Sacred and Profane

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.”

“Long range of operation?”

“Miles.”

“Which means the button could have been pushed from almost anywhere.”

“Yep.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

“Now what?” Marge asked.

“Bomb was set off by a long-range remote-control unit,” Decker said. “The person could have been anywhere when he pulled the trigger.”

“I don’t think the person was just anywhere, Pete.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “Someone was watching the place and didn’t want us to get hurt.” He thought a moment. “The whole thing’s ridiculous, Marge. If you want to destroy evidence you don’t do it in broad daylight. Besides, nothing incriminating was left. If you want to scare off a cop you don’t do it by nearly blowing his head off. Way too unpredictable and way too messy. And it attracts too much attention.”

“Maybe Dustin blew it up for insurance?”

“Cecil rented the place. There wasn’t more than a couple grands’ worth of photographic equipment in there. You don’t blow up buildings to collect two g’s.”

“But someone was trying to prove a point.”

“Right. Someone was struttin’ his stuff.”

Sitting in the registrar’s office of Mar Vista High, Decker tried not to stare at the dowdy, graying lady with thin, cotton candy hair. But she was so full of nervous energy, he couldn’t help sneaking in sidelong glances.

“Can I get you some coffee in the meantime, Sergent?” she said, jumping out of her seat.

“No, thank you,” he answered. She sounded like Aunt Bea in the old Andy Griffith show. “While I’m waiting, I’d like to look through some yearbooks. Where do you keep them?”

“Last year’s is right on my desk,” she said, pulling out a drawer.

“I need the ones from 1969 through 1978.”

“Oh dear,” the woman said, touching her cheek. She coughed, scratched her head, and rose from her seat. “Just a moment and I’ll see what I can do.”

Ten minutes later, she returned and said sweetly, “They haven’t forgotten about you, Sergeant. It takes a long time to find old records, especially health records. If you had asked for transcripts, it would have been easier. We have almost immediate access to transcripts, but you don’t need those, do you?”

“Not right now.”

She put an armful of annuals down in front of him. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

He went through Dustin’s first. The caption under the graduation picture stated that he was a member of the student council, the Spanish club, the honors club, the scholastic achievement organization, and the B-string football team. The portrait was stiff and unsmiling, but the handsome features shone through the somber pose.

He looked through the ’78 album-the year of Earl’s graduation-but not a trace of the younger brother could be found. Probably dropped out. He tried the ’77 yearbook. Nothing. But he was listed in the ’76 album, and much to his surprise, the picture of Earl was almost a duplicate of his older brother’s.

For starts, the physical resemblance was remarkable. Earl’s features were a little softer and less brooding, but the faces could have been Xeroxes. What was even more noteworthy were the activities that the younger brother had chosen-student council, the scholastic achievement organization, Spanish club, and the B-string football team. The group picture showed him squatting in the front row, padded heavily and looking absurdly beefy under a thin face.

The brothers seemed to have followed the identical trail to a point. What had happened?

Nineteen seventy-seven was the year of the fire, the year of their mother’s death. And in ’77 Earl’d dropped out of school.

Decker stared at the team picture. Some of the boys had tried to look scary and menacing, often ending up looking tentative and scared.

And one looked unusually familiar.

Quickly Decker flipped the pages back to the eleventh-grade class roster.

Baby-faced Cameron Smithson.

The detective looked at the ’78 album. Smithson had graduated, but no honors were listed under his name. His only distinction was his position as a tailback, second string on the B football team. Closing the book, Decker frowned.

The hyperactive woman had come back smiling, with sheets of paper in her hand.

“Here are the records, Sergeant,” she said, rocking on her toes. “I told you we’d find them.”

He scanned through the health charts noting their illnesses-lots of flu, infections, colds, broken bones from falls. He knew some of those falls were manufactured-the results of abuse rather than accidents. Then he found what he was looking for. In fourth grade Dustin had lost a front tooth in a fight during recess. Next to the entry was the name of a dentist. Using the school phone, he made a call and arranged to see the man.

Onward and upward…

An hour later Decker left the office of David Bachman, DDS. The dentist, an elderly blue-eyed leprechaun of a man, remembered both boys as being polite and slightly troubled. (“I’m no headshrinker, but I’ve seen an awful lot of people and have gotten to know human nature pretty damned well.”) Bachman said it would take a couple of days to dig up the records, but when he did, he’d send a copy over to Anne Hennon, whom he knew. (“A great-looking gal with a fine pair of gams.”)

As Decker got into his car his beeper went off. He called in from his car radio, and a moment later Marge’s voice was patched through the line.

“I’m over at Cecil Pode’s home,” she said. “The place was torched this morning.”

“I’ll be right down.”

“You can come down, Pete, but there’s nothing left except ashes. Mike and I are sifting through the rubble.”

“Arson?”

“Yeah. Incendiary material all over the place-rags and newspapers soaked with gasoline.”

“Have they determined the hot spots?”

“Three. In the bedroom, the kitchen-stove blew up-and the living room.”

