Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection. Faye Kellerman

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      “Kids?”

      “Two.”

      “I’ll try to make it over,” Decker said, looking at his watch.

      The room was silent.

      “Who’s the man we brought in last night?” Decker asked. “He had no ID on him.”

      “They’ve IDed him. Armand Arlington. As in Arlington Steel.”

      “Son of a bitch!” Decker exclaimed. “Has he been booked yet?”

      Morrison threw his cigarette across the room and swore. “He was charged with possession of marijuana.”

      “What!”

      “Sucker’s got connections with the right people,” Morrison spat out.

      “We found at least half a pound of crack,” Decker said. “Not to mention all the illegal ammo.”

      “I wasn’t in on the plea bargaining,” Morrison said. “But I will say this: Pacific questioned him about the films. Apparently they had nothing to connect him to the murder of Lindsey Bates.”

      “That’s a load of crap!” Decker said. “Cecil Pode said the film was custom-ordered by him.”

      “Did he mention Arlington by name?”

      “Dammit, no.”

      “So we’re nowhere, Pete. Pode’s dead, and as far as the books go, it isn’t against the law to like revolting films.”

      “It’s against the law to withhold evidence crucial to a murder conviction. We need to know his contact.”

      “Pacific Division was told that further investigations are now being conducted by a special pornography task force—”

      “Give me a fucking break!” Decker said. “Pornography task force? A judge from the old boy’s network beating his meat to dirty pictures.”

      “You’re right,” agreed the captain. “It’s a whitewash. It’s shit. But the fact still remains that Arlington’s ass is covered by legal eagles. No one can get close to him.”

      “There are ways,” Decker said.

      Morrison frowned. “Don’t fuck with legal channels, Sergeant. You’ll do more harm than good.”

      “Marijuana,” Decker muttered. “Was it a felony possession, at least?”

      “Misdemeanor,” Morrison said.

      “Shit!” Decker lit a cigarette. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone to bed this morning.”

      “There wouldn’t have been anything you could have done,” Morrison said. “Let Arlington rest and concentrate on finding Clementine.”

      “Did they ID the other sleaze buckets who were blown away?” asked Decker. “Paper didn’t mention their names.”

      “Hard to ID hamburger, but we finally got a fix on them. The projectionist was a part-time grip named Sylvester Tork. His yellow sheet was longer than the Nile. The other guy was a roofer named Alvin Peppers. Alvin was released from San Quentin three months ago after serving time for assault and plea-bargained involuntary manslaughter.”

      “Who hired them?”

      “We don’t know.”

      “If someone would lean on Arlington—”

      “Don’t you think we fucking tried?” Morrison exploded. “Jesus, Pete, you’re not the only one who feels like shit about the whole thing. I saw the fucking film! I’m a parent! Get down off your high horse before you fall off and get your ass broken.”

      Decker felt his anger grow. “Well, maybe I, as an individual citizen, can do some things that you, as a police captain, can’t.”

      “You’re on your own if you do, Pete. I won’t back you up.”

      “Consider me duly warned.”

      Morrison gave him a hard stare. “Speaking of warning, you tailed Dustin Pode yesterday. I told you not to do it.”

      “Who told you?”

      “No one,” Morrison answered. “Everybody was so busy covering your ass I figured you must be out playing hot dog. I made an educated guess.”

      The detective said nothing.

      “We’ll let it pass this time,” said Morrison, “but don’t fuck around with my orders again.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Now what did you find out about Dustin Pode?”

      “Nothing.”

      “He’s been notified about his father’s death. You can question him about Cecil if you want.”

      Decker cleared his throat and told Morrison about his Jack Cohen alias. As he talked, he could see the captain’s expression waver between admiration and disapproval.

      “What do you hope to find out?” Morrison asked.

      “If Dustin’s making sicko films on the side, maybe I could get him to strike a deal with me as an interested investor. He does legit film syndications, which would make it awfully easy to launder some dirty stuff. I’d like to keep my cover and let Hollander continue with the interviewing.”

      “You leaned on Cecil Pode,” Morrison said. “What if he described you to Dustin? You’re a pretty noticeable guy. Your cover would be worthless.”

      Decker groaned inwardly. How could he be so fucking dumb!

      “Yeah, that’s true,” he said. “Look at it this way, Captain. If Dustin makes me for a cop, then we’re back to square one. If he doesn’t, we’ve got an advantage. I’ll get a better feel after I meet with them.”

      In the end Morrison agreed it was best for Decker to stay undercover.

      The mountain air was biting. Decker buttoned up his overcoat as he watched the teams dig up the hillside. Hard to believe that a month ago he’d camped in this graveyard with Jake and Sammy. The day had been bright and warm, not like today, which was overcast.

      The ground became pocked with potholes—aborted digs—but Decker was sure the bones were there. It just didn’t make sense to dump the girls out here and leave the guy at another location.

      Unless the killer was smart.

      “Sergeant Decker!” one of the lab men shouted.

      “Yeah?”

      “We’ve found something—a foot bone.”

      “Attached to anything?”

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