Faye Kellerman - Sacred and Profane

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.