“Anyone talk to Dustin Pode?”

“Someone from Culver City PD. Seems he was at work all morning. Security guard at his office says he checked in about six, around the same time as the fire.”

“Was the place insured?” he asked.

“Underinsured, Pete. Fact of the matter is Dustin had the place up for sale and had a prospective buyer. Guy who talked to Dustin said he sounded real pissed. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Check around and see if any fire starters have been spending a lot of cash lately.”

“Will do,” she said. “Are you going back to the station?”

“Probably,” said Decker. “Marge, when Mike’s done with Pode’s house, have him call Arnold Meisner and ask him to find Earl Pode’s medical records. Tell Mike to impress upon the doc that this is a homicide investigation and we need the chart ASAP.”

“What do you think you’re gonna find besides more evidence of child abuse.”

“I want to see if Earl was a bed wetter.”

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“I’m a close theorist. We all have our weaknesses.”

“Okay,” she said. “Check in with you later.”

He placed the mike back on the receiver, gripped the wheel, and pondered his dilemma. Dammit, he needed something more-a break! If he wanted to do right by Lindsey-maybe even by Kiki-it was time to put his butt on the line.

The executive offices of Arlington Steel were on the fifteenth floor of a downtown building that looked like a monolith carved from Swiss cheese. Odd holes and balconies robbed the structure of any smoothness of line. Decker took the elevator up. The receiving office was manned by a receptionist who had her nose buried in a donut and coffee. She was chunky, with big knockers and a permanently confused look branded on her face. He approached the desk.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

The woman looked up.

“I’d like to see Mr. Arlington.”

She started flipping through the appointment calendar.

“He’s not expecting me, but this…” He leaned in close. “This is a personal matter. I think he’d like to talk to me.”

“You can’t see Mr. Arlington without an appointment,” she said.

“But I have to see him. He’ll be very disappointed if he doesn’t see me.”

The baffled look deepened.

“Uh, let me buzz Ms. Scott, Mr. Arlington’s personal secretary-”

“Is she through that door?”

“Yes, all the offices are. But you can’t-”

“That’s okay.”

“Wait a minute,” the plump woman protested, hurrying after Decker as he sprinted down the hallway.

The corridor ended in a pair of twelve-foot rosewood double doors with a pair of brass name plaques affixed to them: Armand Arlington, Chairman of the Board, and directly under it in smaller letters, Ms. Monique Scott, Executive Secretary. He swung one door open, almost clipping the receptionist, and marched into the interior office. A statuesque blonde stood up and glared at both of them.

“He just stormed past me, Ms. Scott. I-”

“I’ll handle it, Jeanine. Go back to your desk.”

Decker locked eyes with Scott. The stuff of which dreams are made, Mama. She was in her late twenties, with wide-set gray eyes and full, bee-stung lips. Decker smiled. She didn’t. Her eyes hardened into cold, metal dimes.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Arlington,” he said.

“He’s not here.”

“Then I’ll wait in his office.”

“The adjoining door is locked and I’m not about to buzz you in.”

She sauntered to the front of her desk and placed her hands on her hips.

“Listen, sir, I don’t know who you think you are storming your way in like this, but Mr. Arlington doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. If you don’t leave, I’m going to call Security.”

Decker flashed her his badge and Ms. Scott sighed.

“What seems to be the trouble, Officer?”

“It’s personal, ma’am.”

She dialed a number and spoke into the receiver in a carefully modulated voice.

“Mr. Arlington won’t be available for another three hours,” she told him.

“I’ll wait.” Decker held up a folder he was carrying. “I’ll just do a little work in the meantime.”

He sat down in a brocade wingback.

“I’d prefer that you wait outside in the receiving office. The chairs are quite comfortable out there. I’ll have Jeanine bring you coffee if you’d like.”

“It’s a lot quieter in here,” Decker answered without budging.

“It’s impossible for me to concentrate with you here.”

“I’ll be real quiet.”

She glared at him, but returned to her desk chair and lit a cigarette.

“Oh, you smoke,” he said. “Then you don’t mind if I do?”

“I only have one ashtray. There are several outside.”

“I like to share.” Decker lit up, walked over to the desk, lit a match, and tossed it in the crystal dish. Standing over her shoulder, he peered at her paperwork.

“Officer, I find it difficult to work with you breathing down my neck.”

“Oh, sorry.” He backed away. “I was just curious about what you do. People ask me all the time about my work.”

She didn’t answer. Walking back to his chair, he took off his jacket.

“I work in Sex Crimes, you know.”

She looked up at him. When he had caught her eye, he unhitched his gun and opened the barrel, dumping the bullets into his palm.

“I had this rape case once that was unbelievable,” he said. His cigarette dangled from his lips and dropped ash as he spoke.

Her eyes fixed on the gun for a moment, then quickly focused down to her desktop. “I’m very busy-”

The first bullet clunked into the chamber.

“Seems like two convicts had just gotten out of the slammer and picked up this whore…” He sighted down the revolver and aimed it toward the window.

