Faye Kellerman - Sacred and Profane

His mouth had been hopelessly manic last night. He had talked, confided…babbled. What had he told her? It made no difference. There was still so much more left unsaid. So much more for the future.

He opened his eyes. She was gone, as he knew she would be. But she had been no phantom, no dream. The room was a testament to what had passed between them, the air still redolent of musk and sweat, the sheets still damp with their juices.

He shut his eyes. Pardes, he thought. Me and Ben Azzai. Neither of us wants to go back.

Promises between passion. Vows between tears. What words of hope had filled their hearts? He had agreed to continue studying with the rabbi. No guarantees about the outcome. If something clicked, she’d meet him halfway. In a sense, she had done that last night.

In the end, it was left up to destiny. Basheert.

Marge caught him as he exited from the unmarked.

“Where the hall have you been?” she said.

“Sorry.”

“It’s two-thirty, for chrissakes!”

“I got hung up.” He tucked his tie under his collar and started to make a knot.

“Hung up?” she said skeptically. “You look like a piece of trash that the wind just blew in and smell like a whale’s testicle. I sure hope she was worth it, Pete, ’cause you’re in hot water right now.”

He’d misjudged the length and the tie came out too short. “What’s wrong?” he asked, undoing it.

“Let me do that,” Marge said disgustedly. “Armand Arlington’s in one of the interview rooms waiting to talk to you. Morrison feels he’s about to drop a dime, and the good captain is pretty damn pissed-at you and me-that Mr. Megabucks had to cool his heels for the past hour. I’m supposed to know where you are, remember?”

“Well, how was I to know he was here?”

“Try answering your phone or your beeper. What’d you do? Turn them both off?”

Decker gave her a helpless smile and shrugged.

Marge looped the tie and pushed the knot to his chin.

“What did you do to Arlington, Pete? The man didn’t come forward because he wanted to clear his conscience.”

“I just talked to the guy. Jesus! You can’t even talk to someone anymore without someone jumping down your throat.”

“Yeah, you talked to him with a gun up his ass,” she said.

“If I had had a gun up his ass, Marge, I’d have fired it. Then he’d look like what he is-a pile of shit.”

Decker walked into the interview room and unfolded the lone chair leaning against the wall. The place was cramped when occupied by only two people; with five it had become vacuum-packed. The others were squeezed around a metal bridge table, stuffing butts into an overflowing aluminum ashtray. He sandwiched the chair between Morrison and the wall.

Not exactly the executive suite.

“So good of you to show up, Sergeant,” Arlington sneered from the opposite side of the table. “That is your current rank, isn’t it?”

Decker ignored the comment but zeroed in on the man. Arlington was dressed expensively and conservatively-Italian silk navy suit, fine white cotton shirt, navy-and-maroon silk striped tie. His feet were ensconced in crocodile loafers, and a maroon handkerchief blossomed from his breast pocket.

His face was suffused with contempt.

Of what? thought Decker. The surroundings? The police? The indignity of it all?

He became enraged.

The guy’s a first-class scumbag and he’s contemptuous? Decker’s eyes drifted to Arlington ’s left, to his lawyer. A white-haired Modigliani, strictly high power. The guy reeked of self-confidence-the kind that had come from years of being kept on retainer. Opening his Mark Cross briefcase, Mr. Long Face took out a pile of papers, a fine-point felt-tip pen, a notepad, and a Sony tape recorder. Not to be outdone, Morrison brought out his own cassette deck. He pushed the pause button and waited.

The last man at the table was George Birdwell, the deputy DA, a bespectacled black Berkeley grad in his late twenties. Good, Decker thought. We’re in fine hands. Birdwell was as conscientious as anyone Decker had ever met and was as sharp as a cactus needle.

Arlington ’s lawyer spoke up in a deep voice. “Let’s begin now.”

“Go ahead,” Morrison said, turning on the tape recorder.

“My client has a few remarks he’d like to offer in the hope they may aid in your investigation of the Bates-Armbruster case. Mr. Arlington has come here of his own volition-against legal advice-and in good faith, in order to advance the course of justice. Furthermore, it is agreed upon by all parties present that any information disclosed in said statement may not be used against Mr. Arlington should there be any further legal proceedings pertaining to this matter.” He looked at Arlington. “You may begin.”

The steel man read from a prepared statement:

“I first came into contact with Cameron Smithson through a mutual acquaintance on or about July fifteenth of last year. After a brief discussion of security investments, Mr. Smithson offered to show me explicit, illegal, pornographic material for the disclosed sum of five thousand dollars per viewing. I accepted the invitation in the hope of gathering information that could lead to his arrest, since the thought of viewing such filth for pleasurable purposes was personally sickening. During the course of my investigation, I came into contact with Cecil Pode and his son, Earl, who appeared to be business partners with Mr. Smithson. I was about to delve further into this highly organized network of illicit activity when the police invaded the premises of 791 Brooks Avenue in Venice. I state this in order to aid in your ongoing police investigations and to put an end to the perversion that is so widespread in our society.”

He tossed the sheet of paper toward Decker.

“End of statement.”

“How did Cameron Smithson arrange the filming?” the captain asked.

“End of statement!” Arlington boomed, rising out of the chair.

“Where did Smithson get the films, Arlington?” Decker prodded. “Did he finance them and hire Cecil to do the camera work?”

“You heard my client, gentlemen. Now if you’ll excuse us…”

The captain pushed the stop button on the cassette player.

“What I just read was for the record,” Arlington scowled, brushing a piece of lint off of his lapel. “Now this is off the record.” He glowered at Decker. “If you ever, ever show your face around my homes or any of my offices again and try to roust me, I’ll personally cut off your balls, have them pickled, then eat them with my chef’s salad for lunch. I hope you understand what I’m saying, Sergeant?”

“Are you threatening my man, Arlington?” Morrison snapped.

“Just a statement of fact.” Arlington opened the door. “Good day.”

The two of them walked out.

“Asshole,” Decker muttered, then smiled at Morrison. “But we’ve got something.”

“Besides,” Birdwell said excitedly, “it’s all bluff. He knows he could be subpoenaed as a material witness to the raid. We all know that Arlington ’s involvement goes deeper than a marijuana charge. Why else would his mouthpiece be so insistent upon immunity?”

“Immunity for anything connected with Cameron Smithson,” Decker said. “But not for everything. If we can connect him to other illicit activities, he’s an open target.”

“Like what?” Morrison asked.

“Soliciting minors for immoral purposes. Assault. Murder. Minor things like that.”

“You’re trying to link him to the Loving Grandpas?” Morrison asked.

“Yes,” Decker answered. “Who told you about them?”

“Someone called me from Hollywood and said Dunn had been questioning hookers about them. I figured she was there at your behest.”