him, Ginny,” suggested her father. “You’ll sprain your back.”