LITMIR.BIZ

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repeated.

      “The gig you got on the day of Lindsey’s disappearance—you said it was a wedding.”

      “Yeah.”

      “You said you got it at the last minute.”

      “Yeah.”

      “Who was the original photographer supposed to be?”

      “A guy I know.”

      “What’s his name?”

      “Cecil Pode. He’s a—”

      “Shit!” Decker slammed his fist into a waiting palm. “Did Pode know you were supposed to meet Lindsey?”

      The boy’s face was the picture of confusion. He rubbed his eyes.

      “What are you gettin’ at?” he asked.

      “Did Pode ever meet Lindsey?”

      “Couple times. I used to develop my pictures at his studio. He saw some of the shots I took of her and asked me to bring her around. He said he wanted to snap a couple of shots of her for his window display. Made a point of telling me how photogenic she was. I don’t think he ever did it, though.”

      “Did Pode ever see the nudes you took of Lindsey?”

      “I guess. I don’t remember.”

      “How’d you meet Pode?”

      “On the beach. He hung around the Venice boardwalk a lot.”

      “Did you tell Pode before the day of the gig that you had a date with Lindsey on the day of her disappearance?”

      “I might have. I don’t fuckin’ remember.” Panic seized the boy. “What is it?”

      “I’m not sure.”

      “What the hell do you mean you’re not sure?” Truscott’s voice cracked. “What’s Cecil got to do with Lindsey? Did he do anything to her?”

      Decker was silent. Truscott grabbed his shoulders. He had an alarmingly tight grip for a man his size.

      “Did he do anything to her?” he shouted.

      “He might have,” Decker said quietly. “He might have told her to come with him to meet you. And then he might have abducted her.”

      The boy’s scream came out a strangled, sucking gasp. Then he collapsed into Decker’s arms.

      Decker slept in the station’s dormitory from 6:30 to 8:30 A.M. Bleary-eyed at 9 A.M., he placed a call to the information operator in Klamath Falls. There were three Armbrusters. The second one was the winner. Kate had left home seven years ago and hadn’t been heard from since. Decker explained the situation, expecting to hear emotional upheaval on the other side, but the mother’s only comment was good riddance to bad rubbish. She gladly supplied the name of Kate’s dentist and made it a point to tell him not to bother to ship the body home. Katie was trash, and a Christian funeral for her would be sacrilegious and a waste of hard-earned money.

      Decker reminded himself that Katie had been born with congenital syphilis. The indignation of the hypocrites.

      Katie’s dentist had only X rays of current patients at his fingertips. It would be a couple of days before he could find her radiographs. He did remember working on her once or twice. The Armbrusters really couldn’t afford too much. If he found the X rays, he’d be glad to send them down. A shame about Katie, he said to Decker. She was a wild kid, but that was no reason to die.

      Morrison sat across his desk, eyes fixed on Decker’s face.

      “You want to tell me what the hell is going on, Pete? You’ve requested two search warrants and a tail on some stockbroker named Dustin Pode.”

      “The warrants are for his father’s home and studio. Cecil Pode is a snuff film distributor. I’m betting he’s involved in Lindsey Bates’s abduction and death. After I questioned him, I think he cut town. I want to see if he left anything incriminating behind.”

      “Who says he’s a snuff distributor—the pimp you talked to?”

      “He and another source.”

      “Who?”

      Decker rubbed his eyes and suppressed a yawn.

      “A hooker. Her street name’s Kiki. She seems on the up-and-up.”

      Morrison thought for a moment, then said, “Let’s do it this way. We’ll try for search warrants for Pode’s house and studio based on what you found out from Truscott. Unlikely we’ll get them without something concrete. A still or a film or at least someone who saw Bates and Pode together the day of her disappearance.”

      “Dunn is going to comb the Galleria and ask around at all the stores. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

      “Maybe,” the Captain said.

      “What about the tail?” Decker said.

      “Dustin Pode is a private citizen who isn’t residing or working in our jurisdiction. He hasn’t been implicated. “You don’t have any real evidence on Cecil Pode; you have nothing on Dustin Pode. A tail is out of the question. Takes up too much manpower.”

      “I have a gut feeling that Dustin Pode is involved.”

      “You’re a good intuitive cop, Pete, but I can’t authorize men based on your hunches.”

      “At least send Hollander out to talk to Dustin Pode about his father. Maybe Dustin will implicate Daddy in something naughty,” Decker said. “Mike’s got a light load this morning.”

      “You can talk to Dustin Pode,” said Morrison. “I’ve no problem with that.”

      Decker stalled a moment. He didn’t want to tell Morrison about his Jack Cohen alias just yet. “Let Hollander handle it. He’s good with these broker types. He loves to play dumb.”

      “Fine. Hollander goes out for a one-shot deal. But scratch any idea about a tail.” Morrison lit a cigarette. “You’ve done a good job, Pete. Taken a dead case and breathed some life into it. Just don’t go overboard. And don’t do anything dumb-ass with this Dustin Pode. I don’t want a citizen’s harassment complaint slapped on this division. God knows LAPD gets enough fabricated shit from the papers. Let’s not give them something real to work with.”

      Decker nodded.

      “Now what is this about getting another juvey into the Donaldson halfway house?”

      “I owe someone a favor.”

      Morrison didn’t press it.

      “Okay,” he said. “Start the paperwork.”

      “Thanks, Captain.”

      “When are you taking the lieutenant’s exam?”

      “I thought maybe next year.”

      “Why not this year?”

      “I haven’t had a hell of a lot of time to study.”

      “You’re a lawyer, Pete. After the bar, the exam should be a snap.”

      Decker shrugged. He didn’t have time to study because the yeshiva courses were occupying all his free time—or lack thereof. But he couldn’t tell the captain that.

      Morrison looked disapproving, but said nothing. He stood up and walked away without a word. Decker rubbed his eyes.

      Man, he was tired.

      The phone rang.

      “Decker.”

      “It’s the illustrious Patsy Lee Newford, better known as the redheaded superspy.”

      “Patsy Lee Newford?”

      “Hey Decker, that’s a boss name in Indiana.” She laughed,

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