Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection

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Faye Kellerman

Год написания книги

2019

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“Fine.”

“You two going to do something soon?” Mike asked. “You’re obviously smitten by the lass. Or is it smote? You should know about that, Rabbi. Didn’t the Jews smote the Egyptians or something like that?”

Decker shrugged. The digs were good-natured and he let them pass. After all, his transformation over the past months had to seem strange to his colleagues. No doubt they attributed his metamorphosis to Rina; he loved her and was changing to please her.

But Decker knew it was deeper than that. Religion had given him a spark of renewed faith, and though it hadn’t blossomed into fire—maybe he was too cynical for it to ever get that bright—it was still better than complete darkness.

His thoughts were interrupted when a young detective with a pencil-line mustache stuck his head in the room.

“You’ve got a call, Pete.”

“Okay, George.”

The mustache turned upward into a grin.

“Want me to take over for a while, Rabbi?” George asked. “All those immoral photographs must be very unsettling to the spirit.”

“That won’t be necessary,” answered Decker. He picked up a receiver on an empty desk. A shrill young voice broke through.

“Ya know, you guys have a lot of nerve. I musta called this number a hundred times over the weekend and nobody answered. What if I had something important to tell you? I don’t think you give a shit who gets ripped off just as long as it don’t happen on your precious weekend—”

“Who is this?” Decker yelled into the receiver.

“It’s your informant, Decker.”

“Got something you want to tell me, Kiki?”

“Not over the phone.”

“I’m not meeting with you unless you tell me what this is about.”

There was a pause.

“Well …” she teased.

Decker checked his watch. “I’ve got a shitload of work, Kiki, so either put up or shut up.”

“I didn’t find out anything about the girl, but I’m still trying.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Yeah, that and ten cents—excuse me—twenty cents won’t get me a fucking phone call. I do have a name for you. A photographer who shoots porno. Lots of young ones and runaways.”

Decker grabbed a scrap of paper.

“Go on.”

“He runs a legit operation, also. You know—weddings, graduation, confirmations—”

“Name Kiki.”

“Cecil Pode. His place is in Culver City. Is that worth anything, Decker?”

“Could be.”

“Man, I’m busted. Have a heart.”

“What do you want?”

“A sawbuck would sure feel fine.”

“Get me some names of pimps who specialize in runaways and we may be able to work something out.”

“By what time?”

“Two.”

“Okay,” she said. “Meet me at the Teriyaki Dog on Sunset and Vermont. It’s across the street from the kiddy hospital. I should be able to dig up some names by then. How’s your arm, Decker?”

“Fine. I’ll see you at two.”

“Did you go to a doctor?” she persisted. “Like I told you, bites can be dangerous—”

“Kiki, I’ve got to go.”

He hung up and went back to the photos.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“Nope,” Marge answered. “What I’d like to know is why I can go through an entire box in the same time it takes Hollander to go through three pictures.”

“I’m a careful observer with an eye for detail,” Hollander retorted. “Get off my back, lady.”

Decker started in on the next box.

“Jesus,” Hollander exclaimed. “Have these young women no shame? She’s got jism up her nose.”

“A picture that grosses you out?” Marge said to Hollander. “This I’ve got to see.”

She held the snapshot.

“Ugh! She’s covered in cum.”

Decker took a peek and his eyes widened. He grabbed the photo out of Dunn’s hand.

“What is it, Pete?”

“Got any more pictures of this one, Mike?”