“Do you have to do that?” the secretary asked nervously.

“Do what?”

“Point that thing?”

He laughed, lowered the gun, and plunked two more bullets into the barrel. “Hey, you’re safe. I’m an A-one shot. Only pick off what I’m aiming at and I’m not aiming at you.”

The woman didn’t appear consoled.

“Where was I?” He puffed out a cloud of smoke from his cigarette, finished reloading, and snapped the chamber shut. “Oh, yeah…these two hardtimers bought this bimbo and brought her to a hotel room-not too far from here actually, around Fifth and Main. Anyway, they took turns doing a number on her with a coat hanger and a bar of soap-”

“Officer, I’m really not interested-”

“Then, one of them gets the bright idea of calling up a bunch of their buddies for a little party. Ten minutes later, about fifteen of them show up-”

“Officer-”

“And do their thing ’til the poor hooker passes out. When she comes to, she’s got six guys going at her in every conceivable orifice. Blood’s spurting like a geyser-”

“Please!”

“Know what happened?” He smiled. “They pierced through the vagina into the abdominal wall-”

“Let me try and get hold of Mr. Arlington again.”

“That’s a terrific idea, Ms. Scott,” he said, smiling. He stared at the beautiful face, now coated with a sickly green pallor. He almost felt sorry for her.

Five minutes later Arlington stomped in. Decker remembered him from the film bust as being a small man cowering in the corner, hiding from the spray of human remains. But on his own turf he seemed larger, augmented by power and anger. His black eyes spat fire, his mouth quivered with fury, lips almost white from tension. The only thing that softened him was his nose-veiny, bulbous, a product of too much ninety proof.

“You’re in big trouble, Detective,” he bellowed. “I’m going to call up your superior right now and-”

“I’m not here in an official capacity, Mr. Arlington. Why don’t we have a little chat in your suite?”

“Get out of here!”

“Mr. Arlington, there are things I’d like to say to you, and I don’t want to say them in front of your secretary.”

“Call Security, Monique,” Arlington ordered.

Decker ripped the phone away from her hands.

“You’ve got a wife and six kids,” Decker said quickly. “I’m sure they know about Monique here. I don’t think they’re aware of any of your other peculiarities. I’d be happy to tell them about it if you’d like. After all, I was there when you were arrested, Charlie.”

The rage subsided as Arlington weighed his options. Perfectly composed, he unlocked the door to the inner office and stood aside for Decker to enter.

His suite was rich, dark, and austere, and smelled of leather and good tobacco. The desk was nine feet wide, traditional, and intricately carved, with a leather top upon which sat a marble desk set and crystal inkwell. The walls were oxblood embossed leather alternating with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with gold mesh doors. The oils were Flemish and mostly unfamiliar to Decker, but he knew they weren’t dimestore copies. The artists he did recognize were a Hals over the marble mantlepiece and a Vermeer on the opposite side of the room. Decker sat in a leather armchair and propped his feet on an ottoman. Next to him was a mounted globe, which he spun idly, watching the countries pass under the tips of his fingers.

Arlington sat behind his desk.

“Who is your superior?”

Decker flipped him a card.

“Call this extension. Ask for Captain Morrison. He’ll deny sending me here and I’ll catch hell, if that’s what you want.”

Arlington picked up the phone, but put it down. Wordlessly, he opened his drawer and took out a wad of cash.

“How much?”

“I’m not interested in money. I need information.”

“As I told the police before, the screenings were arranged by Cecil Pode. He’s dead. That’s all I can say.”

“Pode distributed, but he isn’t the type of scum you’d work with directly. You’d deal with someone more respectable than a two-bit bagman-someone with at least a veneer of respectability.”

Arlington pursed his lips.

“I have nothing else to say.”

“Then maybe I’ll ring up your little woman. I also have this friend over at the Times-”

“I’ll sue your ass off. I’ll ruin you.”

“I’m sure you will.” He stood up and trudged over to the Hals with his hands in his pocket. “I was at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam in 1970. Unbelievable-a place like that buried in the midst of all that decadence. Back then Dam Square was triple-stacked with dropouts. I’ve heard they’ve cleaned it up since then.” He glared at Arlington. “It’s good to do housecleaning and take out the garbage, don’t you think?”

“I’m not interested in a travelogue, Decker. If you have nothing further to say, leave and we’ll both get on with our business.”

“You know,” said Decker, “I figure, what the hell! Time for a career change. I’ve been thinking of doing something more spiritual anyway. Jesus, you work on the street and see shit pile up day after day-burnt out runaways, hookers, pimps, murderers, rapists, burglars, robbers. And kinky rich scumbags with influence buying their way out of retribution.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m sick of this job. I’d like to get away from it all. Maybe you’d be doing me a favor, Armand. Let’s put it this way. If I don’t hear from you by, let say…” Decker glanced at his watch, “this time tomorrow, you make your move and I’ll make mine.”

“Get the hell out of here!”

“Thank you for your time, sir.”