Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection. Faye Kellerman
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said sarcastically.
“Not in the bars I frequent. You’d have ten guys on your tail the minute you walked in the door.”
She smiled.
“Trying to redeem yourself, Pete?”
“How am I doing so far?”
“Not bad. Keep going.”
He rubbed his eyes. “In all seriousness, tomorrow I’m going to kick myself for being such an ass tonight. I must be crazy to let you slide through my fingers.”
“So do something about it. Make the plunge.”
“I can’t. I’m too confused. Give me about a month or so.”
She folded her arms across her chest and looked him over.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Thanks for the consideration,” he said. He hoped he was being disarming. Luckily, the awkward situation took care of itself. His beeper went off.
“Phone’s over in the kitchen,” she said.
It was Marge.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I found Clementine.”
“I’ll be right down,” he said eagerly.
“Hold on, Kiddo. He ain’t going anywhere. He’s in the county jail.”
21
On Monday morning Decker watched Clementine pick up his personal belongings at the grilled window of the county jail. Seen in the light, the clean-shaven, bespectacled man was the color of a paper bag, with blue eyes, a bald spot, a weak chin, and a close-cropped Afro. Thin, short, and slight, he could easily have been mistaken for a café au lait Mr. Peepers. Not very intimidating. No wonder he liked doing business in the shadows.
He eyed Decker, and the two of them walked out of the receiving area into a grassy courtyard. Clementine looked up at Decker’s face and then at the bulge in the detective’s jacket.
“Sergeant,” he said, acknowledging Decker.
“You beat the rap, huh?”
“The lady dropped the charges.”
“She was in a coma for two days.”
Clementine smiled. “The incident between the lady and me was purely a business matter, Sergeant. Nothing personal.”
“Have to keep ’em in line, right?” Decker pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and offered it to the pimp.
“The lady don’t mind,” Clementine said, taking the smoke. “She depends on my good will for her livelihood.”
Decker gave him an impassive stare and got a grin of porcelain caps in return. Teeth again. He noticed them all the time now.
“What do you want?” Clementine asked.
“Recognize this guy?” Decker showed him the picture of the painted man in the film.
Clementine took off his glasses, squinted, then replaced them on his nose.
“Dude’s got on a shitload of warpaint. How the hell should I know who he be?”
He’d dipped into his pimp persona.
“Take a good look,” Decker pressed. “Look at the build, at any distinguishing marks that might remind you of someone.”
The pimp shrugged.
“Clementine, is this the Blade?” asked Decker.
“Don’t know, Cop. Can’t tell with all the camouflage.”
“Look at these other stills. Could these be the Blade?”
Clementine quickly sorted through the photographs.
“Can’t help you, Decker.”
He handed back the pictures.
“What did the Blade look like?” Decker urged. “C’mon, you’ve seen the dude. Short, tall—”
“Everyone looks tall to me.”
“How was he built? What kind of threads did he wear?”
“Dude was skinny. I tole you that. I know I tole you that. Hey, I’m no fuckin’ fashion consultant. I’m a free man. I gotta go, so if you’ll excuse me—”
Decker grabbed his bony arm.
“I want you to come down to the station and do a composite for the police artist.”
The pimp swung out a hip and sneered at Decker.
“Now why would I wanna do that, Cop?”
“Community service. And if you don’t, I’m going hunting for you, Clementine. Your whores’ll be marked. Your ‘livelihood’ will wind up in jail and your spare cash’ll be pissed away for bail money. And if you don’t think I’m serious, you ask anyone I’ve ever worked with how determined I can be.”
The pimp snarled and spat a chunk of brown saliva on the ground. Mr. Peepers was trying to save face.
“Perhaps I could work it into my busy schedule.”
“Perhaps you could work it in right now.”
“Find anything in the crap we picked up from Pode’s studio?” Marge asked Decker.
He looked up from his desk, took a sip of lukewarm black coffee, and shook his head.
“No such luck. The films left behind were legit, the junk papers were random numbers or meaningless scribbles. Nothing illuminating or incriminating.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“How’d the interviews go this morning, Margie?”
“I must have hit every dirty bookstore and porn studio in Hollywood. A few had heard of Cecil Pode, but none admitted doing business with him.”
“If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.”
“My sentiments exactly,” she agreed. “But you can only roust so much before the ACLU gets on your ass.”
“How about Dustin Pode? Anything new on him?”
“Far as I know, Joe Broker’s clean as a whistle,” she said. “When’s your appointment with him and Cameron—and the inimitable Jack Cohen?”
“Three. Drinks at the Century Plaza.” Decker rubbed his eyes. “Did you find out anything about the Blade?”
“The name sounded familiar to a few of ’em. Nothing beyond that. What about Clementine?”
“He’s giving a composite of the Blade to Henderson right now. I hope to have a face to match the name in a few minutes.”
“Good,” she nodded. “You know, I tried to call you yesterday. Now that you’re eating like a normal person, I wanted to invite you over to a Sunday barbecue at Carroll’s, but you weren’t home.”
“What the hell was I doing yesterday?” He wrinkled his forehead. “Oh yeah, I took Rina’s kids out on the horses.”
She gave him a funny look.
“You’re back together again?”
“No, I don’t think we’ve said a dozen words to each other. She’s called here twice, but I keep putting off calling her back. But why take it out on the kids, we’d arranged this outing weeks ago.”
“You break up with the woman, but keep the kids?” She shook her head in amazement. “You’re a sucker, Decker.”
He shrugged. “What can I tell you? There’s an attachment.”