Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection

“I dunno!” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Honest.”

“Then ask around for me, huh?”

“Uh huh,” she said, quickly. “I got my own ass to think about.”

Decker was silent. Kiki bit her lip.

“How much will you give me?” she asked.

“You get me any kind of still or celluloid that links the Countess and Lindsey Bates and I’ll do more than get you money, I’ll get you off the streets, Kiki. I’ll get you into the best halfway house in the city and make sure you’re taken care of until you reach legal age. If you’ve got a habit, I’ll get you into a top-notch rehab program. No cold turkey, something with compassion. I’m in Juvey, I have a lot of favors owed to me, and I know how to pull strings.”

“And if I don’t find anything, I stay out here peddling my ass. That the idea, Decker?”

The detective chewed on his mustache, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it.

“I need something to bargain with in order to strike deals,” he said. “I’m sorry but that’s the way it works. If I took you off the streets now, maybe they could find a home for you, maybe not. But if I take you off after you’ve produced and tell my buddies, ‘Hey, guys, this little gal has come through at risk to herself and we need to pay her back, otherwise our credibility with teenage informants is diddlysquat,’ then we’ve got something. They still won’t give a shit about you, but they’ll do it.”

She folded her arms and scrunched her body into a tight ball.

“You guys are a bunch of creeps, you know that?”

He said nothing.

“Give me a cigarette.”

He handed her a Marlboro and lit it for her.

“I start nosing around where I don’t belong, and bad people are gonna get suspicious.”

He took a deep drag on his smoke and patted her shoulder.

“Listen, you’ve got rules, I’ve got rules,” he said. “First thing you have to do is stay alive.”

He stood up. She looked skinny and her chin was smeared with sauce.

“No matter what you come up with, I’ll see what I can do about getting your ass out of here. But no promises.”

She tried to look tough, but her face crumpled. She started to cry. He sat back down, and she threw her arms around him, hugging him hard while sobbing on his shoulder.

“You must get a lot of this crybaby shit,” she sniffed.

“It’s happened before.”

“I’ll do what I can, Decker.”

“Good. But don’t get yourself killed for it.” He broke away. “Take your time, Kiki. You poke around too quickly, someone’s ears will perk up. So don’t rush it.”

She nodded and wiped her tears with a dirty napkin.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “You keep in touch.”

“Yeah.”

He tousled her hair and slipped her a five from his own pocket. Kids, he thought. Inside, they were all just kids.

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.”