Wisps of conversation kept drifting into his consciousness.
It’s family, Rabbi. Cops always look in the family.
All you white boys look alike.
Just a white boy.
How’s your son, Cecil?
Which one?
WHICH ONE?
He bolted up in the darkness.
There had been no personal photos in Cecil Pode’s house. It was time to construct a family portrait.
22
“I need all of his tax forms, not just the 1040s,” Decker said to the voice on the other end. “Yes, ma’am, state as well as federal for the last thirty years-”
The voice grew shrill.
“I realize it’s a hell of a lot of information,” he said, peeved, “so instead of arguing about it, why don’t you program it into the computer and quit wasting time? This is a homicide investigation…Oh, and any army records you can dig up.”
A curt reply, then a click.
“Fuck you,” he said, slamming down the receiver. He picked it up again and dialed the county assessor’s office.
“This is Detective Sergeant Peter Decker of LAPD Homicide. Has Ms. Crandell returned from her morning break?”
He sipped his coffee as the woman put him on hold.
“This is Ms. Crandell,” a birdlike voice tweeted.
“This is Detective Sergeant Decker of LAPD-”
“Yes, Sergeant. I have the information you asked about.”
God bless the competent few. They may not inherit the earth, but they make it an easier place in which to live.
“Great,” he said, grabbing a pencil.
“Mr. Cecil Pode acquired the house on Beethoven Street twenty-two years ago in joint tenancy with his wife, Ida. Ten years ago-let’s see, that was 1977-it was reevaluated for tax purposes after major capital improvements were made and…” she paused “…and the ownership was changed from joint tenancy to sole ownership.”
“What kind of capital improvements?” Decker asked.
“I don’t know.”
“So Cecil Pode’s lived in that residence for the past twenty-two years?”
“I don’t know where he actually lived. But he did pay his property tax for those years.”
“Thank you.”
Decker hung up and Marge walked over. “Rina called again,” she said to him.
“I’ll get back to her.”
“You’re not being nice.”
“I said I’ll call her. What do you have, Marge?”
“We struck out, Peter. I couldn’t find out any of Pode’s film investors. Confidential.”
“Damn.” Decker lit a cigarette. So he’d die of lung cancer. He had no one to live for anyway. “Did you ever get a chance to talk to the streetwalkers in Hollywood about the Grandpas?”
She pointed her thumbs downward. “Their lips were zipped. A couple of young ones-their ID says eighteen but their faces say at least a couple of years younger-got very nervous when I mentioned Maurice. But they denied knowing anyone by that name. I got the impression that these old farts were paying them lots of money, maybe scaring them also.”
“Did you tell them about Kiki?”
“They knew about her. ‘Aw, too bad. She was a nice kid, but kinda dumb. I take care of myself better than she did.’ I’m sorry I couldn’t do better-”
“No, no.” He crushed his cigarette out in an ashtray. “I really don’t like working Homicide. I’ve got to finish the case just to be rid of it and this division.” He looked at her. “I’m going to talk to Arlington.”
“Don’t chance it without departmental okay, Pete.”
“A cop died during that shoot-out.”
“Yes, I know. The whole department knows. But Arlington didn’t pull the trigger.”
“He was there. Someone’s got to crack his nuts.”
“Patience. The timing’s wrong. If anyone comes within a mile of him, he screams harrassment and makes a phone call. You get dressed down. What’s the point?”
The phone rang.
“Decker,” he said.
“Is Detective Sergeant Peter Decker there?”
He stared at the receiver and shook his head. “This is Sergeant Decker.”
“This is Ms. Lotta from the Hall of Records. You asked about the Podes’ marriage, birth, and death certificates?”
“I sure did. What do you have for me?”
She cleared her throat.
“Mr. Cecil Pode married Miss Ida Brubaker in Fresno, California, on June 21, 1955. Mrs. Ida Pode’s death certificate was signed on May 17, 1977. Cause of death was indeterminate because she was burnt up so badly. She was identified through dental records.”
“Any names of surviving kin?”
“If there are, I don’t have any. All I deal with is certificates. I have no access to obituaries, Sergeant.”
“Do you have the name of the dentist who made the identification?” Decker asked.
“No. The death certificate was signed by the ME.”
“That’s fine, Ms. Lotta. What about the birth certificates?”
“There’s a registration of birth for a Dustin Pode, but I didn’t find any other children born to them. That doesn’t mean there are no other children. It only means Dustin Pode was the only child born in L. A. County.”
“Thank you.”
He put down the receiver, scribbled a few notes, and dialed Parker Center -Police Statistics.
“Casey? Pete. Can you get an obit for me? Yeah…Ida Pode-Peter-Ocean-David-Edward-died May 17, 1977 in a fire. I know she was survived by her husband and son, I want to find out if there were any other children in the family… Yeah. Thanks, I’ll hold.”
He tucked the receiver under his chin, rubbed his hands together, and waited.
“Margie, did the original fire report say where Ida Pode died?”
“I think they found the body-or what was left of it-in bed.”
“Sure?”
“No. I’ll look it up again.”
Casey came back on the line.
“The woman left behind her husband and two sons-Dustin, 22, and Earl, 17.”
Bingo!
“Thanks, Casey.” Decker hung up.
“What did he say?” Marge asked.
“Dustin has a little brother, Earl.”
“Aha. So whose bones are in deep freeze?”
“Either Dustin’s or Earl’s. And the living Dustin is either Dustin or Earl. What I need are their respective sets of dental X rays to make a positive ID, and to do that, I need the family dentist.”
Decker lit a cigarette and ruminated.
“Jesus, seems I’ve been talking to a lot of tooth jockeys these past couple of weeks. Might as well make an appointment for a cleaning.”
“Bowl ’em over with your grin.”
Decker laughed.
“Problem is, Marge, if I call up the living Dustin and ask for his family dentist, he’s going to get suspicious if he’s really Earl. I have to do it on the sly without his catching on.”
“You know,” Marge said, “the 1040s sometimes list the name of the accountant who prepared the tax forms. You could probably get the name of Pode’s insurance carrier from him. If Pode had dental insurance, we could trace the dentist from insurance records.”
“Good point, except their 1040s are in transit.”
“The medical charts!” Marge shouted.
“Of course!”
He opened his file, pulled out Dustin Pode’s folder, and took out the chart. Ten minutes later he plunked the medical files back into the folder and closed the drawer.
“No such luck?”
“You’d think a pediatrician would have at least listed the kid’s dentist.”
Decker knitted his brow and thought. “How about this? Cecil lived in the same house for the past twenty-two years. I bet the boys went to the local high school. And I bet they filled out health forms. Maybe I’ll check it out while I’m waiting for the tax records to come in.”
“Okay,” Marge said. “And while you’re at it, take a look at the yearbooks and get a picture of Earl.”
His phone rang again. MacGruder from Culver City PD.
“Thanks for returning my call,” Decker said.
“No problem, Sergeant. The bomb wasn’t triggered by a timing device. It was detonated by a remote-control unit-a BSR. One of those fourteen-button jobs that can turn on your jacuzzi by phone while you’re still at the office.”