Faye Kellerman - Sacred and Profane

“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.

He drove by and saw a faint illumination on top of the garage. Parking a half block down, he called in for immediate back-up, giving firm instructions to approach without lights or sirens.

“Who’s in there, Cecil?”

“Just the perv and a projectionist.”

“Who’s the projectionist?”

“I just call him Joe.”

“What’s he armed with?”

“He isn’t armed.”

Guy must have a machine gun, Decker thought.

“Mr. Rich Perv have a bodyguard?”

“Not that I know of.”

Figure at least one guard.

Two cruisers arrived in less than a minute.

“Stay put, Cecil. Don’t try anything dumb.”

Decker got out of the Plymouth and briefed the four uniforms. They conferred, and radioed in to their superior. A minute later a bull-necked black cop named Lessing came back to Decker.

“Ordered to go in and take it,” he said. “I’ll lead.”

“It’s your territory,” Decker said.

“You want in?” Lessing asked.

“You bet,” he answered. “Place is probably guarded and armed.”

“Let the insider do the talking,” suggested a six-foot female who reminded him of Marge. Her partner was toting a shotgun.

“Good idea,” agreed Decker. “Pode will get us inside and we’ll make the bust. I need that film. It’s material evidence for a homicide I’m working on.”

“Let’s go,” Lessing said.

“Fourteen-L-six’s here,” the woman said, as another black-and-white pulled up.

“We can use all the help we can get,” Decker said.

Two more uniforms came up, also carrying shotguns.

“I’ll go get our card key,” Decker said. He went back to the Plymouth, uncuffed Pode’s hands and feet, and pulled him out of the car.

“You’ve got to get us inside, Cecil. The place is a barbed-wire camp.”

Pode nodded. “I’ll tell you what to do.”

Decker laughed and pushed the fat man forward. “You’ve got a nutty sense of humor, my man. You’re coming with us. But don’t worry. You said no one’s armed.”

They walked the half block, and Pode led the seven officers up the outside stairs to the garage apartment. They took their positions. The entire rear of the structure was a mesh of steel wires and bars. Sitar music was coming from the inside.

“Get us inside,” Decker whispered to Pode.

The fat man was bathed in his own sweat.

“I lied,” he whispered back. “They have guns.”

“How many?”

“Projectionist and bodyguard. They have Uzis.”

“Get us inside, Cecil.”

“They’ll shoot me,” he sobbed. “They shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Get the door open and we’ll protect you,” said Lessing.

Looking like a condemned man, Pode gave a signaled knock.

They heard a series of knocks and clicks, and then a voice from inside said, “Who is it?”

“Pode. I got another one who was insistent.”

“Show started.”

“He already paid me big for the viewing,” Pode said shakily. “For Chrissakes, just open the door.”

Locks began to snap open. Everyone stepped inside. The minute the door showed light, Lessing kicked it open and yelled, “Police! Freeze!” Instantaneously, he pitched backward as if blown away by torrential wind, his stomach gushing a scarlet river.

Pandemonium broke out. Bursts of machine guns. Blasts of shotguns. The pops of the.38s. Screams, blood splattering all over the walls and floors. The exchange of gunfire lasted less than a minute, but its aftermath left a slaughterhouse. Pode was a crumpled pile at the foot of a free-standing movie screen. Another man was sprawled over a puddle of blood at the base of the projector, a hole ripped through his chest, his left arm blown off and propelled five feet to his left. Still another person had exploded into chunks on the south wall of the room. One man was still alive, hunched into a corner, sobbing.