12
Cecil Pode’s work address led Decker to a block-long shopping center off Venice Boulevard in Culver City. The studio, sandwiched between a shoe store and a takeout pizza shop, was fronted by two large windows that displayed blowups of stiff poses and pasted-on smiles: a family dressed in Sunday finest, a bride silhouetted by backlighting, a bar mitzvah boy, a confirmation girl. In the distance, propped on an easel, was a sixteen-by-twenty photo of a pair of hands with matching wedding rings resting against a background of flowers.
No cum or beaver shots here.
Decker walked inside, and as he stepped over the threshold, a bell jingled. The room was empty, but a voice from the back told him he’d be out in a second. Decker said okay and sat down on a couch. In front of him was a coffee table covered with albums containing sample photos. He picked one up. More proofs of brides, grooms, bar mitzvah boys, nice families.
Restless, he stood up and walked around, his eyes finally focusing on a cork bulletin board full of tacked-on business cards-a professional baby-sitter; two shyster lawyers promising cheap fees (se habla español), CPAs, interior designers, a licensed marriage and family counselor (flashing on his sessions with Jan, he knew what that was worth). One card caught his attention. It bore the same last name as the studio’s owner. Dustin Pode, Vice President/Executive First Brokerage House. Member SPIC/The quality discount broker: investments, tax shelters, real estate, and retirement funds.
Decker pocketed the card, and a moment later a man came out of the back room. He looked older than fifty-two, stoop-shouldered, with coarse black hair streaked with steel encircling a large bald spot, and a matching swatch of Brillo under his small, round nose. He was overweight, with loose jowls and thin lips. The dark eyes managed to be weary and alert at the same time.
“How may I help you, sir?”
“Police,” Decker said taking out his badge.
Pode smiled unctuously.
“How can I be of service, Sergeant?” he asked.
“Tell me about Erotic Ectasy,” Decker said.
The smile didn’t waver.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Decker took out the picture of the Countess and laid it on the countertop.
“This is your handiwork. Shall we hang it in the window next to the confirmation girl?”
“Never saw her in my life,” the photographer said.
“Cut the bullshit, Pode.”
“All right, all right.”
He went over to the front door, turned the open sign to closed, and locked the door. For a fat man, his gait was surprisingly graceful.
“I had some gambling debts, so I moonlighted to keep from going under. But I’ll tell you this much. It was all legit stuff. All the chickies I shot were over eighteen, so the most you can accuse me of is bad taste. I’m not proud of it, but it kept my head above water, and we all gotta make a living, right?”
“Who’s the girl?” Decker said, pointing to the Countess again.
“Beats me. I don’t remember photographing her.”
“How could you forget these teeth?”
“I’m saying I don’t know her.”
Bastard was hiding something. Decker showed him Lindsey Bates.
“How about this one?” he asked.
Pode barely glanced at the photo. Decker thought he saw a flicker of recognition in the wary eyes, but it faded so quickly it was hard to be sure.
“Nope. No way!” Pode shook his head emphatically. “This girl isn’t more than sixteen, and like I told you, I only did legal stuff.”
“Right, Pode. You’re Joe Citizen.” Decker shoved the photo under his nose. “Take another look.”
“I don’t know her,” Pode insisted.
“Who peddles the kiddy stuff?” Decker pressed.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m getting really pissed off, Cecil,” Decker said.
Pode began to breathe heavily.
“Try a pimp named Johnson-Wilmington Johnson. He goes in for young girls.”
“Who else?”
“That’s it.”
He hadn’t mentioned Clementine, which meant that Clementine was the biggie and Johnson was a throwaway.
“Where does Johnson hang out?”
“ Hollywood. Where else?”
“Where in Hollywood, Pode?”
“Golden Dreams Motel. Sunset near Highland. He gets the runaways and the little kids, sells ’em on the street.”
“And photographs them?”
“Maybe,” Pode said. His mustache quivered.
“How’s your son, Cecil?”
The question threw him.
“Which one?”
“Dustin. How’s he doing in the investment business?”
“Uh, fine. Fine enough that he doesn’t come around here borrowing money. Bought himself a Porsche and a condo in the Marina. Boy has a nose for a deal.”
“So why don’t you invest with him? This place sure could use an overhaul.”
“I’ve got a couple of bucks in his projects,” said Pode guardedly.
“Tell me about the Countess.”
The man’s eyes darted about.
“Uh…who?”
“The Countess. People say you know her.”
“Then people are full of it. Look, what do you want? If you’re going to batter me with questions, I want to call a-”
“Where does Dustin work?”
Pode broke into a smile. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to confuse me.”
“Where does he work?”
“ Century City, in a big high-rise on Avenue of the Stars. Got some spare cash you want invested, Sergeant?”
“Johnson,” Decker said. “How well do you know him?”
“I don’t know him at all. I’ve just heard rumors that Johnson specializes in tender meat.”
“Who’d you hear these rumors from?”
“This person, that person.” Pode shrugged. “Long time ago. The old memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“With a few well-placed kicks, I bet we can dredge it up. What do you think?”
“Are you threatening me with physical abuse, Sergeant?”
“Me? Perish the thought! ’Course I could put out the word that you’re my snitch. There’s no telling what could happen.”
Pode’s fat face turned ashen.
“You got something you want to tell me, Pode?”
“No,” he said, quietly.
“Good. Thanks for your time.” Decker smiled. “You can keep these photos. I’ve got copies. And you want to know something else? I think you’ve got copies, too.” He paused, then said, “Point of information. This little vampire-toothed lady smothered in cum-she’s the Countess.”
“Are you ready for this?” Marge said to Decker. “Pode’s a widower. His wife died, burnt in a fire about fifteen years back.”
Decker’s eyes widened.
“Pode’s house had a history of calls to the Fire Department,” Marge explained. “Apparently, Pode’s wife-her name was Ida-used to imbibe spirits, then smoke in bed and set it on fire. Usually she escaped unharmed except for a little smoke inhalation and bad sunburn. One time the Fire Department found her unconscious and revived her. The last time, she was charred to a crisp, identified through dental records. Sound familiar?”
“Did they check out arson?”
“Yep. The fire was clean. Pode’s insurance on her life was nothing to write home about, either. A ten-thousand double indemnity with hubby as the sole beneficiary. Pode was paid with no questions asked.”
“Anyone else die in the fire?”
“Nope.”
They were silent for a moment.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Marge said. “Just because Lindsey was burnt to death doesn’t mean Pode’s our guy.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Marge said, “But it is a coincidence.”
Decker said, “I’m not a big believer in coincidences.”
The year Decker worked as a lawyer for his ex-father-in-law had been a total bust except for Jack Cohen’s dirty jokes. Lawyers told even bluer jokes than cops and no one could tell them better than Jack. Despite the end of his marriage to Jan, he and Jack had somehow remained friends. Decker made a quick phone call to him and explained the situation. Cohen agreed to let Decker use his name as a cover, then began to pump him about his newest, young girlfriend. Decker swore to himself. Cindy was a great kid, but discretion was not her forte. He hemmed and hawed, dodging the personal questions as best he could, and finally ended the conversation with a vague promise to bring Rina by the office one of these days. Jack sounded delighted, confirming what Decker had thought all along. Jan’s old man was an incorrigible lecher.