Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ first snapshot was a white anus being penetrated by a black penis. Decker tossed it aside, but Hollander picked it up for a second look. He was a bald man with a fringe of brown hair, a large walrus mustache, and an overhang of belly. He was smiling this morning. He liked this assignment.

      “Do you think this is a boy ass or a girl ass?” he asked Decker, puffing on his meerschaum. “From this angle, I can’t tell.”

      Decker snatched the photo out of his hands and gave him a sour look.

      “Mike,” he said, “we’re supposed to be looking at faces, not asses.” He held up several snapshots of Lindsey Bates. “This girl, Mike. We’re looking for this girl.”

      The detective grunted unappreciatively and sucked in his gut.

      “And put out the pipe,” Decker snarled. “This room is cramped enough without you smogging it up.”

      Hollander killed the embers.

      “What’s eating your ass, Rabbi? Have a bad weekend at the Holyland?”

      “I had too good a weekend,” Decker complained. “I’m not ready to come back to this shit.”

      “Pete, there are at least a dozen guys out there just waiting for this assignment.”

      “And I’d be glad to give it to the drooling bastards, but the case is mine, Michael.”

      “All I’m sayin’ is if this is gettin’ to you, you’ve got lots of backup.”

      Decker picked up another photo. A blonde girl was fellating a fat man with a wart on his penis. Decker studied her face and then rejected it.

      “Shit, Pete, get a load of the size of this—”

      “I’m not interested.”

      A moment later, Marge walked in.

      “You know, MacPherson offered to trade Easter weekend with me if I’d give him this assignment.” She was incredulous. “Those boys are the horniest bunch of schmucks I’ve ever seen.”

      “You don’t understand the male species, Marjorie,” Hollander said.

      “You’ll explain it to me someday, Michael.”

      He grinned lecherously. “Just give me a date.”

      “Tell you what,” she said. “We’ll break in the twenty-first century together.”

      Hollander was silent and appeared to be concentrating.

      “Thirteen years from now, Mike,” Decker said.

      Marge laughed. “Have a snapshot of Lindsey to refresh my memory?” she asked Decker.

      He handed her one of their working pictures. It was Lindsey’s junior high school graduation photo—a head shot of an even-featured teenager ripening to womanhood—a flirtatious smile, a gleam in the eye. There was nothing stiff and frozen about the picture. Lindsey had presence. Marge made a face.

      “Pretty little thing, wasn’t she,” Hollander said. “Damn shame.”

      “She was Cindy’s age,” Decker said. “I asked around about her all day yesterday. Combed every mission, shelter, halfway house, and drug rehab center in the L.A. San Fernando Valley area, and nobody had ever seen her. I even took the photo down to Skid Row and tried some of the street people. Nada. This is a last resort and it probably won’t turn up anything. She was a nice kid according to everyone I’ve talked to. I don’t think we’ll find her in these archives.”

      “Hey, Margie,” Hollander said, “Take a look at the—”

      “Not interested, Michael.”

      Hollander grumbled and chewed on his cold pipe stem.

      Marge began sorting through a pile of pornography.

      “How many boxes of this garbage do we have?” she asked.

      “As many as you want,” Decker said, tossing photographs aside.

      “You ever get hold of Mr. Bates?” Marge asked.

      Decker winced and waved his hand in the air.

      “That bad, huh?” Hollander said.

      “One of those repressed types,” said Decker. “Midway through the questions, he cracked. It was bad. The floodgates opened and it was all downhill from that point on. God, I feel for that man. I don’t think I’d do any better.”

      They sorted through some more photos—contorted positions designed for the camera rather than pleasure.

      “Pete, what do you think of this?” Marge showed him a teenage girl masturbating.

      Decker studied the photo and shook his head.

      “The eyes are wrong.”

      Marge shrugged and attacked another pile of pictures.

      “What do we do if we find her in one of these?” Hollander asked.

      “They’re numbered on the back, Mike,” Decker answered. “If we find a match, we can look up where the photo came from and, hopefully, get a fix on who the photographer was.”

      “How was Saturday at the yeshiva, Pete?” Marge asked.

      “Terrific.”

      “Your arm looks looser,” she said.

      “Doc says I’ll be fine.”

      “Hey, Rabbi,” Hollander said. “You never did tell us how the hell that happened.”

      “Would you believe I got bit by a dog? Of all the stupid things.”

      “Happens to the best of us,” said Hollander. “I remember once getting stung by a bee. People always tell you if you don’t bother it, it won’t bother you. Well, I didn’t do a thing and the little fucker looked me straight in the eye and stuck its stinger into my arm. Really pissed me off.”

      “Ernst got stung by a bee,” Marge said. “Blew up like a blimp.”

      “How is he?” Decker asked, shuffling photos.

      “Beats me. Haven’t seen the sucker for two weeks.”

      Decker looked up. “You’re kidding. I thought you two were tight.”

      “Appearances are deceiving,” Marge said.

      “What happened?” Decker asked.

      “It was mutual. I think I was too much woman for him.”

      “I’ll say,” Hollander snickered. “You outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Take a look at this, Pete.”

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