“Cut the justice speech, cop. Assholes out there are big fat zits. Squeeze one, a dozen more pop up. I love Kiki, but I only got so much energy inside and I got to save it for when it counts. I was a white knight once. I just don’t give a shit anymore.”

Suddenly a high-pitched noise emanated from Kiki’s room. A monotone. A flat monotone. To correspond with flat vital signs. The lights outside the doorway flashed bright blue. He was shoved out of the way by a team of two nurses and a doctor. Decker made himself scarce, walking down the hallway, not wanting to know, but forced to stay until there was closure.

Fifteen minutes passed. The look in Lilah’s eyes said everything.

Shit!

The girl fell into Decker’s open arms. He held her as she sobbed pitifully. After she composed herself, Decker pulled away and said:

“You know who her parents are?”

“She hates her parents.”

“We’ve got to send the body to somewhere, Lilah.”

The girl wiped tears and running mascara off her cheek with her fingers. “She’s from Indianapolis. Her real name is Patsy Lee Norford. I think her father’s name is Mick or Mike.”

“I’ll find him,” Decker said.

“You’re a nice guy,” Lilah said. She whipped out a compact and began to fix her melted face. “Kiki said you were a nice guy. I frankly didn’t think they existed anymore.”

“If Kiki thought so highly of me, why the hell didn’t she listen to me and just stay out of trouble for a week?”

Lilah broke into wicked laughter-a mixture of irony and bitterness.

“She was a dumb-ass,” she said, starting to cry. “And you’re a dumb-ass, also…I mean, don’t you get it?”

Decker waited for her to explain.

“She was fucking in love with you, for Chrissakes! She didn’t want to go to that halfway house because she knew she’d never see you again. I mean, you told her on the phone you wouldn’t visit her! She figured at least on the streets she could be your stoolie, and then she could be with you.”

She clicked the compact closed and stuffed it in her purse. “You men are real stupid shits. I don’t care who the hell you are-john, cop, asshole father of five fucking kids-you’re all shit for brains.”

She spat at him and walked away.

19

He trudged into the station house and was greeted by Marge’s smiling face.

“Cheer up, Rabbi,” she said. “The warrants for Cecil Pode just came through.”

“It’s a little after the fact,” he said, gulping down some aspirin.

“You look horrible, Pete.”

“Not as horrible as I feel. Look, I’ll meet you out at Pode’s place in about an hour.”

She wrinkled her forehead.

“Hey, isn’t this your day off?” she asked.

Decker just laughed.

Cindy approached the principal’s office with trepidation. The receptionist in the outer office told her to go inside immediately.

The young girl’s face was anxious as she opened the door.

“Hi, Cindy,” Decker said.

“What is this, Daddy? Where’s Mr. Richardson?”

“He’s off campus. His secretary was kind enough to let me use his office-with a little prodding from my badge.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to say hi. I haven’t been able to get hold of you for a while.”

The girl was confused.

“Why did you pull me out of class?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” he said, sheepishly.

Cindy sat next to her father.

“You look terrible, Daddy. What happened?”

“I’m fine, Beautiful.” He kissed his daughter’s forehead, then hugged her fiercely. “I love you, Baby. Take good care of yourself for Papa, huh?”

She hugged him back.

“You want to talk about it?” she asked.

He laid his hand against her cheek.

“Cynthia, parents are supposed to console kids, not the other way around.”

“But we’re both adults now, Daddy.”

He laughed.

“Never. You’ll always be my baby whether you like it or not. When you’re seventy and I’m ninety-three you’ll still be my princess. I shouldn’t have dragged you out of class. I’ve been doing a lot of impulsive things lately…This time, it turned out nice.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too, Cynthia. Go back.”

“Are you sure-”

“I’m fine, honey. Go back to class.”

He watched her leave. Dear God, he thought. It was hard to let go.

“For a photographer, he sure didn’t have many personal snapshots,” Marge said to Decker as they finished combing Pode’s bedroom. “No baby or graduation pictures of Dustin, no hidden pictures of his wife. You’d think a widower would have one honored picture of his dead wife.”

“Maybe he wasn’t a sentimentalist,” Decker said, closing the last bureau drawer.

“But it’s weird.” Marge scanned the room then said, “Look at the walls. Those square white patches. Pete, there were pictures hanging up there.”

“So someone cleared them away. Maybe they were valuable. Besides, we’re not interested in family photos, and I don’t think Pode hung his porn on his bedroom walls.”

Marge thought about that and said nothing. She sat down on an empty double bed. “We’ve been through this place twice and haven’t come up with anything,” she said. “Want to move on to the studio?”

“Yeah,” Decker said, resigning himself to finding nothing.

“Hungry, Pete?”

“A little. We’ll stop by McDonalds on the way over.”

“Hey, I know you by now, Rabbi. I brought my lunch. Just stop by a 7-Eleven and let me pick up something to drink.”

“I didn’t bring my lunch, Marge,” he said quickly. “Let’s pick me up a Big Mac.”

She gave him a funny look.

“You’ve been bringing kosher lunches for the last four months and now it’s McDonalds?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Marge,” he said brusquely. “Let’s just do the job so we can go home.”

The back room of Pode’s studio was a mess-cramped and packed with props. In the center was a professional camera perched atop a tripod. On the north side was the sitting area-a bench, a few chairs, and boxes of photographic accoutrements. Strewn on the floor were parasols, fake flower bouquets, neckties, jackets, false collars, and yards of velvet. The dressing stalls were open, the curtains crumpled heaps on the floor. He didn’t see any file cabinet. Not here, not at the house.

“Either someone tossed the place or Cecil was an unbelievable slob,” Decker said.

“Move the tripod over to the side,” Marge said as she began kicking junk into a corner. “We need a little elbow room.”

Decker hefted the tripod, folded the legs, then leaned the apparatus against the wall. He turned around and walked across the room. He pivoted and retraced his steps. Did it a third time.

“Getting some exercise?” Marge asked, bemused. She knew he was up to something.

Decker stood at the room’s center and bounced on the balls of his feet. The flooring underneath was springy. He bent down and felt the linoleum tiles.

“We’ve got a trapdoor here,” he said. “Get me something to pry it open with.”

After a minute of searching Marge found a screwdriver.

“This isn’t heavy enough,” Decker complained. “I can’t get any leverage. The damn thing’s not budging.”

“Maybe it’s locked,” Marge said.

“I knew there was a reason for having you here.”

Marge slugged him. Hard.

“Spring lock,” he said. “Where the hell is the release button?”

Marge searched the walls. Nothing except light switches, and that wouldn’t make sense. Accidentally flip the wrong switch and up flies the tripod. But she tried all of them anyway. Nothing.

“Try the ceiling fan,” she suggested.

Decker pulled the cord. The fan turned on. Another pull, the fan turned off.

“Leave it on,” Marge said. “Get some air in the place.”

He tugged on the cord and walked inside the dressing rooms. The walls were bare.